The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(5)

Nita sighed, thinking about how Sophie’s life was changing today. She saw what a great papa Rajiv was and knew that Sophie would be okay without her. The two idolized each other, and Nita had been on the outskirts anyway. She knew Rajiv would need to tell their daughter something about Nita leaving and had no doubt that he would deliver the news in the best way for Sophie, but she wondered what explanation he would offer. Tonight, when Sophie came home and slept in this bed, what would she think? Would she understand? Would she ever forgive Nita for leaving?

One of life’s greatest cruelties was that those who were innocent suffered more than those who inflicted the harm. The flawed, the broken, the damaged—they moved on most quickly. Nita wondered if she were all three. In her mind, she was already picturing her life in Paris. She hated knowing that Rajiv and Sophie, the two most innocent souls she knew, would bear the brunt of her betrayal. They’d agonize over whether they had done something to cause the pain they felt at her leaving. They hadn’t. But she knew no words she could ever say would absolve them of the hurt, doubt, and guilt they would feel. But she hoped that once those feelings faded, they’d find joy in the small family that remained.

Afraid that if she lingered longer, the servants would return and catch her, she placed the rajai back at the end of the bed, tucking its edges so it was a perfectly folded rectangle. She then returned to her bedroom—now Rajiv’s bedroom—and placed a sealed envelope on his nightstand.

August 13, 1998

Dear Rajiv,

I have started this letter to you countless times but have never found the words. I’m not sure I have them now, but it is time. I am sorry I was not brave enough to say these things to you in person, but I’ve never had your strength. I took a vow to be your wife and Sophie’s mummy, but I have not been honest with myself or with you. You are a good man. But this life is not enough. It was never one that I wanted. It was the one our parents chose for us. I’ve done my best to grow into the wife and mummy that you and Sophie deserve, but it hasn’t come naturally to me. I kept hoping it would, but the days pass, and the more I try to force myself into my maternal and spousal duties and repress the life I dreamed of as a girl, the more the weight of that burden crushes me. We were born into a culture that doesn’t permit independence for any of us. Our roles were decided at birth. Maybe even before that. We could never have changed that. I did my best to play my part, but my heart craves more. Our life in Ahmedabad is suffocating me, and if I continue to ignore it, it will destroy me, or I will destroy our family. Sophie deserves better than that. As do you.

I need to become whole. To feel in control of my life for the first time. My body yearns to set foot in the country I have been thinking about since I was a little girl. To be in a city where dreams like mine come true. Where I can become like the artists whose paintings I have seen only in books. Where maybe one day my skills will develop so that you or Sophie will open a book in India and find my work. Please know I have not made this decision lightly. You must let me go. As for Sophie, you may tell her what you wish. Your judgment has always been sound. Do know that I loved her and you in the best way I knew how. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough for all of us to be happy.

Nita

Taking one final look at the letter, knowing these words could not be unsaid, she switched off the light and left their bedroom. She struggled to get her suitcase downstairs, pulling the bag toward her small frame and leaning backward to counterbalance the weight. She was now embarking on a life of depending only on herself, so she had better get used to it. She closed the heavy front door to the bungalow behind her and, without ever looking back, made her way to the street to hail a ricksha.



Paris was emptier than she had imagined it would be. A few people passed Nita on the street and cast sideways glances. The warm, balmy August air made the delicate fabric of her parrot-green sari stick to her skin. People around her wore the Western clothing she had seen on satellite television in India—slacks, jeans, short dresses revealing their slim, pale legs. The women bared their shoulders, letting the sun color their fair skin. Her parents would have been appalled at the lack of modesty, but Nita relished the thought of joining them, letting the constraints of her sari fall away from her meter by meter.

The surly, large-eared agent at the airport desk had given her the name of a budget hostel in the Latin Quarter. She glanced at the navy street signs with green borders and white letters and tried to match the names with the piece of paper she had received from the tourist information kiosk at the airport. The lettering was so different from the Gujarati and Hindi signs throughout Ahmedabad. She used the small map he had provided her to search for Rue Saint-Séverin and finally saw it on a stone building at a large intersection.

She flung the pallu of her sari back over her shoulder and wheeled her rickety suitcase through the street until she was halfway down the block and saw a nondescript black door with the words L’H?TEL CANARD VOLANT with a single star below them. The windows next to the door were covered with a crackling black film. The exterior was a far cry from the whitewashed walls of the expansive bungalow in Ahmedabad that had been home until she’d boarded the flight yesterday and an even further cry from the five-star hill stations in the Indian countryside where she and Rajiv would vacation each year with Sophie.

This door was much easier to push open than the heavy, solid block door to her home in India. She stepped inside and was immediately slapped with the smell of cigarette smoke and crinkled her nose, not accustomed to the potent scent of tobacco. Rajiv’s only vice had been the occasional paan, and that left no odor behind. This room smelled like layers of stale scents had woven their way through the cumbersome purple-velvet-upholstered furniture and thick matching draperies framing the dingy, dark windows. The source of the immediate odor was a narrow-shouldered, mousy woman in her thirties who sat behind the reception desk, a slim cigarette dangling haphazardly from her burgundy lips while she flipped pages in a colorful fashion magazine.