Monsoon Summer (4 page)

SEVEN

When the train pulled into the Pune station, a stately, gray
-
haired woman in a crisply ironed saree was waiting on the platform. Her only ornament was a plain pewter crucifix that dangled from a silver chain around her neck. She greeted Mom with a traditional Indian
namaste,
placing her palms together in front of her face and bowing slightly.

“Greetings, dear Sarah.” Her voice was deep, and she had a British accent. She sounded like all the butlers in movies I'd seen about England.

“Sister Das? Is that you?” Mom furrowed her brow, studying the nun's face. Then she threw her arms around the older woman and buried her face in the white saree. My throat started feeling funny.

The nun patted Mom on the back. “There, there,” she said. “Welcome home, Sarah, dear.”

When Mom finally pulled away, Sister Das offered her a clean white handkerchief. Mom used it to dry her eyes while the nun turned to
namaste
Dad. “Welcome, son-in-law of India,” she said.

“What do we call her?” Eric asked in a whisper, close to my ear, as Dad awkwardly returned the gesture.

The woman's hearing was keen. “The children of Asha Bari call me Auntie Das,” she said, walking over to us. “The two of you may do the same.” She lifted Eric's chin and studied his face intently. “The image of your mother, I see. Same delight in the eyes, too,” she said. Then she smiled at me. “Welcome, Jasmine,” she said. I noticed she didn't say anything about which parent I looked like.

“It's so good to see you again, Auntie,” Mom said. “I was especially glad to hear that you'd be picking us up.”

After recovering her handkerchief from Mom, Sister Das began counting our bags. “Oy!
Coolies!
” she called, beckoning to two red-turbaned men, who walked over and bowed slightly. In rapid Hindi, she began negotiating their fee. I was surprised at how much I could understand. The word “coolie” was the Hindi word for porter. Those long hours of language lessons were actually paying off.

“At that price, you two can certainly manage this load,” Sister Das finally informed the two men. Then she turned to us. “Come, all of you. The van is waiting outside.”

We watched in stunned silence as the
Coolies
piled suitcase after suitcase on top of their heads. The men seemed to grow bigger under the load, as if the nun's words had convinced them of their own abilities. I felt a pang of guilt that these thin men, who probably weighed less than I did, had to carry our stuff, including my weights in that trunk. Incredibly, we had to hurry to keep up with them. They jogged through the crowded platform, into the terminal, and outside to the city of Pune.

We stopped at a white van that was surrounded by a group of ragged children. As the
Coolies
hurled our bags into the back, Sister Das distributed bananas to the children. She turned to tip the
Coolies,
and judging by their delighted smiles, I could tell she'd been more than generous. The children giggled, grinned, and devoured the fruit, waving as we climbed into the van.

Sister Das gripped the steering wheel tightly as we screeched away. “I prefer my own driving, so I came to pick you up myself. The orphanage's driver crawls along like a snail.”

I chewed my fingernails as the van navigated one obstacle after another. The nun leaned on the horn, pedestrians scattered, and a sea of motorcycles parted to let us through. We careened around rickety old double-decker buses and barely missed vendors balancing baskets of golden mangos on their heads.

“Didn't the rains come early this year?” Mom asked as we headed toward the outskirts of the city. “I thought they usually arrived around the middle of June.”

“They started three days ago, a week or so before we expected, and we're thrilled.” Sister Das answered. “The monsoon season brings new gifts and blessings every year. It brought you to us, Sarah, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Mom answered.

We turned a corner, and I could see Dad's knuckles whiten as he gripped the dashboard. Sister Das turned to him. “You, Peter, are my first gift this season. We desperately need your help at the orphanage.”

Dad turned to her in surprise. “Me?” he asked. “Er . . . what for?”

“Sarah has told us about your work with computers,” Sister Das said. “Somebody donated a few to the orphanage. How I wish they'd send money for things we really need instead of things they want to be rid of! Ah, well. We need somebody to set them up and train us to use them. We've been praying about it for months. And now, thanks to this grant, we've been able to fly in the top computer programmer in America.”

Dad threw a desperate look at Mom over his shoulder, but she was gazing out the window as if in a trance. I leaned forward to put my hand on his shoulder, feeling strangely protective.
Leave my father alone!
I felt like telling the nun. You've got my mom back. Isn't that enough?

Sister Das accelerated to pass a bus. “It will take you about a week to get settled and conquer jet lag,” she said. “I've secured permission for the children to enroll in the best academies in Pune. One for boys, one for girls. The monsoon term has just begun here in India, so they'll only be a few days behind.”

Eric and I exchanged shocked glances. School? During summer vacation? Who did this woman think she was? She sounded like a five-star general briefing a band of new soldiers. The van hurtled around a corner on two wheels, reminding me again that our lives were in her hands.

She was still talking in that deep voice of hers. “They can also attend our orphanage's lower school if they prefer. That is, Eric can. We don't have an upper school for children Jasmine's age, but I am certain we can find a way to keep her busy at Asha Bari. If they go to the academies, you'll have to order uniforms for them, of course.”

Uniforms?
Eric mouthed, and I gulped. The two of us lived in jeans and T-shirts, and I never wore dresses. A uniform for girls at an Indian academy was sure to include a skirt of some sort. I tried to catch Mom's eye and telegraph my worry.

But Mom still wasn't listening to the conversation. “Please don't forget to point out the orphanage, Auntie Das,” she said. “I'm afraid I don't see any familiar landmarks.”

We drove past a group of silver-haired ladies in colorful sarees dancing and laughing in the rain. “Monsoon madness,” Sister Das explained. “Some people go crazy with joy when the rains come. Others go mad because they can't handle the constant downpour.” Wonderful, I thought. You end Up going nuts no matter what.

After making a few more roller-coaster-like turns, Sister Das finally slammed on the brakes. “Here it is,” she announced.

I caught a glimpse of a three-story building behind a high gate. The gate bore a white cross, and ASHA BARI was written under it in blue letters. Another cross rose high from the orphanage's roof.

“I vaguely remember the blue and white gate,” Mom said, squinting, as though she was trying to see it through four-year-old eyes. “But I don't remember the building being so big.”

“Like you, Sarah, the orphanage has grown a bit in thirty-odd years,” answered Sister Das.

Seeing Asha Bari for the first time made me feel even queasier than riding in the van. This was the part of the summer I'd been dreading most. My own mother had been dumped on this very doorstep. I'd heard about her arrival at Asha Bari so often I could picture it, like a movie I'd seen a dozen times. And now here we were, at the scene of the crime.

A nun trips over a tiny baby wailing on the steps early
one rainy morning. The baby is Covered with a thin Cotton
blanket, with strings of jasmine flowers tied loosely
around her neck, waist, wrists, and ankles. Nobody in the neighborhood Claims the delicate, sickly infant or admits to knowing anything about her. The nuns focus their energies on nursing the baby back to health and never discover where she Came from. At four, she's adopted by an Ameri
Can family and taken to California.

It was quiet in the van, and I realized I probably wasn't the only one thinking of that long-ago day. “I know this has nothing to do with the grant or the clinic,” Mom said suddenly, breaking the silence. “But I'd like to look through Asha Bari's old files someday, Auntie Das.”

“You're welcome to do that, Sarah,” the nun answered gently. “But you won't find anything new there.”

Mom's voice was low now, too. “I'd like to have a look in the archives anyway,” she said.

“We have no time now to stop, Sarah,” the nun said, her tone still comforting. “The children are tired and it's getting late. But I did bring your file with me. I thought you might like to have it as a welcome present. It has the photographs and letters sent from your parents since they first adopted you. Helen and Frank Norquist—what a lovely couple. I remember them like it was yesterday.” She reached into a briefcase tucked underneath her seat and pulled out a fat, faded folder stuffed with notes and photos. I recognized Helen's sprawling, slanted signature at the bottom of a yellowed form before Mom tucked the file into her bag.

About twenty cars trapped behind us were honking like mad. Throwing a stern look in the rearview mirror, Sister Das peeled away from the orphanage.

The road grew steeper, and I could see the town spread out in the valley below. The neighborhood was made up of redbrick buildings nestled between green hills, brightly colored flowering bushes, and winding paths. We climbed one last hill and lurched to a stop. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and it was beginning to get dark. A man came over to greet us and began walking around the van with a concerned look, patting it as if it was his favorite pet.

“Some of the sisters told the driver to meet us,” Sister Das said. “He'll bring up the bags when he's done with his inspection. Doesn't trust my driving for some reason.” She snorted and strode up the stairs. Eric followed her.

I stayed outside and spied on my parents in the dim light. They were partially hidden in a bougainvillea bush covered with bright pink blossoms. Dad pulled off a sprig of flowers and presented it to Mom with a flourish. “Welcome home, beloved,” he said.

Mom tucked the flowers into her hair, and they kissed. Leaving my parents locked in their embrace, I climbed slowly upstairs.

The apartment was furnished Indian style, with bamboo furniture and batik slipcovers. “Have a look around,” said Sister Das. “I know it's not what you're used to, but welcome home anyway.”

Home?
I thought.
Home is where the heart is. And
mine's with Steve
. I noticed right away that there was no sign of a telephone. I'd have to ask Sister Das about that since Steve and I had planned to talk at least once a week.

The bathroom had one Western toilet and one Indian set-in-the-floor model where you needed to squat. There was only one tap—Sister Das explained that we only had access to cold running water, but she showed me how to use the immersion-rod water heater. There was no shower or tub, but four steaming buckets of water were heated and waiting.

The kitchen felt more familiar than any other room. Another foreigner had volunteered at Asha Bari the year before, Sister Das told me, and he'd left his kitchen stuff when he went home. A casserole bubbled in the oven, and juicy slices of mango had been cut and chilled in the fridge.

In fact, as I finished my tour, I couldn't help noticing that someone had tried hard to make us feel welcome. Candles were lit everywhere, fresh sheets were turned back on the beds, and bouquets of honeysuckle and wild roses filled each room with a soft fragrance. For one mixed-up, jet-lagged second, as we gathered around the dining table, this strange new place did feel a bit like home.

EIGHT

Five days later we hurtled along in an auto-rickshaw, a narrow, covered three-wheeled motorcycle with a seat built for three. We were heading into town yet again, this time to buy a CD player for the apartment. We'd only been able to find one empty vehicle, and we were squashed, with Eric on my lap and Mom on Dad's. The auto-rickshaw rattled furiously over a series of potholes, and Eric raised his hands in the air just like he did on roller-coaster rides.

I peered around his head at the streets of Pune whizzing by. This whole country needs a Rewind button, I decided. I wanted to go slowly, to sort through everything I was seeing, smelling, hearing, and tasting. But I couldn't. I felt like a kid at a three-ring circus. Here, a herd of skinny cows ambled through traffic; there, Muslim women walked in the rain, covered in heavy black cloth from head to toe; just beyond, children chased old tires down the road with a stick.

Not all of Pune was poor. Five-star hotels towered over tiny tents where families cooked and slept. Fat, rich businessmen bargained with bony women carrying heavy baskets of mangoes on their heads. Expensive, shiny cars honked at children with matted brown-yellow hair.

“Why is their hair yellow, Mom?” Eric shouted over the roar of the engine.

“Sign of malnutrition,” Mom yelled back.

I shrank back against the patched vinyl of the auto-rickshaw seat. I couldn't decide what was worse—seeing the poverty or enduring the staring. On the streets and in the shops, Indians stared at our whole family, but especially at Dad and me. It seemed as if every eye was interested in what the two of us were doing, saying, wearing, or eating.

I wanted to stay cocooned inside our peaceful apartment all summer, but I couldn't. My parents agreed with Sister Das—I had to “experience” India, which meant choosing either the academy or the orphanage. Sister Das had given us through the weekend to decide; everybody had to report for duty on Wednesday. My mind was already made up, of course, but I hadn't told anyone what I'd decided.

I took a deep breath. Now seemed as good a time as any. We were so jammed in this tiny space there was no way for me to see Mom's face when I made my announcement.

“I've decided to go to the academy,” I shouted. Unfortunately, the motor died suddenly, and my words boomed through the relative quiet. The driver hopped out, and I pretended to be fiercely interested in what he was doing to the engine.

“Are you sure, honey?” Mom asked after an awkward pause. “I think you'd like it at Asha Bari. But of course, attending school in India will be a terrific experience, too.”

“That's what I thought, Mom,” I answered just as the engine started up again.

“I'm going to the orphanage school,” Eric shouted. “Sister Das told me they're trying to start a soccer team for the littler kids. She needs my help.”

Eric's announcement wasn't totally surprising. He'd just gotten into soccer before the summer, and was the one who usually organized any after-school games in the neighborhood. Still, he and I usually talked things over before he started anything new. I felt another twinge of irritation at that nun for ordering my family around.

“Well, since we're all making announcements in this crazy contraption, I may as well, too,” Dad yelled. “I've decided to accept Sister Das's invitation. I'm going to teach those nuns how to use their computers.”

What?
My
father
—spending an entire summer inside an
orphanage
? I would have doubted what I'd heard if Mom and Eric weren't gaping at Dad, too. Even the auto-rickshaw engine seemed to sputter in amazement. Dad
never
participated in Mom's “giving opportunities,” even though Mom had tried for years to involve him. Then, last fall, she'd given up on both of us.

“Are you sure you want to do that, Dad?” I said when the motor quieted down a bit. “You brought a lot of reading along.” When he wasn't at the university, hacking away at his computer, or balancing our family's budget, Dad read stacks and stacks of books. He'd been looking forward to reading all the ones he'd brought.

“I'm sure, Jazz,” he answered, keeping his mouth right by my ear so that he didn't have to shout. “It's payback time. But say a prayer for me anyway. Sister Das and I have a meeting first thing on Wednesday.”

What in the world did he mean by “payback time”? It sounded like a phrase in one of those old Western novels he read on vacation. I studied Dad's face and noticed all kinds of new lines and wrinkles I'd never seen before. Maybe that monsoon madness Sister Das had told us about had already begun to affect him. If so, she was certainly taking full advantage of it.

When the rickshaw finally stopped in front of an electronics store, Mom and Eric jumped out. Dad carefully eased his long limbs from the tiny vehicle. “I'll stay here,” I said. “Somebody needs to hold the rickshaw while you shop. You shouldn't be too long, anyway.”

Immediately Dad crawled back in. “I'll stay with Jazz, Sarah. You know the kind of CD player I want, don't you?”

Mom gave us both an exasperated look and marched into the store, followed by Eric. I watched them go, realizing that without Dad and me around, my mother and brother blended right in.

When we got back to the apartment, Dad and Mom disappeared into their room for a nap. Eric was spreading out his rapidly growing Indian bug collection in the living room. I paced the floor, doing laps around my brother and his insects.

“What's wrong, Jazz?” Eric asked finally.

“I don't know, Eric. I just can't seem to settle down.” On Sunday afternoons, Steve and I usually hiked the hills. Then we grabbed a bite to eat on Telegraph Avenue—falafel at the Persian restaurant or fish tacos at the Mexican joint. It was my first weekend without Steve Morales in years, and I was aching to hear his voice.

Eric grinned. “The auto-rickshaw ride was awesome, though, wasn't it?”

“Not bad,” I said, checking my watch. It was one o'clock in the afternoon in India; one o'clock in the morning Berkeley time. I didn't want to wake his parents, but Steve might still be up. He liked to listen to music late into the night.

My little brother wasn't as lost in his own world as I thought. “Too bad we don't have a phone, Jazz,” he said. “Then we could call Steve.”

I plopped down beside him on the floor and lifted a jar with the most enormous spider I'd ever seen trapped inside. India was a feast for the free bug, but what in the world would this creature eat now that Eric had captured him? I wasn't sure my brother could keep his tropical zoo as healthy as his hardy California desert collection.

“Auntie Das said you could use the orphanage phone if you want,” my brother continued. “Why don't you walk down there?”

I put down the jar that jailed the spider. “I'm not going to the orphanage, Eric. That place is just not for me.”

“You have to tell Steve we made it, don't you? Dad said there were some Internet places in town. Do you want to find one? I'll go with you.”

I stood up again. “No thanks. One trip into town a day is all I can handle. There's a public phone in a shop down the hill, but I think I'll go by myself this time.”

My brother nodded. I tousled his hair, grabbed some money, and closed the door quietly behind me, so that Mom and Dad wouldn't wake up. As I jogged downhill, I was thankful we lived in a quiet suburb of Pune and not in the busy downtown area. Maybe I wouldn't attract as much attention around here.

I passed Asha Bari's gates and heard children singing inside the orphanage. Crossing the street, I jogged even faster. Come Wednesday morning, those gates were going to suck the rest of my family inside. There was no way they were getting me, too.

I slowed to a walk as soon as I reached the small market at the foot of the hill. The stores were more crowded than I'd thought they would be. Sundays were obviously big shopping days here. Indian women moved easily in their flowing sarees which were six and a half yards of cloth they wrapped and tucked around their bodies. Some of them wore
salwar kameez,
a matching set of baggy pants, long tunic, and scarf. Brilliantly patterned cloth swirled and rustled around me. A few girls had fragrant white blossoms woven into their braids.

It was tough to study the fashions of the women when they were so blatantly studying me.
Maybe my jeans and
T-shirt seem strange to them,
I thought. But then I noticed several Indian teenagers wearing jeans. Theirs, however, were about half the size of mine, which was probably why they were staring. I could just imagine the caption under my photo in a local paper: Enormous Female from Overfed Continent Visits Pune.

I quickly slipped into the small store advertising a public phone. It was practically deserted. Everybody my age was probably at some chat café. Only a balding man followed me in. An elderly woman was already in the booth. Good. I could add another place of refuge to my list: Bedroom. Auto-rickshaws. And now, phone booth.