Free Salaam, Paris by Kavita Daswani Page A

“Please! I mean no harm. Please.”
    We were on the rue de Rivoli, surrounded by tourists, so against my better judgment I came to a standstill and turned to face him as he caught up with me.
    “Thank you,” he said, catching his breath. He spoke in accented English, but I knew it wasn’t French. Somehow, I found that comforting—that he was an alien here, just like me. “You walk fast,” he gasped.
    “I thought you were chasing me. What do you want?”
    He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out a name card, and handed it to me: DIMITRI MAROUNIS, VICE PRESIDENT , it said, and beneath it the name of a company with three different addresses.
    I looked up at him, still puzzled.
    “I am a scout,” he said. “It’s my job to find new talent. I saw you sitting there, and I thought that if you weren’t already a model, you should be. Are you? If so, to whom are you signed?”
    “You are mistaken,” I said. “I am in Paris for just a short while and will then return to India. I have no interest in modeling, but I thank you.” I turned around to resume my walk home.
    “But madam,” he said, stopping me. “You are a striking young woman. You could become very rich doing this if you would let me help you. We’ll start by getting some photos taken. I will help you through the whole process, and—”
    I interrupted him mid-sentence. “I don’t believe you fully understood me,” I said. “I have no interest. But thank you.”
    Shoving his card into my bag, I turned around again and headed home, leaving him standing there.
    The next evening as I was showing my roommates how to prepare lamb curry, the doorbell rang. Juliette went to answer it and returned accompanied by a young man who looked like he had come from my part of the world.
    “Miss Tanaya?” he asked, staring at me blankly.
    “Yes?”
    “My name is Sumeet. Mina Husain asked me to bring you these.”
    He stepped aside, and I saw behind him three boxes, each addressed to me care of Aunt Mina.
    I knew exactly what they were. My grandfather’s handwriting was immediately recognizable. I used to joke to Nilu that all my belongings in the world would easily fit into three small boxes, which were now positioned in front of me.
    Once Sumeet left, the girls helped me open them up. Inside were all my clothes, the ones I used to wear when chasing the children of our building up and down the stone stairs; my leather chappals that I frayed walking back and forth to the market; the books that kept me company during my lonely nights.
    At the top of the second box was an envelope, with my name written flawlessly on the front. Even at his angriest, my grandfather always had exceptional penmanship. A letter was carefully folded inside.
     
    Tanaya,
    You were supposed to return after two weeks in Paris. It has now been two months. I told you on the phone that you were dead to me, that you could never return home. Yet I waited. I thought perhaps someone had cursed you with insanity, but that you would eventually recover and come home to beg forgiveness, which I would have gradually given you. But now, too much time has passed. You are, I have realized, not insane. Instead, you are a horrible and shameless girl. I do not know what has come over you, and when Allah finally takes me to paradise, I still will not know. But here are your things. Having them around is nothing more than a painful reminder of your presence. You have crushed me, Tanaya. It is like you were never even my child.
    My hands were shaking as I held the single piece of paper with which my beloved grandfather had effectively ended my life. The girls looked at me questioningly, and then one by one seemed to grasp what had happened and what the contents of that letter were. Karla opened up the last box, atop which rested my parents’ wedding photograph, the one I used to sneak into our room to look at. Affixed to the back with a piece of Scotch tape was a small note from my