Monsoon Summer (13 page)

TWENTY-THREE

Ranee herded Us Upstairs, continuing to sound like the perfect tour guide. “In this room, we learn classical Hindi music and study Kathak. We also hold shows and large gatherings here.”

We were standing in the conservatory, a large room with wooden floors, full-length mirrors, and a bar along three walls. An old-fashioned upright piano stood in the corner, and a variety of Indian instruments were arranged on a platform beside it.

“What's Kathak?” I asked.

“A type of Indian dance. Didi does it beautifully. She teaches the morning class for the little girls.”

Was there anything Danita couldn't do? She could cook. She could sing. Now her sister was telling me she could dance
and
teach.

“Why don't you join us, Jazz Didi?” Danita suggested.

“
Me?
Dance? Never. I'm too clumsy.”

“Actually, you have the perfect build for Kathak. It takes a lot of strength to do it well. Why don't you give it a try?”

“I might come and watch sometime.”

We headed for the second floor to peep at the toddlers. They were gathered around four or five tot-sized tables eating rice pudding. Several nuns were fighting a losing battle to keep the children's faces, hands, and clothes clean.

The sunny, airy baby room next door was lined with cribs and smelled of talcum powder. Four women sat cross-legged on a floor mat, chatting as they bottle-fed one baby after another. Their fingers flew when they stopped feeding to change diapers. Everywhere, babies squalled and kicked their feet in the air, demanding to be fed or changed or held.

I leaned over one of the quieter cribs. A little girl was sitting up, and almost without thinking, I reached over and stroked her head. She froze at my touch. The same instinct that had made me touch her helped me not to pull away. I waited, and slowly, she groped for my hand with both of her little ones. Then she began to rub her cheek slowly against my open palm, her face solemn and still.

Danita walked over. “You've found Maya, I see.”

“What's wrong with her?” I whispered. “Why is she still in the baby room? She looks old enough to join the toddlers.”

“She's blind,” Danita answered. “But that shouldn't be holding her back. We don't know the reason, but she's been a bit slower to develop than the others.”

The baby took my hand and put it on her head again, as though she wanted me to stroke it one more time. I did, and this time she kept a tight hold on one of my fingers.

Danita smiled. “She's usually shy with strangers, but she likes you, Jazz.”

“Does she? Why isn't she smiling, then?”

“Maya never smiles. Auntie Das thinks that if somebody talked to her for an hour or so every day, she might develop more quickly. I only wish I had the time.”

I have the time, I thought suddenly. I could do that.

“Come, Jazz Didi,” Danita said. “Let's go upstairs.”

One of the hardest things I'd ever done was to ease my finger out of that little girl's grip. I couldn't bring myself to look down as I pulled away. I'll be back, I promised silently. Maya made no sound of protest, as though she was used to being left behind.

Ranee led us to the third floor. We peeked in at the empty dispensary and a few more classrooms. Then we entered the older girls' dormitory, a large, airy room with ten cots and ten writing tables in rows along the wall.

Danita showed me where she and her sisters slept. “Auntie Das lets us keep our beds together.”

“I usually end up in Didi's bed before the morning,” Ria said, giggling.

“So do I, sometimes,” Ranee confessed. “But only if I have a bad dream.”

Danita was standing beside a locked trunk at the foot of her bed, nervously fingering the key hanging on a chain around her neck. “Are you ready, Jazz Didi?” she asked me.

I nodded. In my excitement over seeing Asha Bari for the first time, I'd almost forgotten why I'd been invited. Danita handed her sister the key, and Ranee unlocked the trunk. It wasn't tough to figure out that something momentous was about to occur. I could almost hear a drumroll.

“Close your eyes,” Danita ordered.

I obeyed, desperately hoping I would have the right reaction to whatever I was about to see. All I could hear was rustling noises and a giggle or two from Ria.

“You can look now,” said Danita, after what felt like a long time.

I opened my eyes and caught my breath in surprise. Danita's bed was swathed in swirls of silky colors, fabrics of different textures, and glittering patterns of gold and beadwork.

I walked slowly around the bed to get a closer look. Purple and blue flowers were embroidered in an intricate pattern across the white cotton of a T-shirt. Sheer purple and blue silk scarves had been twisted and braided in a tight band that could hold back somebody's hair. There was a bright gold and green silk bag, hemmed with a straight, flat ribbon of beaded bronze. A navy blue belt was adorned with a design of gleaming round pieces of mirror and clusters of brilliant peacock feathers. Several embroidered and decorated shirts, skirts, bags, belts, and scarves completed the display.

I turned to Danita. “Who made these?”

Danita didn't answer, but Ranee did. “Didi designed and sewed them herself,” she told me proudly. “You're the first person who has seen the finished products, except for Ria and me. Oh, and Auntie Das, of course. Didi spent every spare hour designing, cutting, and sewing. Now her materials are gone.”

Ranee threw open the lid of the trunk. It was empty, except for a basket of scraps and a shoe box of sewing supplies.

“Where did you get the stuff in the first place, Danita?”

Danita was carefully studying my reaction. “A few months ago, Mrs. Pal, the Asha Bari graduate who owns a boutique in Mumbai, sent Auntie Das a barrel of their leftover samples—fabrics, beads, threads, needles, feathers, sequins, and mirrors. As soon as I saw them, I asked Auntie if I could have them. She let me use the orphanage's sewing machine downstairs whenever it was free.”

I walked around the bed one more time, fingering the good-quality material and noticing the tiny, even stitches.

Danita was waiting, twisting her hands. “Well, Jazz Didi? Do you think that anybody might want to buy these things? Auntie says she thinks they will. Do you think I could start a business, like you did?”

I hesitated, but only for a second. This stuff was beautiful. “With products like these, Danita, you'd be crazy not to go for it,” I said, trying to make my voice ring with authority like Sister Das's.

TWENTY—FOUR

We lingered around the table that night, enjoying the sweet rice pudding Danita had left in the fridge the day before. She hadn't come to work because of my visit to the orphanage, but she'd left plenty for us to eat. I took another sip of the bitter tea Mom had made, keeping my face expressionless, but Mom sighed.

“Nobody makes tea like Danita,” she said. “I've got to learn how before we leave.”

“You have to add the leaves just as the water begins to boil, Mom,” I told her. “And then turn the gas down. It's also much better when you heat the milk before you mix it in.”

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Maybe I don't need to learn. You can be the family tea maker, Jazz.”

I grinned. “I think I can handle more than tea. How about lamb vindaloo, chicken masala, lentil soup, fried eggplant, and
pooris
? By the end of the summer, I'll have those down for sure. And I already know how to make a spicy Indian omelet.”

Now everybody in my family was looking at me in surprise. “So that's what you've been doing after school,” Dad said.

“Danita's a jewel,” said Mom. “I'm glad you've been spending time with her, Jazz.”

“Which reminds me,” I said. It was time for my big announcement, and I was counting on my family to respond the right way. “I've decided to spend even more time with Danita. I want to go to Asha Bari for the rest of the summer instead of the academy. That is, if it's okay with you.”

“Yes!” Eric yelled. “I knew you'd change your mind, Jazz. You can be my assistant coach.”

“I'll come watch your games,” I said. “But Danita and I are going to be busy.”

“With what?” Mom asked.

“She's trying to start a business, and needs a little help.”

“How much longer till summer quarter's over?” Dad asked. “Don't you think you should finish what you started?”

“You mean monsoon term,” I corrected. “It's over at the end of August. I'm not learning that much anyway, Dad. I just memorize stuff for tests and then forget it completely the next day. Don't you think I'd get more out of a summer in India at Asha Bari? Look at it this way: I'll have experienced both the academy and the orphanage if I switch now.”

Dad was still not sure. “Gardners aren't quitters, Jazz,” he said.

“No,” I answered. “But Gardners know when they make a bad choice, and they try and fix it.”

He smiled, and I knew I'd scored a point. “Was it expensive to enroll me?” I asked. I'd never even thought about the money somebody must have paid for my tuition.

“I don't think so,” Dad said. “Sister Das worked out the details. I think the school waived your fee as a favor to her. Okay, Jazz. You've convinced me. You can start at the orphanage if your mother agrees.”

“I think it's a good idea,” Mom said, keeping her voice casual. I could tell she was trying not to show how delighted she was. “The academy's just extra school for you, really. I'm sure Mrs. Joshi will understand. And Sister Das will be thrilled.”

“I'll tell Mrs. Joshi tomorrow,” I said, grateful that they weren't asking any uncomfortable questions about why I'd changed my mind.

“Do you want me to come with you, darling?” Mom asked.

“No, thanks. You're busy, Mom. I can handle it on my own. I'll spend the mornings at the orphanage, then, starting day after tomorrow.”

“I'm so glad, Jazz,” Mom said. “That's the clinic's opening day, and I'll need all the moral support I can get.”

“No problem at all,” Mrs. Joshi said when I told her. “I may send Rini there to volunteer. Sister Das has an excellent reputation for running the cleanest, most efficient orphanage in the whole state of Maharashtra, if not in West India. All of Pune is quite proud of her accomplishments.”

I was glad she wasn't upset, but Sonia, Lila, and Rini's reaction was much more dramatic.

“How can you leave us now, Jazz?” Rini wailed. “Arun will be so disappointed.”

“He's asked about you constantly since that afternoon at the club,” Lila added.

“I told him you're saving yourself for that boyfriend of yours in America,” said Sonia, nodding knowingly.

I smiled. I would certainly miss their blind confidence that Steve was passionately in love with me. Even though I was leaving the academy, I'd have to see the three of them again before I went back to Berkeley. For all their fluff and fantasy, they'd made me feel welcome, special, interesting. Most Indians were like that, I realized. Hospitality was a central part of the culture—everybody seemed to know how to practice it, even the smallest children at the orphanage. I promised myself that when new kids started at Berkeley High this fall, I'd do my best to make them feel at home. After all, I was half Indian, wasn't I?

“I'll call you before the summer's over, I promise,” I said. “Oops—I mean ring you up before the monsoon leaves.”

“Please do,” Sonia said, and the other two girls added their wide smiles.

I left after tiffin, and Mrs. Joshi even allowed Sonia, Rini, and Lila to walk me to my auto-rickshaw. I pulled the regulation four blue ribbons out of my hair, handed one to each of them, and kept one for myself. I used it to wave good-bye as the auto-rickshaw drove me away from the academy for the last time.

When I got back to the apartment, I stripped out of my uniform and stuffed it in the bottom of my closet. Then I slipped into a pair of comfy, faded jeans. No more starched, ironed, tight-fitting clothing!

I could hardly wait to tell Danita about my decision, but I'd come home early and she wasn't back from shopping yet. I still had some time to kill. I thought about my promise to write another letter to Steve. Not that I hadn't tried, of course. I'd written plenty of letters. I just hadn't mailed them. I'd even stopped crossing out words and crumpling up my foiled attempts. Once a letter started running amok and getting mushy, I'd keep writing anyway. Then I'd stash it away in my drawer. The pile of “no-sends” was growing, and for some reason I didn't want to throw them away. They'd become the only place I could express my true feelings.

I grabbed a blank piece of paper and started writing. I was saving Helen's stationery for my final drafts.

Dear Steve,

I had a great time at the orphanage. Mom and
Danita were right—it is a happy place. Here's my big news: I decided to pull out of school and join my family there for the rest of the summer. Danita has a great idea for her own small business. I'd like to help her if I Can. Thanks for encouraging me
to try.

I wish you could see the orphanage. I think you'd fit right in. The kids are great, especially this one blind baby named Maya. She's beautiful, but Danita told me she never smiles. I know you'd be able to get her to. You're so good with little kids. It makes me think about how great a dad you're
going to be.

I stopped. This letter, like so many others before it, had passed the point of no return, and I didn't have time now to finish a “no-send” version. I simply had to mail a letter to Steve before our next conversation. So on a fresh piece of scented stationery, I copied the first paragraph, which seemed safe, and replaced the second with:
I wish
you could see the orphanage. I'll write more soon and tell you about it. Love, Jazz. It was short and impersonal, but there was nothing romantic about it except the smell of lavender.

As I sealed the purple envelope, I heard Danita opening the door to the apartment. I bounded out to follow her into the kitchen. “Guess what?” I said.

“What?” she answered, piling bags of groceries on the counter.

“I quit school.”

Her eyes opened wide. “You did? Did your parents agree?”

“Of course. Mom and Dad think it's great. I want to be at Asha Bari in the mornings. I thought maybe I could carry Maya around for an hour or so. Then you and I could map out your business plans.”

Danita leaned against the counter, looking dazed. “I can't let you make a sacrifice like that for me, Jazz Didi. A good education is the most important thing in the world.”

“Sacrifice? What sacrifice? I'm tired of memorizing formulas and sonnets during my summer vacation. Working with you is going to be much more educational, anyway.”

Danita was silent, and I held my breath. Then, slowly, she smiled, and so did I.

“Will you help me prepare dinner?” she asked. “Once we get it ready, we can start talking about how to set prices.”

I chopped tomatoes, ginger, and onions, and watched carefully as Danita peeled and deveined some shrimp. I took mental notes as she measured and mixed spices, yogurt, and vinegar. When the shrimp was simmering on the stove, we put cauliflower and potatoes on to boil in another pot.

“We've got about an hour before everybody gets home,” I said. “First things first. What was the name of that lady you said sent you the materials from her shop in Mumbai?”

“Banu Pal?”

“That was it. Why don't you ask her to carry a line of your clothing at her shop? I'm sure she'd love to help you.”

Danita hesitated. “Auntie also wanted me to ask Banu Pal this favor. But I can't, Jazz Didi. Her shop carries the finest of clothing and accessories. What if she felt forced to accept my things out of charity? I can't base my whole future on one woman's generosity. Could you?”

I studied her face for a minute before nodding. “No, I couldn't. Okay, we'll just move ahead and worry about marketing your stuff later. Let's list the items you've designed and figure out how much each one costs to make. Then we can talk prices.”

Danita was shocked by the markups I suggested. “But that's too expensive! Indians aren't as rich as Americans, Jazz.”

“I don't know about that. Steve and I learned about marketing in the seminar we took. I think your only hope is to position your products as exclusive, handmade accessories for wealthy people. I'm sure the girls at the academy would be willing to pay these prices.”

“How will people like that even see my products?” Danita asked, shaking her head doubtfully.

“We'll worry about that when the time comes,” I said. “Maybe we should head down the hill and visit one of those expensive ladies' boutiques. That way we can get a sense of how much stuff costs in the real world.”

“They'll never let us wander around those shops without buying anything.”

I stood up. “We
are
going to buy something. I can't visit Asha Bari wearing jeans. I need to get a couple of those
salwar kameez
. You can help me pick them out.”

“Now, that sounds like fun,” she said, smiling. “I've been imagining how lovely you'd look in a
salwar
ever since I first saw you. Let me turn off the gas. The flavors taste better when they sit for a while, anyway.” Leaving the curry steaming fragrantly on the counter, we headed downhill.