Monsoon Summer (18 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

“Help me, Jazz, will you? I Can't do this alone.”

The balcony was covered with jars and bottles of different sizes—Eric's neglected Indian bug collection. It was raining lightly, and the town below was shrouded in mist. I watched in amazement as my brother reached for a jar. He opened it, and a fuzzy red caterpillar crawled out to freedom.

“Are you sure you want to, Eric?” I asked. “Once we let them go, they'll make a run for it.”

My brother nodded. One by one, we released the creatures. When the last container was empty, the balcony was covered with bugs. Most of them were crawling or flying away as fast as they could.

Eric and I sat quietly, surrounded by scurrying insects and empty jars. “I had to do it, Jazz,” he said finally. “I'm too busy to take care of them. Steve said I didn't always have to be a bug guy. I could be a soccer guy for the summer and be a bug guy again in the fall, when we get back. Or maybe not. I don't know.”

I patted his shoulder. My brother had been a bug guy ever since he could crawl, but I was glad Steve had told him what I'd been longing to say for quite a while. “They'll do better outside in the rain, anyway,” I said. “It's good for them to be free.”

Later, in the warm kitchen over our usual cups of tea, I told Danita about Eric's great insect release. “You have to realize how much this kid loves bugs,” I said. “This was a drastic step for him to take.”

“Why did he do it?” Danita asked.

“He needs more time for soccer,” I said. “But to give up his bugs? I don't know, Danita. Our whole family seems to have changed this summer. Everybody's doing things that are out of character.”

Danita got up from the table and rinsed out her cup. “Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained. Rule Number Eight, right?” By now, she knew the Biz's rules almost as well as Steve and I did.

“Right. Which reminds me, Danita. The girls from the academy are coming to the show. Sonia Seth's dad is on the board, you know.” The benefit was only a few days away—on Saturday night, hours after I was scheduled to be rejected by my best friend. I was worried about the timing. How in the world was I supposed to dance Kathak with a broken heart?

“We should have a big crowd this year,” Danita was saying, beginning to tear the skin off a chicken, “what with the board members and big donors coming. Banu Pal is even coming from Mumbai.”

“I know,” I said. “Sister Das told me. I've been thinking a lot about it. Rich people are always looking for great new stuff to buy, aren't they? Nageena Designs needs to make a debut at this show, Danita.”

Danita stopped skinning the chicken and turned around. “No, no, no, Jazz. It wouldn't be right to push myself on people like that. Besides, I told you I didn't want to ask Banu for any more favors. She already donated the materials I used.”

“You're not pushing or asking for favors, you're marketing. The brochures are ready, and your products speak for themselves. It's just the chance you need. You've got to take a risk, my friend.”

“A risk? This whole thing is a huge risk. Anyone with good sense would have accepted Ganesh's proposal. But here I am, moving forward with this crazy idea. If it hadn't been for that donation . . .”

“Remember Rule Number Eight, Danita. You might collect enough orders to get the business started for real.” And turn down that old geezer, I added silently. I'd never told her about my visit to the poultry market.

“Maybe you're right, Jazz Didi,” she said. “I'll ask Auntie Das about it tomorrow.”

“Good.” I sipped my steaming tea, watching her fingers fly as she chopped the chicken. “I still can't get over how Steve convinced Eric to let his bugs go. How did he know just what to say?”

Danita tossed me a couple of tomatoes. “Chop those, will you, please? It sounds like everyone had nice conversations on the telephone.”

“We did,” I said, smiling as I began dicing a tomato. “Of course, Steve hasn't gotten those letters yet. Everything's going to change once he reads those. I go back and forth— sometimes I'm glad I sent them just so that I could finally tell the truth, but in the middle of the night, I wonder if the monsoon washed away part of my brain.”

Danita tossed the chicken into a pot of water. “A very wise woman once told me something that might encourage you,” she said.

“Really? What is it?”

“Rule Number Eight: Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained.”

Saturday finally arrived—the day of the orphanage's benefit and my day of reckoning with Steve. I went to Asha Bari early to gear myself up for the phone call, but when the time came to make it, Danita found me cowering on a bench in the garden. “Come inside right now, Jazz,” she said. “It's ten minutes past twelve.”

“I can't,” I moaned, but I let her pull me inside. “Why did I ever send those letters, Danita? I am
never
going back to Berkeley. Do you think Mom and Dad will let me stay in India?”

Danita grinned. “You won't want to after this call. You'll be counting the days until you leave.”

“No way. He's going to drop me, Danita. I just know it. I was
Crazy
to listen to you.”

She pushed me into Sister Das's cubicle. “Just as I was crazy to listen to you. But I think by the end of the day we'll both be glad. Now pick up that phone, Jasmine. I'll be waiting right outside.”

She closed the door firmly, and I was stuck. My hand shook as I dialed Steve's number. I twisted the cord around my fingers. What would he say? At this moment, he knew I was head over heels in love with him.

The phone rang once. I tried to hang up, but it was too late. Somebody picked up. “Hello?” said a familiar husky voice.

“Uh, hi, Steve. It's me.”

“Jazz.”

More air. Inhale. Exhale
. “What's new?”

“Nothing. I mean everything. I got your letters.” His voice sounded hesitant, unsure, shy.

Keep breathing. Oxygen is important
. “Really? What did you think?”

He was quiet for so long, I thought for a moment I'd actually lost consciousness. “Why'd you wait forever to mail them?” he asked finally.

“It's just that . . . I mean, I wasn't sure how you'd feel if you knew. . . .” I stopped. This was awful. The walls were closing in. I was sweating as if I'd been dancing Kathak for three hours straight.

“Knew what, Jasmine?”

Maybe it was the tone of his voice, or maybe it was because he'd used my real name. In any case, I finally gathered enough nerve to start talking. Now the words came out in a rush. “I didn't want you to feel pressured, Steve. I was surprised, too. I tried to hide it and fight it, all last year, but . . . I just can't help how I feel.” To my dismay, my voice broke, and I swallowed hard so that I could finish. “I was sure you couldn't think of me as more than just a friend.”

“A friend? You're my best friend, Jazz, and you always will be.”
Here it Comes,
I thought, bracing myself for his rejection.

“My best friend,” he continued, “and . . . and . . . so much more. I can hardly believe it. Reading those letters was like a dream come true.”

I'd been wrong or was I the one who was dreaming?

His voice was tender, and even from halfway around the world, it made me tremble. “We should have trusted each other, Jazz. We should have known that we were feeling the same thing.”

I stood stock-still, afraid if I moved I'd break the spell, letting his words sink deep into my heart. The receiver I was cradling in my hand had become a precious jewel. I knew I'd always remember the dim light of the desk lamp, the fragrance of the jasmine flowers Sister Das kept in her office, the feel of the very air in this small room.

“I guess we do now,” I finally answered. My tears were getting Sister Das's phone wet.

“You're not crying, are you, Jazz?”

I managed a choky laugh. “Of course I am.”

“When did you first start feeling like more than just friends?” he asked, his voice sounding just as shaky as mine.

I tried to steady myself by leaning against the wall. Was this conversation really happening? “You go first,” I said.

“I think I started feeling different in fifth grade,” he said. “But I didn't admit it to myself till we were at that eighth-grade dance.”

The fifth grade? When I was as flat as a board and the
biggest kid in the Class?

I was shocked out of my weepy state. “
That
dance? I stepped all over you like a big clod.”

“You did not.”

“Did too.”

“Well, I thought you looked beautiful that night.”

My balance! There it went again. Was there any circulation at all in this office? What would happen if I fainted? Did Danita know CPR?

I looked around for a file folder or something to use as a fan. All I could find was a program for that night's show, and I waved it furiously in front of my face.

“How about you?” Steve asked.

“I'm not sure,” I said slowly, flapping away. “Maybe over one of those million lattes. You know, while we were planning the business.”

“Really? You sure know how to hide your feelings, Jasmine Carol Gardner. There were about a hundred times in that coffeehouse when you kept talking business, and all I could think about was kissing you.”

I wondered if he could hear the drumbeat of my heart, sense the frenzied dance my stomach was staging. I put the program back on the desk. That frantic fanning was just getting me more heated up.

“What about at the airport?” I asked. “Were you . . . ? Did you . . . ?”

“Want to kiss you? I almost tried, but then that stupid X-ray machine started up. I couldn't sleep for about a week, thinking about how close I came.”

We laughed, and my insides settled down a bit. The walls and secrets that had been driving us apart for the past year were finally gone. Now neither of us could stop talking. We reviewed things we'd said and done over the past few months, explaining how we'd really been feeling, interrupting each other with memory after memory. We kept talking until finally I noticed that we'd been on the phone for over an hour.

“Wow!” I said. “This is getting expensive.”

“So what? It's worth it. I don't think I'll ever forget this phone call.”

“Me either, Steve,” I said softly. “But at least now I can send you the letters I write.”

“And there're only a few weeks left till you get back. I'll be at the airport, waiting for you. And that kiss.”

Air? Air! Air! Wasn't there any
oxygen?

When we finally, reluctantly, said good night, I put the phone in the receiver and rushed out of the room. Just as I'd hoped, Danita was still sitting outside. She studied my face for a second. Then she stood up and gathered me close, as though I was Ranee, or little Ria, and needed the strong arms of a sister around me.

“Shrimp cocktail for the appetizer,” she said when she finally let go.

“What appetizer?” I asked, my voice getting shaky all over again.

“At the wedding reception, of course. I'm catering the whole thing, remember?”

“You can design my bridesmaids' dresses, too.”

She grinned. “Great publicity! Nageena goes international at Jasmine Gardner's wedding.”

“We have to get ready for tonight!” I said. “The show's only five hours away. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, Jazz Didi. You've done enough. The rest is up to me now. Go home and rest. You look like you need it.”

I floated up the hill in a daze, somehow managing to make it home safely. Still feeling as if I was floating, I climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, walked into my room, and collapsed with a sigh on my bed.

My
salwar kameez
made a sloshing sound under the weight of my body, and I jumped up again. Great. I was drenched. How had that happened? It must have been raining as I'd walked home, and I hadn't even noticed.

Monsoon magic, I thought, smiling at my dripping reflection in the mirror. Helen and Frank had been right. India
was
the most romantic place in the world.

THIRTY-FIVE

When I returned to Asha Bari that evening, Sister Das was bustling around checking lights, scenery, and curtains. Dad and Eric headed forward to save seats for our family, but Mom stayed by the door to help greet the guests who were beginning to arrive.

“I have to go backstage,” I told Mom. “Don't worry if I don't return before the show starts. Oh, and keep an eye out for the girls from the academy, will you? You can't miss them.”

The Kathak dance was third on the program. It took a while to get into the costume. All of the older girls wore matching outfits, which included jasmine flowers in their hair, ankle bracelets, bangles, a jeweled headpiece, and a shimmering chiffon
salwar kameez
. The little girls wore embroidered pantaloons and vests. Danita was wearing a carefully ironed, all-gray
salwar
. She had tucked her hair into a tight bun. We had carefully decorated each other's bare feet and hands with red henna a week before. The dye was supposed to draw attention to the intricate footwork and hand motions of the dance.

After we were ready, we helped the younger girls and tried to keep them quiet as the seats filled. I was nervous about our dance, but Danita had a lot more than that to worry about. “You'll be fine,” I whispered. “We've got the details worked out. And Sister Das will do her part perfectly, as usual. Don't worry.”

“How can I not worry, Jazz Didi? I feel like I am about to tell my secrets to people I don't even know.”

I patted her hand reassuringly but couldn't think of anything to say.

The show began with the Indian national anthem, and I peeped through the curtains to scan the audience. Mom, Dad, and Eric were in the third row, along with Sonia, Rini, and Lila, who were giggling as usual.

I began to rehearse the steps of our dance mentally, just as I visualized my throws before a track meet. The adrenaline was still flowing after my unforgettable conversation with Steve; I'd probably break a state record if I threw a shot right now.

After a pair of identical twins sang a duet, it was time for our Kathak dance. When the curtains opened, we older girls stood tall and still in our semicircle around Danita, waiting for the percussion to begin. It took a whole minute for my family to recognize me. Then, in one synchronized movement, as if they'd been choreographed into the dance itself, Mom, Dad, and Eric sat up and moved to the edge of their seats.

The music started, and I concentrated on matching the movements of my feet and hands with the others. We moved and spun slowly, keeping our heads high above the quiet, cross-legged figure in the center of our circle. A crowd of younger girls burst onto the stage, pirouetting and twirling, clapping their hands and stamping their feet so that the usual delicate jingle of their ankle bells sounded like pots and pans clanking together. Their dancing circle tightened around us, and we began our angry response, elbows high, hands up, keeping them away from the gray-robed figure, who sat as still as granite in the center of the stage.

Everybody froze. With one, smooth, elegant, powerful movement, Danita rose to her feet. The drums started again, and she began to dance, using her open hands and darting eyes to express how she felt about the children and about our keeping them away from her. When she flung her arms open wide, the children rushed toward her in a whirl of spins and twirls, and she drew them into her dance. Squatting and standing, shaking our heads, we older girls moved to the edge of the stage.

When the music stopped, the outburst from the audience caught me by surprise. I'd forgotten that people had been watching us. Mom, Dad, and Eric were clapping furiously, beaming at me, pride glowing on their faces. Sonia, Lila, and Rini were applauding like maniacs. Bowing quickly, I disappeared backstage with the rest of the performers. We congratulated each other in excited whispers and settled down to watch the rest of the show.

After the dance, one of the orphanage's older boys played the harmonium and sang to the captivated audience. Next, Ranee presented a poem in Hindi and followed it with her own English translation. Other children recited poetry, sang songs, and performed dances. Danita ended the formal program with a Hindi devotional song that drew standing applause.

Sister Das stopped the ovation by stepping up to the microphone. “Honored guests, please take your seats once again,” she said. “It is time now for our final event.”

Something in her voice made the audience sit down quickly. The curtains opened once again as classical Indian music began to play. Five of us were standing on stage, as motionless as statues. Danita was still in the green silk caftan she'd worn for her song, but now she was carrying a green and gold bag. I had chosen my favorite—the white
salwar kameez
and headband embroidered with purple and blue designs. Three other girls wore carefully matched outfits made up of the remaining accessories.

The pace of the music changed, drums began their beat, and we came to life. Tiny pieces of mirror gleamed, sequins glittered, silk shimmered, and delicately embroidered beadwork danced under the lights. We glided down the stairs and through the aisles in time to the beat, giving the audience a better chance to see our outfits.

Sister Das continued to speak. “These outfits are the products of a new business called Nageena Designs. As you know, ‘Nageena' means precious gems in Hindi. The name was chosen to remind us that each of our children is worth more than a jewel to God.”

I followed Danita back down the center aisle, and the others fell into line behind us. Sister Das's commentary flowed smoothly. “Nageena Designs will begin by selling a limited number of the items you see modeled here. The business hopes to provide full-time employment and good salaries for some of our older girls who have completed their schooling. Others may work part-time. We encourage you to place your orders as soon as possible.”

We were back onstage now, standing behind Sister Das. She paused significantly. Then she beckoned to Danita, who came forward to stand beside her. “My friends,” said Sister Das, “I present to you the owner and manager of Nageena Designs. Thanks to a generous anonymous donation from America and Danita's excellent business sense, Nageena Designs promises to become a tremendous success.”

Dad began the applause, and others quickly joined in. Danita's face was flushed, but she stood beside Sister Das, her head held high.

Sister thanked the audience and dismissed us all, inviting everybody to enjoy the refreshments prepared for the after-show party.

“Jazz! You were tremendous in that dance!” Sonia said, rushing over to me.

“Incredible!” Rini echoed.

“Amazing!” Lila added.

The three of them clustered around me, fingering the band in my hair and the sequins on my
salwar kameez
.

“Did you help make these outfits? They're superb!” Sonia said.

“Luscious!”

“Delectable!”

“Danita designed them and made them,” I answered, smiling. “I only helped with a few of the business details. I want you to meet her. She'll tell you about it. Would you like that tour you promised to take?”

“Of course,” said Rini.

“We'd love it,” said Lila.

“Terrific,” added Sonia. “But first things first. Where can we order some of these glorious outfits?”

“Right over there,” I said, pointing to where Danita's sisters were handing out pencils, brochures, and order forms. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go upstairs and change. I'll meet you back here, okay?”

“See you soon, Jazz!” Rini trilled, following Sonia and Lila over to the eager group of women already ordering Nageena products.

I noticed that an older woman had pulled Danita aside. The two of them were talking earnestly about something. I overheard enough to identify her as Banu Pal, the Asha Bari graduate who owned the Mumbai boutique. I fought the urge to eavesdrop.

Dad and Eric were grazing at a table loaded with snacks and steaming cups of tea, but Mom came upstairs with me. In the dormitory, the hubbub of changing and the excited chatter of the performers provided a moment of privacy.

My mother took me by the shoulders and looked straight into my eyes. “Your dancing was superb, Jazz,” she said. “How did you manage to keep it a secret?”

“It was my thank-you gift to you,” I told her. “For bringing us here this summer.”

“I loved it. And Danita's grand finale was amazing.” Mom was whispering, but she couldn't keep the pride out of her voice. “But what about your car, darling?”

I knew then that Mom had guessed my other secret as soon as she'd heard Sister Das's announcement. “Don't worry,” I whispered back. “Steve says the Biz is doing great. I'll earn it back in no time.”

Mom didn't say anything, but she stroked my cheek in a brief caress. The gentleness of the gesture reminded me of Maya. I wanted my academy friends to meet her. I changed out of my Kathak outfit and rushed downstairs.

Just outside the baby room, I almost collided with Sister Das. “Your dance was lovely, Jasmine,” she said, beaming at me. Then she lowered her voice confidentially. “But your true success came after the show was over. Danita has countless individual orders, and one bulk order for Banu's boutique in Mumbai. Banu managed to convince Danita that showcasing a line of Nageena Designs in her store would be a favor to Banu, not to Danita.”

“She did?” I said. “That's awesome. That's what we were hoping for!”

“There's more good news, Jasmine. Danita just informed me that she plans to refuse Ganesh's proposal. She wants to spend the next year or so concentrating on developing her business.”

I couldn't answer; happiness was washing over me like a wave. We stood in joy-filled silence for a minute before Sister Das patted my shoulder and continued upstairs.

I tiptoed into the baby room. Most of the babies were already asleep, but little Maya was sitting up in her crib. Picking her up, I kissed her smooth, dark cheek. Together we'd give Sonia, Rini, and Lila a tour they'd never forget, but not yet. I walked over to the window overlooking the garden, remembering my first day in Pune, when Sister Das had described the monsoon.
It brings new gifts and
blessings every year,
she'd said.

A light rain was falling on the jasmine blossoms below. I took a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful, fresh fragrance, and began to count our monsoon gifts.

Computer-savvy nuns. Healthy newborn babies. A pee-wee soccer team.

Those belonged to my family, but the rest had been designed for me, and me alone, strewn like treasures everywhere after I'd arrived in India.

I started with the smaller ones. Home-cooked Indian food.
Salwar kameez
outfits. Kathak dancing.

The list got longer as I moved to the bigger gifts.

Maya's first smile, and her first word.

Danita's friendship.

Steve's love.

Had our phone conversation really only taken place earlier that day? It already seemed like ages since he'd said good-bye. Danita had been right—after talking to Steve, I was longing to see him again, and I could hardly wait to go home in a few short weeks. But when the time came, it was going to be hard to leave Sonia, Rini, and Lila, Sister Das, and especially Maya and Danita.

I was even going to miss this place—the orphanage I'd so desperately tried to avoid. The place that had received my mother as a gift from a woman who somehow didn't seem like a complete stranger anymore.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a few last, heavy drops. I guided Maya's small hand out the window so that she could catch them.

“Rain,” I told her.

“Rain,” she echoed, sucking the water off her fingers.

I tasted the drops on my own henna-stained hand. Oh, they were delicious! If only I could bottle them and take them back with me. Monsoon Summer, I'd label the bottle, and take a sip every now and then, just to remember the taste.