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Pearl was standing two doors down from Madame de Denichen’s when Anjali arrived home after work.
“Can we talk?” she said.
“Let’s sneak upstairs,” Anjali answered, wondering if she had enough food on hand for two. She would have to make it enough.
She heated up a pot of dal—lentils with garlic, onion, red pepper, and the cumin and curry powder that she’d bought in Little India at La Chapelle Metro stop. Even if she didn’t take the time to roast and grind the twelve spices that made up the curry by hand, as her mother did, it was still Indian comfort food. She placed two pieces of frozen roti on top of the lid to warm. When the girls were seated at the little table, side by side on the bed since there was no chair, Anjali broke off a small piece of the roti and used it to pick up some dal from the central bowl.
“This is how we do it in India,” she said. She looked around her chambre de bonne. She most certainly was not in India now. Even with the spices purchased in Little India, the food wasn’t the same as at home.
They ate for a while. Pearl practically sucked up her food, Anjali noticed. She warmed up another roti, laid it on Pearl’s plate, and motioned to the dal.
“Thanks,” was all Pearl said.
Anjali felt that it was the right time to set a boundary.
“You can’t just come and go forever,” she said.
“I’m going to Alcoholics Anonymous tonight.”
“Oh! Fantastic! Can I ask—what changed your mind?”
Anjali regretted asking. Maybe Pearl was too fragile to explain.
“I used your laptop one time, when you were at work. I read a newspaper story you had bookmarked, about men in India pushing their wives into the cooking fires. I was afraid of something like that happening to me. I was in danger every time—” she broke off, blushed.
Looking at my bookmarked pages? Anjali thought. That’s getting pretty personal. But I’m glad it changed her mind. A round of applause for The Hindu, online edition.
