The Direction of the Wind: A Novel(8)

She felt she could lie in that bed, rickety and uncomfortable as it was, for another day, but she needed to use the toilet, so she sat herself upright, slipped on her champals, and padded down to the communal restroom. As she drew near, she heard a female voice humming. Inside at the sink was the source of the melody: a young, upbeat Asian woman with thick, silky black hair and large, wide-set brown eyes. She leaned close to the mirror and applied bright-pink lipstick.

“Bonjour.” She nodded in Nita’s direction. “You have risen, have you?” she said, making eye contact with Nita through the mirror. She spoke with the British accent that Nita was used to hearing on the television programs she had watched in Ahmedabad, but Nita had only ever seen white people speaking it there, so it seemed misplaced coming from this woman.

“It was my first day here,” Nita said shyly as she made her way to the farthest stall in the corner.

She wasn’t accustomed to sharing this type of space with another person and sought the most privacy possible. When she exited the stall, the girl had moved from her lips to painting her eyelids a bold shade of blue—the type that an upper-caste woman in India would never have worn.

“You want some?” the girl said, holding out the compact.

“Oh, no,” Nita stammered, surprised that the girl would offer to share such a personal item with a stranger she had just met. Did she not worry about passing germs?

Nita turned on the sink, and warm water spilled over her hands. She had learned yesterday that hot water flowed from the plumbing in a seemingly endless, almost wasteful, stream. There was none of the planning involved that was needed in India. There, she or the servants had to turn on the Gizzard to heat the water twenty minutes before she intended to use it, and then, because there was a limited amount, use it to fill up buckets to mix with cold water to get the right temperature. And that was for the privileged upper caste, who had an option of having any hot water flowing through the pipes at all. Here, it seemed everyone had access to it, whether wealthy or poor.

“Where are you from?” Nita asked.

“London. And you?” She leaned toward the mirror and puckered her lips, admiring her handiwork.

“Ahmedabad.”

She scrunched her nose. “Where’s that?”

“India.”

She nodded. “My flatmate in Islington was from there. India, anyway. Not sure where exactly. Good spicy food, that stuff. Like the Thai food my mum makes. You won’t find that here! It’s all cream and butter.” She smoothed her hair into a ponytail. “So, what’s your name?”

“Nita.”

“Cool. They call me Dao. Sangdao when I’m misbehaving,” she said with a glimmer in her eyes. “So, what have you got on today?”

“I need to look for a job. Do you work?” Nita said.

“I’ve been bartending a bit in the Marais. Gets me by. Can you mix drinks? Shall I put in a good word for you?”

Nita was again taken aback by her friendly nature. The two had just met. Didn’t she want to know about Nita’s family history and upbringing before recommending her for a job? That was the way it would have worked in India. A person’s reputation was everything, and recommending someone for a job was an extension of that. It was no matter, though. She had never even had a sip of alcohol. It was banned in Gujarat, and Rajiv was a rules follower who never let it cross their threshold even though some of their friends had access to it via foreign relatives who used their liquor licenses to stock up for their families. She knew she would not be skilled at anything involving alcohol.

Nita shook her head. “I think I’m going to look for work as a shop teller or something like that,” she said. It was the first time in her life she had even considered getting any job, let alone such a menial one, but she had not been trained in the ways that would matter for employment. She could prepare a perfect Gujarati meal, as cooking was one of the few things that had come naturally to her as a wife and mummy, but there would be no need for that here. This was a city of croissants and crêpes, not rotlis and shaak.

Dao shrugged. “Whatever suits. Just make sure you have your papers in order.”

“My papers?” Nita asked.

“You know, work permits and such. Some people will ask you to show it before they even hand you the application, as if they don’t want to waste a piece of paper.” Dao rolled her eyes. “Those cash jobs are harder to come by these days, if you know what I mean?” She winked at Nita through the mirror. “I somehow managed to find one even with my papers, but it wasn’t easy!”

Nita felt her pulse quicken. Why hadn’t she thought about that before she left? Because you have no experience with the world, she chastised herself. She’d never even thought about the fact that if someone had a job available and she had matching skills, there would be further barriers to entry. Work permits and such were not even a consideration in the life she’d led until that point. At least, it seemed, there was a way around that, and she now knew she needed a job that paid cash—just like the ones they had given to their servants in India. She got herself here and she would find a way to stay. Worst case, maybe she’d have to learn to bartend with Dao!

“I didn’t think about how much goes into moving countries,” Nita said.

“Everything looks romantic in the moonlight, but the sun always rises the next day.” Dao laughed to herself. “So, what brings you to this fair city?”