She lives in Paris. For now. She likes the colors of the sea, music but only softly, and saffron pasta. She also likes peaches to be white and cherries to be black. From her Indian origins, she has inherited dark eyes and a name she loves to be asked to repeat.

She studied a lot, worked afterwards, taught a little and finally, published. She always had a book with her, like a friend, better than a friend. She used to travel a lot. She is remarried. From this past life, she has kept a jewelry box. Full of colours, findings, stones and ideas. She has locked in it all the women she was, all these years. When she was in love, with someone or with herself. When she wanted to be looked at, or forgotten. When her skin was the colour of winter, or when it glowed in the August sun. When her hair smelled of amber or when it smelled of salt. When before going out she wondered what Anna, Ada or Virginia would have worn. When she cried. When she danced.

In this box, there are rings that shine when she drinks her coffee, bracelets that jingle when she turns the pages of her paper, earrings that get tangled in her hair and necklaces she touches when she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Gifts, memories, jewelry full of stories, locked in the box that she is opening today.