Naniji sees me staring and smiles. It’s so genuine that I smile back spontaneously. Somehow, I can’t help it. Anyway, what does it hurt?
CHAPTER 16
Back in my room, I pace up and down, oddly unsettled.
Dad should have been clearer about it—no wonder Mom gets mad at him for being vague, for not talking. But, then, she’s always dumping on India. But if Naniji was scornful of … it’s so convoluted. And stupid. I mean, get over it!
But I held it together today. Me. Whaddya know! Except I’ll have to talk to her now. The assignment’s due Thursday.
I sigh and start my math homework—pages and pages—then take out my English folder and finish my analysis on a poem by Robert Frost. Slowly, I flip back to my biography on Jeff. I got an A for it.
The look in his eyes when he said Hope you had fun. Bye, Tara. Sort of sad, and angry and—I guess I can admit it now—hurt.
Erin and I talked about it over the samosas, and she said that I should definitely try and talk to him. But what if he’s still mad at me?
I pull open my top drawer. There it is, the piece of paper with his phone number. My heart thuds. I could call him, remind him about the history assignment. Then what? I’m sorry, Jeff, that you were uncomfortable; I just didn’t think? Or Hey, what’s up? Want to hang out this weekend?
I fold the bit of paper over and over. He probably doesn’t even like me—I mean, Erin’s my friend, she’s biased.
I put back the piece of paper and bang the drawer shut. Tomorrow. I have English, so I’ll see him for sure, if he’s in school. A small voice inside whispers chicken, but I squash it. Hey, Erin and I are okay again, and I’ve reached a precarious truce with Naniji—that’s enough for one day. I take out my violin and tuck it under my chin. The solidness is so familiar. Reassuring. I draw the bow across the strings, and it’s like the violin’s a part of me, just pulling, pulling out music. I play until that hard, edgy feeling goes down.
As Erin and I walk to school together the next morning, she asks, casually, “So—you going to talk to Jeff today?”
I shrug. “I guess, maybe.…”
Erin grins. “It’s going to be fine, Tara.”
I’m trying to keep my dignity, really I am, but before I can stop myself, I’m moaning, “What if he’s still mad at me?” I can’t believe how whiny I sound.
“Aww! Come here!” Erin puts her arm around me.
At school, Erin and I hang around the lockers and watch out for Jeff, but there’s no sign of him. Finally, the bell goes, and I have to get to math. Nadia joins me as I head to class, and on the way we see Guy talking to Tolly. He’s asking loudly if there’s a limit to how long he can make the history assignment. “I’ve got a lot of great stuff, Mr. Toller,” he says importantly.
Nadia and I poke our fingers in our mouths and make gagging sounds. Tolly, of course, looks all pleased—hey, you can’t lay it on thick enough for him. Naniji’s face flashes in my head, that look of determination. I’ll have to talk to her today. Tolly will love it—a nice display of exotica. I’ll probably get an A triple plus!
English is last period. When I get there I look around the classroom. But no Jeff. Maybe he isn’t even in school today. I sit near the back, with a couple of empty desks nearby.
Then Ms. Gelder comes in and everyone settles down. Poetry again, for God’s sake.
The door creaks open. Jeff.
He glances in my direction, at the empty desk next to me.
I try to smile, but my mouth won’t work. By the time I make it, he’s turned towards the other empty desk, across the room from me, and I’m smiling like a dummy at the air.
Fine. Who cares? I keep my smile pasted on and act like I’m riveted by Ms. Gelder. I don’t hear a word she’s saying. From the corner of my left eye, I can see Jeff’s blue sweater—staining my vision, spreading. I won’t look at him, I won’t!
Ms. Gelder’s talking about an American poet, Edwin Markham. My ears buzz. It’s so dumb, the way teachers tell you what a poem is supposed to mean, as though they can see inside the poet’s head.
The blue at the corner of my eye shifts. Jeff’s tapping his eraser on the desk.
Ms. Gelder’s saying something about an epigram called “Outwitted” as she strides up and down between the desks. I miss the page number, fumble at my book. When Ms. Gelder reaches me, she turns my book to the right page and quirks an eyebrow. “Distracted, are we?”
Blood rushes to my face. I haven’t taken my eyes off her, I really haven’t.
The blue at the corner of my eye sits back.
Listen, just listen, I tell myself fiercely.
Ms. Gelder begins to recite: “‘… a circle that shut me out…’”
I look down, read:
“He drew a circle that shut me out—
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.”
Edwin Markham, 1852–1940. I read the lines over and over.
“Tara, are you with us?” asks Ms. Gelder.
My face burns. “Sorry, I … I was just looking at the poem and…”
Ms. Gelder’s face actually lights up.
“Go on.”
Jeez, why is she drawing attention to me? I hate speaking out in class. But she’s waiting, all eager.
I take in a deep breath and blurt out, “I … I was thinking about how artificial it all is, you know, lines and groups and all that … that classifying.” Great, way to be articulate, Tara.
Ms. Gelder nods intently. “Go on.”
Stop it, Tara—show him, show her I’m capable of thinking. I’m surprised at how the words rush out. “Well, I don’t like to be told I’m part of this group, or that. It’s like everyone’s always drawing circles and lines, but no one has the right. I’m me. And everyone’s an individual. A group of one.”
There’s an explosion of voices. “Yeah, right on,” and, “You got it!”
But someone calls out, “Isn’t that kinda lonely?”
Kate says something about family, and Lynne cries, “What about community? Belonging?”
I’d like to shrink and disappear. But Ms. Gelder is thrilled that we’re actually discussing a poem. She says something about how that’s the whole point of the poem, to expand our notion of community. Then Jessie says something about how we need to define, to understand the world, how it’s only natural. There’s a big argument going on. I turn to look at Jessie, then glance quickly at Jeff. He’s looking at me.
I flush and turn away. Jeez, I shouldn’t have done that. I look at him again, but his eyes are down on his book, his face stiff.
Ms. Gelder tries to get us to elaborate, but I don’t hear a word anyone says. The blue at the corner of my eye, a thing to flout. Out. He’s white, I’m not. I bite my lip. What the hell made me think that?
Then the bell goes and there’s the scraping of chairs. Okay, now’s my chance. My hands tremble, but I slap on a friendly smile and turn towards Jeff.
He’s on his way out. Jessie runs up to him and tugs his sleeve, and they leave together, heads close. Blood rushes to my face. But I keep my grin on as I go down the hallway. I catch glimpses of Jeff and Jessie ahead—they both stop by his locker. I hum lightly as I pass them.
Erin has band. Not that there’s anything particular to tell her.
I give myself a good harsh talking-to as I walk home. Don’t be so dumb, Tara. Good thing I didn’t call last night. He’s fine with things the way they are. Just fine. And I am, too. She’s white, Jessie. Hey, all them honkies like to stick together, don’t they? Okay, so that’s really crappy and unfair. But next time I see him I won’t even look at him. Not that I’m avoiding him or anything; I’ll just say hi, like I would to anyone else, be casual. I mean, he’s new here, and all he wanted was a friend. We were never anything more than that, anyway.
CHAPTER 17
I fumble for my keys and let myself in.
Qui
et in here—Mom must be working at the shelter again. Sure is spending a lot of time there. Away from Naniji.
Nina’s in the family room with a few friends, watching a video, and Maya’s hanging out with them. I wave. Maya comes running to hug me, then rushes back to her movie. I just want to escape to my room, but Naniji comes from the kitchen and says, “Hello, Tara.”
I smile awkwardly. “Hi, Naniji.” I think it’s the first time I’ve called her that.
“Your mummyji is still at work. I’m putting together dinner. Do you want a snack?”
I want to go to my room, I need to, but I did that before to get away from her—she’ll get the wrong idea. And she’s looking so … all by herself.
I take a deep breath. “Well, okay, sure.” I drop my bag and follow her into the kitchen.
Carrots, celery, and a white dip. Oh. No Indian stuff.
Naniji says, anxiously, “I hope this is all right?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s fine.” I stick a carrot into the dip and crunch. “Mm. It’s good. What is it?”
Naniji beams. “Yogurt. I thought maybe it’s good to have something not fried today, no?”
Jeez, shades of Mom.
“Sit. Sit. I’m just chopping some eggplant for the bhaji for dinner.”
This feels so weird. I glance towards the family room—I wish Nina and her friends were here, it’d be easier. Slowly, I pull the chair back and sit down. I pick up a stick of celery.
Naniji looks at me eagerly and goes back to slicing the eggplant. “I thought I’d have it all ready, but your daddyji took some time off around lunch. We ate at a restaurant on the canal and went for a walk. It ended up being longer than I expected, then I lay down for a bit and lost track of time.”
I smile and crunch the celery.
“So, you see, I’m a little late,” continues Naniji.
And I do see. I see that anxious look in her eyes and how hard she’s trying, and she’s so small. I remember everything she said yesterday, demonstrations, wearing homespun—and the way I treated her. She’s come all this way, and, okay, I don’t like that she scorned Mom or Gabby and Gampy, and I don’t want her calling the shots, I’ve made that clear, but still she’s trying.
I get up abruptly. “Why don’t I help, Naniji? I often cut things for Mom.”
Her delight spears me.
I swallow, flash a smile, and reach for the other chopping board. “What d’you want me to do?”
“Maybe peel some garlic? Four or five cloves?”
“Sure.”
For a moment we work in silence, though it isn’t entirely awkward. It’s good to have something to do, it keeps my mind off—stop it, Tara, he isn’t even here, and Naniji is. I rub the papery skin off the garlic and search for something to talk about.
Then I remember. “Say, Naniji, can you tell me about your part in the Independence struggle? You know, for my history assignment?”
I can sense her relief, too, that there’s some safe ground. “Of course.”
I’ve finished peeling the garlic. “Is there anything else you want me to do?”
“Cut some ginger, maybe? About an inch. And can you chop it fine, with the garlic? I’ll start this.”
She turns the burner on and pours some canola oil into the frying pan.
I get the ginger from the fridge, break off a piece, and hold it up to her. She nods.
“Now, what do you want me to tell you?”
“I don’t know. I guess, well—what kinds of things did you do? You said something about your fourteenth birthday.”
She looks quickly at me, then away. “Yes. It was the day the arrests started. August 9, 1942. The beginning of the Quit India movement.”
I frown. “Nineteen forty-two? That’s when the Independence movement began?”
“Oh no, no, no. It had been going on for years and years, from even the middle of the 1800s and then really strongly from 1919—that was after a terrible massacre of Indians by the British in Amritsar.” A pause. “You haven’t heard about that?”
I shake my head.
Naniji grunts.
Oh, great. Is she going to get all bent out of shape?
She sees my face and says hastily, “Well, I won’t go into that now. There were many struggles, many, but the time I got involved, that was ’42. The Quit India movement. Gandhiji, all the leaders, issued a statement calling for the British to quit India, immediately.”
“So you weren’t involved before?” Somehow I’d seen it as an ongoing thing. I start to chop the ginger and garlic.
Naniji shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to what was going on. You see, until then, even though my parents were involved, they didn’t actually court arrest like Tilak’s father. My father was a doctor, and his patients needed him. Also, he was the only breadwinner, and we didn’t have money like Tilak’s family.”
“Court arrest?” I stop cutting.
Naniji throws some black-mustard seed into the frying pan, covers it as the seeds pop, and turns off the burner. “It’s what the Satyagrahis did, you know, the freedom fighters—deliberately.”
She takes two onions from the basket and starts to peel one. “But my parents supported the cause, too—they were close to Tilak’s mother and father, and through them they gave money to families of jailed protestors. Secretly, of course.”
“Secretly?”
“Oh yes, you had to—you could be arrested just for that.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s true. That’s how bad it was.”
I give the ginger and garlic one last going-over with my knife and take one of the onions from her.
Naniji continues, “But me, well, I suppose I was caught up in my own little life. I was so naïve, so naïve. And frivolous, too, I think.”
Frivolous? Naniji?
She smiles. “No, really. I was.”
“What happened?” I start to peel the onion.
Naniji says grimly, “My fourteenth birthday.”
Fourteen. It’s just one year younger than I am, two years older than Nina.
Naniji’s eyes narrow. “You see, until then, I just accepted it without really thinking—you know, the … the values.” She blinks rapidly. “How everything British was white and right and our culture just rubbish. It happens when you’re constantly put down and it’s rubbed into you.”
I frown and cut my onion in two. If I’d experienced more Samanthas …
“You know, there were clubs Indians couldn’t join, and it was all to do with color, nothing else. Even if you were educated in England, lived like them, talked like them, you still couldn’t join, because you weren’t white. Black, they called us. All Indians were simply black. They were so arrogant, the British, they never looked at us, but through us, like we were worthless. Even in the school I went to—it was the best English one, for Indians. The whites had their own, of course.” She sniffs as her eyes start to water.
I slice the onion slowly.
“I used to get so irritated with my parents, because they were strict about keeping things Indian at home.”
“Yeah? Like what?” I can’t see Naniji as a teenager bugged by her parents.
“Well…” She frowns, then laughs suddenly. “Like nail polish. I used to beg and beg my mother to let me use it, but she never would. I thought it was so, I don’t know, sophisticated. Unlike the mehndi—you know, henna that’s used to make patterns on the hand? I thought everything Indian was so boring and only western ways were glamorous.”
“Hey, and mehndi is real cool here now!” I grin at her. “What else?”
“Oh, we’d sit on the floor to eat, use metal thalis—plates—and eat with our hands. And speak Hindi at home.”
Mom and the cutlery flashes in my head.
“And I, well, I was uncomfortable. I’d always reply in English. The only time I spoke Hindi was to the servants who didn’t speak English. You see, if my parents hadn’t insisted, I wouldn’t h
ave known anything about being Indian. At school the only history we learned was their version of it, the wonderful progress they’d brought to India.” Her lip curls into a sneer.
“So why did your parents send you there?” I start to cut the onion across.
“You had to know English to get anywhere—they controlled everything. Besides”—Naniji raises a finger—“if you want to defeat your enemy, you need to learn to think like them.”
I laugh out loud.
“But those teachers, they made us feel like everything Indian was … was…” Naniji searches for the right word, then continues, “… backwards, primitive. Inferior.”
Native. I remember how she said it.
I ask quietly, “Did you feel inferior?”
Naniji flushes. “Yes … I suppose so. But I didn’t know it then. Or how unjust the system was. Until the arrests.” Her jaw tightens. “I remember, the day before my birthday, Arjun and Tilak, they were whispering on the veranda. It was terribly hot. I remember how they stopped talking when I went by. I poked my tongue out at my brother—I thought it was so boring, how serious he was, and Tilak, too. He was seventeen at the time, and I didn’t like him at all. Then, that evening, at dinner, Arjun told us what he’d heard from Tilak. Our leaders were issuing a statement calling on Britain to Quit India. Immediately. I’ll never forget it. It was like an electric jolt went through the room. Everyone stopped eating. There was just the sound of the ceiling fan whirring. Those words, Quit India, so sharp, so decisive.” She draws in a deep breath. “Then I, I piped up, Ma, what about my birthday?”
Naniji’s eyes are faraway. Suddenly, she says loudly, “Karengae ya marengae.”
I jump.
Naniji turns to me, and it’s like her eyes come back. “Do or Die. That was the slogan. We will do or die to get the British to leave; do or die for our freedom.”
I take a deep breath.
“Hello, I’m home.”
I swing around. Mom’s standing at the doorway. I didn’t even hear her come in.
CHAPTER 18
Mom says lightly, “This looks cozy.”
A Group of One Page 9