Blue Jasmine (14 page)

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One afternoon when Raju came home from school I gave him the two maps. “You remembered to bring them,” he said, opening one.

“I bought them the first time I saw them at a bookstore in Iowa City,” I said.

“‘Map of North America,'” he said, reading slowly, as if trying to measure the continent with his mind.

“And what is the other one of?” he asked.

“Open it and see,” I said.

“‘Iowa City,'” he read.

“My home is right about here,” I said.

“Your home is not in Iowa City. It is here in Vishanagar.”

“Raju . . .”

“What? How can you go there for a year and make it your home? How can you forget twelve years of your life and all of us? How can you make Iowa City your home when you already have one?”

“You don't understand. . . .”

“I understand perfectly. You're the one having trouble understanding. You said you like that blue flower that blooms only once a year. What about the plumeria,
parijat
, and jasmine that have bloomed for you for the past twelve years? How can you forget them?” he said, folding up the map as he stomped away.

I wanted to yell at Raju and tell him how I felt, but when
he was upset he spat out his words and then his mouth closed up like a vacuum-sealed bottle.

Later that afternoon Kaka asked. “Why aren't you talking in English with Seema?”

“I don't know,” Raju said.

“You don't know what? English? If you don't try, you'll never learn. Look how fluently Mela speaks English, and she's only five.”

I looked at Raju. He was silent. I looked at Pappa, and he was silent. I looked at Mommy, and she was silent. It was not right. Kaka wasn't being fair to Raju and no one spoke up. “Kaka, I'm the one who doesn't speak to Raju in English,” I said.

His eyes narrowed, crumpling his brows. “Why? Why don't you speak with him in English?”

“Because when I see Raju only Gujarati comes out of my mouth. I've never talked to him in English, and it feels foolish,” I said.

“That's an excuse you're making up for him. I am your
kaka
and I know you. For Raju's sake, teach him to speak English. He knows very well how to read and write English. It's the talking he needs to practice. If he doesn't, he'll have problems when he grows up. Talk to him and teach him.”

“I will,” I said.

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“Pappa has a grand idea to teach me English. Talk to Seema! From now on when Pappa is around I'm not going to talk to you, Seema. I'll be quiet as Dadima's sateen slippers,” Raju said, as we sat on the ebony swing on the front veranda.

The black clouds were parting in the sky and the sun shone through. The garden was swathed in a golden light.

“Let's talk in English when we're alone,” I suggested.

“I don't want to,”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Why should we? We've always talked in Gujarati.”

“It could be fun.”

“Maybe you and Pappa should talk in English and leave me in peace,” he said, scowling as he stood up.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To see a friend who wants to talk in Gujarati.”

Before I could stop him he had slipped on his sandals and skipped down the three steps, and was storming through the garden gate.

I sat on the swing and looked over the garden. The golden glow was gone and the dark clouds were threatening again.

I
t was a Saturday when Oadima came home. In the morning Kaki and Mommy drew swastikas with red vermilion powder on the threshold of the house to protect Dadima and our home and to bring good blessings to us all.

“Here, Seema, draw a swastika. You remember how to draw it, don't you?” Kaki asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

I was relieved when Dadima came home, but I hadn't realized that instead of visiting her in the hospital, now all her visitors would come to our house. Some came every second day, some came every day, and some, like Dadima's sister, Masiba, came twice a day. It was enough people to tire a healthy person, let alone a sick one. Yet
Dadima thrived on the visitors and was getting better all the time.

Raju had been avoiding me, and when people came they made such a fuss over Mela and me that I saw disgust and pain in Raju's eyes. One evening Masiba and her two sons and their wives and four grandchildren came for a visit. We all sat in the back veranda eating spicy lentil-and-rice bread and mango pickles, and drinking buttermilk, and talking and laughing.

“Mela, recite a poem in English for me,” Masiba said, smiling her toothless smile.

Frightened, Mela hid behind Kaki's sari. Mela was afraid of Masiba because whenever Masiba got a chance she affectionately pinched Mela's cheeks. Many other visitors did that too, and now Mela's cheeks were red and raw and she didn't want any more cheek-pinching.

“Seema, Mela's shy. You say something,” Masiba said.

“But you don't understand English,” I said.

“I still like the sound of it when you say it,” she said.

As soon as I said my first sentence in English, Raju got up. I glanced at him. He was staring at the sky with eyes as blank as a moonless, starless monsoon sky.

“Where are you escaping to?” Kaka asked Raju.

“Going out,” he replied.

“Why? Are you allergic to us?”

Raju glanced at me and in his eyes I saw the anger that
he tried to conceal from Kaka. He sat down quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on the clouds.

After everyone left, Raju complained to Kaki, “Why do so many people come and visit Dadima over and over again? Masiba comes twice a day. We might as well put her bed in Dadima's room.”

“Dadima enjoys her sister's visits. If you were sick, wouldn't you want Uma and Seema to be with you?”

“No, I wouldn't,” he said.

The next morning I went to the vegetable market with Dadaji. In my shopping bag I carried a scarf that I wanted to give to the farmer with the glinting eyes. When he travels in the winter the scarf will keep him warm, I thought. It was very early in the morning and some farmers were still arranging their nine-sided okra and the elephant ear—shaped
alvi
leaves in a pile. I listened for the familiar melodious voice of the farmer, but it was missing. My eyes skimmed over each one of the farmers, but I didn't see the one face I wanted to see.

“Who are you looking for?” Dadaji asked.

“Where is the old farmer with the white turban who used to give me carrots and mangoes to eat?” I asked.

“He passed away last winter. I've been buying vegetables from his son here,” Dadaji said. My hand slipped into my shopping bag and I clutched the scarf tightly. The
farmer with the white turban was gone and the scarf would never keep him warm. The juggling of the scale and the jingling of the coins made me realize that the farmer's son had weighed the tomatoes and Dadaji had paid him the money. I had to open my bag so he could put the tomatoes in it.

“Here,” I said, taking out the scarf and handing it to him.

He looked at Dadaji.

“She bought it for your father. Now you take it,” Dadaji said.

The farmer put his balance down, took the scarf with both his hands, and touched it to his head. “This will give me good luck for the rest of my life,” he said. His eyes glinted just as the old farmer's had. I wondered if the glint of his father's gaze shone in his son's eyes, or if all farmers' eyes glint because they are filled with sunrays.

As we walked home I asked Dadaji, “Why didn't you write me about the old farmer dying?”

He took my arm in his. “I didn't think it was important. But it was. I should have written to you,” he said.

“I've made spaghetti for you,” I told Uma and Raju when they got home from school the next day.

“I don't think I'll like your spugti,” Raju said.

“Can I eat your share then, Raju?” Uma teased.

Raju grunted.

“I'm starving. Let's eat,” Uma said.

Raju loved tomatoes, and the sauce was thick and red. When I warmed it up and poured it over the spaghetti, he couldn't resist. “What are those spices?” he asked.

“Basil and oregano. I brought spices and spaghetti from America.”

“How do you eat such long, slippery, skinny things?”

“Like this,” I said, twirling it on a fork as Grandma Milan had taught me.

“Thanks for making such a good thing to eat,” Raju said as he got up from the table. He avoided looking at me.

“It's called spaghetti,” I said.

“Whatever. I don't care to learn its name,” he said.

“What's your problem? Why are you so mean?”

“You think I'm mean? I'm not the one telling stories about America to everyone who comes to see Dadima. I'm not the one who talks in American English to impress people. I have an idea! Why don't you make a recording of your stories, so after you leave we can play them over and over again?”

“Do you think I like all this fuss-muss over us? If you think I talk American English, you're wrong. Come to my school and they'll tell you all about my Indian accent. Isn't
it great that in America I have an Indian accent and in India I have an American one? I came here to see Dadima. I missed everyone and everything so much, but now I see that I was foolish to think that I could ever come back. I wish I'd never come. . . .” There was so much I wanted to spill out, but the words got strangled in my throat.

I walked out into the garden. Raju followed me.

After a few seconds he said, “I'm sorry for getting mad. Since the day you left I've been waiting for you to come back. I thought that when you came back everything would be the way it used to be. Now I know that it isn't possible.”

“No, it isn't,” I said.

Raju gave me a small smile. On the lawn I traced a flower with my finger.

“Seema, how did you learn to speak English so well?” he asked.

“Once you
have
to talk in English, it becomes natural to talk and think in English.”

“If I talk to you in English, will I learn?”

“Yes. It's not hard. Once I started doing it I realized that just as I'd had to string words together to speak Gujarati I had to string words together to speak English.”

“I can string words.”

“Let's string them in English,” I said.

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When Raju was doing his homework that evening, Mommy and I went to the market. I wanted to go to Mukta's house, but I didn't want to tell anyone except Mommy and Pappa. I was afraid that if Raju knew I was going to visit Mukta he would call her stinky and upset me. I knew it was wrong for him to be so nasty to her, but the two of us were having enough problems without my bringing Mukta into it.

That evening the market was more crowded than I'd remembered. Mommy and I hurried to. Mukta's shop, but it was closed. The metal door had a big brass lock on it.

“Where do you think Mukta's family went?” I asked.

“I wonder if someone knows,” she said, looking around.

The tailor from the shop next door came out, “Are you looking for the Shanti Ganthiawala family?” he asked.

“Yes.” we said.

“They have all gone to Ambaji for a pilgrimage.”

“Is everyone in the family all right?” I asked.

“Yes, why?” he said. “Did you want to order food for a party? They're going to be back in three days and I can take your order.”

I glanced at Mommy. Like me, she realized that the tailor was puzzled. He must've wondered. How can a lady carrying an expensive purse and her daughter wearing foreign-made clothes have anything to do with Shanti
Ganthiawala? That's why he assumed we wanted to order food.

“We're not here to order food,” Mommy said.

“Can you please tell Mukta that her friend Seema is here from America?” I said.

“I will tell Mukta as soon as she comes back,” he said. Then he turned to Mommy and said, “I sew very good clothes. If you need anything done, sari blouses, petticoats, dresses for your daughter, I make them all in the latest fashions.”

“Right now I don't need anything stitched,” Mommy said.

He handed her a piece of paper with his name and said, “People take my clothes to America, England, Hong Kong, Singapore, everywhere. I take express orders and get them ready in a day. Unlike other tailors, I won't make you come again and again. I'll even deliver it to your house.”

“If I need something, I'll stop by,” Mommy said, and we walked toward the vegetable market.

I was disappointed that Mukta wasn't home. “Mom, how far away is Ambaji?” I asked.

“About eight hours from here. Why?”

“I was thinking of how much it might cost to go there.”

“Many times people go because they have made a
manta
, a special request that they have asked and prayed for. When their wish is granted, they make a pilgrimage,” she said.

“Maybe Mukta's
kaki
is better. I'm sure that's what they asked for and got. Otherwise why would they close the shop and go? It would be every expensive for them to do that. Don't you think?”

“It makes sense,” she said. “But there could be other reasons too.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I want to come back in three days to see if Mukta is back.”

“We will,” Mommy promised.

As Dadima got better she began to move around the house a little. Her eyes left nothing undiscovered. “Zeeno,” she said, looking toward our servant. “There's a spiderweb in this corner, and the windows are so dusty that we might as well paint them black.”

“I'm going to the market this morning, so I'll be sure to bring some paint for the windows,” Zeeno replied.

“Looks like your tongue has loosened up while I've been in the hospital,” Dadima said.