So this was what she’d wanted to talk to me about—an unexpected perk of my decision to visit Asha Bari. Steve and I could chat in complete privacy, and for more than ten minutes at a time.
I got up. If that was all she had to tell me, I might still be able to catch up with Danita. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s great news.”
“It is. But that’s not why I called for you. I’m afraid I have some other news that concerns Danita’s future. I wanted to talk it over with you before I spoke to her. Apparently, a man who owns a chicken business in the market has been quite struck with Danita. He has even offered to take her sisters into his home if she agrees to marry him.”
I sat down again, stunned. “Does Danita know about this? What’s this guy like?”
“No, not yet. I don’t know the fellow myself, but he’s twice as old as Danita. The other part of the story is that he’s been married before, and has three sons who are teenagers themselves. I think she can do better if she waits.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t even tell her about it,” I said.
“I have to. The decision is hers. This man has the means to provide for her and her sisters. He’s agreed to forfeit a dowry, asks nothing about caste or family origin, and offers to pay for Ranee and Ria’s education.”
“I’m sure she won’t accept. We started planning her business, and she’s very excited about it.”
“I know. She told me you liked her things.” The nun paused and looked directly into my eyes. “Jasmine, is there any chance that this business of hers might succeed?”
Again, I waited a moment before answering. I had to tell the truth; Danita’s future depended on it. “I’m not sure,” I said. “But she’s got some beautiful stuff to sell. That’s the bottom line for success—an excellent product that people will want to buy.”
Sister Das was quiet, still scrutinizing me over her reading glasses. She was fingering something on her desk as she studied my face. I folded my hands on my lap, feeling as if I was being inspected for hidden flaws.
“Don’t say anything to Danita about this,” she said finally. “I want to talk it over with her myself.”
It was obviously a dismissal, and I left the office slowly. Maybe now it would be better not to hurry home. I was sure to blurt out the news if Danita and I were alone together. I went to watch Eric’s soccer practice instead, wondering why Sister Das was taking this proposal so seriously. Danita’s going to turn it down in a heartbeat, I thought, remembering her quiet pride over her creations.
My brother grinned and waved a quick greeting. He was leading a drill, and four boys barely higher than the ball were kicking it in a circle.
“Nice pass, Bapu!” my brother shouted.
The tiniest boy smiled happily. I noticed that both of his shoelaces were untied. And he wasn’t the only one— muddy laces were whipping around everywhere. Without stopping to think about my new salwar kameez, I dashed over and knelt in front of Bapu.
He looked startled by my sudden appearance and hurried to hide behind my brother.
“Time out!” Eric hollered, and blew the whistle around his neck. “Hurry, Jazz. We only have a half hour left before they have to go in. Shoes forward!”
One by one, the boys thrust their muddy feet in front of me. Fingers flying, I managed to tie eight extra-tight double knots before my brother blew his whistle again. Then I watched as he drilled them again and again, until the five of them looked like a soccer-playing machine.
TWENTY-SIX
“What if nobody Comes?” Mom asked nervously as the four of us walked down the hill together the next morning. It was the clinic’s opening day, and my first official day of volunteering at Asha Bari.
“They will, Mom,” I said. “You’ve worked so hard.”
“Think of the money the orphanage has spent already to bring us here! Oh, I hope at least ten pregnant women show up today.”
“Even if only one comes, Sarah, it’s worth it,” Dad said quietly.
Mom stopped in her tracks. Then she smiled at him. “You’re right, Peter.”
We said good-bye at the door, and Mom hurried downstairs. Eric headed for the classrooms. Dad disappeared into the office, and I climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Baby Maya was resting in her crib, but she sat up at the sound of my voice. I touched her face with my finger. “Hi, baby,” I whispered. “I’m back. Told you so.”
A nun was folding clean diapers in a corner of the room.
“May I take Maya on a walk?” I asked.
“Of course,” she answered, smiling.
The little girl was light. I balanced her on my hip and we toured the whole second floor. As we walked, I stopped to let her touch things, naming each one for her. I was thankful again for the Hindi I’d learned, but I used English, too. Next, we went outside to the garden, and I leaned over so that we could sniff the different flowers. It had started raining, but Maya seemed to enjoy the feel of the light, cool drops on skin as much as I did.
When a heavier rain started to fall, I took Maya downstairs. I was curious to see how Mom’s first day was going. As we went downstairs, I knew by the din that the clinic was packed. The rooms were brightly lit and full of babies crying and ladies chatting. Savory smells of rice and lentils drifted in from the kitchen. The music and the paintings on the wall gave the whole place a party atmosphere.
Mom was scurrying around the dining area, greeting people and rounding up empty chairs.
“Congratulations! Your opening day’s a success, Mom,” I said as she passed by.
Mom stopped for a second to touch Maya’s cheek. “Yours, too, darling,” she said.
The noise and confusion had made the little girl’s body tense up. She was curled up in my arms, her head resting on my shoulder.
“I’d better get her back,” I said. “She likes peace and quiet as much as I do.”
I said good-bye to Mom, walked Maya back to her room, kissed her cheek, and handed her over to the nun. It was time to find Danita.
I’d managed to avoid talking to her about my meeting with Sister Das. She’d been so busy getting dinner on the table after our shopping trip, she hadn’t had time to ask any questions. By now, though, she’d have heard about the proposal and we could talk the whole thing over. I Can’t wait to hear how she turned down that old chicken seller’s proposal, I thought as I searched the orphanage for her. Imagine an old guy like that wanting to marry a teenager. Sick. Very sick.
The beat of fast, rhythmic music was coming from the conservatory. Standing half hidden at the door, I peeked in.
Danita was demonstrating an intricate dance step, and several girls were trying to imitate her. She broke it down into quick, easy movements so that the little ones were able to copy her. This was a side of Danita I hadn’t seen before—serious, intent, and stern with any dancer who acted silly or wasn’t trying hard enough.
She walked over to change the music and spotted me lurking outside the door. “Come in, Jazz Didi,” she said. “We’re rehearsing for Asha Bari’s annual benefit in August.”
“Looks great,” I said. “But tough.”
“Kathak’s about expression,” Danita said. “We use hands, eyes, and feet to convey emotions. It takes a lot of practice.”
“Do you have time to meet with me when you’re done?”
“Certainly. I have something important to tell you. But won’t you try dancing with us first? We’d like that, wouldn’t we, girls?”
The little girls clustered eagerly around me, chorusing to convince me to join them. The bells around their ankles echoed their words with a merry jingling. How could I say no to yet another warm Indian invitation? I took off my shoes and the scarf of the salwar kameez, and Danita handed me a pair of ankle bracelets.
“The word ‘kathak’ means storyteller,” Danita explained as I fastened the anklets. The dozens of bells on each one sounded like raindrops falling on a tin roof. “The dance has been used for centuries to tell Hindu and
Muslim myths. Here at Asha Bari, the nuns use it to teach us Bible stories. Sister Maria choreographed the scene where the small children crowd around Jesus. Why don’t you join the older girls as one of Jesus’ disciples? The little ones are playing the children.”
“What about you?” I asked.
Ranee’s voice piped up from the back of the room. “Oh, Didi will play the part of Jesus, of course.”
Danita clapped twice. “Let’s begin.”
I stood in the back row, concentrating on imitating the girls beside me, keeping a close eye on what they did with their fingers, arms, and feet. At first, the disciples were supposed to look important, guarding Danita carefully. Then our movements and expressions changed, and we showed our irritation at the spinning, pirouetting children who were drawing closer and closer. Finally, we were supposed to spin slowly away from Danita ourselves, looking confused as she opened her arms to welcome the children.
There was something about this type of dancing that was different than shuffling around the floor of a dance club. It was almost like training for a sport, practicing the smooth motion of a shot put, or perfecting the snap of the wrist when a javelin left the hand. In Kathak, everything had to move in sync—head, eyes, feet, hands, and hips—and you didn’t have time to worry about feeling self-conscious.
When the bell rang, I was surprised to find that I’d been in the room for over an hour. I was sweating hard, as if I’d been running on a treadmill or hiking up a high hill.
“Why don’t you join us tomorrow?” Danita asked, wiping her face with a towel. “You did very well for your first day. The dance looks better with another disciple, anyway. More symmetrical.”
“Maybe I will,” I answered. “It’s a great workout.”
Danita led me upstairs to the girls’ dormitory. “Sit down, Jazz Didi,” she said, pulling out her desk chair for me.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, fanning herself with a sheet of paper. I noticed that her creations had been put away, and that the trunk was padlocked again.
I brought out the small notebook where I’d jotted down prices the day before. “We’ve got so much to discuss, Danita. We have to finalize the pricing for the products you’ve already designed, calculate start-up costs in detail, plan your marketing strategy, and—”
I stopped midsentence. Danita wasn’t listening; she was gazing out the window beside her bed. It overlooked the garden where the younger children were playing, and the sound of their voices drifted up to us, happy and excited. “Auntie told you about the proposal, didn’t she?” Danita asked.
I nodded. “Can you believe it? You, marrying a middle-aged chicken seller! What a joke.”
“It’s no joke, Jazz,” she said, her voice flat. “I told Auntie to accept the proposal.”
I almost fell out of my chair. “What!”
“This man, Ganesh, has agreed to provide for all three of us in his home. My sisters will be able to live with me. I may never receive another proposal that is so generous.”
“Have you seen this guy? Do you even know what he’s like?”
Danita didn’t meet my eyes. “He owns a business in the market. He’s quite successful.”
“But . . . but . . . you’re about to start your own business. You haven’t even given it a chance.”
She handed me the sheet of paper she’d been using as a fan. “Ranee helped me with the math last night, and Auntie told me how much she thinks things cost. Take a look.”
I scanned the sheet. It was a list of start-up expenses for Nageena Designs.
“Nice name,” I commented. “What does it mean?”
“‘Nageena’ means precious gems in Hindi,” she said. “Because Ranee and Ria are my precious gems.”
I read on. She’d been thorough and realistic, adding up the money she’d need for several sewing machines, rent for work space, salaries for part-time workers, materials, electricity, small business license fees, and advertising. When I reached the bottom of the page, I caught my breath—the amount of money she needed to start her business was huge.
“Astonishing sum, isn’t it?” she asked, watching my reaction. “I can earn a small part of that working for your family while you’re here in India. But where am I to get the rest?”
I was quiet. What could I say? What could I do? I couldn’t just sit by and let her give up on a dream she’d spent so much time thinking about.
She must have noticed my expression. “Don’t feel bad, Jazz Didi. Without you, I couldn’t have made this decision. You’ve helped me to see how impossible it would be to start this business. Now I can forget about the whole crazy plan once and for all.”
“Danita! How can you say that? Your designs are so beautiful. What does Sister Das think about this?”
“Oh, Auntie wants me to refuse the proposal. She still hopes I’ll try to get a business started. With your help, that is. And even if we fail, she reminded me I have three years before I have to leave the orphanage. Other proposals might come in that are just as good, she says.”
All right, Sister Das! I thought, and my spirits lifted. “That sounds right, Danita,” I said. “You should listen to her.”
“But what if they don’t?” she asked, and her voice broke. “What if I have to leave the girls behind when I turn eighteen? I promised myself I would never do that.”
I sat down beside her on the bed. “Can’t you wait a while before accepting Ganesh?” I asked. “Just a few weeks. How will you know if you don’t try?”
She sighed. “That’s just what Auntie said. She’s sure Ganesh will wait a short time for an answer.”
“Let’s try, then, Danita,” I begged. “Just till the end of the monsoon. Just till I leave. If Nageena Designs has failed by then, accept this guy’s offer. But maybe it won’t. Maybe you’ll be far enough along to turn him down. Give it a chance, won’t you?”
She was quiet again, but her eyes strayed to the trunk where she kept her creations. “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll try it until you leave. But take a good look at those start-up costs again, Jazz. Don’t get your hopes too high.”
“I won’t.” I squinted at the row of figures, wondering if there was any way to shrink that large total at the bottom.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The rains stopped abruptly during the third week of July, way before expected. The air grew more and more steamy. Heavy, still clouds darkened the sky, but they didn’t release any water. Not even the lightest breeze stirred the leaves of the eucalyptus trees. In the apartment, we kept the fans whirling, though they didn’t help much.
I sweated on the short walk down the hill to the orphanage. I didn’t have my umbrella to hide behind, but the stares were easier to handle now that I realized they were appreciative. I’d started carrying a handful of loose change, like Mom did, just so I could give some away when a child or an older woman asked for money. My shriveled heart was expanding slowly, bit by bit, and I didn’t want it to stop.
At Asha Bari, the first item on my agenda was a walk with little Maya. She still hadn’t smiled or talked, but somehow I knew she looked forward to that hour as much as I did. Next, I rehearsed our Kathak presentation with the other girls. Sweating away, I concentrated furiously on the movements and emotions of our dance.
I’d asked Danita not to mention Kathak at home. Nobody in my family came near the conservatory in the mornings, so it was easy to keep my secret. I was embarrassed to admit that I was actually enjoying myself dancing. When Steve wanted me to learn to dance, I bet he never dreamed of this, I thought, watching my movements in the mirror become more graceful and wishing he could see them.
After Kathak, Danita and I took bucket baths in the girls’ dormitory bathroom. I changed into the extra salwar kameez I always brought along, and then we found a cool corner somewhere and made plans for the business. Danita listened to my ideas and tried to seem enthusiastic, but I could tell she still wasn’t very hopeful. It all came down to the money she needed to start up. Witho
ut that, it was hard to make plans for the future.
One afternoon when Danita left Asha Bari to shop for our family’s evening meal, I stayed on, frowning over that horrible page of figures. We’d managed to whittle ten percent or so off the costs, but the total still seemed enormous. Frustrated, I headed down to the clinic. This time of day, the clinic usually wasn’t as busy as in the mornings and evenings.
Sure enough, the place was practically deserted. Only one frail, elderly woman was sitting at the table, and Mom was heaping rice and lentils on her plate. Judging by how thin the woman was, I figured she’d grab the food and gobble it down. But when Mom sat down beside her, the woman began to talk instead.
As I watched Mom listen carefully to the older woman, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Dad standing behind me.
“She’s pretty special, isn’t she, Jazz?” he asked in a low voice.
“Definitely,” I answered softly.
He pulled me away so that Mom wouldn’t be distracted by our conversation. “I just sent your grandparents a long letter telling them how proud I am of my wife. And how proud they should be, too.”
I wondered how Grandpa and Grandma Gardner would feel when they read the letter. Who Cares? I thought. It’s the truth. Dad had never stood up to them before when they’d criticized Mom.
“High time I said something to them, isn’t it?” Dad asked, reading my expression perfectly.
I nodded. “I’m glad you did.”
We watched Mom put together a package of food and medicine for the woman to take with her. Dad and I were used to watching Mom in action, but something crucial had changed: we weren’t spectators now. We were just taking a quick break from our own lives to admire her for a while.
I wrapped my arms around his waist.
“What’s this about?” he asked. “Your mom’s the one who deserves this hug. Not me.”
“No way,” I said. “This one’s all yours, Dad.”
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