Danita was waiting, twisting her hands. “Well, Jazz Didi? Do you think that anybody might want to buy these things? Auntie says she thinks they will. Do you think I could start a business, like you did?”
I hesitated, but only for a second. This stuff was beautiful. “With products like these, Danita, you’d be crazy not to go for it,” I said, trying to make my voice ring with authority like Sister Das’s.
TWENTY—FOUR
We lingered around the table that night, enjoying the sweet rice pudding Danita had left in the fridge the day before. She hadn’t come to work because of my visit to the orphanage, but she’d left plenty for us to eat. I took another sip of the bitter tea Mom had made, keeping my face expressionless, but Mom sighed.
“Nobody makes tea like Danita,” she said. “I’ve got to learn how before we leave.”
“You have to add the leaves just as the water begins to boil, Mom,” I told her. “And then turn the gas down. It’s also much better when you heat the milk before you mix it in.”
Mom raised her eyebrows. “Maybe I don’t need to learn. You can be the family tea maker, Jazz.”
I grinned. “I think I can handle more than tea. How about lamb vindaloo, chicken masala, lentil soup, fried eggplant, and pooris ? By the end of the summer, I’ll have those down for sure. And I already know how to make a spicy Indian omelet.”
Now everybody in my family was looking at me in surprise. “So that’s what you’ve been doing after school,” Dad said.
“Danita’s a jewel,” said Mom. “I’m glad you’ve been spending time with her, Jazz.”
“Which reminds me,” I said. It was time for my big announcement, and I was counting on my family to respond the right way. “I’ve decided to spend even more time with Danita. I want to go to Asha Bari for the rest of the summer instead of the academy. That is, if it’s okay with you.”
“Yes!” Eric yelled. “I knew you’d change your mind, Jazz. You can be my assistant coach.”
“I’ll come watch your games,” I said. “But Danita and I are going to be busy.”
“With what?” Mom asked.
“She’s trying to start a business, and needs a little help.”
“How much longer till summer quarter’s over?” Dad asked. “Don’t you think you should finish what you started?”
“You mean monsoon term,” I corrected. “It’s over at the end of August. I’m not learning that much anyway, Dad. I just memorize stuff for tests and then forget it completely the next day. Don’t you think I’d get more out of a summer in India at Asha Bari? Look at it this way: I’ll have experienced both the academy and the orphanage if I switch now.”
Dad was still not sure. “Gardners aren’t quitters, Jazz,” he said.
“No,” I answered. “But Gardners know when they make a bad choice, and they try and fix it.”
He smiled, and I knew I’d scored a point. “Was it expensive to enroll me?” I asked. I’d never even thought about the money somebody must have paid for my tuition.
“I don’t think so,” Dad said. “Sister Das worked out the details. I think the school waived your fee as a favor to her. Okay, Jazz. You’ve convinced me. You can start at the orphanage if your mother agrees.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mom said, keeping her voice casual. I could tell she was trying not to show how delighted she was. “The academy’s just extra school for you, really. I’m sure Mrs. Joshi will understand. And Sister Das will be thrilled.”
“I’ll tell Mrs. Joshi tomorrow,” I said, grateful that they weren’t asking any uncomfortable questions about why I’d changed my mind.
“Do you want me to come with you, darling?” Mom asked.
“No, thanks. You’re busy, Mom. I can handle it on my own. I’ll spend the mornings at the orphanage, then, starting day after tomorrow.”
“I’m so glad, Jazz,” Mom said. “That’s the clinic’s opening day, and I’ll need all the moral support I can get.”
“No problem at all,” Mrs. Joshi said when I told her. “I may send Rini there to volunteer. Sister Das has an excellent reputation for running the cleanest, most efficient orphanage in the whole state of Maharashtra, if not in West India. All of Pune is quite proud of her accomplishments.”
I was glad she wasn’t upset, but Sonia, Lila, and Rini’s reaction was much more dramatic.
“How can you leave us now, Jazz?” Rini wailed. “Arun will be so disappointed.”
“He’s asked about you constantly since that afternoon at the club,” Lila added.
“I told him you’re saving yourself for that boyfriend of yours in America,” said Sonia, nodding knowingly.
I smiled. I would certainly miss their blind confidence that Steve was passionately in love with me. Even though I was leaving the academy, I’d have to see the three of them again before I went back to Berkeley. For all their fluff and fantasy, they’d made me feel welcome, special, interesting. Most Indians were like that, I realized. Hospitality was a central part of the culture—everybody seemed to know how to practice it, even the smallest children at the orphanage. I promised myself that when new kids started at Berkeley High this fall, I’d do my best to make them feel at home. After all, I was half Indian, wasn’t I?
“I’ll call you before the summer’s over, I promise,” I said. “Oops—I mean ring you up before the monsoon leaves.”
“Please do,” Sonia said, and the other two girls added their wide smiles.
I left after tiffin, and Mrs. Joshi even allowed Sonia, Rini, and Lila to walk me to my auto-rickshaw. I pulled the regulation four blue ribbons out of my hair, handed one to each of them, and kept one for myself. I used it to wave good-bye as the auto-rickshaw drove me away from the academy for the last time.
When I got back to the apartment, I stripped out of my uniform and stuffed it in the bottom of my closet. Then I slipped into a pair of comfy, faded jeans. No more starched, ironed, tight-fitting clothing!
I could hardly wait to tell Danita about my decision, but I’d come home early and she wasn’t back from shopping yet. I still had some time to kill. I thought about my promise to write another letter to Steve. Not that I hadn’t tried, of course. I’d written plenty of letters. I just hadn’t mailed them. I’d even stopped crossing out words and crumpling up my foiled attempts. Once a letter started running amok and getting mushy, I’d keep writing anyway. Then I’d stash it away in my drawer. The pile of “no-sends” was growing, and for some reason I didn’t want to throw them away. They’d become the only place I could express my true feelings.
I grabbed a blank piece of paper and started writing. I was saving Helen’s stationery for my final drafts.
Dear Steve,
I had a great time at the orphanage. Mom and Danita were right—it is a happy place. Here’s my big news: I decided to pull out of school and join my family there for the rest of the summer. Danita has a great idea for her own small business. I’d like to help her if I Can. Thanks for encouraging me to try.
I wish you could see the orphanage. I think you’d fit right in. The kids are great, especially this one blind baby named Maya. She’s beautiful, but Danita told me she never smiles. I know you’d be able to get her to. You’re so good with little kids. It makes me think about how great a dad you’re going to be.
I stopped. This letter, like so many others before it, had passed the point of no return, and I didn’t have time now to finish a “no-send” version. I simply had to mail a letter to Steve before our next conversation. So on a fresh piece of scented stationery, I copied the first paragraph, which seemed safe, and replaced the second with: I wish you could see the orphanage. I’ll write more soon and tell you about it. Love, Jazz. It was short and impersonal, but there was nothing romantic about it except the smell of lavender.
As I sealed the purple envelope, I heard Danita opening the door to the apartment. I bounded out to follow her into the kitchen. “Guess what?” I said.
“What?” she answered, pil
ing bags of groceries on the counter.
“I quit school.”
Her eyes opened wide. “You did? Did your parents agree?”
“Of course. Mom and Dad think it’s great. I want to be at Asha Bari in the mornings. I thought maybe I could carry Maya around for an hour or so. Then you and I could map out your business plans.”
Danita leaned against the counter, looking dazed. “I can’t let you make a sacrifice like that for me, Jazz Didi. A good education is the most important thing in the world.”
“Sacrifice? What sacrifice? I’m tired of memorizing formulas and sonnets during my summer vacation. Working with you is going to be much more educational, anyway.”
Danita was silent, and I held my breath. Then, slowly, she smiled, and so did I.
“Will you help me prepare dinner?” she asked. “Once we get it ready, we can start talking about how to set prices.”
I chopped tomatoes, ginger, and onions, and watched carefully as Danita peeled and deveined some shrimp. I took mental notes as she measured and mixed spices, yogurt, and vinegar. When the shrimp was simmering on the stove, we put cauliflower and potatoes on to boil in another pot.
“We’ve got about an hour before everybody gets home,” I said. “First things first. What was the name of that lady you said sent you the materials from her shop in Mumbai?”
“Banu Pal?”
“That was it. Why don’t you ask her to carry a line of your clothing at her shop? I’m sure she’d love to help you.”
Danita hesitated. “Auntie also wanted me to ask Banu Pal this favor. But I can’t, Jazz Didi. Her shop carries the finest of clothing and accessories. What if she felt forced to accept my things out of charity? I can’t base my whole future on one woman’s generosity. Could you?”
I studied her face for a minute before nodding. “No, I couldn’t. Okay, we’ll just move ahead and worry about marketing your stuff later. Let’s list the items you’ve designed and figure out how much each one costs to make. Then we can talk prices.”
Danita was shocked by the markups I suggested. “But that’s too expensive! Indians aren’t as rich as Americans, Jazz.”
“I don’t know about that. Steve and I learned about marketing in the seminar we took. I think your only hope is to position your products as exclusive, handmade accessories for wealthy people. I’m sure the girls at the academy would be willing to pay these prices.”
“How will people like that even see my products?” Danita asked, shaking her head doubtfully.
“We’ll worry about that when the time comes,” I said. “Maybe we should head down the hill and visit one of those expensive ladies’ boutiques. That way we can get a sense of how much stuff costs in the real world.”
“They’ll never let us wander around those shops without buying anything.”
I stood up. “We are going to buy something. I can’t visit Asha Bari wearing jeans. I need to get a couple of those salwar kameez. You can help me pick them out.”
“Now, that sounds like fun,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been imagining how lovely you’d look in a salwar ever since I first saw you. Let me turn off the gas. The flavors taste better when they sit for a while, anyway.” Leaving the curry steaming fragrantly on the counter, we headed downhill.
TWENTY-FIVE
Late afternoon was a busy time in India. People were coming home from work, greeting friends, and browsing in the shops. Trying to ignore the eyes that zeroed in on me, I led Danita into a boutique on the corner. I pulled out my notebook and began scribbling down prices of accessories and outfits. Danita wandered through the racks searching for a salwar kameez for me to try on.
A saleslady walked over. “May I help you?” she asked me in perfect English.
“Er . . . yes. I’d like to try on a few salwar kameez, please.”
“Ah, yes! Of course! It would be delightful to see a lovely girl like you wearing one of our exquisite salwars. I’ll hand your servant a few choices if you want to wait in the dressing room.”
“My friend has found some already,” I said, emphasizing the word so the saleslady would get our relationship straight. This was just what had happened when I’d gone shopping with Mom—people thought I was from a family like the Seths, towing along my low-caste servant. Why was everybody making the same mistake?
As Danita handed me the outfits she’d picked out, one blue-green and one purple, I studied her face, trying to see her through the saleslady’s eyes instead of mine. Maybe it was skin color again, or that uncanny sense of caste a lot of Indians seemed to have. But Danita was beautiful, with even, flawless features and dark, almost ebony skin. Her cheekbones jutted out like a model’s. Couldn’t Indians see that? The world was so unfair—at East Bay High, Danita would rank as one of the most beautiful girls around. Here, people thought she looked like a servant.
The woman led me to a dressing room, and she and Danita waited outside. Stepping into the baggy purple trousers, which were as comfortable as sweatpants, I tied the strings tightly around my waist. The long, flowing dress slipped easily over my head, and I fastened the two small buttons at the back of my neck quickly.
“Come out and let me see, dear,” the saleslady called.
Feeling incredibly self-conscious, I emerged, holding the scarf in my hand. I had no idea how it attached to the outfit.
“Oh, Jazz!” Danita said. “You look stunning.”
The woman smiled. “Absolutely ravishing.” She arranged the scarf for me, draping it carefully over my left shoulder.
I turned to face the mirror. A tall girl with shoulder-length hair stared back at me. She was wearing a purple salwar kameez covered with small, starry flowers.
I blinked. For a second, in the graceful, flowing lines of the Indian outfit, this girl looked elegant. Almost regal, in fact. For the first time in my life, I saw myself through Indian eyes, and I actually liked what I saw.
I decided to wear the purple salwar kameez home. As we walked up the hill, I made myself meet the eyes of the people who passed us. Sure enough, they were staring. This time, though, I saw something new in their eyes. Something I hadn’t noticed before.
“I have a question, Danita,” I said when nobody was close enough to overhear.
Danita smiled. “That’s good, Jazz. I’ve asked you a thousand questions already. It’s your turn.”
“Why do Indian people stare at me?”
She turned to me, her eyes round with surprise, as though I’d asked the easiest question in the world. “I told you already, Jazz. You are a big, strong, beautiful girl. They are admiring you.”
Danita’s words rang with truth. She was right! I did look big, strong, and beautiful in my regal, flowing salwar kameez, and that was admiration I’d seen in their eyes. I straightened my shoulders and let myself enjoy being inside my body for the first time in what felt like years.
As we kept walking, though, I realized that nobody even glanced at Danita, just as they didn’t pay much attention to Mom. The world was so unfair. If only I could offer Danita some of my height and strength, or even the lighter color of my skin, her life here would be a lot easier.
Danita had gone back to thinking about her business. “That woman’s products looked so finished,” she said. “Aren’t my designs a bit unprofessional?”
I stopped fuming over a world where a beautiful woman in one country could be overlooked completely in another. “There was some good stuff in there,” I admitted. “But I think your designs are much more interesting. Fresh and original.”
“Her prices were a bit high, don’t you think?”
“I think they were just about right. Didn’t you see those women spending money in there?”
Danita nodded. “Banu Pal’s boutique in Mumbai is even more successful than that one.”
“And yours will be, too. Someday these shops will be displaying your designs in their windows.”
“I wish I could be as confident as you are, Jazz Didi,” Danita said wistfully. �
�Sometimes this whole idea seems like a foolish dream.”
“Every good business starts with a dream, Danita. We’ve got a feel for what prices are like. Now we have to estimate your start-up costs.”
Danita sighed. “That’s the bigger problem. I’ll need money for sewing machines and materials, advertising and brochures. It takes money to make money.”
“That’s true,” I said, impressed that Danita had obviously given her business a lot of thought. “But it all starts with a good concept.”
We walked past the orphanage gates, and I recognized Eric’s shrill voice as he shouted instructions to his team. Anxiety clouded Danita’s face, and I wished I’d waited to bring up the issue of money. “Don’t worry about it now—” I started, but I was interrupted before I could finish.
“Didi! Wait! Didi!” a voice called after us.
We turned around and saw Ria running toward us. “Yes, darling?” Danita asked, stooping to gather her sister close.
“Auntie Das wants to see Jazz Didi. She spotted you from her window and sent me to get her. Can you join me now, Jazz Didi?”
I nodded and took Ria’s hand.
“Coming, Danita?” I asked.
“The table’s not set,” Danita said. “And I have to reheat the curry.”
She was still frowning, and I wished I could go back to the apartment with her. She needed my encouragement now more than ever. What did Sister Das want to talk to me about, anyway? Reluctantly, I let Ria lead me in to Asha Bari as Danita hurried up the hill.
Sister Das greeted me at the front door. “What a lovely salwar, ” she said. “Those are jasmine flowers in the embroidery, aren’t they? How appropriate. Come to my office. I have a few things to discuss with you.”
We passed Dad, who was concentrating furiously on some program he was writing. Two nuns were standing behind him, watching him in awe. I knew better than to interrupt when he was lost in cyber world, and apparently they did, too.
In her tiny cubicle, Sister Das and I sat down. “Jasmine,” she said. “I wanted you to know that you are free to use our telephone. We keep an international line in this room. You will be alone here, and I know you will keep count of the minutes in order to repay the orphanage.”
Monsoon Summer Page 13