Monsoon Summer (9 page)

SIXTEEN

Danita was wearing her only other work Uniform,
a hand-me-down
salwar kameez
made of cotton that had once been bright pink. The color was muted and mottled by years of washing, and the softness suited Danita, picking up the rosy tones of her skin. Slim pink, white, and silver bangles clinked on her wrists. A wide white ribbon was laced into her braid, shimmering with delicate embroidery and tiny silver mirrors.

“I'll put the kettle on,” she said, giving me her usual warm smile. “Dinner's almost ready.”

“It's later than usual, isn't it?” I asked. “I stopped to phone a friend.”

“Somebody in India?”

“No,” I answered. “My best friend in America.”

“Is she our age?”

“Actually, he's a boy. And he is our age. Just a bit older than me, in fact.”

I sipped my tea, watching her hands move in perfect partnership as she cut eggplant. Her left hand slid the big chunk over, and her right hand chopped the next piece off with the knife.

“He's more than my best friend,” I blurted out, suddenly wanting more than anything to talk about Steve. “He's my business partner.”

Her hands stopped chopping, and she turned around. “YoU have a business?” Her voice was much more intense than usual.

“
We
do. Steve and I together, that is.”

“Your
own
business? Not your family's?”

“Our very own. It's not big, but it's doing okay.”

Danita never sat down while she was working. But now she came over to the table and took the chair opposite me. “Tell me about it,” she said, and it sounded like a command.

I tried to hide my surprise at her unusual behavior. “Where should I start?”

“At the beginning. Whose idea was this business?”

“Both of ours, actually. Berkeley, where we live, is a university town, where lots of students have been active in protests and demonstrations. We noticed a bunch of older people wandering around talking about the old days, saying things like ‘Remember when we boycotted these businesses because they invested in South Africa?' Stuff like that. We decided they'd pay for a way to relive their college days. After racking our brains for a while, one of us suggested selling postcard photos. The funny thing is that Steve thinks I thought it up, but I'm sure it was his idea. Anyway, the city was offering free ten-week seminars on how to start a small business, so we signed up right away.”

Danita's eyes were fixed on mine. “What are the postcards like?” she asked.

“Oh, they're pictures of famous Berkeley landmarks.”

“Do they sell well?”

“We've been in business for almost a year now, and we've made a nice profit, if I do say so myself. The seminar leader even uses the Biz as an example in his courses now.” I smiled happily at the thought of my growing bank account.

Danita didn't return my smile. “How did you pay for the things you needed to start up?”

“Oh, that was the tough part. We had to buy the postcard-making machine, plus all the materials, and the booth itself was expensive. Steve's dad gave us a loan, but we had to promise to pay him back within one year. With interest. We've already done that, and he's thrilled.”

“Your business reminds me of Banu Pal's.”

“Who's that?”

“She was one of Asha Bari's older girls when I was growing up. She started making dresses when she was my age. Now she owns a boutique in Mumbai and is one of Asha Bari's biggest donors. Did you hire any workers?”

I winced. The only worker I'd ever hired had been Mona. I decided to tell Danita instead about Steve's employees and my idea of recruiting seniors for part-time management help. As I talked and Danita listened, I could feel myself getting more and more animated; reminiscing about the business was actually helping me feel less homesick. Or less Steve-sick, anyway.

Danita gasped, catching sight of my watch. “Look at the time! Your family will be home in fifteen minutes and dinner's not ready.”

I leaped to my feet. “I'll help. Tell me what to do.”

We raced around the kitchen like two mice in a maze. Danita whipped up a batter and began frying the eggplant in it. I put the rice on.

“No time to make lentils now,” she said frantically. “But I can't just serve eggplant with rice. They'll be hungry.”

I peered into the fridge, scanning the contents. “Eggs!” I shouted. “Dad loves omelets.”

Danita chopped tomatoes, onions, and bell peppers like a human food processor. Following her instructions, I cracked eggs, added salt and pepper, and poured in a bit of milk.

“Sprinkle in a bit of cumin and coriander,” she told me.

For good measure, I added a heaping teaspoon of red chili powder, even though she hadn't told me to.

Danita poured the mixture into the frying pan just as we heard the front door slam. “Thanks, Jazz Didi,” she whispered.

“No problem. But listen—somebody's with them. Who
is
that?”

It sounded like a barbershop quartet out there. A deep voice was mingling with Dad's baritone, Eric's high-pitched little-boy soprano, and Mom's low alto. Danita and I recognized it at the same time—Sister Das.

“Mom must have invited her.”
Or she invited herself
. “Do we have enough food?”

“We couldn't have planned it better. Auntie's a vegetarian, but she eats eggs.”

We grinned at each other just as they came into the kitchen.

“I invited Sister Das to dinner, Danita,” Dad announced. “We were right in the middle of a fascinating conversation, and I didn't want to cut it off.”

“Of course,” Danita answered. She seemed as calm and unruffled as usual, but I was frowning at Dad. He
never
invited people to dinner—that was Mom's job.
He's making a
habit of hanging out with nuns, I said to myself, groaning inwardly at my own pun.

Mom, Danita, and I set the table while Dad put on a CD of the Beatles' greatest hits. Apparently, Sister Das had become familiar with their songs while she attended university in England. The two of them resumed their debate right away—something about whether or not you could combine Western lyrics with Indian tunes.

When dinner was ready, Dad pulled out a chair for Sister Das and even asked her to say grace. “We give you all our thanks and praise, Gracious Creator,” she prayed, “for this lovely meal we are about to enjoy.”

Everybody did seem to enjoy the omelet-eggplant combination we'd concocted. Danita hovered in the background, refilling empty plates and glasses. Dad kept her busy by gulping full glasses of water between bites. “Delicious,” he declared, but beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

Danita looked at me suspiciously. Maybe I had added just a wee bit too much chili powder.

“An Indian meal is not successful unless it makes sweat drip from your brow,” said Sister Das, mopping her own forehead with a napkin to show her appreciation.

After dinner, Danita slipped away to do the dishes.

“Come on, Eric,” I said. “You need to sort some of your bugs. A few of the ones you put in the same jar are starting to eat each other. Let's get that book on Indian bugs Mom bought you.”

Eric joined me on the floor, and we began looking up some of the more unusual specimens he'd found when we first arrived. He hadn't caught any new ones lately.

There were lots of dishes, and Danita took a long time washing them. When the water stopped running, I knew she was about to make her usual quick getaway, hurrying back to the orphanage to be with her sisters.

“Danita,” Sister Das called out. “Come here, please.”

Danita appeared immediately, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Yes, Auntie?”

“Danita, my dear. I have a hunger in my heart to hear a classical Hindi song. Jasmine's father claims that a brilliant musician can fuse Indian
ragas
with American rhythms. Would you sing one song for us to prove him wrong? Any devotional song will do.”

I expected Danita to refuse, shyly but politely. “Yes, Auntie. Of course,” she answered instead. Apparently, the nun's word was her command.

Clutching the dish towel like a bouquet in front of her, Danita began to sing. The melody she chose was in a minor key, low and mournful. Candles flickered as a cool evening breeze blew through the room, bringing in the monsoon smells of rain and earth. Even Eric listened intently, his eyes fixed on Danita's face. The song became sadder, and the sweet, high voice filled every corner of the room.

I glanced around and caught sight of Mom. Since we'd arrived in India, certain things brought a sad expression to her face, like buying mangos from the toothless old lady down the hill or searching yet again through that file Sister Das had given her. She always went through it carefully, as though something precious that should have been there was lost forever. I sat on the sofa and put my arm around her just like Helen would have. Mom rested her head on my shoulder, and it felt heavy there.

When the song ended, Danita's last note hung in the air for a moment. Mom brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. Dad began applauding, and the rest of us joined in.

Sister Das was smiling triumphantly. “Thank you, Danita,” she said. “Now can you see why the Beatles failed, Peter? They polluted our classical melodies with their Western words.”

Danita flashed a smile at us before escaping, taking some of the brightness and beauty out of the room with her.

I noticed that Eric had closed the bug book and was flipping through an Indian magazine about soccer that he'd managed to buy somewhere.
FOOTBALL!
it was called, and it was full of photos of Indian guys who looked like grown-up versions of my brother dashing around a soccer field.

“Tell us more about Danita, Sister Das,” Dad said. “Why does she have to get married?”

“The other nuns seem to think it's her only choice,” Sister Das answered. “But she wants to keep her sisters together, and I don't think she'll find a husband willing to take all three of them under his roof.”

“Can't she stay at the orphanage?” Mom asked.

“The board insists that girls who aren't adopted must leave by age eighteen. They must get married or find some outside work and living situation. If they don't marry, they usually become nuns or teachers. In most cases, I've been able to find either a good husband or a good job for our girls. But Danita's case is difficult, since she doesn't want to leave her sisters behind. That means she has to earn enough money to support them by the time she's eighteen or find a husband who will let them live with her. Both of those options are unlikely, I'm afraid.”

“Why can't she be a teacher?” Dad asked. “Or become a nun?”

“Teachers don't make enough money to support three people. And nuns take a vow of poverty, Peter.” The regal voice took on a note of severity. “Also, there is the aspect of God's call. Danita is a pious girl, and she sees a commitment to her sisters as her purpose in life.”

I pictured Danita's sweet face as she sang. Why did a girl like that have to be in such a trap?

“Is there any way out?” Mom asked, and the urgency I was feeling echoed in her voice. “What can we do to help?”

“Nothing, I'm afraid. Some of the other nuns think she should accept a marriage proposal as soon as she earns enough dowry and forget this crazy idea of keeping her family together. Others think she should become a teacher at a boarding school and visit her sisters on her day off.”

“Has she received a proposal already?” Dad asked.

“Not yet, but I fear one will come soon. A few of the local families are interested, even though she's an orphan and obviously from a lower caste. She's talented, intelligent, and a hard worker, as you know. One of our finest girls, actually.”

“What's this about caste?” I asked. “I thought that was ancient history.” I'd learned in my Hindi classes that Indian society used to be segregated into different levels, from the high-caste Brahmins to the low-caste untouchables. Since India's independence from the British, the government had established laws to get rid of the system.

“It might be against the law, but it's still in operation throughout the country, especially when it comes to marriage.”

“What makes you think Danita's from a lower caste?” Dad asked. “You don't know anything about her birth family, do you?”

“Mostly because of the way she looks. She has the dark skin, the small build, and the flat nose lower-caste people tend to have.” Sister Das sighed heavily. “How I wish we no longer needed to have a conversation like this!”

I looked sideways at Mom. Dark skin, small build, flat
nose
. What kind of system divided people up based on who their ancestors were? It seemed to narrow your whole life before you had a chance to widen it. And why was everybody planning Danita's future for her? Didn't she have any say about her own life?

“Danita's too young to get married!” I blurted out, standing up. “Why can't somebody adopt all three of them?”

Frustration must have resonated in my voice, because Dad, Mom, Sister Das, and Eric stared at me. Finally, Sister spoke. “I agree, Jasmine. She is young. But who is going to adopt a set of siblings, two of whom are teenagers already? Even if someone were willing to take the risk, the cost of supporting them is too much for most families.”

She was right. Mom and Dad certainly couldn't afford it. There was a silence, and I began pacing the room. Then Sister Das said: “There is one other slim possibility, but a lot depends on Danita's confidence in herself.” Suddenly, she stood up and blocked my path. “Maybe you were sent to help her, Jasmine.”

Here it was—my divine appointment according to Sister Das. Why in the world had I opened my mouth? “I'm not good at stuff like that,” I mumbled, sidling around her and sitting down again. “I won't be able to do anything to help.”