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Anjali hadn’t talked with Ravi last weekend, after her parents broke the news that he’d be going to the U.S. for six months. He’d had a tennis date at their usual talking time. The third time in five weeks. Just a bit of a pain, to be less important than a tennis date. She hadn’t written to him about the training opportunity, either—she wanted to talk with him by Internet, to share the excitement with him, to see his smile on the screen. Almost like being face to face.
She waited for his call Sunday morning. When he was ten minutes late, as usual, she dialed him. He sat in front of the computer with his white shirt unbuttoned and his brown chest glowing. His parents certainly didn’t know he was exposing his body like this.
“Bonjour!” she chirped. Really, the idea of living in the U.S. for six months was quite the shot in the arm. She could subscribe to Netflix, which didn’t operate in France, and have access to their huge storehouse of classic American movies through the mail. Was that any reason to marry Ravi, though?
“How was tennis last week?”
Anjali saw that he had to think a minute. There was so much tennis in his life.
“Oh, yeah! Good. My boss.”
“Who won?”
“We both played well. He won one, and me the other.”
“Good and noble of you both. And where is this wonderful boss sending you in the U.S.?”
Ravi’s handsome face went blank. He stared into his computer screen, which was not at all the same as looking into her eyes. Technology was so disjointed. He blinked and looked away. Then a flash of recognition crossed his face.
“Oh yeah! Uh. Washington State.”
She sat in silence a moment, stunned. He’s lying. His parents are lying to my parents. The whole six months’ training in the U.S. is a pressure ploy. Her dreams of seeing the U.S. tumbled.
With the new strength in her that had formed as a result of uprooting herself and creating a new life in a strange culture thousands of miles from home, she would not let it pass with silence, which she might have done in the past.
“How could you and your parents lie to us?”
“You’re breaking up,” Ravi said.
“You heard me.”
“What?”
“Liar!” she roared.
He had the nerve to act affronted.
“Hey!” he said in a warning tone.
“How dare you lie!”
His eyes shifted off the screen, then back to the camera on his laptop. He softened his tone. “We were worried,” he said. “I just want you here with me.”
It was a nice sentiment, but Anjali distrusted that too now.
“You tried to trick me.”
“Look, don’t get so high and mighty. You’ve had your time in Paris. You should come back now and settle down.”
“We all agreed on a year, and I’m sticking to it!” After this lie, she might have leverage to stay longer. But she had to get past this lie to salvage the relationship. Ravi was doing well financially. Maybe he would support her as she wrote screenplays fulltime.
“Writing is all alone, into your computer,” Ravi said. “It’s selfish.”
That derailed her. Was it? She’d been wondering herself. Parked in front of a laptop, making up characters and problems and scenes. What was it for?
She remembered a fiction teacher in university saying, “Stories are the only way to tell the truth.” Was telling the truth selfish? And are my stories actually full of world-class truth? Probably not. But can I entertain people? Life is hard. I love knowing I have a good book at home to read before bed, or a great movie to look forward to watching on Saturday night. That’s the gift I want to give to the world. To do so requires that I sit alone in front of a laptop. It might look selfish, but it isn’t.
“You’re selfish for saying that! You just want to derail me.”
He looked annoyed. Anjali knew she was saying the all-wrong things if she wanted to keep this relationship going.
But he didn’t believe in what she was doing, he didn’t believe in her dream. No, that couldn’t be true. She’d try to convince him of its rightness. “I want to bring some fun, the pleasure of compelling stories to the world. That’s not selfish.”
“But you’re not here with me.” He was frowning into his computer, his eyes not looking into hers, not really, not at this crucial moment in their relationship.
“I need this time in Paris to prove to myself that...”
“Just what, exactly?”
Good question. And he’d asked in an irritated voice.
“That I have the necessary talent and persistence. I’m learning by being critiqued by excellent writers. They help me to improve my work.”
“There are excellent writers in English in Mumbai.”
True. “But Paris is a fantastic place to be a writer. The French respect artists and writers so much. It’s really exceptional. I’ve never felt that in Mumbai. The French ask me about my project. And really listen. And make suggestions. In Mumbai, I tell people I’m a writer and they stifle a yawn. It feels good to be a writer here.”
“It would feel good to be here with me, too.”
“Ravi, do you believe in me, in my dream?”
“Well, of course! I need you. Pursue your dream with me here in Mumbai.”
“I probably will.”
“Probably?” His eyes were wide with surprise. She hadn’t meant to air her doubts. Now it was all going to explode, unless she thought fast.
“Unless the Seine overflows its banks and washes me to the sea on my way to work one morning.” Did that do the trick? Yes! His face settled back into a relaxed expression.
“Come home.”
He said it so sweetly. Maybe that lie about the U.S. was born out of love.
“I’ll be back.” Soon enough. At least I think so.
“Well listen, darling, I love talking with you, but I have to go. To be continued,” Ravi said.
Another argument would be awful. “Bye, Ravi! Talk to you next Sunday!” I’ll sound hopeful and positive until I figure out what to do.
His image disappeared from her screen. The smile she’d put on her face, to be conciliatory through the computer, now felt stupid to her, sitting in her room alone.
