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Before calling her parents Saturday morning from her minute chambre de bonne, Anjali checked the Eiffel Tower out her window. It was still there, dwarfing everything around it, and gracefully curved. What was really neat about Le Tour Eiffel was that, when you were close, you saw that the huge tower was nothing but filigree.
She called her parents over the Internet. Her mother got right down to business.
“You’ve had almost a month to think,” Amma said, her eyes on the screen huge with concern. “Don’t ruin this chance to be happy.”
“I’m in Paris, I have friends, I’m writing screenplays, I am happy,” Anjali said. “Who knows, Ravi might be a wife beater. He might push me into the stove to get rid of me.”
“He comes from such a good family!” her father said. “Don’t talk like this.”
“It’s true! I have something I know makes me happy, but he very well may not.”
“Don’t say that!” her mother wailed. “You don’t know what you’ll be missing. The friendship, the companionship, the hugs and kisses, the children—so much joy, the children.”
“Don’t blow it,” her father warned.
Anjali sat on her bed, her laptop in her hands. It was so cramped in this studio. She really needed a desk with a chair, but there was no room. Madame de Denichen had insisted on a one-year lease. Anjali couldn’t move until the lease was up. And received a raise. Not likely working for John.
“Your father and I didn’t have a choice,” her mother was saying. “We were introduced, we saw each other a few times, had a small amount of time alone, and got married. It worked out! And we’re giving you a choice, not like some parents we know, and you’re throwing away this perfect opportunity!”
Yes, thought Anjali, a choice but also a lot of pressure.
“I know, Amma, I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” she said.
“Don’t go out with any other boys there in Paris, you hear?” her mother said. “You must have a reputation beyond reproach.”
“I’m just going out with Aasha, no worries, calm down.”
“I can’t warn you sternly enough,” her father said. “You’re risking marriage to this nice man from a good family. If you drag your decision out, they will think that you don’t really want to marry their son. I say you have one more week to decide.”
“Appa, a week?” Anjali wailed. “Before I left, you told me I had a year in Paris. I’ve only been here two months and now you’re telling me I have a week?”
“Darling, I’m proud of you pursuing your dream, you know that,” Amma said.
Anjali knew her mother had dreamed of traveling and seeing more of the world. She hadn’t been given the opportunity and wanted it very badly for her daughter. But she wants me married too, Anjali thought.
“I think we can get one more month out of Ravi’s family, and that’s it,” her mother said.
Anjali knew her mother would prevail. She had a month, not a week. She wanted to be in a relationship where she could prevail too. Was Ravi that kind of person?
But ultimately it was her duty to please her parents. And she wanted to please them. They were wise, they wanted what was best for her, they had picked Ravi after investigating many other possibilities. They must see good things in Ravi. I really must give him a great big chance. I must be crazy to even have doubts.
“Did you go to temple this week?” her father asked.
“Yes, Appa.” She hadn’t. But she couldn’t fight them on every front.
“Who are you seeing besides Aasha?”
The constant grilling done by Indian parents, especially toward their girls, Anjali thought.
“Well, I go to the writers’ group I told you about.”
“Who are they? Remind me,” Amma said.
“My boss John. He’s writing some dumb story about a man who’s always getting in fistfights.”
“Hmmm,” Appa said.
“And then there’s Carol.” Anjali was glad to tell her parents about this part of her life. Maybe it would divert attention away from questions about temple and such things. “She writes screenplays for a French movie production company! She’s reading one of my screenplays! She’s very critical of everybody.”
“Who else?”
“A nice man named Philippe.”
“Married?” her mother asked quickly.
“Yes.”
“What does he do for a living?” asked Appa.
“He’s the pastor of a church.”
There was silence. Anjali thought, that’s exactly what happened at the writers’ circle when Philippe mentioned his profession. There’s something about telling people you’re a pastor that renders people silent. I’ll use that in my screenplay.
“Well, that all sounds okay. You take very good care of yourself. We’ll talk to you again next Saturday,” Appa said, with no humor in his voice.
