Monsoon Summer (16 page)

TWENTY-NINE

I Came out of my room wearing a maroon salwar
kameez
trimmed with gold embroidery. Dad expressed his admiration with a wolf whistle. Even Eric added some commentary. “You look like a lady, Jazz,” he said. “A grown-up lady. Not like a kid.”

“Thanks, guys,” I answered, swishing into the kitchen to find Mom.

She usually went down the hill on Sunday afternoons to buy fresh produce and restock staples. She was making a list, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets to find out what we needed.

“Let me do the shopping today, Mom,” I said.

Mom looked up, surprised. “I thought you hated shopping. ” She did a double take as she noticed my
salwar
. “Wow, Jazz! You look terrific.”

“It's one of Danita's first creations,” I said, spinning around to give her a better look. “She insisted I wear it over the weekend.”

“Do you really want to wear it grocery shopping? The market's certainly not the cleanest of places.”

“This material's supposed to be completely washable. Danita wants me to get it as dirty as possible so she can test it. Besides, I should practice my Hindi more, and the market's the best place for it. Nobody speaks English there.”

Mom handed me the list and a wad of rupees a bit reluctantly. “Are you sure you're up for it, Jazz? It's been so hot without the rain.” She peered up at my face. “Oh, honey! You didn't get much sleep last night, did you? Look at those dark circles under your eyes! At least let me go with you.”

She was right. I hadn't slept a wink, worrying about Miriam and Steve, worrying about Danita's future, worrying about the money in my bank account.

“No, Mom. I want to go alone. I feel fine.”

“Okay, honey,” Mom said doubtfully. “There should be enough money there.”

I scanned the list again. “Ummmm . . . I feel like eating chicken tonight,” I said casually. “Why don't I pick one up?”

Mom grimaced. “You know we usually go veggie on Danita's days off. I hate skinning and boning those slippery things.”

“Maybe they can do that part of it at the market,” I answered, swallowing a yawn before she noticed it. “I can ask.”

All night long, I'd tried to talk myself out of the crazy idea of giving away my money. Lots of Indian girls married young and seemed perfectly happy. Why should Danita be any different? And since Danita took the proposal seriously, maybe Ganesh wasn't so bad. Yet she always avoided questions about what he was like, claiming she'd never actually spoken to him. So if I was going to keep my savings for myself, I wanted to be sure Ganesh was a decent man. That was the real reason I was heading to the poultry market on a steaming Sunday afternoon.

I strolled down the street toward the marketplace. The loose, flowing
salwar kameez
felt good around my body, especially in the heat. Dozens of other Indian girls wearing a rainbow of colors paraded the streets, standing in front of window displays and lugging heavy shopping bags. It was nice not to feel like a freak when they checked me out, and though I still thought most of them were much more beautiful than I was, we all looked pretty good.

The more expensive jewelry and clothing shops lined the wider streets. Behind them, an intricate network of dimly lit alleys and lanes wound their way into the heart of the market. I'd never actually explored the area behind the shops, but Mom had told me there were three large squares inside, one for fruits and vegetables, one for meat, and one for fish.

I wandered through the stuffy alleys, shaking my head as vendors sang the praises of their wares, trying to lure me closer. There were piles of orange and yellow lentils in hanging baskets, narrow bottles of golden oil, copper pots in a range of sizes, and strings of blue rubber sandals. Naked lightbulbs hung from low ceilings, glowing on the faces of the men and women sitting cross-legged in the center of each narrow stall.

By the time I reached the enclosed fruit and vegetable square, sweat was pouring down my back. I sniffed the fresh ripe fruit and fingered piles of glossy zucchini, red tomatoes, green bell peppers, and purple onions. Finally, I began to bargain, drawing on my Hindi lessons to get a fair price. When I'd crossed off most of the items on my list, I headed for the meat market.

As I walked, my nose was bombarded with scents— sandalwood, goat skin, sour yogurt, musk oil, frying fish, and again and again, the delicate aroma of jasmine flowers adorning a vendor's stall or woven into a woman's hair. But as I drew closer to the meat market, every other odor was overwhelmed by the strong stench coming from inside. I stopped at the entrance, dug out a handkerchief and pressed it against my face.

“Dekho!”
somebody called, warning me to look out.

I yelped and jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding a combination of blood, water, and who knew what else that spurted out from a nearby stall. The quality of Danita's
salwar kameez
was really going to be tested. A squat, chunky woman was hacking up the remains of some animal, and flies buzzed around the carcass. The woman had paused as she called out, holding her bloody, machete-like knife high in the air.

“Disgusting,” I muttered. “Revolting. Gross. Sick.”

Hearing the English words, the woman smiled, her broad face creasing into a network of lines. She put down her weapon, wiped her hands on the ends of her saree, and came around to the front of her stall.
“Namaste, namaste,”
she greeted me in Hindi, holding her arms open wide. “How can I help you, my lovely girl? It's not often that an American beauty comes inside our market.” She seemed to personify my experience of India—intimidating and messy at first, but hospitable and warm when you drew closer.

“Namaste,”
I answered in Hindi. “Greetings to you also, Auntie.”

The woman grinned and reached up a big, grimy hand to pat my cheek. “It sounds so sweet to hear you speaking the mother tongue! Say something more, please.”

I managed not to use my handkerchief to scrub off the animal remains now on my cheek. The woman was so full of good will that I hated to offend her. Besides, she might be able to help me.

“Auntie, do you know a man called Ganesh who sells chickens?” I asked, waving flies away with one hand and pressing the handkerchief firmly over my nose with the other.

“Yes, yes. What do you want with that man? He will cheat you with one of his undernourished chickens. Or try something worse. You buy your chickens here, from me.”

“I will, I promise. But please show me where this Ganesh sits.”

The woman looked doubtful. “There he is,” she said finally, pointing to a stall at the end of the row. “If he gives you any problems, call for Auntie. I can handle that trouble-maker.” Her biceps bulged as she redraped the end of her saree across her hefty bosom, and I believed her every word.

Wandering over to the stall, I checked out the plump, balding man perched on a stool. He wore a dirty white undervest and trousers tied at the waist. I walked closer and pretended to inspect the chickens. The man pulled his vest up and lazily scratched the bulge of his stomach. His fingers were long and powerful, and the back of his hand was hairy.

I'd known that Danita loved her sisters, but to think of marrying such an older man for their sakes was too much! Why hadn't she told me what he was really like? I backed away and bought a skinned and boned chicken from the woman who had helped me. Then, leaving the stench of the meat market far behind, I fled for the safety of home.

Just before I went to sleep that night, rain began pattering and then drumming on the roof.
Finally,
I thought, throwing open my window. The monsoon's back. As the rain washed the dust off the leaves, leaving them glossy and green again, I realized that I'd reached a decision. I'd call Steve the next day and set the wheels in motion. The cool, fresh air chased the stuffy heat out of my room, and I let myself sink into ten hours of uninterrupted, blissful sleep.

THIRTY

“Is that really you, Jazz? We just talked on Saturday. This is awesome—it's Monday there, right?”

“Right.”

I'd decided it was okay to call Steve this soon after our last conversation. I had a legitimate purpose, didn't I? So what if I also asked casually about his date? I was still clutching the packet of letters in my hand. I had to find out what had happened before I mailed them—if Steve and Miriam were already in love, I didn't want to send my heart soaring over the ocean.

“Hey, Steve, listen. I have a favor to ask you.”

“Anything. You name it.”

“Get the key to our apartment from our neighbor Mrs. Lewis. She's watering our plants and collecting our mail and stuff. There's a box with a lock on it in my room. The combination's 33-3-25.”

“This is getting complicated. Let me write it down.”

I repeated the combination once he'd found a pencil. “My bank card's inside, and the PIN is 0239. Take out the money in the account and deposit it in yours. Then ask the bank to issue a money order for the amount I have and send it to the orphanage.”

“Are you serious, Jazz?”

“Yes,” I said. “Totally serious.”

He didn't say anything, so I got back to business. “Can you type out an anonymous cover letter to send with the money order? Write that this gift is a donation to set up an interest-free revolving loan fund for any Asha Bari resident who wants to set up a small business.”

Steve still didn't say anything, so I gave him some time to recover. Once I made a decision, I never had second thoughts.

“What about your car, Jazz?” he asked finally.

“I'll wait till next year.” I paused, trying to find the words to explain. “I went to the market and found the guy who wants to marry Danita. She wouldn't tell me much about him, so I wanted to see for myself.”

“And?”

“It wouldn't matter if he was the most handsome, charming man in India. He's too old for Danita, and she's too young to get married. I want her to have another option, that's all.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “Anyway, the Biz is doing great. Saving up again won't take too long, Jazz. In the meantime, you can always borrow my jeep.”

“Thanks, Steve. When do you think the money will get here?”

“I'll tell them to rush it,” he said. “Don't worry, Jasmine.”

It was the first time he'd used my name without tacking on “Carol” and “Gardner” after it.
Jasmine. That's me
. The room was suddenly full of the sweet fragrance of small, starry flowers. Looking around, I caught sight of a bunch of them blooming in a small vase on a shelf.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the light scent like a diver grabbing oxygen before heading for the deepest part of the sea. “Did you have fun at
Phantom of the Opera
?” I asked, managing to keep my tone easy. I braced myself against Sister Das's desk, waiting for his answer.
It was
awesome. I'm in love, Jazz. Miriam's wonderful. . . .

“Not really,” he answered. “I was so tired from practice that I fell asleep, just like I thought I would. I actually snored, Jazz. Miriam was furious. She's got a really sharp elbow.”

I let my breath out slowly so he couldn't tell I'd been holding it. The wave of relief that poured over me was so strong, I staggered over to Sister Das's chair and collapsed into it. Not yet, Miriam! You don't have him yet!

Steve was still talking. “I'm not sure why I went, except—” He stopped.

“Yes?” I asked.

But he didn't finish his sentence. “Anyway, Miriam will probably never ask me out again.”

Now
his
voice was carefully neutral, and I couldn't tell how he felt about his own prediction.

“Thanks, Steve,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

“No problem. You made the right decision, Jazz. I'm so proud of you. Remember—you can drive my jeep any time you want.”

A yearning to see him again made my stomach do that old familiar dance.

We said good-bye, but I stayed in Sister Das's chair, grinning over the image of Steve snoring in his seat beside a beautiful but furious Miriam Cassidy. Suddenly I wanted to celebrate Miriam's defeat. Asha Bari's phone directory was in plain view on Sister Das's desk. I flipped through it until I found the page that listed the board members and their telephone numbers.

Sonia picked up the phone on the first ring. “Jazz! We've been missing you terribly. Why didn't you ring us up earlier?”

“Sorry, Sonia. I meant to, but things have been quite busy. What are you all doing these days?” Indian upper-class English was easy to pick up. Sonia and her gang were excellent tutors, but I needed another session or two to really get the hang of it.

“It's exam week, Jazz. We've been studying like mad-women. But we're celebrating this weekend. Saturday's our samosa and film night. Aj Tumhara Jon-mo-din. We've seen it seven times already. Want to come along?”

Today's Your Birthday. I'd seen billboards advertising the blockbuster movie all over Pune ever since I'd arrived. “Sure,” I said. “Can you pick me up at Asha Bari?”

“Five-thirty sharp?” Sonia asked.

“Sounds great.”

I picked up the packet of lavender-scented love letters I'd written, opened my big umbrella to shield them, and splashed through the puddles to the post office. Just before the packet left for America, I glanced at my reflection in the window. You're big, strong, and beautiful, I told myself. Now you have to wait and see if Steve agrees.

THIRTY-ONE

Danita and I were finally making some progress. She
didn't know why I was so sure everything would work out, but my confidence must have been contagious. We set small goals she could afford, spending some of the money she'd earned working for us.

I'd talked Dad into helping us design a brochure, and we decided we needed photos for the final layout. We'd invited a couple of the other older girls to join us in modeling some of Danita's creations and snapped photos of each other with my camera. I'd taken the film to the photo shop and picked it up, and now the pictures were spread out on Danita's bed.

“How much did these cost to develop?” Danita asked. She had such a hard time accepting even small gifts from me, I knew I'd definitely done the right thing keeping my big gift a secret.

“Don't worry about it. These are on me.”

She folded her arms across her chest and lifted her chin. “No, Jazz. Tell me how much they cost. As well as the price of the film.”

“Okay, okay. Put them down as start-up costs and pay me back later.”

Danita smiled. “I'm glad you understand. You're giving me so much already. How can I ever repay you?”

“What? What am I giving you? You're the one teaching me Kathak. Me—Jazz Gardner, the queen of klutz. Plus, you're teaching me how to cook.”

“Steve will love those lentils, I think. One bite of those, and—”

“Oh, definitely a love potion.”

We laughed. The list of romantic concoctions I had to make for Steve was growing every day. Danita knew I'd sent the letters off, and for some reason, she was convinced he'd be thrilled when he got them.

“You're nuts, Danita,” I told her.

“Nuts? You mean like cashew nuts? Those are my favorites!”

“
No!
Like mad. The monsoon's finally gotten to you. You have no idea how shocked Steve's going to be when he reads those letters. He'll start worrying about how to let me down easy. And he'll be incredibly kind when he tells me that he loves me like a sister.”

“I don't think he'll say that,” Danita insisted.

“I just wish those stupid letters would get there already!” I said. “I should have sent them express mail. I can't stand all this waiting—just for my heart to be broken.”

Danita rolled her eyes. “It's amazing how good these photos came out,” she said, riffling through them for the best ones. During the actual session, we'd been clowning around and striking fake dramatic poses. She pulled one out of the pile. “This is my favorite. You look stunning.”

I studied the photo carefully. I was wearing a white
salwar kameez
and a headband embroidered with purple and blue designs. Danita had braided my hair into a crown like hers. I was staring straight into the camera, looking as queenly as I'd felt.

“You should save this one,” Danita said. “When Steve admits that he feels just as you do, send this to him.”

“He won't, Danita,” I said, but I tucked the photo into my bag. This version of me was certainly more flattering than the track-team twin picture Steve kept in his wallet. It wouldn't hurt him to see a Jasmine Carol Gardner who didn't look like the sisterly type.

I headed to the baby room and picked up Maya. Balancing her comfortably on my hip, I went downstairs to visit Mom. The clinic wasn't too crowded; only a few women were waiting to see the doctor. Nobody even glanced at me. They were too interested in what was happening outside.

A girl was sprawled on the ground by the open door, her head hidden in her saree. She was weeping loudly, wailing as if someone had died. My mother was kneeling beside her, one hand on the girl's shoulder.

Clutching Maya tightly, I walked over to Sister Das, who was watching from a dark corner of the basement. “What's going on out there?” I asked. I had never witnessed such raw grief.

“She's a birth mother,” Sister Das told me. “Most are too ashamed to stay nearby, but she doesn't seem to care what people think.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

“That one has a terrible reputation in the community.” Sister Das said. “She's only eighteen and this was her second pregnancy. She lost the first baby, but your mother convinced her to come here this time around. We delivered the new baby just last night. I wish Asha Bari could take the mother in, too, but she's just over the age limit. She'll have to fend for herself out there.”

The force of the girl's grief seemed to slacken a bit, and Sister Das led Maya and me to a corner alcove. “Let me introduce you to Asha Bari's newest resident,” she said.

A nurse was weighing a tiny, naked baby on the scale. “Five pounds, six ounces,” she announced over the infant's wails. “Healthy and strong.”

Sister Das washed her hands at the sink beside the scale. Then, with practiced fingers, she took the baby, pinned a diaper on, and wrapped her snugly in a blanket. She shook a bottle of formula until it was mixed. Sitting cross-legged on a mat in a quiet, dark corner, she held the baby closely and began to croon a Marathi song.

I washed my hands and Maya's and sat down beside Sister Das on the mat. I could still see through the open door, and the girl outside was much quieter now. Mom was talking softly, holding her hand. The baby, too, had stopped crying. I watched in wonder as she drained the whole bottle.

“Baby,” I whispered to Maya in English. “Baby hungry.”

Slowly, Maya reached out her hand. I glanced at Sister Das for permission, and she granted it with a nod. I guided Maya's small hand until it reached the baby's face. Her fingers lightly traced the tiny nose and fluttered across the closed eyes and downy hair. Then she found the baby's hand, and one by one, she touched the perfect fingers.

When she was done with her exploring, Maya turned her face to me. “Bay-bee,” she announced, clearly and distinctly. “Bay-bee.”

Sister Das and I stared at each other in amazement. But Maya's first spoken word wasn't enough for this special occasion. A smile started at her lips and spread like a sunrise, curving up her cheeks and into her eyes. A dozen dimples we'd never seen before danced with joy over the gift of this baby. Sister Das and I joined in the celebration, beaming at each other, at Maya, at the baby.

Outside, a fine, soft rain had started to fall. The baby's mother stood up. Mom said something, but the girl shook her head. Slowly, carefully, she pulled her hand away from Mom's. Then she walked off without looking back, and my mother was left alone outside the orphanage.

Suddenly, I knew exactly what I had to do. Leaving Maya with Sister Das, I hurried outside. “I'm here, Mom,” I said, sitting beside her, in the place where the girl had been.

“Jazz, darling,” Mom whispered, reaching out for me. Her eyes were full of tears. “Why did she have to leave?”

“I don't know, Mom,” I said, taking her hand in mine and gripping it tightly. “But I'm glad she came.”

Neither of us was talking about the girl who had just left. We were remembering another day and another baby, long ago.