The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(13)

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.

“I’m sorry I brought shame upon the family,” Nita said humbly.

She was sorry for that. Reputation was everything, and she had tarnished her family’s with her actions. Had there been another way, she would have done it, but in their culture, these things were intertwined and impossible to separate.

“We raised you better than this!” her papa yelled into the phone.

Softly, Nita said, “You tried to . . . you really did. I’m sorry,” and then hung up.

She tinkered with her gold bangles, which she still wore every day. They were one of the last good memories she would have of her family because she suspected that was the last time she would ever speak to her parents. She was now truly on her own, to rise or fall on her own merit.