You shuddered as you made your way through the bustling, boisterous streets of Paris. For a brief moment, it seemed like the tall street lamps in the frosty night resembled the candlelights you were accustomed to seeing during Diwali in India. You felt guilty about moving on without telling anyone. Not Appa. Not even Amma or Akshay. Before you could dwell on the thought—your eyes sensed a movement. Somewhere in the obscurity, you made out an ominous shadow. Him. Again.

As a child, when Appa made you roti, laddu, and other delicacies—you would devour them, completely oblivious to your family’s financial situation and struggles with poverty. It seemed normal to sleep in a squalid hut, with a shattered roof, and trash overflowing on the streets. You would often overhear your Indian relatives discreetly discussing amongst themselves how irresponsible they thought your parents were, for blatantly spending money on you. Every Sunday, on your way to church the auto-rickshaw driver would eyeball your father and your family for not paying higher, although you gave him the right amount. Despite all this, you were content. You were mired in ignorance. You were like a miner who just discovered a vein of precious metal. It was a picture-perfect life, but deep in your heart…there was a forbidding sense of distance.

The naan that your father would make was always crispy, fresh, and alluring.

But when you bit into it—it would leave your mouth dry and the taste of something bitter would linger in your mouth. Father was always proud of you; he carried a fresh Jasmine in his pocket. You never talked to boys. Never went to parties. Never did anything to dishonor or shame the family. That was until one particular morning… when the sky seemed to be weeping uncontrollably. The rain had been spitting at your house's roof the previous night as well, and so Appa told you he was using your cycle instead of walking.

The way to school turned out to be hectic, with persistent thunder and lighting making it impossible for you to continue the journey. Before you could dwell on this thought—your eyes sensed a movement. Somewhere in the obscurity, you made out a silhouette: a man with piercing blue eyes and shimmering blonde hair. Turning his head towards you, he offered to give you a ride. His name was Pierre. Your initial response was to run, but something stopped you. You moved obediently towards him. Intrigued. Before you could step forward, a thunderous voice boomed from behind. Your father was back! Already. The Jasmine in Appa's pocket was drooping; the petals wilting from the rain. His eyes were an undecipherable shade of black.

Your chest pounded deafeningly as you choked on dry air. Your eyes welled with tears, your whole body stiff in shock—the ache of concealing your true self and the bitterness of growing up without freedom began to take hold. Without a glance back, you looked the stranger in his eyes—and told him you wanted to leave—to the airport. The man gave you a lopsided grin, and before the blink of an eye, you were off with him.

Your memory of what happened between the airport and your arrival in France was heavily distorted. When you started to refocus, you saw a different view. The man with piercing blue eyes smiled at you. He didn’t seem to stand out anymore because all around you there were girls with pale faces and nails longer than you had ever seen before. They were wearing ill-fitting tight tops and jeans that seemed to have dozens of holes in them—they all gathered around as if you were a zoo animal. One girl with unbelievably straight brunette hair and bright red lipstick congratulated Pierre on “choosing you”. All the girls snickered and cast a pitying glance. Pierre rolled his eyes at them and one arm around your shoulder took you into a room. He sat you down and told you that you were in France. To help you build a new life. He had found a fantastic job for you with someone that he knew—when he saw your hesitation and panic, he chuckled, calling you foolish. You didn’t know what was amusing but laughed along anyway.

Afterward, he went and bought you a baguette—it was magical. Pierre told you it was time to go meet his mate and dropped you in a narrow alleyway illuminated only by streetlights of the dusky Parisian night. He urged you to calm down and promised to come back and pick you up. Goosebumps appeared all along your arms as you tried to calm your excitement and anticipation. This person you were about to meet, held the key to a brighter future. A Parisian dream. (You would never have to worry about being pinned down anymore.) Inhaling deeply, you walked down the path. The trees ever so slightly shook, huddling close and whispering as you knocked on the door.

A man with a brown mustache and unruly teeth opened the door, with hesitation. He peered at you irritably; when you told him you were sent by Pierre—he ushered you in with an unmistakable grin on his face. An indescribable stench immediately filled your nostrils. The room he lived in was squalid and unkempt. The walls were a dark shade of grey and immersed in scratches. He sat you down, examined you, and took your hand while doing so. When you initially brushed it off, he told you to calm down. He said there would be no job if you didn’t follow his rules. He offered you a baguette to lighten the mood, but you immediately felt queasy. Afterward, there was a bizarre silence…he stared at you. Intently. Suddenly, he stood up, (his chair thrown to a side) and dug his hand into your neck attempting to choke you. You screamed in horror. When you rushed out of the door, your eyes brimmed with tears and you couldn’t seem to rub this feeling of shame off yourself. You should have been more careful. Appa would have been disappointed in you, but he would have also protected you if he was here. In your hurry, you charged right into a person… with shimmering blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Pierre took your hands in his, but his eyes were now a darker shade of blue— almost black. You were unable to look at him. Completely shattered. You sprinted right by him and into the pitch-black, foggy night as he attempted to conceal his chuckle.

On the streets they glared at you, one boy commenting on the dark tone of your skin. There didn’t seem to be a single place for you to stay alone—undisturbed. You looked through a hotel window admiring the grand chandeliers and royal red carpets whilst fully aware that the streets were the only place for you to be. You didn’t feel uncomfortable on the streets, because your life in India had a strong resemblance to it—but your parents always pampered you. You threw that away by choice.

Back in India, your government school had once requested any foreign countries to donate to the school funding program. In about a month, two middle-aged white men came to visit the school, claiming to be inspectors and promised to fund the program if they were allowed to meet the children first. They ended up paying a million rupees. At a cost. They took away nine girls from your first-grade class, promising the teachers that it was for a better future. In the end, no one ever returned. No news was heard. Any talk about it at school or in the community was silenced because they were girls. It didn’t matter if they didn’t return or not. At least there was money to fund the boys’ education. Your father, however, was different. He had always taught you to respect yourself and all genders equally—-there was no difference he said in the color of your skin or your sexuality. You never believed in Appa’s hypocrisy. It made a world of difference. 

Being scrutinized and glared at in France for having a different skin color or appearing different, did not scar you nearly as much as going back to India. You knew that the path to a new life was riddled with obstacles and life-long sacrifices but if it would end the pains of poverty and help you rebuild some tranquillity then it was worth it. The following day, you walked kilometers barefoot with an empty stomach seeking a job. Anywhere. Finally, you spotted a tiny book shop–it had the picture of Lord Krishna hung at the door, the entrance reading ‘Le Maharaja’. The scent of oil and jasmine moved you to tears. The warmth of the store reminded you of home. At the reception, a cashier smiled at you—-motioning you towards the bookshelves. You paused, shook your head, and told him you were looking for a job. Something about his soft brown eyes and striking resemblance to your brother gave you the courage to confess completely. You told him everything that happened. Every single experience from India to France. 

He took a long excruciating pause. Then put one arm around your shoulder, allowing you to rest your head on the other. Silent tears trickled down his face, as he inhaled deeply. You relaxed under his stronghold. He told you to call him Baaba and then described his troubles moving from India to France. He had been an immigrant who was promised a bright future in return for his bravery in saving two French men when their boat was sinking off the shoreline. However, he never got anything in return. He had to build from scratch. For two years, you worked as an assistant at his store…life was somewhat peaceful, lost in the monotony of everyday work. That was until one day when you received the news. Baaba had passed away.

Crying to yourself in disbelief, you found a spot near a dustbin in the dark alleyway. Baaba had breathed life into you, but now nothing remained. No strength. No hope. No bravery. The guilt of moving on without telling anyone haunted you. Not Appa. Not even Amma or Akshay.  Just before you could dwell on the thought—your eyes sensed a movement…somewhere in the obscurity, you made out an ominous shadow. Two piercing blue eyes stared back at you: Pierre. Again.