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Anjali walked home from the group reeling with the criticisms Carol had launched at her. Hopefully Philippe would talk to her and she would stop making people feel so hurt, so betrayed for taking a risk and being open in their writing. Anjali wasn’t sure she could continue to go back to the group if she was going to be stabbed in the heart over and over. The quality of her projects would suffer, though. She didn’t want that to happen, either.
She passed the book stalls on the Left Bank, full of books, posters, postcards but closed and locked for the night. She thought of all the reading she needed to do to improve her screenplay: Mamet, Pixar, Les Mis. That was just the start.
The reading would actually be fascinating and therefore fun. Between reading and writing and working for John, there wasn’t much else to her life. She thought, I’m totally absorbed in the pursuit of writing skills. It’s kind of self-absorbed, isn’t it?
Anjali paused to see the Seine reflecting the late-evening grey skies. When Aasha goes back to India and gets married, she’ll volunteer at a non-profit that helps rural girls get an education. What do I do to make the world better? I have no time left over after working for a living and pursuing my art. Though when—or rather if—it goes out into the world, it will benefit people. I hope. That’s my goal.
On Boulevard Saint-Michel, she passed two women smoking and lingering in a doorway, dressed so skimpily, in such high heels, that Anjali figured they were prostitutes. They looked over her modest clothes a bit condescendingly, it seemed.
I wonder if I could ever help someone who actually wanted to get out of that life, Anjali thought. That would be of help to humanity. And knowing more about the seamy side of life would certainly help my writing.
No, you can’t do that, she thought. What would Amma and Appa think? And Ravi. And all his aunties. And mine.
