“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.
TWENTY-THREE
Ranee herded Us Upstairs, continuing to sound like the perfect tour guide. “In this room, we learn classical Hindi music and study Kathak. We also hold shows and large gatherings here.”
We were standing in the conservatory, a large room with wooden floors, full-length mirrors, and a bar along three walls. An old-fashioned upright piano stood in the corner, and a variety of Indian instruments were arranged on a platform beside it.
“What’s Kathak?” I asked.
“A type of Indian dance. Didi does it beautifully. She teaches the morning class for the little girls.”
Was there anything Danita couldn’t do? She could cook. She could sing. Now her sister was telling me she could dance and teach.
“Why don’t you join us, Jazz Didi?” Danita suggested.
“Me? Dance? Never. I’m too clumsy.”
“Actually, you have the perfect build for Kathak. It takes a lot of strength to do it well. Why don’t you give it a try?”
“I might come and watch sometime.”
We headed for the second floor to peep at the toddlers. They were gathered around four or five tot-sized tables eating rice pudding. Several nuns were fighting a losing battle to keep the children’s faces, hands, and clothes clean.
The sunny, airy baby room next door was lined with cribs and smelled of talcum powder. Four women sat cross-legged on a floor mat, chatting as they bottle-fed one baby after another. Their fingers flew when they stopped feeding to change diapers. Everywhere, babies squalled and kicked their feet in the air, demanding to be fed or changed or held.
I leaned over one of the quieter cribs. A little girl was sitting up, and almost without thinking, I reached over and stroked her head. She froze at my touch. The same instinct that had made me touch her helped me not to pull away. I waited, and slowly, she groped for my hand with both of her little ones. Then she began to rub her cheek slowly against my open palm, her face solemn and still.
Danita walked over. “You’ve found Maya, I see.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I whispered. “Why is she still in the baby room? She looks old enough to join the toddlers.”
“She’s blind,” Danita answered. “But that shouldn’t be holding her back. We don’t know the reason, but she’s been a bit slower to develop than the others.”
The baby took my hand and put it on her head again, as though she wanted me to stroke it one more time. I did, and this time she kept a tight hold on one of my fingers.
Danita smiled. “She’s usually shy with strangers, but she likes you, Jazz.”
“Does she? Why isn’t she smiling, then?”
“Maya never smiles. Auntie Das thinks that if somebody talked to her for an hour or so every day, she might develop more quickly. I only wish I had the time.”
I have the time, I thought suddenly. I could do that.
“Come, Jazz Didi,” Danita said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
One of the hardest things I’d ever done was to ease my finger out of that little girl’s grip. I couldn’t bring myself to look down as I pulled away. I’ll be back, I promised silently. Maya made no sound of protest, as though she was used to being left behind.
Ranee led us to the third floor. We peeked in at the empty dispensary and a few more classrooms. Then we entered the older girls’ dormitory, a large, airy room with ten cots and ten writing tables in rows along the wall.
Danita showed me where she and her sisters slept. “Auntie Das lets us keep our beds together.”
“I usually end up in Didi’s bed before the morning,” Ria said, giggling.
“So do I, sometimes,” Ranee confessed. “But only if I have a bad dream.”
Danita was standing beside a locked trunk at the foot of her bed, nervously fingering the key hanging on a chain around her neck. “Are you ready, Jazz Didi?” she asked me.
I nodded. In my excitement over seeing Asha Bari for the first time, I’d almost forgotten why I’d been invited. Danita handed her sister the key, and Ranee unlocked the trunk. It wasn’t tough to figure out that something momentous was about to occur. I could almost hear a drumroll.
“Close your eyes,” Danita ordered.
I obeyed, desperately hopi
ng I would have the right reaction to whatever I was about to see. All I could hear was rustling noises and a giggle or two from Ria.
“You can look now,” said Danita, after what felt like a long time.
I opened my eyes and caught my breath in surprise. Danita’s bed was swathed in swirls of silky colors, fabrics of different textures, and glittering patterns of gold and beadwork.
I walked slowly around the bed to get a closer look. Purple and blue flowers were embroidered in an intricate pattern across the white cotton of a T-shirt. Sheer purple and blue silk scarves had been twisted and braided in a tight band that could hold back somebody’s hair. There was a bright gold and green silk bag, hemmed with a straight, flat ribbon of beaded bronze. A navy blue belt was adorned with a design of gleaming round pieces of mirror and clusters of brilliant peacock feathers. Several embroidered and decorated shirts, skirts, bags, belts, and scarves completed the display.
I turned to Danita. “Who made these?”
Danita didn’t answer, but Ranee did. “Didi designed and sewed them herself,” she told me proudly. “You’re the first person who has seen the finished products, except for Ria and me. Oh, and Auntie Das, of course. Didi spent every spare hour designing, cutting, and sewing. Now her materials are gone.”
Ranee threw open the lid of the trunk. It was empty, except for a basket of scraps and a shoe box of sewing supplies.
“Where did you get the stuff in the first place, Danita?”
Danita was carefully studying my reaction. “A few months ago, Mrs. Pal, the Asha Bari graduate who owns a boutique in Mumbai, sent Auntie Das a barrel of their leftover samples—fabrics, beads, threads, needles, feathers, sequins, and mirrors. As soon as I saw them, I asked Auntie if I could have them. She let me use the orphanage’s sewing machine downstairs whenever it was free.”
I walked around the bed one more time, fingering the good-quality material and noticing the tiny, even stitches.
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