Monsoon Summer (12 page)

TWENTY-ONE

I rummaged through the drawer Until I found the magazine article about Mona. A junior high yearbook photo of myself gazed up at me. And I'd actually thought I was big then! But my physical appearance wasn't the only thing that had changed. Even though I'd grown a lot on the outside, I'd been shrinking on the inside.

Slowly and deliberately, I tore that horrible article in half. And then, enjoying what I was doing, I ripped it in half again. I kept tearing until the paper was in shreds. Then I crumpled them in my fist, tossed them into the trash, and marched into the kitchen.

Danita was standing at the stove, stirring what looked like a large pot of soup.

I cleared my throat. “Hi, Danita.” It was the first time I'd spoken to her in a week.

“Hello, Jazz Didi.”

“What are you making?”

“Lentils.”

“Oh. Can I help?”

“No, thank you. I'm almost finished, and the rice is already done.”

Come on, Jazz!
“Uhhh . . . Danita?”

“Yes?”

“Remember how you wanted to show me something at the orphanage?”

Danita stopped stirring and turned to face me. “Yes?”

“Well, I'd like to see it. Can I visit tomorrow after school?”

Danita was studying my expression. “Are you sure you want to, Jazz Didi? You seemed so hesitant when I asked you last time. I've been wondering if maybe I offended you in some way? If I did, I'm sorry.”

“No! You didn't offend me. Not at all!”

“They why have you been avoiding me, Jazz Didi? Surely I must have done something wrong. I don't know much about American customs, but I'd like to learn.”

“No, Danita. You didn't do anything. It's me—I'm the one who freaked out. It's just that I'm scared to visit the orphanage.”

Danita looked even more bewildered than ever. “Asha Bari? Why?”

“It's hard to explain,” I answered, looking away.

Danita was quiet. “You'll see for yourself what a wonderful place it is,” she said finally. “I'm glad you're coming, and so excited to hear your opinion about what I want to show you. I'll ask your parents if I can take the day off tomorrow. There should be plenty of leftovers from this dinner, anyway.”

The lentil soup suddenly rose high in the pot, bubbling furiously. Danita turned the flame down. I lunged for the spoon and stuck it in, stirring like a maniac. Miraculously the bubbles subsided to a low gurgle. It was easier to talk when my hands were busy and we weren't standing face to face, so I kept stirring. “I can't promise my advice will help,” I said to the soup. “I hope you're not disappointed.”

“I only want you to tell me the truth. That's what friends do, don't they?”

I nodded. She was right.

“Sit down and drink your tea,” Danita said. “I want you to tell me more about that business of yours.”

Once she started me talking, it was hard to stop. I described how Steve had trained the homeless people he'd hired, how patient he was with them, and how they trusted him completely. As I talked on, it dawned on me that Danita was trying hard not to smile.

“What?” I asked. “What's so funny?”

“You think quite highly of this boy, don't you, Jazz Didi?”

“Well, yes. He
is
my best friend, you know.”

“And in your country, a girl can marry her best friend. Can she not?”

My cheeks felt hot. “I suppose so. But Steve and I would never get married.”

“Why not? Your parents wouldn't object, would they?”

“Oh, no. They love Steve. It's just that . . .”

“Just what? He sounds like the perfect boy for you.”

“Oh, he is perfect. Absolutely. It's just that he could never like me in that way. Romantically, I mean.”

“Why not?”

I hesitated for a second, then decided to give Danita the same test I'd given Sonia, Lila, and Rini. Would Danita tell me the truth—that someone like Steve Morales was way out of my league?

“I'll be right back,” I told her. I dashed into my room and brought back Steve's photo.

Danita wiped her hands and took it, studying it carefully. “He looks very kind, Jazz Didi,” she said.

“He is. But can't you see the problem, Danita? Steve is so handsome. And intelligent.
And
kind.”

“So what?”

“So a girl has to match a boy she marries, doesn't she?”

Danita handed the photo back. “Not always. And why aren't the two of you a match, anyway? You are kind and intelligent also. Not to mention beautiful.”

There it was again. That description of me as beautiful. First Rini, then Sonia, and now Danita. I'd written off Sonia and Rini's words as part of their infatuation with all things American. But Danita certainly wasn't swayed by the “glamour” of America. Asha Bari kids were sheltered from that stuff; they had no access to American television, movies, or music.

“Why do you look so surprised?” Danita asked.

“It's just that nobody ever told me I was beautiful before,” I said. “At home, I'm just average. No, scratch that. I'm too big to be average.”

Danita stared at me. “What are you talking about, Jazz Didi? You have a lovely figure. You're tall, womanly, full of health and strength—those are signs of prosperity in India. You have fair skin, not dark like mine. That is highly prized here, because it usually means you come from a higher caste. And your nose is nicely shaped and prominent. You have big eyes with dark, full eyebrows. All in all, you
are
a beautiful girl, Jazz Didi. Certainly beautiful enough for this Steve fellow.”

The change in perspective was making my head spin. And Danita had brought up caste, too. I might have inherited low-caste genes from Mom, but the way I looked qualified me for high-caste treatment? I didn't get it.

Danita was grinning mischievously. “Cook some of my chicken masala for this Steve fellow,” she said. “I've been told it's a magic potion.”

I grinned back. “We won't have any potion ready for tonight unless we get it started.” Picking up a clove of garlic, I began mincing it expertly, as though I'd been cooking Indian food for years.

TWENTY-TWO

Sunlight poured over the City, making steam rise from the wet streets. It was the first time I'd seen the sun since we'd arrived in India. Even the monsoon seemed to be holding back to mark this day.

I was going to visit Asha Bari, my mother's first home.

I'd mentioned my visit casually the night before. “I'm stopping by Asha Bari after school tomorrow,” I said. “Danita wants to show me something.”

My family hadn't made a fuss. “That's good, Jazz” was all Mom had said, and Dad had smiled.

“Awesome!” Eric had said. “You'll finally get to meet my team.” I knew more names of bugs than Mom and Dad combined; only Helen and Frank could rival my knowledge of insect trivia. Now I probably was about to acquire another new vocabulary courtesy of my little brother.

I paused outside the white gates of the orphanage before pulling the chain hanging on the handle. A small door swung open, and I stepped onto the grounds of Asha Bari for the first time.

The orphanage was a three-story house with a flower garden in front, a vegetable garden on one side, and a big yard on the other. A narrow path wound through honeysuckle bushes, along tidy rows of vegetables, and around a grove of mango trees, taking me closer to the sounds of children playing. I stopped in the shade to take a peek before they saw me.

The sun shone brightly on the crowd of children gathered in the courtyard. Some were playing hopscotch. Others took turns mounting a rickety old bike and wobbling around the perimeter. Eric was kicking a soccer ball with about half a dozen boys, their voices shrill with excitement. Some girls were drawing a colored chalk pattern on the pavement.

Sister Das and a small girl held the ends of a skipping rope, chanting a rhyme while two other girls squealed and jumped. A few older boys and girls, including Danita, stood like sentries at scattered posts.

I focused on the children, the orphans I'd been so worried about seeing. Some of them were big-boned; some were wiry. Some had curly hair; others had hair that was straight and fine. There were more girls than boys; Sister Das had said that most healthy boy babies were usually adopted right away. One of the boys was blind, and another was in a wheelchair. But regardless of gender, shape, size, or ability, all the children were lost in delighted play. The courtyard was full of movement and color.

No wonder Mom wanted to Come back, I thought, drinking in the scene.
No wonder Danita said I'd see for myself
. I spied on the sunlit, joy-filled courtyard for a long time, feeling the knot of anxiety inside me unravel.

Finally, I left the mango grove. Silence spread like a wave but before I could get nervous, Eric ran over, a grin of welcome on his face. Danita was right behind him.

Sister Das handed the rope to her playmate and clapped sharply. “Children!” she called. “I am pleased to introduce Jasmine to you. My dear, we welcome you to Asha Bari, your mother's first home.”

Two of the jump ropers walked up shyly, carrying a garland of orange chrysanthemums. They stood before me, waiting expectantly.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked Eric, keeping my voice low.

“I have no idea,” he answered loudly.

“It's a traditional greeting of honor,” whispered another voice. “We made it when Didi said you were coming. Bow your head and let them put it on.”

The command came from a girl of about thirteen wearing glasses and a yellow dress. I bent my head, and the little girls placed the garland carefully around my neck.

“Now take it off,” came the next whispered piece of advice. “To show humility. More tradition.”

I took the garland off and handed it back to the little girls, who dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“Thank you, children,” said Sister Das, glancing at her watch. “I know you're glad to see the sun after so much rain, but we have work to do also. Ten more minutes of play until afternoon chores.”

The children flashed white teeth in bright smiles and ran off. Eric was dragged away by a cadre of his soccer fans.

“I'll come and watch later, Eric,” I promised, and he beamed.

“Danita and her sisters will give you a tour, Jasmine,” Sister Das said. “I'm sorry I can't join you, but I'm supposed to meet with your father. He's doing too good a job— Sister Agnes stayed up late last night playing computer games.”

Danita led me into the building through a back entrance, and two younger girls followed us closely. One was the girl with glasses who had whispered in my ear. The other was a smaller version of Danita—same high cheekbones, same tight coil of hair, same big, sparkling eyes.

“These are my sisters, Ranee and Ria,” said Danita.

“Welcome,” said Ranee. “Auntie Das often asks me to take visitors around the orphanage.”

“Because her English is so much better than everybody else's,” explained Danita.

“It does sound perfect,” I said truthfully.

Ria, Danita's youngest sister, slipped a hand into mine, and we began the tour.

“To the right is the kitchen, where our food is prepared. Good hygiene is carefully maintained,” announced Ranee, sounding exactly like a professional guide. Danita and I exchanged secret smiles.

Ranee led us next to an office, where desks were overflowing with stacks of paperwork. Pictures of smiling Indian children with their adoptive parents lined the walls. Some of the older parents' faces were white, but most of the newer photos were all of Indians—babies and adoptive parents.

“Is it easy to adopt a child from Asha Bari?” I asked Danita, suddenly curious about how Helen and Frank had managed to get Mom.

Before Danita could answer, Ranee piped up. “Indian families adopt some of the baby boys and some of the baby girls. Babies who aren't adopted by age three are sometimes sent overseas. By then, the orphanage is sure that nobody nearby wants them. Sibling sets of girls like us and disabled children are the hardest to place.” She sounded as if she was reciting something she'd heard a grown-up explain dozens of times.

In one corner, Dad and a tiny, white-haired sister were playing an early version of Pac-Man, a computer game that was as ancient as the nun herself.

I couldn't help teasing him. “Working hard, Dad?”

He grinned. “Doing my thing, Jazz. Just like we talked about. Look out, Sister Agnes!”

Sister Das came in, shaking her head. “Peter, for goodness' sake, don't encourage her. She's gone from being a computer hater to a computer addict. Come to my office and help me make sense of this spreadsheet, will you?”

As Dad followed Sister Das, I turned to Ranee. I'd seen Eric in action, and Dad. Now all that was left was to see what my mother was up to. The clinic was supposed to open by the middle of July, and she'd been busy the last few days getting ready. “Could we see my mother next?” I asked. I'd avoided visiting the refugee center back in Berkeley, but I was suddenly curious to see what Mom was doing here.

Ranee led the way downstairs, and the three of us followed her. The basement was dark, but one bright rectangle had been carved into the far wall as a door to the outside world.

Sloping down from the edge of that wall was a crowded village of shacks made of mud, corrugated cardboard, tin, and paper. Children played near a pile of garbage. A bony dog covered with sores nosed around them, looking for scraps. A woman walked by, balancing a jar of water on her head.

So this was the neighborhood Mom had been visiting every day. These were the women and children she wanted to bring into the clinic. And this was the open door they'd walk through to get nourishment for themselves, medicine for their children, a clean place to deliver their babies.

Searching the dark room, I finally spotted Mom. She and a couple of nuns were sitting in a corner, stuffing containers with cotton balls, aspirin, bandages, and other medical supplies. The familiar rush of pride filled me as I walked over to her. There was nobody in the world like my mother.

Mom looked up and a smile lit her tired face. “Hi, darling,” she said, standing up to hug me. “I'm so glad you're here. Now Asha Bari really feels like home again.”

I smiled back. “It's a good place, Mom. I can see why you wanted to come back.”

Mom turned to Danita and her sisters. “Well, girls, what do you think of our clinic now? You haven't been down here in a while.”

“It's lovely, Auntie,” Danita said, and her sisters nodded solemnly in agreement.

“It looks like you're ready for opening day,” I said. “But why is it so dark?”

“We'll turn the lights on when the doctors and nurses are here. We've told the women that the clinic's routine care is only available when the lights are on. That way we can keep the door open for emergencies and leave it nice and dim in here.”

One of the nuns smiled at me as she filled a big bottle with antiseptic cream. “We've wanted to cut a door in this wall for years, but we were always afraid a crowd would come pouring in. Now your mother's made us do it, and we're praying that a crowd
does
come pouring in.”

“Not just any crowd,” Mom added. “The pregnant women. Here, girls. Listen to this.”

She flipped a switch, and loud, lilting music filled the room. Instantly, a group of curious children gathered outside the door. “I'm also using their favorite music to draw them in,” she explained. “Bollywood film songs.”

Mom waved at the children before turning the music off. “Tell your mothers to come when the music plays,” she called in Hindi.

She showed us the adjoining kitchen, where the meals would be prepared and served. We wandered through the tiny examination and delivery rooms. The grant had been generous. Everything was spotless; the medical equipment and furniture was simple but new, and bright paintings adorned every wall.

“Asha Bari children painted those,” Ria told me shyly. “Auntie Sarah asked for something to cheer the children up when they come in with their mothers. This one's mine.”

She was pointing to a painting of three ladies in sarees. They were holding hands. A bright yellow sun shone over their heads. The tallest and shortest ladies wore their hair in buns.

I studied it for a minute. “Is that you?” I asked. “With your sisters?”

Ria nodded, delighted by my guess. “Yes! That is the three of us when we grow old.”

Danita lingered in front of her sister's painting. I would have bet anything that she was reminding herself of her own family code—the same one as ours: Family Sticks Together, no matter what.