Blue Jasmine (10 page)

“Yes,” she said.

“You've done good work.” she said when I'd finished.

“Thanks,” I said, looking away from her.

“Seema, why are you so upset?”

All evening long I'd been thinking about Carrie.

“I don't want to go to school tomorrow.”

“Why? What's the matter? Your speech is perfect, and now you wrap your sari as well as I do.”

“It's Carrie . . .” I began and told her about my whole day.

“Are you sure she pulled your braid?”

“I think so,” I said. “No one else would do that.”

“Why would she do such a thing?”

“Mom, that's how she is. You don't know her. You don't have to go to school with her,” I said.

“Even if she's unpleasant, remember what Dadima used to say.”

“What did Dadima used to say?” I asked.

“That an unpleasant person is like a tiny boil. If you keep thinking about it and keep feeling it with your hands it gets bigger and bigger. The best way to get rid of it is to ignore it.”

“She's in my class. There's no way to ignore her,” I said.

“Do you want me to talk to Ms. Wilson?”

“No.” I didn't want Mommy to come and talk to Ms. Wilson. “
Padeshe ava devashe
, I'll deal as it comes. I'll be fine,” I mumbled.

“By the way, this came for you today,” Mommy said, handing me an envelope.

Before I saw the sender's name I knew by the oil spots that it was from Mukta.

Trouble is like the head of the cobra, always looking bigger and scarier than it really is. Like Mukta, I have to be brave and capture the cobra and make it dance, I thought as I finished reading her letter.

I reread Mukta's letter, folded it, and slipped it in my backpack with my speech and my sari.

Courage was with me.

W
earing my white sari, I stood up to give my speech. My mouth felt as dry as a shriveled-up date. I wondered how I'd be able to speak, and I wished there was something I could clutch. But there was nothing there to support me except the eager faces of the other students.

I knitted my fingers together and began.

“I was born on April 11, 1869, at Porbandar, Gujarat. My name is Kasturba Gandhi. When I was only thirteen, I married Mohandas Gandhi, who was six months younger than me. Out of respect people called him Gandhiji.”

The first few sentences had spilled from my mouth as if I'd had no control over them. I paused, took a deep breath, and looked at Danny. He had his hands on his chin
and his eyes on my face. He smiled. I continued. “My husband taught me to read and write. In 1888, while I stayed back in India with our son, Harilal, Gandhiji sailed to England to become a lawyer. After finishing his studies, he came back to India and set up his practice. A few years later he went to South Africa to fight a case. Within days of his arrival, when traveling by first class, he was thrown off a train, assaulted by a white coachman, and pushed off a sidewalk—all because of his color. He saw firsthand how badly the Africans were treated by their white rulers, and he learned how Indian laborers were forced to work under semislave conditions.”

My words had begun to flow more smoothly now. I glanced at Ms. Wilson standing on the right side of the room, and she gave me a slight nod.

“Gandhiji came back to India in 1896. By then we'd had another son and we all sailed to Durban, South Africa together. During the long voyage Gandhiji told me many stories, and taught me history and geography as we watched the night sky together.

“In South Africa, Gandhiji and I set up a place for communal living and began a simple life like the poor people of South Africa.

“Gandhiji promoted the principle of
satyagraha
—an active but nonviolent defiance against injustice. It was a technique that required fearlessness, sacrifice, and suffering.
I did not always agree with Gandhiji. Although we argued over some of his ideas,
satyagraha
was one I believed in. I led the women's
satyagraha
in South Africa, and for that I was arrested and sentenced to three months' hard labor.

“In jail I had to wake up at five in the morning and wait in my cell for an hour. The jail food was impossible to eat. For breakfast, I had to eat bland, unsalted soup made of corn flour; for lunch, I had to eat rice and bread; and, for dinner, I had to eat corn soup and potatoes. I was not allowed to have any tea or coffee. When I was released from jail I was frail, but my spirit was strong and solid.”

Once again I took a deep breath. I unclasped my hands.

“In 1915 my entire family came back to India, where the British ruled at the time. I worked side by side with my husband for India's independence. Besides showing the path of
satyagraha
, I also taught village women reading, writing, cleanliness, and discipline. Over the years, Gandhiji was arrested many times. In his absence, I gradually became a leader, addressing meetings, collecting funds, and keeping up the morale of the people. I had gone to jail before and I was not afraid.”

As I spoke about
satyagraha
, I felt calmer, stronger. I made eye contact with Sam and was surprised to see that he wasn't slouching as usual but sitting up straight.

“With other people we worked for the freedom of our
country. We only wore clothes made of a simple, rough fabric called
khadi
that we'd spun ourselves, like this sari I am wearing today.

“
Khadi
was an important symbol of our struggle, strength, and unity against the unfair British rule. This was because the British took raw cotton from India to England at a very cheap price. After turning the cotton into material in their mills, they sold it back to Indians at an inflated price that the people couldn't afford. We picketed foreign cloth shops, and for that I was jailed. I was released only after Gandhiji went on a prolonged fast in protest of British rule, and he became very frail.”

Carrie was sitting in front of me, but so far I'd avoided looking at her. Then something unexpected happened. I looked at her as if she were Sam or Danny or any of the other students. I wasn't afraid of her.

“Over and over again I was thrown in jail for participating in
satyagraha
. On the morning of August 9, 1942, before a very important meeting, Gandhiji and other leaders were arrested. I decided to address the meeting in my husband's place, but on the way I, too, was arrested and sent to the Aga Khan Palace detention camp where he was held. The place was ringed with barbed wire, and armed police guarded it. My health began to fail there, and as the sun set on February 22, 1944, I died in my husband's arms.

“I'd asked Gandhiji to have me cremated in a
khadi
sari that he'd spun. After my death, the Kasturba Gandhi National Memorial Trust was established for the service of simple women like me and their children.”

I paused, looked straight at Carrie, and finished my speech. “I still live through the courage and dignity of the women in India and the world over.”

The class was silent. I looked at Ms. Wilson. She smiled and began clapping, and so did everyone else. I joined my palms and said
namaste
before walking back to my seat.

O
n Saturday I read Mukta's letter over and over again. I was desperate to talk to someone about Mukta, and in the afternoon when Ria and Jennifer came over, Mukta's letter whirled in my head. I wanted to tell them about her, but how could I explain Mukta to them?

I could tell them about how poor Mukta was or how her clothes smelled or how her aunt was sick with tuberculosis. I could tell them about the garden in the container that she'd grown, the handkerchief she'd made for me. I could tell them about the sweetness of Mukta's mother's voice, and about Mukta's determination to continue her studies and help her
kaki
. But how could I explain how Mukta had taught me courage and kindness when I'd showed her none? It was the feel of Mukta in my heart that
would be hard to explain. So I didn't say a word about her to Jennifer or Ria.

That evening we were invited to Asha's house for dinner. As I listened to Asha playing piano I realized it would be just as hard to tell Asha about Mukta as it would be to tell Jennifer and Ria. Asha's parents were from India, but she was born and raised in Iowa City, and the last time she had visited India she was only six years old. I didn't think she would understand about Mukta. There was something that separated us. Like a fog, it stretched out between me and everyone else, including my friends. It was because I'd grown up in a different place. When they talked about music, books, or movies I was always the outsider listening in, not comprehending their conversation completely and never participating in it. I realized how Mukta might have felt when we were too busy with our circle of friends, talking about the vacation we were going to take, or the new clothes we were getting for Diwali, or the birthday celebration we were planning. That was not her world and she must have felt different from us.

At night when Mommy came to say good night I took her hand in mine and said, “Don't go. Sit.”

“It's late and I'm tired and sle—” before she finished her sentence she saw the look in my eyes. “What is it, Seema?”

“It's Mukta. I'm afraid she won't be able to study
anymore. I keep thinking about her. Urvashi, Nalini, and Anita, none of them have written more than one letter, only Mukta has. And it's not easy for her to write. She doesn't have time or money. The postage is expensive, isn't it?”

“Yes. Have you written to her?”

I didn't answer.

I told Mommy about Mukta's letter. She was quiet. “I want to write to her, but I don't know what to say. Our lives are so different,” I said.

“Friendship does not happen because you have the same lifestyle; neither does it depend on it. You should answer Mukta's letter.”

“What can I say?”

“Start writing and it will come.”

“Yes. I guess so,” I said.

On Sunday I wrote Mukta a letter.

I signed the letter
Seema
, then I changed my mind and wrote,
Your friend, Seema
.

Once I had written the letter I felt better and wished I had done it earlier. A week passed and I found myself anxiously waiting for Mukta's letter. Even if she replied right away I knew it would be a month before I received an answer from her, but that didn't stop me from waiting.

In school Carrie and I had a relationship like two icicles: cold, sharp, and slippery. I stayed away from her as much as I could, but being in the same class it was impossible to avoid her completely, and a little spat occasionally occurred. Some days I wished that the first few months of school would come back when I didn't have Carrie to worry about, but time once gone is gone forever. I knew I couldn't bring it back.