Monsoon Summer
Page 19
After the dance, one of the orphanage’s older boys played the harmonium and sang to the captivated audience. Next, Ranee presented a poem in Hindi and followed it with her own English translation. Other children recited poetry, sang songs, and performed dances. Danita ended the formal program with a Hindi devotional song that drew standing applause.
Sister Das stopped the ovation by stepping up to the microphone. “Honored guests, please take your seats once again,” she said. “It is time now for our final event.”
Something in her voice made the audience sit down quickly. The curtains opened once again as classical Indian music began to play. Five of us were standing on stage, as motionless as statues. Danita was still in the green silk caftan she’d worn for her song, but now she was carrying a green and gold bag. I had chosen my favorite—the white salwar kameez and headband embroidered with purple and blue designs. Three other girls wore carefully matched outfits made up of the remaining accessories.
The pace of the music changed, drums began their beat, and we came to life. Tiny pieces of mirror gleamed, sequins glittered, silk shimmered, and delicately embroidered beadwork danced under the lights. We glided down the stairs and through the aisles in time to the beat, giving the audience a better chance to see our outfits.
Sister Das continued to speak. “These outfits are the products of a new business called Nageena Designs. As you know, ‘Nageena’ means precious gems in Hindi. The name was chosen to remind us that each of our children is worth more than a jewel to God.”
I followed Danita back down the center aisle, and the others fell into line behind us. Sister Das’s commentary flowed smoothly. “Nageena Designs will begin by selling a limited number of the items you see modeled here. The business hopes to provide full-time employment and good salaries for some of our older girls who have completed their schooling. Others may work part-time. We encourage you to place your orders as soon as possible.”
We were back onstage now, standing behind Sister Das. She paused significantly. Then she beckoned to Danita, who came forward to stand beside her. “My friends,” said Sister Das, “I present to you the owner and manager of Nageena Designs. Thanks to a generous anonymous donation from America and Danita’s excellent business sense, Nageena Designs promises to become a tremendous success.”
Dad began the applause, and others quickly joined in. Danita’s face was flushed, but she stood beside Sister Das, her head held high.
Sister thanked the audience and dismissed us all, inviting everybody to enjoy the refreshments prepared for the after-show party.
“Jazz! You were tremendous in that dance!” Sonia said, rushing over to me.
“Incredible!” Rini echoed.
“Amazing!” Lila added.
The three of them clustered around me, fingering the band in my hair and the sequins on my salwar kameez.
“Did you help make these outfits? They’re superb!” Sonia said.
“Luscious!”
“Delectable!”
“Danita designed them and made them,” I answered, smiling. “I only helped with a few of the business details. I want you to meet her. She’ll tell you about it. Would you like that tour you promised to take?”
“Of course,” said Rini.
“We’d love it,” said Lila.
“Terrific,” added Sonia. “But first things first. Where can we order some of these glorious outfits?”
“Right over there,” I said, pointing to where Danita’s sisters were handing out pencils, brochures, and order forms. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go upstairs and change. I’ll meet you back here, okay?”
“See you soon, Jazz!” Rini trilled, following Sonia and Lila over to the eager group of women already ordering Nageena products.
I noticed that an older woman had pulled Danita aside. The two of them were talking earnestly about something. I overheard enough to identify her as Banu Pal, the Asha Bari graduate who owned the Mumbai boutique. I fought the urge to eavesdrop.
Dad and Eric were grazing at a table loaded with snacks and steaming cups of tea, but Mom came upstairs with me. In the dormitory, the hubbub of changing and the excited chatter of the performers provided a moment of privacy.
My mother took me by the shoulders and looked straight into my eyes. “Your dancing was superb, Jazz,” she said. “How did you manage to keep it a secret?”
“It was my thank-you gift to you,” I told her. “For bringing us here this summer.”
“I loved it. And Danita’s grand finale was amazing.” Mom was whispering, but she couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice. “But what about your car, darling?”
I knew then that Mom had guessed my other secret as soon as she’d heard Sister Das’s announcement. “Don’t worry,” I whispered back. “Steve says the Biz is doing great. I’ll earn it back in no time.”
Mom didn’t say anything, but she stroked my cheek in a brief caress. The gentleness of the gesture reminded me of Maya. I wanted my academy friends to meet her. I changed out of my Kathak outfit and rushed downstairs.
Just outside the baby room, I almost collided with Sister Das. “Your dance was lovely, Jasmine,” she said, beaming at me. Then she lowered her voice confidentially. “But your true success came after the show was over. Danita has countless individual orders, and one bulk order for Banu’s boutique in Mumbai. Banu managed to convince Danita that showcasing a line of Nageena Designs in her store would be a favor to Banu, not to Danita.”
“She did?” I said. “That’s awesome. That’s what we were hoping for!”
“There’s more good news, Jasmine. Danita just informed me that she plans to refuse Ganesh’s proposal. She wants to spend the next year or so concentrating on developing her business.”
I couldn’t answer; happiness was washing over me like a wave. We stood in joy-filled silence for a minute before Sister Das patted my shoulder and continued upstairs.
I tiptoed into the baby room. Most of the babies were already asleep, but little Maya was sitting up in her crib. Picking her up, I kissed her smooth, dark cheek. Together we’d give Sonia, Rini, and Lila a tour they’d never forget, but not yet. I walked over to the window overlooking the garden, remembering my first day in Pune, when Sister Das had described the monsoon. It brings new gifts and blessings every year, she’d said.
A light rain was falling on the jasmine blossoms below. I took a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful, fresh fragrance, and began to count our monsoon gifts.
Computer-savvy nuns. Healthy newborn babies. A pee-wee soccer team.
Those belonged to my family, but the rest had been designed for me, and me alone, strewn like treasures everywhere after I’d arrived in India.
I started with the smaller ones. Home-cooked Indian food. Salwar kameez outfits. Kathak dancing.
The list got longer as I moved to the bigger gifts.
Maya’s first smile, and her first word.
Danita’s friendship.
Steve’s love.
Had our phone conversation really only taken place earlier that day? It already seemed like ages since he’d said good-bye. Danita had been right—after talking to Steve, I was longing to see him again, and I could hardly wait to go home in a few short weeks. But when the time came, it was going to be hard to leave Sonia, Rini, and Lila, Sister Das, and especially Maya and Danita.
I was even going to miss this place—the orphanage I’d so desperately tried to avoid. The place that had received my mother as a gift from a woman who somehow didn’t seem like a complete stranger anymore.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a few last, heavy drops. I guided Maya’s small hand out the window so that she could catch them.
“Rain,” I told her.
“Rain,” she echoed, sucking the water off her fingers.
I tasted the drops on my own henna-stained hand. Oh, they were delicious! If only I could bottle them and take them back with me. Monsoon Summer, I’d label the bottle, and take a sip every now and th
en, just to remember the taste.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to the Bose, Perkins, Hofmann, and Brittain families for their unflagging support. Thanks also to Bharatiya Samaj Seva Kendra (BSSK), to my Dhaka writers group, to Françoise Bui, my editor, and to Laura Rennert, my agent. This book was written because Rob, Tim, and Jimmie encouraged me to trust Jesus with all the desires of my heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mitali Perkins was born in Kolkata. Her family left India, living in Ghana, Cameroon, England, and Mexico before emigrating to the United States. They eventually settled in California, where, as the new kid on the block, Mitali was forced to live up to her name, which means “friendly” in Bengali. She credits her two older sisters, Sonali and Rupali (whose names mean “gold” and “silver”), with helping her to balance Bengali and American culture.
Mitali studied political science at Stanford University and public policy at the University of California, Berkeley. She is married to the Reverend Robert K. Perkins II and is the mother of James and Timothy. The Perkins family lives in Newton, Massachusetts, along with Strider, a Labrador retriever, and Arwen, a ferret.
Dedicated to creating and encouraging fiction for young people caught between cultures, Mitali Perkins maintains a Web site called “The Fire Escape: Books for and About Young Immigrants” at www.mitaliperkins.com. She previously published The Sunita Experiment.
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Published by Laurel-Leaf
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2004 by Mitali Perkins
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April 2006
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eISBN: 978-0-307-43357-2
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