Blue Jasmine (3 page)

“I'm fine. She's very nice.”

“Who's very nice? Mukta?”

“No. Yes. And her mother is very nice too.”

“You had a good visit then?” she asked.

“Yes.”

We walked silently for a block. “Mommy, I feel terrible,” I confessed. “I hated Mukta's stinking clothes, and we made so much fun of her finger-long pencil and old notebooks. Now that I've seen her house, I realize how poor her family is. It's a wonder she even goes to school. I should've . . . I should've . I'm so mean.”

“No, you're not,” she said, squeezing my hand. “As long as you realize your mistake and learn not to make the same mistake again, you can forgive yourself. Aren't you glad that you visited Mukta?”

“Yes. I wonder what will happen to her.”

“It's good that she's attending school. Getting an education will help her.”

“Do you think she'll go to school for a long time?”

“I don't know,” Mommy said. Her brow was tense, and I knew she was concerned about Mukta.

The next morning when I opened my cupboard to pack my suitcase, I saw three school uniforms folded neatly in a stack. “Mommy, do you think we could give these to Mukta?” I asked.

“That's a good idea, but I'm afraid we don't have time to go to Mukta's house.”

“Raju, will you take these uniforms to Mukta?” I asked.

“Me? I don't want to go to stinky Mukta's house. Never. Send Zeeno,” he said. Zeeno was our servant. I didn't think it was right to send him with my uniforms.

“Mommy, can I quickly go and give these to Mukta?”

“Dadaji is going to the market for vegetables, so go with him and come right back,” Mommy said.

When we approached the market I said, “Dadaji, I'll stop and give this package to my friend. You can keep walking and I'll catch up with you in a few minutes.”

“Fine. But don't forget your
dadaji
once you start talking to your friend. Come soon.”

“I won't forget you,” I said, and hurried to Mukta's house.

Mukta was helping in the shop. As soon as she saw me she said, “Come in, come in, Seema.”

“I can't. I have to go with my
dadaji
. I came to give
you these,” I said, taking a package out of my cotton bag.

“What is it?”

“I have three school uniforms, and I was wondering if you could use them.”

“Let me talk to my mommy,” she said, and went inside.

Mukta's mother came out and asked, “Seema, how much are the uniforms?”

“They . . . they're . . . no money,” I said.

“We can't take them without paving.”

“You have to. I mean, please take them. I won't need them in America, and I want Mukta to have them.”

“Take them, Mukta,” she said, and gave me a smile as bright as a thousand-petal chrysanthemum.

Then she took spicy noodles and lentils and wrapped them in a newspaper and tied them with a string. “Mukta will get much use out of the uniforms, and someday her sister will too,” she said, as she handed me the package.

The noodles and lentils had just been fried and the package was still warm. I slipped it in my bag.

“When will you come back from America?” Mukta asked as she walked me back toward the market.

“I don't know.”

“I will embroider two handkerchiefs for you, and when you come back they'll be ready.”

“You don't have to,” I said.

“I know. I want to.”

At the end of the street when we'd both said “
Aveje
, come visit” to each other, I felt strange. Someday, I knew I would come back to India, but how would Mukta ever be able to visit me in America?

I caught up with Dadaji right at the entrance of the vegetable market. I realized I didn't know when I'd next be going to the market with Dadaji, and I wanted to soak it all in. Every day, the farmers came from the surrounding farms to sell their produce. Dadaji always bought vegetables from the farmer whose face was parched like the summer earth and whose eyes had a glint of captured sunrays. His white turban, white tunic, and white jodhpurs were all speckled with dust from travel. While weighing our vegetables he sang away, “Eggplants, eggplants, tender eggplants! Eat them with garlic and ginger and keep away from the doctors!”

Then with his trembling hand he gave me a basket of four juice mangoes nestled together. “So many?” I asked.

“Yes, daughter, take it,” he pleaded. His voice was heavy with sadness.

I looked at Dadaji for permission. He nodded.

On the way back I asked, “Dadaji, why did the old farmer give me four mangoes? Isn't that a lot to give away?”

“It is,” he said. “But you had to take it.”

“Why?”

“Two months ago his only granddaughter passed away, and since then he has been a broken man. It mends his heart when he gives away something in her memory.”

I wondered if Dadaji was going to be a broken man when Mela and I both left.

As we passed the acacia by the abandoned lot, I remembered Raju's outburst on the last day of school. He had swung his face away and spat before sprinting home. His words still poked me like the thorns of the acacia.

“Why are acacia trees covered in big thorns?” I asked Dadaji.

“To survive, they have to protect themselves from animals, and these thorns do that,” he said.

“I think people also grow thorns.”

“Who has?”

I told Dadaji that when Raju found out we were leaving for America he didn't speak to me for a long time. I told him what Raju had said to me under the acacia tree and how he'd run away. “Why would he do that, Dadaji? I'll miss him too. I'll miss all of you,” I said.

“You will, but don't forget that you're the one making a journey. There's always excitement there. It is harder for the people left behind.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

When I lay in bed that night the stars looked as if someone had scattered white mustard seeds across a dark
iron skillet. I realized how precious it was to have our entire family together. It was the last night of my old life—a life that would soon feel like a dream. I turned to my other side, waiting for my new life to begin far away. One more day hung like a bridge between the two.

“I don't want to come to the airport,” I heard Raju say as I came out of the bathroom the next morning. My hair was still dripping water.

“We are all going and so are you,” Kaka said.

“I'm not.”

Fatak!
I heard a slap against Raju's cheek.

Raju turned around and began walking away. “Come back,” Kaka ordered.

“I'm not coming back.”

“Where are you going?”

“America,” he said.

The whole house fell wordless. I stood there holding the towel in my hand, while the water dripped from my hair to my back and onto the tiles. I looked at Kaka. His face was now hidden behind the pages of his favorite newspaper, the
Sandesh
. I hung my towel on the line and didn't bother to stand in the sun to dry my hair.

I searched the house for Raju, looking in all the rooms and even in the closet where we kept extra mattresses and pillows. I checked under the beds and in the living room corner behind the big couch. I searched the garden, thinking he
might be hiding behind the water tank. He wasn't there. I looked up the
badam
tree and the mango tree, but he was not sitting on a branch. Raju had disappeared.

“Mommy, have you seen Raju?” I asked.

“No. Mela has been fussy. Take her in the garden for a few minutes so Pappa and I can finish packing the last two suitcases.”

I grabbed Mela and went to the kitchen. Kaki was roasting dry cream of wheat cereal. Before I could ask her if she'd seen Raju, Mela clapped her hands, and squealed, “
Shiro, shiro
, Kaki is making
shiro
for me!”

“For you and Seema and Raju and Uma,” Kaki said.

Just as I was asking, “Have you seen Raju?” Kaki added sweetened saffron milk to the cream of wheat and it sizzled, singing
chummm
, puffing steam, and drowning my question. She began stirring it and asked, “What did you say, Seema?”

I knew Kaki had to concentrate on making
shiro
or else it would burn, so I answered, “Nothing,” and took Mela out into the garden. I checked the garden one more time, but Raju wasn't there.

That morning slipped from my hand like a butterfly. It had flown away before I could catch it. I wandered through the house and garden searching for Raju. I wanted to talk to Raju alone, but never got a chance. By the time he got home in the afternoon, the house filled with neighbors and
friends who'd come to say good-bye. Many of them brought coconuts for good luck, and before we left there were at least two dozen coconuts piled up on one side of our front lobby. Some of them had swastikas drawn on them and some had the sacred sound
om
written on them with red vermilion powder. I remembered three years ago when one of our neighbor's sons had gotten married and they'd drawn two gigantic swastikas on each side of their entrance. I had asked Dadaji, “Why have they drawn swastikas?”

“To bless the couple. The swastika symbolizes good things.”

At the time I hadn't thought much of our conversation, but now, seeing the swastikas on the coconuts reminded me of how fortunate we were to have so many people sending us off with such heartfelt good wishes.

I only wished that they'd brought the coconuts a few days earlier so Dadima could have made cardamom-flavored coconut-and-milk candy for us.

Uma gave me a painting in an ivory-colored frame.

“I painted it,” she said.

“‘Our Home in the Morning.'” I whispered the title as I looked at it. Our garden with the bed of
parijat
flowers and the mango tree with our house in the background looked so real that I thought Raju might walk through the garden gate any minute.

“Do you like it?”

“Uma, it is so beautiful, so real.”

“I wanted to capture a sunrise for you, just the way we see it from our house,” she said, pointing at the eastern sky bright as bougainvillea blossoms with the sun peeking its forehead over the horizon. I wanted to thank her, but no words came out. I didn't realize that I was trembling until she hugged me.

Uma and I wrapped the painting in a newspaper and I put it in my handbag. I wanted to keep it safe with me.

An hour before we left for the airport. Raju returned. I tied a
rakhi
on his wrist, even though Rakshabandhan was more than a month away.

“I'll be the only one with a
rakhi
,” he said.

“You can take it off and have Uma tie it again on Rakshabandhan,” I said.

“No. I'll just keep it.” he said, playing with the
rakhi's
string, his head bowed. I thought I saw tears hiding under his long lashes.

On the way to the airport, Raju rode in a taxi with me. “Seema, when you come back you'll be talking first-class English.” he said.

“And you?” I asked.

“Third-class, as usual.”

“You're so good at English. I could never do better than you.”

“You will. Wait a month or two. With your American accent I won't even know what you're talking about when you call.”

“Why would I talk to you in English? I'll always talk to you in Gujarati.”

“You'll forget Gujarati as quickly as you'll forget us,” he said.

I didn't answer. He looked at me and grinned, “just teasing,” he said.

“Don't.”

At the airport when I bowed down to Kaki, she put her arms around me and said, “Seema, no matter which corner of the world you may go and live in, our hearts will always be open for you.”

I buried my face in the folds of her sari.

I said good-bye to Raju last. Neither one of us spoke. We captured each other's gaze for a moment before I turned around and walked away with Pappa, Mommy, and Mela.

W
e changed planes in Mumbai. When we got on the jumbo jet that was flying us to Amsterdam, I was surprised by its size. Each row was ten seats across, and I couldn't see where the rows ended. “Mommy, this is as big as a ship, isn't it?” I asked softly.

“It is,” Mommy said.

“Seema, are we going to sail on a ship through the sky?” Mela asked. A few passengers around us laughed.

I didn't answer.

“Is this a ship that sails through the sky?” Mela asked again.

“It is,” I whispered.

It was after midnight when the plane took off. Mommy, Pappa, and Mela fell asleep, but I kept wiggling in my
seat. The main cabin lights were turned off and no one talked.

In the plane my mind tossed back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball between India and America. Not long ago, Iowa City had seemed like a place in a story. Soon, I was going to be in that story, and I wondered how long it would take before my home town, Vishanagar, would begin to feel like a fairy tale.

America was everything I'd heard it would be, and yet nothing could have prepared me for America. What struck me the most was that everything was big. Not only were the roads four lanes wide, but the gas stations had eight pumps. The city was dressed like an elegant lady, and the tops of the buildings seemed to have conversations with clouds. Stores were so large that they were never crowded. I remembered Vishanagar's bazaar, where people brushed against my shoulder as they walked past me. Here, there was space and no people to fill it. Where were they all?

We rented a house from a professor who was on a year-long sabbatical. In the new house I had my own room wall-papered in a pink-and-blue pastel design with ducks, geese, and sprays of blue flowers. The matching checkerboard curtains were crisp and the comforter on the bed was fluffy and soft. It was perfect, but I didn't have anyone to share it with. I replaced the comforter on the bed with
Nanima's blue silk blanket. I unwrapped the picture Uma had given me and put it on top of the chest of drawers. As I lingered in front of the painting, I began to feel like I was sharing my room with Uma like I used to in India.