“Where will you stay until your relatives arrive?” Anjali Auntie says.
“At a youth hostel.” Sophie had done some quick internet research before she left and printed a list of places she could try when she arrived in the city.
Anjali Auntie shakes her head and turns to her husband. “We cannot leave her alone like this. She doesn’t even speak French.”
Anjali Auntie looks to Sophie, and Sophie nods her head slightly to confirm she is correct that Sophie does not speak French. Sophie looks from one to the other, eyes darting as if watching a shuttlecock pass back and forth over a badminton net.
Saumil Uncle says, “We have a hotel in the city. And an extra bed if you need one for a few days. Our son was going to arrive with us, but he had to work at the last minute, so we will wait for him before we all go home to Toulouse. He’s a doctor in America, you know?” He says the last part with a twinkle in his eye. Many people she knew in Ahmedabad would get that same pride when talking about their children who had succeeded in America or England or any other part of the Western hemisphere. Having a relative who had succeeded in the West considerably elevated a family’s stature.
Sophie considers Saumil Uncle’s offer and starts weighing pros and cons. She is terrified about how she is going to navigate this new city, and it seems this new uncle and auntie could help her with that. She wonders if she should be cautious about their generosity, but then she thinks about all the times strangers from overseas had appeared on their doorstep in Ahmedabad and she and Papa had welcomed them in for a meal. They would be friends of friends of friends of someone, but they had the address of Sophie’s family bungalow and would drop in unannounced for tea or meals and catch up as if they were old friends. She recalls some of Papa’s stories about doing that when he would travel abroad and need a proper Indian meal. He would search for the common Gujarati names from their caste—Shah, Patel, Desai, Mehta—and phone the family to introduce himself. Sophie has never traveled before but has heard enough about Indians helping Indians. As she leans in favor of joining them, her ingrained sense of not wanting to take on obligation resurfaces, and she hears Papa’s voice saying that debts were always collected at inopportune times, so it was best to avoid them.
“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to be a burden,” she says, deciding it would be impolite to impose.
“If it were our son alone in a foreign city, we would want someone to do the same for him.” Anjali Auntie puts her arm around Sophie’s shoulder. “Now, we should go.”
Sophie can see that, like her fois passing around a second helping of dal, Anjali Auntie will not take no for an answer.
“You have your luggage already?” Sophie asks, looking around them.
Anjali Auntie motions toward the medium-sized suitcase behind her husband. Saumil Uncle takes their bag and Sophie’s and begins wheeling both in the direction of the exit.
Paris public transport is unlike anything Sophie has ever seen. Saumil Uncle and Anjali Auntie show her how to buy a ticket, and then they board the train from the airport into the city. Sophie cannot even imagine a public transport system in Ahmedabad. The poverty, homelessness, and meandering animals would make it impossible to maintain any such public service.
They arrive in a neighborhood called the Marais, and Sophie cannot believe what she sees. The streets are paved. All of them. There are no smaller dirt roads like the ones the rickshas travel along in Ahmedabad, clouds of dust being kicked up by their wheels. The buildings grow one right out of the other for an entire block, and people live in flats rather than bungalows. The buildings have elaborate doors in a variety of colors, and windows are dotted with tiny wrought iron balconies that would be impossible to put even a single chair on but house tiny potted plants, flowers, and herbs. Everything is so clean! There is no litter along the edges of the roads. Instead, there are green waste bags dotting the sidewalks, and, by their fullness, people seem to use them! Nothing is strewn on the ground around them. The only animals she sees are small dogs on leashes, padding patiently alongside their owners, who are dressed in warm coats, scarves, and hats.
The cold air whips through the thin fabric of Sophie’s panjabi. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“You must have a proper jacket,” Anjali Auntie says to her.
She nods. She has never had a need for warmer clothing before, given that Ahmedabad’s winter has the same temperatures as Paris summers.
“Our hotel is just this way,” Saumil Uncle says, steering her down a busy street and eventually stopping in front of a thick, ornate black door.
Sophie marvels at how different everything around her is. The door to the hotel has intricate moldings on it. She is used to doors like the one on her home, wide and sturdy with several sliding locks for security but no other frills. Functional, not decorative.
She waits in the well-appointed lobby with Anjali Auntie while Saumil Uncle speaks with the receptionist in rapid French. She cannot understand a word he is saying, but the receptionist nods several times and then hands him a plastic key card.
The three of them shuffle into a small lift that takes them to the third floor. The hotel room is clean but sparse. Not like the extravagant resorts at the hill stations she and Papa used to visit in the summers. This room has two beds pushed together in the center and a cot alongside the far wall. All are fitted with simple white sheets and velour blankets resting at the edges.
Sophie takes her luggage and places it under the cot, doing her best to take up as little space in the room as possible so she does not take advantage of Uncle and Auntie’s generosity.
Anjali Auntie opens the closet and points to the safe inside. “Do you have anything you need to lock up?”
Sophie thinks about the money belt fitted tightly around her midsection but shakes her head. She vows to wear her thicker Western clothing, like her jeans and sweaters, going forward, as they will hide the belt better than her thin panjabi fabric.
“Your passport? Anything like that?” Saumil Uncle asks as he removes his shoes and sits on the bed, slowly rubbing the bottoms of his socked feet. “You must be careful with valuables.”
A lifetime in India worrying about whether everyone from the servants to strangers on the street would steal from her gives her confidence that she knows how to be discreet with anything she doesn’t want taken by the service staff at the hotel.
She sits on the cot and considers how she will begin her search. Her mobile phone has not worked since she left India. It now seems obvious to her that it wouldn’t, but she has no idea how to fix the problem and had not considered what it would be like to roam the city without the aid of internet in her pocket. She saw a hotel computer in the lobby, and knows that is her best option for now. She can’t wait to use it and map out directions for the place she hopes to find Nita.
6
NITA
1998
Nita pressed the phone to her ear and considered her parents’ words. She heard them breathing rapidly on their side of the call. Rajiv is in Paris right now and searching for me. She could put a stop to this. Erase the past week. Return to Ahmedabad as if nothing had happened. Rajiv had such a soft temperament that she believed they were right and he would forgive her. She believed she could convince him of her remorse and fly back with him as if they’d gone on a trip and ignore what she had actually done. The problem was that while she needed money, she couldn’t fathom her old life. Returning home would be returning to a life without options and with no ability to change her circumstances. She’d rather have the chance to be inspired and dream and hope that she might experience joy and peace, even if it meant living hand to mouth every day.