The Perfumist of Paris by Alka Joshi EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: Alka Joshi
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Genre: Cultural Heritage Fiction
- Price: Free
- File Size: 2 MB
- Publish Date: March 28, 2023
Europeans once traded gold for cloves grown in South
India so they could spread the spice across their floors
to absorb foot odor.
Paris
September 2, 1974
I pick up on the first ring; I know it’s going to be her. She always calls on his
birthday. Not to remind me of the day he came into this world but to let me
know I’m not alone in my remembrance.
“Jiji?” I keep my voice low. I don’t want to wake Pierre and the girls.
“Kaisi ho, choti behen?” my sister says. I hear the smile in her voice, and I
respond with my own. It’s lovely to hear Lakshmi’s gentle Hindi here in my
Paris apartment four thousand miles away. I’d always called her Jiji—big
sister—but she hadn’t always called me choti behen. It was Malik who
addressed me as little sister when I first met him in Jaipur eighteen years ago,
and he wasn’t even related to Jiji and me by blood. He was simply her
apprentice. My sister started calling me choti behen later, after everything in
Jaipur turned topsy-turvy, forcing us to make a new home in Shimla.
Today, my sister will talk about everything except the reason she’s calling.
It’s the only way she’s found to make sure I get out of bed on this particular
date, to prevent me from spiraling into darkness every year on the second of
September, the day my son, Niki, was born.
She started the tradition the first year I was separated from him, in 1957. I
was just fourteen. Jiji arrived at my boarding school with a picnic, having
arranged for the headmistress to excuse me from classes. We had recently
moved from Jaipur to Shimla, and I was still getting used to our new home. I
think Malik was the only one of us who adjusted easily to the cooler
temperatures and thinner air of the Himalayan mountains, but I saw less of
him now that he was busy with activities at his own school, Bishop Cotton.
I was in history class when Jiji appeared at the door and beckoned me with
a smile. As I stepped outside the room, she said, “It’s such a beautiful day,
Radha. Shall we take a hike?” I looked down at my wool blazer and skirt, my
stiff patent leather shoes, and wondered what had gotten into her.
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