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Saturday morning at nine o’clock, while Pearl was at an AA meeting, Anjali slowly dialed her Amma and Appa on her computer. When they saw her face in video, they too became very serious.
Anjali told them about Ravi’s parents’ lie and his complicity in it. She didn’t repeat what he’d said about wanting her by his side. Instead, she told them how late he was to their Internet chat dates, how she rarely heard from him by email, how he canceled many of their chats to play tennis or cricket or do other things.
“I know this is very hard for you, but I will not be marrying Ravi,” she said. “Please try to understand.”
“What! Why?” Her mother’s voice was full of shock.
“I just told you why!”
“None of that is so important,” her mother said. “Not important enough to do this to us. How will we ever explain to all your aunties? What will they think?”
“Anjali, what will I say to Ravi’s father?” her father asked. “This is awful.”
“Your aunties will never stop asking us if you’re married yet,” her mother said. “They will ask every time we see them. We should not have let you go to Paris. It’s ruined everything.”
“I’m so sorry for what you have to face from everybody,” Anjali said. “Believe me, I thought about the consequences for you a lot while I was making my decision. But all those people have their own lives to live the way they want, and so do I.”
“You’ll face the aunties and their pressure, too, when you come home.”
How could she tell them she wasn’t coming home, not for a long time? Maybe only for a visit.
“Appa, isn’t it true that you just want me to be happy?”
“Yes, that’s what we want.”
“Well, I am happy in Paris, working and writing. I love my writers’ group. And I’ve joined an Indian culture Meetup group. I’ve made new friends.” Untraditional Indian women friends—not married, making an independent life in Paris, seeing where life took them.
“Anjali, this won’t make you happy like marriage and children,” her mother said. Anjali could see her wipe her eyes with a corner of her peacock-blue sari.
“But maybe it will,” she insisted. “I want to try it.”
“This is not good,” her father said.
“It’s not traditional, I agree. But it is good. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, I don’t know how we’re going to tell his parents.” Their faces were downcast on the screen.
“I’ll talk to Ravi when I have a chance.” If he ever stops playing tennis.
“My dear, this is very sad news,” her mother said.
“You’ll see. It will work out. I’ll be happy.”
“Don’t lose your marriageability,” her mother warned. She shook her finger in the screen.
“Okay, Amma.”
“Your mother’s right, listen to her,” her father said.
“Okay, I agree with you, I’ll be traditional in some things. Please don’t worry so much.”
They finally hung up, their expressions sorrowful.
Anjali sighed. They faced so much pressure from relatives, neighbors, friends, anybody in Mumbai who considered themselves an “auntie.” A jumbojet full of people would appoint themselves to that role. She didn’t envy her parents one bit. She almost had gone ahead with marrying Ravi, considering the plight she’d be throwing them into. The way they’d lose face in front of Ravi’s parents. It was sad.
But the sky was cloudless outside her little attic window, a rare occurrence in Paris. A soft breeze brought a fly in. Anjali began to feel her spirits brighten as he buzzed merrily around her chambre de bonne. Maybe she’d go to that boutique and buy that blouse and be just a little décolleté today. With Aasha gone, Amma and Appa would never see it by mistake in a photograph on social media.
She felt she was betraying them.
She felt lonelier.
She felt freer.
