The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(12)

“Are you waiting for someone?” a voice says from behind her in accented English.

She turns to see an Indian couple who appear to be in their early sixties, and she breaks into a smile.

“Are you Gujarati?” the man asks.

She nods, feeling instantly relieved.

“First time in Paris?”

Again, she nods.

He smiles, a bright open smile. His eyes are kind, with laugh lines around the edges. His hair is an equal blend of salt and pepper. He wears simple khaki slacks and a white button-down shirt tucked tightly into the waist. Just like her papa did. At his side is a similarly aged woman in a blue panjabi.

“Are you meeting your family here?” the woman asks.

Sophie hesitates, not sure how to respond. She’d gotten away with not having to share “I’m looking for my mummy, who I thought was dead” with the customs agent and knows it is too much to share with strangers, especially ones who are Gujarati. She fears that within moments of them speaking, they will uncover the family friends or distant relatives they have in common, and after that, the whole of Ahmedabad will know her family’s gossip.

Instead, she says, “Yes, I’m meeting relatives in a few days’ time.”

“That’s good.” The woman nods her head from side to side in approval. “You are by yourself until then?”

Sophie pauses, again not sure how much to reveal to them. But she is no longer in Ahmedabad, where she knows people all over the city whom she could turn to. Here, she has no one. And this couple is the first who have even bothered to speak to her in this strange new world.

“What’s your name, beta?” the woman says in Gujarati.

Papa had called her beta more often than he ever said her given name, and Sophie feels a tug at her heart upon hearing the word.

“Sophie.”

The woman raises her eyebrows. “That’s not a very Indian name.”

“My mummy was”—she catches herself—“is very fond of French culture.”

The woman nods. “This is Saumil.” She gestures toward her husband. “And my name is Anjali.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Uncle and Auntie,” she says, using the Indian conventions for those who are not blood relations. “I did not expect to find people from Gujarat when I arrived here.”

Saumil Uncle laughs. “Sophie, you will see we Indians are everywhere. You only have to look.”

“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.