Monsoon Summer (7 page)

TWELVE

The two girls I rode home with Chattered nonstop,
shouting over the auto-rickshaw's roaring engine and the unending blare of horns. I kept my eyes on the back of the driver's head, fighting the urge to put my fingers in my ears. When I finally entered the cool, quiet apartment, I almost collapsed with relief. Slipping into a pair of shorts and one of Steve's old T-shirts that he'd passed on to me, I decided to get my boring weight-training session out of the way.

As I lifted and counted reps, I fought the temptation to run down the hill to the phone. A good discussion with Steve was my usual way of unwinding in the afternoons. No crowds. Just the two of us, working the booth, chatting, taking a coffee break every so often. But I'd just spoken to him three days ago. It was too expensive to call so soon. And I couldn't let him know that I was missing him a hundred times more than he was missing me.

As for sending e-mails, Dad and Eric had found a cyber café, but it had been packed with hordes of young people. “You'd hate it in there, Jazz,” Dad told me. “Everybody stared, and I almost suffocated trying to check my e-mail.” He made it sound as if I should avoid it for my own good, like an allergic person staying inside during pollen season. I didn't mind taking his advice; I couldn't even finish one satisfactory handwritten letter. Composing regular e-mails seemed like a monumental task.

So after my workout, I slogged through a pile of homework assignments. When those were done, I realized I had absolutely nothing to do. And my stomach was growling. That was it—I was hungry! I hadn't eaten much all day. I headed for the kitchen to forage for a snack, singing a tune from one of my favorite movies, The Sound of Music, to cheer myself up.

“These are a few of my favorite things,” I sang loudly and off key, thinking I was alone. “When the dog bites—”

I stopped abruptly. I wasn't alone after all. A strange girl was rummaging through our cabinets. This must be
the helper from the orphanage,
I realized, remembering that Mom had said she was going to start working today.

The girl's faded sky blue
salwar kameez
was ironed carefully so that the folds fell symmetrically around her slim body. Her hair was tucked neatly into a bun on the back of her head. Little touches of gold shimmered everywhere— at her ears, at her wrists, on her ankles. As she opened our drawers, a dozen slim golden bangles jangled on her wrists in accompaniment.

She turned. Her oval face had the big-eyed, highcheekboned beauty that could make the cover of Vogue. She held her head high and moved gracefully, and I found myself thinking that she certainly didn't look like a penniless orphan. “Good afternoon,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “I'm Danita. You must be Jasmine. Come in, come in. Was that you singing?”

“Call me Jazz,” I replied automatically, wishing I'd stayed in my room. “Yes, that was me. Where's my mother?”

“Still working.”

“What about Eric? And my father?”

“Eric is playing soccer with some of the little boys. Your father's still in Auntie Das's office. He has been there all day.”

Poor Dad! That nun had him closeted away; she'd probably bolted the door behind him. It sounded like there was no way for him to escape.

“I'm not very used to an American kitchen,” Danita was saying. “Some of your things seem a bit unfamiliar to me. I wonder if you could help me.”

I wonder if you could help me. Those were practically the same words Mona had used when she'd conned me into hiring her. I glared at the bags of groceries on the counter. Wasn't there any way to avoid needy people? Now they were turning up in my own kitchen.

“Use these,” I said curtly, sliding the butcher block full of knives in front of her. I set out the cutting board and pointed out the spice rack. I handed her the colander and she began washing vegetables. I even pulled out a couple of pots and pans from the cabinet beside the stove. Now I wanted to escape before she asked for anything else.

“May I make you a cup of tea?” Danita asked. “Auntie Das says I put magic into my tea. ‘Creamy, delicious, and good for the soul,' she always says. You must be hungry after school. Let me fix you a snack.”

I hesitated at the kitchen door. A mix of caffeine and calories sounded great to my empty stomach. Besides, the kindness in her voice surprised me.

“Would you like to learn how to make tea?” she asked. “Come and watch.”

I thought of the vile stuff Mom had concocted. It might be good for one member of our family to learn how to brew a good cup of tea. As I listened to Danita's instructions, I was thankful for how well she spoke English. It hurt my brain when I had to talk or listen to Hindi for long periods.

“Your English is great,” I told her when she handed me the finished product: a fragrant, steaming cup of tea.

Danita opened a packet of biscuits, spread them in a fan on a plate, and set it on the table. “My sister Ranee is much better at English than I am. Why don't you sit down, Jazz Didi?”

From my Hindi lessons, I knew that
didi
was the word for older sister. It was also used as a term of respect for nonrelatives. This was the first time anybody had used it for me. It had a nice ring to it. I sat down at the kitchen table, feeling like an honored guest.

I blew on the tea to cool it a bit and watched Danita chop onions and potatoes into tiny cubes. As her hands moved in perfect rhythm, the golden bangles chimed together, sounding like faraway church bells.

“You're having chicken masala tonight,” she told me. “And potatoes and peas. With rice, of course.”

I was suddenly more than hungry; I was ravenous. I took a sip of the tea. It was perfect. Creamy, sweet, and smooth. Just as good as a
latte,
if not better. I sighed with satisfaction.

“What's wrong?” Danita asked. “Is the tea bitter? It's a brand I've never used before.”

“Oh, no. It's great,” I said, taking a big gulp of it. “It's incredible, actually.”

She smiled. “Auntie tells everybody that my tea is the perfect cure for monsoon madness. I'm the official tea maker at Asha Bari. Quite an honor, actually.”

“She told us about that monsoon madness stuff. Does it really happen?”

“I believe so. Some people do act a little mad during this season.”

“Mad? You mean angry?”

“No, no, not at all. Their personalities change, and they do things they normally never would do.”

I pictured my Dad in a tie, heading off to the orphanage just because a nun had asked him to. “How long have you known Sister Das, Danita?”

“Since I was four. My sister Ranee was two when we arrived at Asha Bari, and Ria was a baby. I'm fifteen now, Ranee is thirteen, and Ria is eleven.”

I blurted out the next question without thinking. “How'd you end up there, anyway?” Right away, I regretted it. Asking people personal questions wasn't only impolite, it led to trouble, and I thought I'd learned my lesson. “I'm sorry,” I said, standing up. “That was rude. I'll finish my tea in my room and let you get back to work.”

“It's quite all right, Jazz Didi,” Danita answered quickly. “I don't mind. Don't drink your tea in a rush. Besides, a cup of tea should never be taken alone.”

I remembered what Mom had told me on the train the day we'd arrived: it was much more acceptable to be openly curious in India than it was in America. Besides, maybe Steve was right—the whole Mona thing had me freaked out. I couldn't even have a simple conversation now without worrying that I'd get too involved. I made myself sit down and took another sip of that amazing tea.

Danita was using both hands to skin the chicken. “My sisters and I were found on a bus coming into Pune,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “The police brought us to Auntie Das. She posted notices in the newspapers and asked questions in all the villages along the bus line, but nobody knew anything about our parents. I can't seem to remember anything either, even though I've tried.”

I choked on a bite of biscuit.
What kind of a person
leaves three tiny kids alone on a bus? I thought, coughing like a chain-smoker.

Danita rushed over to pat me on the back. “Are you all right, Jazz Didi?”

The front door slammed, and Dad came into the kitchen. He collapsed into a chair and gave me a weary smile, not even noticing that I was hacking to death. “Hi, sweetie. How was your day?”

Before I could gasp out an answer, Mom bustled in. She dropped a quick kiss on the top of my head, ignoring my feeble attempts to breathe. “Hello, Danita. Looks like you found everything. Have you met Jazz's father?”

I finally managed to cough up the piece of biscuit and took a big gulp of tea to settle my throat. After giving my back one last pat, Danita bent her head and put her hands together in a
namaste
. Dad smiled his shy smile in return.

“How was school, darling?” Mom asked me.

“Oh, fine, fine,” I said. “Where's Eric?”

“Out on the balcony having a reunion with his bugs,” Mom said, washing her hands. She looked as fresh as she had in the morning, but her saree was spattered with mud. “He had a great time teaching the kids. He's such a natural. I had a wonderful time today, too. The women in the community were hesitant at first. But once they figured out I was an American, they treated me like a queen. Everywhere I went they made me tea and gave me sweets. It's quite a tribute to the orphanage's good reputation.”

“I thought they were poor,” I said, wondering how Mom could still be full of energy after a day like that.

“They are. They'll go without dinner tonight, but a guest has to be treated well. They were so curious about me, and asked lots of questions about our family. It really helps to speak some Hindi.”

“I wish I spoke some,” Dad said. “It might help me to explain some of the more complicated computer concepts to those nuns.” He was slumped in his chair, elbows on the table, looking like one of those tall sunflowers that reach for the sun in the morning and wilt by the end of the day.

“Tough day, huh, Dad?” I asked.

He nodded and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his open palms.

Danita had made a fresh pot of tea. I handed her a huge mug before she poured some into a small cup. I figured Dad needed a double dose of her special monsoon antidote. Standing behind him, I began to knead the muscles of his shoulders. I wished he'd face the facts: he was going to get trashed if he kept going to that orphanage. He had to bail out before it was too late.

“Ahhhh!” Dad said, leaning back and taking a sip of tea. “A daughter after my own heart. And this tea is terrific, Danita.”

“How'd it go today, honey?” Mom asked him. “I was so excited about my day, I forgot to ask about yours. Are the computers any good?”

“They're ancient. And so are the nuns. And so is their accounting system. They type letters on a typewriter with a ribbon that constantly gets stuck. It's going to be a miracle if they learn to switch a computer on, let alone use spreadsheets and word processing programs.”

“Are you going to be able to access the Internet, Dad?” Eric asked eagerly. He was hoping to send e-mails to his friends, too, but was staying far away from the crowded cyber café.

“I'm not sure those computers can get to it through the orphanage's one phone line. But I'm trying my best.” He sighed. “Then I'm going to have to teach the nuns how to use e-mail.”

“Do they speak English?” I asked. “Because if they don't, Dad, I think they're asking too much of you. You should quit.”

Dad shook his head. “I can't, Jazz. I promised I was going to do this, and a Gardner always keeps a promise.”

He was right. It was a corollary of our family code. “Who did you promise?” I asked, not wanting to give up so easily. “I thought you told Sister Das you'd try it for a while. Well, now you've tried it.”

“I didn't promise her, Jazz,” Dad said quietly. “I promised myself.”

“Besides, most of the sisters are fluent in English, Hindi, and Marathi,” Mom added. “That's why the orphanage children speak English so well. Sister Catherine is going to be my translator at the clinic. Do you know her, Danita?”

I didn't wait to hear Danita's answer. Mom was taking charge of the conversation, drawing Danita in, making her feel at home. I slipped out of the kitchen and grabbed the jumbo umbrella Mom and I had bought.

In Berkeley, hill climbing had been one of my favorite ways to get my heart rate up, and I was hoping to do the same here in India. I went out and started walking fast, toward the green, rolling hills that stretched up to the mountains. But the paved path ended soon after, and the ground became too muddy to keep up any kind of decent pace.

Stopping under a grove of magnolia trees, I inhaled the rich smell of herbs and earth in the rain-drenched grasses, the light fragrance of the five-petaled white flowers hidden in the glossy green leaves. A pair of tiny birds swooped out of a tree and circled my head, complaining about my visit in high-pitched voices.

“Calm down,” I ordered. “You'll be fine.”

The birds ignored me completely, as if they knew I hadn't been talking to them.

THIRTEEN

Dad didn't quit. He plodded down the hill with Mom and Eric every morning, looking crisp and businesslike in new tailored shirts that Danita washed and ironed for him. I kept my eye on him, searching carefully for any signs of undue stress. But there weren't any. After a week at Asha Bari, I could tell he was actually starting to enjoy himself. He came home almost as bouncy and cheerful as Mom, ready for his cup of tea and bubbling over with updates on the work.

Mom listened wide-eyed, as if he was her knight in shining armor. Now that Dad was finally participating in one of her giving opportunities, she acted as if she could hardly believe it was true. Not that she was slacking off herself, visiting practically every poor woman for miles around. The hems of her sarees came back so muddy, it looked as if she'd dipped them in chocolate.

“When are you going to start setting up the clinic, Sarah?” Dad asked when he was done with his daily report. “You've already spread the word far enough, haven't you?”

Mom shook her head. “Not yet, Pete. There's still a neighborhood about five miles away that I want to visit. They need to hear about the clinic, too. It's only fair.”

“Is that really why you're tromping over there in the rain?” Dad asked, but Mom didn't answer. I gave Dad a significant look. Here he'd warned me about mentioning Mom's secret search and now he was doing it himself. “I don't want you to get sick, Sarah,” he added quickly.

“Have some more, honey,” Mom said to Eric, heaping a pile of lentils on his rice. “All that running around makes you hungry, doesn't it?”

My brother was living and breathing soccer from the crack of dawn until he fell sound asleep at night, exhausted. He was attending the orphanage school, but I don't think he was getting much out of it. His notebooks were full of doodles and diagrams of soccer plays and strategies instead of math problems.

“Which reminds me, Sir Eric,” I said. “I've had to feed your zoo every day this week. Leaves, leaves, and more leaves. That bougainvillea bush is practically naked. What's taking you so long to get home, anyway?”

“I'm sorry, Jazz, but I'm so busy! Auntie Das told us our team could challenge another school to a game in a couple of weeks. My guys are learning to dribble, and some of them are really good. You should stop by and watch sometime on your way home from school.”

I rolled my eyes. “Somebody has to take care of your collection. Besides, I'm busy after school. With homework and stuff.”

My parents exchanged glances. I wondered if they could tell how miserable I was. I certainly didn't want to ruin Mom's dream come true, but I wasn't sure I could hide my feelings much longer.

This was turning out to be the worst summer of my entire life.

School itself wasn't so bad, although it was definitely different than what I was used to. It was a good thing I was in honors classes in Berkeley; everybody was advanced here. Instead of rewarding us for discussion and creativity, though, Indian teachers delivered long lectures and called on students randomly to recite memorized answers. It took a lot of energy to understand some of their Indian accents, and I was constantly inventing mnemonic devices in case they called on me. During tea breaks and lunches, I was grateful that Sonia, Rini, and Lila kept asking me crazy questions about life in America.

It was after school that the loneliness came. I hurried home each day, jumping out of the auto-rickshaw. I hated seeing the straw-haired children playing on the hard pavement and the thin, ragged women squatting to sell vegetables. They stared at me with unblinking, fascinated eyes. Huddling under the dome of my umbrella, I jogged up the hill until I reached our apartment. After feeding Eric's bugs and finishing my weights and homework, I marked the days off the calendar, one by one.

It was nearly the end of the third week in June, and with each day that passed, my longing for Steve intensified. If only we'd remembered to set a phone date! I'd tried twice to call him during the second week, stopping by the phone booth in the deserted shop down the hill, but he hadn't been home. The first time, I'd left a message on the answering machine. The second time, Mrs. Morales told me Steve was out with a friend. No, she didn't know which friend, but she'd tell Steve I'd called. Yes, they were all fine. How was I doing? No, she didn't know a good time to call. Just not too late, because Mr. Morales worked the early shift. After using up my allotment of weekly phone money talking to Mrs. Morales, I hung up. Where was the guy, anyway?

Thankfully, Steve's first two letters had arrived, and Mom brought them home from the orphanage. I reread them every afternoon, studying the envelopes, analyzing the handwriting, noticing the stamps he'd picked and where he'd stuck them. He had used regular air mail stationery, but I sniffed it anyway.

The one with the earlier postmark was on a single sheet of paper, written only on one side, with mostly business news. He'd given me figures of profits and expenditures and other statistics about the number of customers. Business is booming, he'd ended the letter.

Our part-time employees are doing great, but we didn't count on the reunions this summer. I'm struggling with the books and with managing them, and you're halfway across the world. Hope your mom's having a great time to make it all worth it. Can't wait to hear from you. Love, Steve

I looked at the “Love, Steve” part carefully, trying to find any hidden, subliminal message that might have seeped out of his subconscious.

The second letter was scribbled on both sides of one sheet, and most of it was about Coach's tough summer training program.

Coach said to work on your lower body strength, Jazz. Do squats or something. And don't forget Cardio. He thinks our team has the potential to win
state this year.

Dad's been taking me to look at Used jeeps so I
Can get an idea of how much more I need to save. I
Can get one next spring right after my birthday if
the business keeps doing well. We'll go pick it out
together.

You should have enough by then in your account for a fairly nice Used Car. It's still amazing to me that your parents have never owned a Car or a television. I guess they're right, though. Your family hasn't really needed a Car in Berkeley. Plus, I think one of the reasons you and Eric are so different from other kids is because you don't watch hours and hours of television. I don't watch anything but sports anymore, and I've been doing
a lot more reading, thanks to a good talk I had with
your mom. She's such an amazing woman, so easy
to talk to.

Well, I'm looking forward to getting your first
letter. Take Care. Steve

I noticed he'd dropped the word “love.” And what did he mean by “different from other kids”? I wasn't sure how I felt about his comment about Mom, either. Of course, I completely agreed with him—she
was
an amazing woman. It was just that I wanted him to rave about
me,
not my mother.

I tucked the letters back under my pillow. Now came the hard part—trying to compose an answer. My first handwritten letter to Steve had to be perfect, I decided, intriguing but not too revealing. The only problem with setting such a high standard was that every one of my attempts turned out to be a flop.

Scowling, I tore the paper into tiny pieces and tossed them into the already overflowing trash can. I sounded either hopelessly infatuated (which I was) or boring and whiny (which I was becoming). Days and days of going from school to my room and back again stretched out endlessly in front of me. I was doomed; I'd probably have India's worst case of monsoon madness by the time we were ready to leave.

Then I remembered the perfect antidote to going bonkers during the rainy season—a cup of Danita's sweet, milky tea. I could almost taste it. Like a marathon runner about to die of dehydration, I staggered toward the kitchen.