Monsoon Summer (14 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

Late afternoon was a busy time in India. People were coming home from work, greeting friends, and browsing in the shops. Trying to ignore the eyes that zeroed in on me, I led Danita into a boutique on the corner. I pulled out my notebook and began scribbling down prices of accessories and outfits. Danita wandered through the racks searching for a
salwar kameez
for me to try on.

A saleslady walked over. “May I help you?” she asked me in perfect English.

“Er . . . yes. I'd like to try on a few
salwar kameez
, please.”

“Ah, yes! Of course! It would be delightful to see a lovely girl like you wearing one of our exquisite
salwars
. I'll hand your servant a few choices if you want to wait in the dressing room.”

“My
friend
has found some already,” I said, emphasizing the word so the saleslady would get our relationship straight. This was just what had happened when I'd gone shopping with Mom—people thought I was from a family like the Seths, towing along my low-caste servant. Why was everybody making the same mistake?

As Danita handed me the outfits she'd picked out, one blue-green and one purple, I studied her face, trying to see her through the saleslady's eyes instead of mine. Maybe it was skin color again, or that uncanny sense of caste a lot of Indians seemed to have. But Danita was beautiful, with even, flawless features and dark, almost ebony skin. Her cheekbones jutted out like a model's. Couldn't Indians see that? The world was so unfair—at East Bay High, Danita would rank as one of the most beautiful girls around. Here, people thought she looked like a servant.

The woman led me to a dressing room, and she and Danita waited outside. Stepping into the baggy purple trousers, which were as comfortable as sweatpants, I tied the strings tightly around my waist. The long, flowing dress slipped easily over my head, and I fastened the two small buttons at the back of my neck quickly.

“Come out and let me see, dear,” the saleslady called.

Feeling incredibly self-conscious, I emerged, holding the scarf in my hand. I had no idea how it attached to the outfit.

“Oh, Jazz!” Danita said. “You look stunning.”

The woman smiled. “Absolutely ravishing.” She arranged the scarf for me, draping it carefully over my left shoulder.

I turned to face the mirror. A tall girl with shoulder-length hair stared back at me. She was wearing a purple
salwar kameez
covered with small, starry flowers.

I blinked. For a second, in the graceful, flowing lines of the Indian outfit, this girl looked elegant. Almost regal, in fact. For the first time in my life, I saw myself through Indian eyes, and I actually liked what I saw.

I decided to wear the purple
salwar kameez
home. As we walked up the hill, I made myself meet the eyes of the people who passed us. Sure enough, they were staring. This time, though, I saw something new in their eyes. Something I hadn't noticed before.

“I have a question, Danita,” I said when nobody was close enough to overhear.

Danita smiled. “That's good, Jazz. I've asked you a thousand questions already. It's your turn.”

“Why do Indian people stare at me?”

She turned to me, her eyes round with surprise, as though I'd asked the easiest question in the world. “I told you already, Jazz. You are a big, strong, beautiful girl. They are admiring you.”

Danita's words rang with truth. She was right! I did look big, strong, and beautiful in my regal, flowing
salwar
kameez
, and that
was
admiration I'd seen in their eyes. I straightened my shoulders and let myself enjoy being inside my body for the first time in what felt like years.

As we kept walking, though, I realized that nobody even glanced at Danita, just as they didn't pay much attention to Mom. The world was so unfair. If only I could offer Danita some of my height and strength, or even the lighter color of my skin, her life here would be a lot easier.

Danita had gone back to thinking about her business. “That woman's products looked so finished,” she said. “Aren't my designs a bit unprofessional?”

I stopped fuming over a world where a beautiful woman in one country could be overlooked completely in another. “There was some good stuff in there,” I admitted. “But I think your designs are much more interesting. Fresh and original.”

“Her prices were a bit high, don't you think?”

“I think they were just about right. Didn't you see those women spending money in there?”

Danita nodded. “Banu Pal's boutique in Mumbai is even more successful than that one.”

“And yours will be, too. Someday these shops will be displaying your designs in their windows.”

“I wish I could be as confident as you are, Jazz Didi,” Danita said wistfully. “Sometimes this whole idea seems like a foolish dream.”

“Every good business starts with a dream, Danita. We've got a feel for what prices are like. Now we have to estimate your start-up costs.”

Danita sighed. “That's the bigger problem. I'll need money for sewing machines and materials, advertising and brochures. It takes money to make money.”

“That's true,” I said, impressed that Danita had obviously given her business a lot of thought. “But it all starts with a good concept.”

We walked past the orphanage gates, and I recognized Eric's shrill voice as he shouted instructions to his team. Anxiety clouded Danita's face, and I wished I'd waited to bring up the issue of money. “Don't worry about it now—” I started, but I was interrupted before I could finish.

“Didi! Wait! Didi!” a voice called after us.

We turned around and saw Ria running toward us. “Yes, darling?” Danita asked, stooping to gather her sister close.

“Auntie Das wants to see Jazz Didi. She spotted you from her window and sent me to get her. Can you join me now, Jazz Didi?”

I nodded and took Ria's hand.

“Coming, Danita?” I asked.

“The table's not set,” Danita said. “And I have to reheat the curry.”

She was still frowning, and I wished I could go back to the apartment with her. She needed my encouragement now more than ever. What did Sister Das want to talk to me about, anyway? Reluctantly, I let Ria lead me in to Asha Bari as Danita hurried up the hill.

Sister Das greeted me at the front door. “What a lovely
salwar,
” she said. “Those are jasmine flowers in the embroidery, aren't they? How appropriate. Come to my office. I have a few things to discuss with you.”

We passed Dad, who was concentrating furiously on some program he was writing. Two nuns were standing behind him, watching him in awe. I knew better than to interrupt when he was lost in cyber world, and apparently they did, too.

In her tiny cubicle, Sister Das and I sat down. “Jasmine,” she said. “I wanted you to know that you are free to use our telephone. We keep an international line in this room. You will be alone here, and I know you will keep count of the minutes in order to repay the orphanage.”

So this was what she'd wanted to talk to me about—an unexpected perk of my decision to visit Asha Bari. Steve and I could chat in complete privacy, and for more than ten minutes at a time.

I got up. If that was all she had to tell me, I might still be able to catch up with Danita. “Thank you,” I said. “That's great news.”

“It is. But that's not why I called for you. I'm afraid I have some other news that concerns Danita's future. I wanted to talk it over with you before I spoke to her. Apparently, a man who owns a chicken business in the market has been quite struck with Danita. He has even offered to take her sisters into his home if she agrees to marry him.”

I sat down again, stunned. “Does Danita know about this? What's this guy like?”

“No, not yet. I don't know the fellow myself, but he's twice as old as Danita. The other part of the story is that he's been married before, and has three sons who are teenagers themselves. I think she can do better if she waits.”

“Maybe you shouldn't even tell her about it,” I said.

“I have to. The decision is hers. This man has the means to provide for her and her sisters. He's agreed to forfeit a dowry, asks nothing about caste or family origin, and offers to pay for Ranee and Ria's education.”

“I'm sure she won't accept. We started planning her business, and she's very excited about it.”

“I know. She told me you liked her things.” The nun paused and looked directly into my eyes. “Jasmine, is there any chance that this business of hers might succeed?”

Again, I waited a moment before answering. I had to tell the truth; Danita's future depended on it. “I'm not sure,” I said. “But she's got some beautiful stuff to sell. That's the bottom line for success—an excellent product that people will want to buy.”

Sister Das was quiet, still scrutinizing me over her reading glasses. She was fingering something on her desk as she studied my face. I folded my hands on my lap, feeling as if I was being inspected for hidden flaws.

“Don't say anything to Danita about this,” she said finally. “I want to talk it over with her myself.”

It was obviously a dismissal, and I left the office slowly. Maybe now it would be better not to hurry home. I was sure to blurt out the news if Danita and I were alone together. I went to watch Eric's soccer practice instead, wondering why Sister Das was taking this proposal so seriously. Danita's going to turn it down in a heartbeat, I thought, remembering her quiet pride over her creations.

My brother grinned and waved a quick greeting. He was leading a drill, and four boys barely higher than the ball were kicking it in a circle.

“Nice pass, Bapu!” my brother shouted.

The tiniest boy smiled happily. I noticed that both of his shoelaces were untied. And he wasn't the only one— muddy laces were whipping around everywhere. Without stopping to think about my new
salwar kameez,
I dashed over and knelt in front of Bapu.

He looked startled by my sudden appearance and hurried to hide behind my brother.

“Time out!” Eric hollered, and blew the whistle around his neck. “Hurry, Jazz. We only have a half hour left before they have to go in. Shoes forward!”

One by one, the boys thrust their muddy feet in front of me. Fingers flying, I managed to tie eight extra-tight double knots before my brother blew his whistle again. Then I watched as he drilled them again and again, until the five of them looked like a soccer-playing machine.

TWENTY-SIX

“What if nobody Comes?” Mom asked nervously as the four of us walked down the hill together the next morning. It was the clinic's opening day, and my first official day of volunteering at Asha Bari.

“They will, Mom,” I said. “You've worked so hard.”

“Think of the money the orphanage has spent already to bring us here! Oh, I hope at least ten pregnant women show up today.”

“Even if only one comes, Sarah, it's worth it,” Dad said quietly.

Mom stopped in her tracks. Then she smiled at him. “You're right, Peter.”

We said good-bye at the door, and Mom hurried downstairs. Eric headed for the classrooms. Dad disappeared into the office, and I climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Baby Maya was resting in her crib, but she sat up at the sound of my voice. I touched her face with my finger. “Hi, baby,” I whispered. “I'm back. Told you so.”

A nun was folding clean diapers in a corner of the room.

“May I take Maya on a walk?” I asked.

“Of course,” she answered, smiling.

The little girl was light. I balanced her on my hip and we toured the whole second floor. As we walked, I stopped to let her touch things, naming each one for her. I was thankful again for the Hindi I'd learned, but I used English, too. Next, we went outside to the garden, and I leaned over so that we could sniff the different flowers. It had started raining, but Maya seemed to enjoy the feel of the light, cool drops on skin as much as I did.

When a heavier rain started to fall, I took Maya downstairs. I was curious to see how Mom's first day was going. As we went downstairs, I knew by the din that the clinic was packed. The rooms were brightly lit and full of babies crying and ladies chatting. Savory smells of rice and lentils drifted in from the kitchen. The music and the paintings on the wall gave the whole place a party atmosphere.

Mom was scurrying around the dining area, greeting people and rounding up empty chairs.

“Congratulations! Your opening day's a success, Mom,” I said as she passed by.

Mom stopped for a second to touch Maya's cheek. “Yours, too, darling,” she said.

The noise and confusion had made the little girl's body tense up. She was curled up in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder.

“I'd better get her back,” I said. “She likes peace and quiet as much as I do.”

I said good-bye to Mom, walked Maya back to her room, kissed her cheek, and handed her over to the nun. It was time to find Danita.

I'd managed to avoid talking to her about my meeting with Sister Das. She'd been so busy getting dinner on the table after our shopping trip, she hadn't had time to ask any questions. By now, though, she'd have heard about the proposal and we could talk the whole thing over.
I Can't
wait to hear how she turned down that old chicken seller's
proposal,
I thought as I searched the orphanage for her. Imagine an old guy like that wanting to marry a teenager. Sick. Very sick.

The beat of fast, rhythmic music was coming from the conservatory. Standing half hidden at the door, I peeked in.

Danita was demonstrating an intricate dance step, and several girls were trying to imitate her. She broke it down into quick, easy movements so that the little ones were able to copy her. This was a side of Danita I hadn't seen before—serious, intent, and stern with any dancer who acted silly or wasn't trying hard enough.

She walked over to change the music and spotted me lurking outside the door. “Come in, Jazz Didi,” she said. “We're rehearsing for Asha Bari's annual benefit in August.”

“Looks great,” I said. “But tough.”

“Kathak's about expression,” Danita said. “We use hands, eyes, and feet to convey emotions. It takes a lot of practice.”

“Do you have time to meet with me when you're done?”

“Certainly. I have something important to tell you. But won't you try dancing with us first? We'd like that, wouldn't we, girls?”

The little girls clustered eagerly around me, chorusing to convince me to join them. The bells around their ankles echoed their words with a merry jingling. How could I say no to yet another warm Indian invitation? I took off my shoes and the scarf of the
salwar kameez,
and Danita handed me a pair of ankle bracelets.

“The word ‘kathak' means storyteller,” Danita explained as I fastened the anklets. The dozens of bells on each one sounded like raindrops falling on a tin roof. “The dance has been used for centuries to tell Hindu and Muslim myths. Here at Asha Bari, the nuns use it to teach us Bible stories. Sister Maria choreographed the scene where the small children crowd around Jesus. Why don't you join the older girls as one of Jesus' disciples? The little ones are playing the children.”

“What about you?” I asked.

Ranee's voice piped up from the back of the room. “Oh, Didi will play the part of Jesus, of course.”

Danita clapped twice. “Let's begin.”

I stood in the back row, concentrating on imitating the girls beside me, keeping a close eye on what they did with their fingers, arms, and feet. At first, the disciples were supposed to look important, guarding Danita carefully. Then our movements and expressions changed, and we showed our irritation at the spinning, pirouetting children who were drawing closer and closer. Finally, we were supposed to spin slowly away from Danita ourselves, looking confused as she opened her arms to welcome the children.

There was something about this type of dancing that was different than shuffling around the floor of a dance club. It was almost like training for a sport, practicing the smooth motion of a shot put, or perfecting the snap of the wrist when a javelin left the hand. In Kathak, everything had to move in sync—head, eyes, feet, hands, and hips—and you didn't have time to worry about feeling self-conscious.

When the bell rang, I was surprised to find that I'd been in the room for over an hour. I was sweating hard, as if I'd been running on a treadmill or hiking up a high hill.

“Why don't you join us tomorrow?” Danita asked, wiping her face with a towel. “You did very well for your first day. The dance looks better with another disciple, anyway. More symmetrical.”

“Maybe I will,” I answered. “It's a great workout.”

Danita led me upstairs to the girls' dormitory. “Sit down, Jazz Didi,” she said, pulling out her desk chair for me.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, fanning herself with a sheet of paper. I noticed that her creations had been put away, and that the trunk was padlocked again.

I brought out the small notebook where I'd jotted down prices the day before. “We've got so much to discuss, Danita. We have to finalize the pricing for the products you've already designed, calculate start-up costs in detail, plan your marketing strategy, and—”

I stopped midsentence. Danita wasn't listening; she was gazing out the window beside her bed. It overlooked the garden where the younger children were playing, and the sound of their voices drifted up to us, happy and excited. “Auntie told you about the proposal, didn't she?” Danita asked.

I nodded. “Can you believe it? You, marrying a middle-aged chicken seller! What a joke.”

“It's no joke, Jazz,” she said, her voice flat. “I told Auntie to accept the proposal.”

I almost fell out of my chair.
“What!”

“This man, Ganesh, has agreed to provide for all three of us in his home. My sisters will be able to live with me. I may never receive another proposal that is so generous.”

“Have you seen this guy? Do you even know what he's like?”

Danita didn't meet my eyes. “He owns a business in the market. He's quite successful.”

“But . . . but . . . you're about to start your own business. You haven't even given it a chance.”

She handed me the sheet of paper she'd been using as a fan. “Ranee helped me with the math last night, and Auntie told me how much she thinks things cost. Take a look.”

I scanned the sheet. It was a list of start-up expenses for Nageena Designs.

“Nice name,” I commented. “What does it mean?”

“‘Nageena' means precious gems in Hindi,” she said. “Because Ranee and Ria are my precious gems.”

I read on. She'd been thorough and realistic, adding up the money she'd need for several sewing machines, rent for work space, salaries for part-time workers, materials, electricity, small business license fees, and advertising. When I reached the bottom of the page, I caught my breath—the amount of money she needed to start her business was huge.

“Astonishing sum, isn't it?” she asked, watching my reaction. “I can earn a small part of that working for your family while you're here in India. But where am I to get the rest?”

I was quiet. What could I say? What could I do? I couldn't just sit by and let her give up on a dream she'd spent so much time thinking about.

She must have noticed my expression. “Don't feel bad, Jazz Didi. Without you, I couldn't have made this decision. You've helped me to see how impossible it would be to start this business. Now I can forget about the whole crazy plan once and for all.”

“Danita! How can you say that? Your designs are so beautiful. What does Sister Das think about this?”

“Oh, Auntie wants me to refuse the proposal. She still hopes I'll try to get a business started. With your help, that is. And even if we fail, she reminded me I have three years before I have to leave the orphanage. Other proposals might come in that are just as good, she says.”

All right, Sister Das!
I thought, and my spirits lifted. “That sounds right, Danita,” I said. “You should listen to her.”

“But what if they don't?” she asked, and her voice broke. “What if I have to leave the girls behind when I turn eighteen? I promised myself I would never do that.”

I sat down beside her on the bed. “Can't you wait a while before accepting Ganesh?” I asked. “Just a few weeks. How will you know if you don't try?”

She sighed. “That's just what Auntie said. She's sure Ganesh will wait a short time for an answer.”

“Let's try, then, Danita,” I begged. “Just till the end of the monsoon. Just till I leave. If Nageena Designs has failed by then, accept this guy's offer. But maybe it won't. Maybe you'll be far enough along to turn him down. Give it a chance, won't you?”

She was quiet again, but her eyes strayed to the trunk where she kept her creations. “All right,” she said finally. “I'll try it until you leave. But take a good look at those start-up costs again, Jazz. Don't get your hopes too high.”

“I won't.” I squinted at the row of figures, wondering if there was any way to shrink that large total at the bottom.