Monsoon Summer (6 page)

TEN

On Monday morning, Mom and I walked down the hill
and climbed into an auto-rickshaw. Leaning forward, she gave directions to the driver. We were heading to the center of the city to visit a tailor who sewed the academy's uniforms.

I steeled myself as we arrived at our destination. The streets and sidewalks were crowded with morning shoppers, vendors, stray dogs, and beggars. A group of brown-haired children ran over immediately and surrounded me, asking for money in high-pitched voices. They didn't pay any attention to Mom until she dug in her bag for change and began passing it around.

Word spread quickly and more kids dashed over to tug at Mom's sleeves. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. People goggled as they passed, lowering and then raising their heads to check me out from top to bottom. Would Mom never run out of money? Was every kid in Pune going to ask her for a handout?

A short, thin clerk darted out of one of the air-conditioned boutiques behind the sidewalk vendors. “We sell so very nice
salwars,
” he told me in broken English. “Come inside our shop. We give you the cold cola.”

Another shoulder-high man popped out of nowhere, tugging at my other elbow. “
Nahin!
Nahin!
Do not go with that cheating fellow. Come with me. We give best value for good price.”

Neither of them seemed to notice Mom, who was still fishing through her purse for stray coins. I tugged on her sleeve as eyes roamed from my face to hers.

“Yes, yes, your maidservant can have cola also,” the first clerk told me. “Come this way only.”

I glanced quickly at Mom, wondering if she'd overheard. She was gazing down at an older woman selling bracelets on the pavement. “Come on, Mom,” I urged. “There's the store we need. Let's hurry!” I tugged her inside and closed the door firmly on the faces of the disappointed clerks.

A chubby, beaming tailor stood up to greet us. “We heard you were coming this morning,” he told me, holding both of his hands out in welcome toward me. “Sister Das said to keep one eye open for an American girl and her mother.” He peered around Mom as though looking for somebody. “But where is your mother? You didn't come alone, I hope.”

That is my mother, you idiot! I thought furiously, but I managed not to say it.

“I'm here,” Mom said, stepping forward. She was frowning, too, I noticed. “My daughter needs this uniform by tomorrow night. Can you finish it by then?”

“Of course, madam,” the man answered, managing to cover his surprise. “We'll deliver it to your place for free. I'm sorry, madam. I didn't know you were together.”

“That's quite all right,” Mom said. “Shall we get started?”

A boy about Eric's age brought us two bottles of cold orange soda. A female clerk measured every inch of me, knee to thigh, underarm to wrist, shoulder to hip, and all the way around me in three places. She raised her eyebrows over some of the figures and remeasured me several times.

I noticed a barrel of jumbo umbrellas for sale in a corner of the shop. “Could I get one of those, Mom?” I asked when the clerk was finally finished.

Mom paid the tailor for the uniform and the umbrella and gave him our address. One of the clerks hailed a rickshaw for us, and the tailor walked us to it himself, using his bulk as a human shield until we ducked inside.

“Allah wa akbar!”
Muslim leaders proclaimed five times each day. “The Only One God is Great!” Amplified chanting from tall minarets called faithful Muslims to prayer. Sister Das had told us that the city of Pune was mostly Hindu, but there was a large Muslim minority as well as a tiny Christian one.

Buttoning the two collar buttons of the starched blouse, I muttered my own prayer for survival. The tailor had come through on his promise and delivered the uniform to our apartment late Tuesday night. The blouse had to be tucked into the elastic waistband of the uniform's dark skirt. My knees gleamed palely beneath the pleats, and I groaned at my reflection.

The dreaded uniform outlined me like a tight figure eight, exposing some of my best-kept secrets. In a certain type of bathing suit (which I'd never wear in a trillion years), I could easily pass for one of those old-fashioned movie stars from the 1950s—the ones with round hips and big, pointy brassiere cups. That's why I always felt more comfortable when my curves were camouflaged under loose T-shirts and baggy jeans.

Eric, Mom, and Dad were waiting for me downstairs. As I descended, I could tell they were fighting to keep the shock from showing. Eric failed completely; his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged out of his head.

“You look great, Jazz,” Dad said, recovering first. “That uniform fits perfectly.”

I groaned again. “It's got so much starch in it! I feel like I'm wearing a guitar.”

“Well, you look terrific, Jazz,” said Mom. “You have such a beautiful figure, darling.”

Beautiful? Hah! Bountiful is more like it, I thought. I didn't say it aloud, because like Steve, my parents hated it when I put myself down.

“Your saree looks terrific, Mom,” I said instead.

I couldn't help envying how slim and small she looked. She'd managed to wrap and fold a saree around herself perfectly, even though she'd worn one only once or twice before in Berkeley. The one she was wearing now was green, with small yellow flowers embroidered along the border. It was an inexpensive cotton, like the sarees poor women wore on the street, but Mom's looked new.

“Thanks, honey. I'm so nervous about making a good first impression,” she said. “I'll start right away by visiting that settlement beside the orphanage.”

Sister Das had told us that the women who lived around the orphanage rarely visited doctors or hospitals. When they got pregnant, they took care of things themselves. Some of the babies were born too early and had to fight just to survive. And some of the women died in childbirth. The grant the orphanage had won would provide enough money to pay for doctors, nurses, and supplies. On top of that, the clinic would offer any pregnant woman in the community one nutritious meal a day of rice, lentils, eggs, and vegetables. Mom was hoping the free food would draw them in, that they'd visit the clinic for checkups during their pregnancies and decide to have their babies there, too, where it was clean and safe. She was going to visit them first, though, so they'd know they could trust her.

I wasn't at all worried about Mom. Making people feel welcome was her specialty. Everybody she met in that community was sure to love her. They always did. No, it was my father who might not make it through the day. He looked as nervous and pinched in his shirt and tie as I felt in my uniform.

“I'm scared, too, Jazz,” he'd confessed to me the night before. The two of us had been playing cards, waiting for the uniform to arrive. “But don't you think it's time I stopped playing it safe?”

I couldn't believe it. Dad was breaking his own parents' code of survival just when I'd realized it was the way to go.

“Oh, and Jazz,” Dad had added. “We both know one of your mother's hopes for the summer is to find some information about her past, but please don't bring it up. I think she needs space to sort out her feelings on her own for a while.”

Dad didn't have to warn me. Mom's hunger to know more about her birth family was so intense I wondered how strangers didn't notice it. Bringing up the topic before she did would feel like stomping across a newly seeded lawn.

Outside the gates of the academy, Dad paid the auto-rickshaw drivers while Mom, Eric, and I scoped out the scene. Girls of every size and shape milled around a courtyard. They were wearing starched white shirts with stiff, pointed collars and knee-length navy skirts with carefully ironed pleats, just like I was. Unfortunately, the rest of my ensemble didn't quite fit the mold.

“I didn't realize this uniform included shoes,” Dad muttered as we headed through the gates.

I was wearing sandals that laced up around my argyle socks, comfortable and worn, bought at a discount from the shoe peddler on Telegraph Avenue. Everybody else's feet were encased in white knee socks and shiny black patent leather shoes.

“Or hair,” Mom added.

My shoulder-length hair hung loose around my face. The others wore their hair in long, tight braids tied with perky blue bows.

As we walked through the courtyard, silence spread through the crowd of girls like fog rolling into San Francisco Bay. Every eye was on us. We headed as fast as we could for the office.

Mrs. Joshi, the headmistress, greeted us warmly. She served tea and
samosas,
savory pastries made of vegetable curry wrapped in a crispy crust, and chatted about the orphanage. Apparently, Sister Das was a legend of sorts in Pune. Bubbling over with excitement, Mom told her about the clinic while Dad, Eric, and I chomped on samosas. Eric was enjoying them, I could tell, but for Dad and me, it was a case of comfort eating.

Finally, the headmistress turned to me. “I'm afraid you may find our rules difficult after the freedom young people enjoy in the West,” she said. “We do not permit makeup or jewelry during school hours. From tomorrow, please wear white knee socks and black shoes, and braid your hair with four ribbons. I will loan you one ribbon for today. You will begin in class ten. I have asked my niece, Rini, to provide necessary orientation.”

The bell rang on cue, as if it knew she was done with us. Mom quickly tied my hair into a ponytail with the ribbon, and Mrs. Joshi gave me permission to walk my family to the gate.

“I will send my niece to escort you back to class,” she said.

At the gate, I said my good-byes. Dad had dark shadows under his eyes, and I fought off a desire to jump into an auto-rickshaw, march into the orphanage, and announce that he didn't know what he was doing. But would I be right? In spite of the worry in his face, his chin was set and his shoulders squared in a way that seemed familiar. It was the same body language I used just before hurling a shot put.

He kissed the top of my head. “Mrs. Joshi said you can catch an auto-rickshaw home with a couple of girls who live in our neighborhood. Think you can handle that?”

I nodded. “Hope it goes well, Dad,” I said.

Mom pulled my fingernail out of my mouth and reached up to kiss my cheek. “You'll be fine, honey,” she said, sounding as if she was trying to convince herself.

I had an eerie feeling of déjà vu. Was this a repeat of my first day at kindergarten? But then Eric flashed me one of his sweetest smiles before disappearing into the auto-rickshaw, and I was on my own.

ELEVEN

Mrs. Joshi's niece, Rini, was short and round, with dimples that deepened when she smiled. She chattered away in an interesting Indianized slang as we made our way to class. Her idea of orientation was slightly different than her aunt's. “You'll have to meet Sonia Seth,” she whispered. “Her dad owns a chain of department stores and has gobs of money. Sonia's absolutely wild, but great fun. And that's Lila over there. Her dad's the best heart surgeon in Pune. . . .” And so on.

It was mindless babble, but at least I didn't have to come up with any conversation in return. Outside the classroom, I hesitated, trying to steady my nerves.

“What's the matter?” Rini asked.

“Nothing. How many girls are in this class?”

“Only forty-five,” she said. “We've been dying to meet you ever since Sister Das made the announcement at Monday's assembly. We want to find out
everything
about life in America.”

“You do?” I asked, hardly listening. “What period is this, by the way?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking puzzled. “Oh! We don't change classes as you do. The teachers come to us. This is the class ten room. We stay in our assigned desks all day, except for tea breaks and tiffin.”

“Tiffin?”

Rini giggled. “I mean lunch. I should know how to talk American; I've watched enough of your films, for goodness' sake. Oops . . . I mean movies. Come on, let's go in.”

I followed her inside, keeping my eyes on her back. Her braids swayed in front of me like two pendulums. The teacher was wearing a carefully ironed and pleated blue and white saree, and she gave me a brief smile. “We are quite pleased to see you,” she said in a voice that was as starched as her saree. “Ladies, please rise. Let us welcome Miss Jasmine Gardner.”

All forty-five girls stood at the same time and clasped their hands in front of them. It would have been fascinating to watch if they hadn't all been staring at me. They looked like a synchronized-swimming team practicing a routine outside the pool. “You are welcome to our school, Jasmine,” they chanted.

I mumbled something unintelligible in response. The teacher handed me a thick textbook. Clutching it like a life preserver in front of me, I made my way to an empty desk in the back of the room. The morning work began with algebra formulas we hadn't covered yet in Berkeley, and I was forced to concentrate.

As soon as the bell rang for tea break, Rini pounced on me. She dragged me over to her friends like a first grader with an extra-special show-and-tell item. Three girls checked me out from head to toe. All the girls in the class were dressed identically, but these three managed to add a certain flair. Maybe it was the way they wore their bangs, or that their skirts were at the school's limit of shortness. Or the fact that perfume, which was not on the list of forbidden fashion items, wafted around them. I suspected that one of them was even wearing a touch of pale pink lipstick.

“This is Lila,” Rini said. “And this is Sonia.”

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi!”

“Hello.”

Sonia was the one wearing the lipstick. She was taller than the other girls, although shorter than me. She had glossy black hair and big almond-shaped brown eyes. Her shirt was closely tailored and clung to her curves even more tightly than mine.

I could tell that Rini and Lila were waiting for either Sonia or me to talk. I waited, too, feeling as if I was about to take an exam on a book I hadn't read.

Sonia obviously had no problem diving right in. “Was that Indian woman really your mother?” she asked.

I nodded but didn't say anything. Why was everyone around here so shocked that Mom and I were related? Not every daughter looked like their mother, did they?

“We heard a rumor that she's one of Asha Bari's children,” Sonia continued. “Is that true?”

“It's true,” I answered.

“Oh. So your mother was
adopted,
” said Lila, a skinny girl with a beaked nose. She made the word sound as though it were some kind of disease.

“How'd you find out about Mom?” I asked. Pune was a big city, after all.

“Sonia's father is the chairman of the board at Asha Bari,” Lila informed me. “The academy is sort of connected to the orphanage; they were founded by the same set of Catholic missionaries.”

“We've known you were coming to Pune for ages,” Rini added. “But we weren't certain you'd be
here
until Monday. We were so excited to see your whole family come in this morning!”

Sonia sighed dramatically. “Your father's so tall and handsome, with that wavy hair and fabulous skin. I can just picture him at eighteen. How did your mother manage to catch someone like him?”

What?
Had I heard right?
Dad
—
handsome? Mom
— managing to catch him? I had to set this girl straight. Immediately. “They were in college together,” I said. “He was in love with her for years before she decided to marry him.”

After a pause, the questions continued along a different line. “I bought a copy of the latest Greg Lamington album,” Rini said. “We dance to his music all the time at the disco. I hear he's supposed to be even more amazing live, though. Have you seen him on tour?”

“Actually, I've never heard of him,” I answered, wincing at the thought of a disco. Dancing and I were mortal enemies.

All three girls' mouths fell open. But after a moment of shock over my ignorance, they continued to ask questions, grilling me about other favorite celebrities. It didn't take long to figure out that they knew much more about the American entertainment industry than I did. They were addicted to the same music and movies as the kids back home.

“We've never owned a television, so it's impossible to keep up with this stuff,” I said. “I'm sort of out of it, I guess.”

Sonia raised her eyebrows in surprise. “No television? But you're an American. From California. California
invented
entertainment.”

I shrugged. Either Eric or I halfheartedly asked for a television every six months or so. My parents always said no. It wasn't a question of money. “Time's too precious to waste on watching commercials, kids,” Mom would explain. “Besides, those ads breed discontent. They're always trying to convince us that what we have and who we are isn't good enough.”

Helen and Frank didn't have a television, either, so we were doubly deprived. Dad occasionally took us out to the movies, but he supported Mom's no-TV decision, as he did most of her decisions. I didn't really think about it much anymore. Now that I was fifteen, I wanted a car more than I wanted a television.

“Lucky you, keeping away from the media hype,” said Rini, obviously trying to cheer me up. “We have to keep up with both Hollywood
and
Bollywood. It gets exhausting after a while.”

“I actually know more about Bollywood than I do about Hollywood,” I said, remembering the dozens of Mumbai-made Hindi movies Helen and Frank had dragged me to see. And even though my grandparents only understood about ten words of Hindi, they constantly played Indian pop songs on an ancient tape recorder.

“Spoken like a true Indian,” Sonia said, smiling. “But I simply can't imagine life without a small screen at home!”

“I'm too busy to watch anything anyway,” I said.

“Busy with what?” Sonia asked.

I didn't answer. I couldn't see myself explaining about running a business, staying in shape for track, and keeping my grade point average up—not to mention visiting Helen and Frank, keeping an eye on Eric, and of course, hanging out with Steve.

Sonia studied my expression. “Aha!” she said, nodding wisely. “Busy with a boyfriend, I'll wager. Lucky thing. American girls don't have a thousand relatives breathing down their necks, warning them to avoid men at all costs.” Her voice changed, taking on a matronly Indian accent. She wagged her head. “If you even so much as touch a boy before you are married, Sonia, you will most certainly acquire a very, very vile disease.”

The girls giggled, and even I had to smile.

“Bring us a picture of this boyfriend tomorrow,” Sonia ordered as the bell rang.

“He's not my boyfriend.”

“A likely story,” countered Sonia. “A secret romance, no doubt. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

For the first time in our conversation, I found myself wanting her to keep talking. Even though she was obviously living in a Bollywood fantasy world, I was beginning to like what I saw there.