Existentialism

Chapitre Un: I Learn I Am Evil, Apparently

I'm standing in an overcrowded train station in Paris, with barely any knowledge of the French language or any way of communicating with these foreign people around me. I'm alone, because my family doesn't care enough about me to worry about where I am, and why would these French people give a shit?
I mean, that was what I thought until someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked "Comment vas-tu?"
I roughly got that as "Are you okay?" and promptly realised I had been standing still for about a minute with a vacant stare.
I muttered something along the lines of "yeah, fine", throwing together what I could remember from French class last year and complete speculation based on the romantic style of language and my knowledge of Italian thanks to music. The person seemed content enough with my answer, and moved away, so I figured I had done something right.
That's rare these days.
To be fair, spotting a random Desi person staring into a train in a Paris station with a vaguely Spanish accent isn't normal either.
My family's.... interesting, you could say.
My father's side all came from India, which is where my skin colour and heritage as Desi comes from. I prefer to say I'm Desi than to explain to someone that I'm some percent Spanish, half Desi, and whatever the rest is American. My mom was from Spain originally, but her family tree is a mess of Spain, Portugal, America, and a couple other European countries; that's actually the reason we were in France in the first place. My mom had found something that hinted to her having French relatives, and because she's so bigoted she just has to fill in her family tree as close as she can get to completion, she'd bought plane tickets with her extra shoe money (why she needed more shoes, I have no idea) and whisked me off to Paris.
Of course, she didn't actually care about me, but she needed to take me along because otherwise she'd have to go out of her way to send me to dad, who just so inconveniently happened to be in the one place I wanted to be - my father's hometown Bhatapara, where he was raised. He took me there for the first time about four years ago, and it was one of my favourite places in the world. India was very different to America, but I embraced it and quickly adapted. Everything just came more naturally: whether it was the fact it was my heritage, where my roots lied, or I just preferred Indian culture (and the food, the food is so good), I didn't and still don't know.
But I'm not in India. I'm in Paris, and I needed to catch the train that arrived in about fifteen minutes to get back to the hotel.
My mom had just dropped a bunch of money on me and told me to go do something, and as long as I stayed in Paris, I was fine. She wouldn't care if I left Paris, but there were other people around, and her portrayal in public and what people thought of her was important for some reason, so she made sure to act like a good parent.
"Project BrownFace is almost complete. Soon, Existentialism will be ready."
Wait, what?
Anyway...
So far, I'd gone to a giant Ferris Wheel on the boundaries of the city, ate too much unhealthy food, and just not really done much.
Although I did spend lots of money, just to annoy my mother when I inevitably returned to the hotel.
-----
When I got back to said hotel we were staying in and entered my room, my mother didn't even bat an eyelid. She was used to seeing me disappear and reappear - it's something she had to adjust to, being a neglecting parent and all. I sat down on my bed, not saying a word; there wasn't exactly much to say in the first place.
I slump back and pull out my phone, realising that I, once again, have no reason to.
Do you, by any chance, know about the concept of friends? Because I don't have really any, to be honest. I use my phone as a way to prevent people talking to me, as a way of telegraphing "hey, not interested in speaking right now" as opposed to looking at WhatsApp or Instagram or Facebook or Twitter or anything like that. Writing is my passion though, and often times when I pull my phone out it's to jot an idea down in my notes for later.
I'm not gonna lie and say I hate learning; I was fortunate enough to get a pretty good education because my parents were - and are - rich. It's one of the benefits of it: you actually get taught useful stuff. I was taught how to sort and pay taxes at just six years old, which looking back is a tad young, but eh, hindsight is always 20/20.
Anyway, back to the point. I was simply lookin' at memes, the normal stuff, and I was too engrossed to notice the soft walking sound.
Or the gag wrapping around my mouth, along with the muttered words "Found her."
All I saw was the blackness from the hard slap to my face.
-----
Whoo boy, this was fun!
Sorry it's not the 3000-word chapter I promised, but this should hold you over for the time being.
I'm not really going to say much right now, just that feel free to speculate. There is a lot I have yet to reveal, including our main character's name.
And by the way, I did do research. I'm not Desi, nor have I ever been to India, but Bhatapara is a real place in Northern Hindi India. It looks quite nice, really.
Anyway, have fun coming up with plans about this book, I'm interested how wrong you'll be.
Oh, and yeah, this book is in support of the MissionDesi project. If you don't know, they're a group of people dedicated to helping Desi people find their footing on Wattpad. Go check them out, they're really cool.
See ya soon!
-Crimson