Blue Jasmine (6 page)

The mornings were getting colder, and Mommy made me bundle up, but during the day it warmed up and the sun shone brightly. In math we had pretests before each chapter, and I was getting a hundred percent on them. One day Ms. Wilson asked me. “Seema, your math skills are excellent! How about switching to advanced math?”

“Can I do that?” I wondered aloud.

“Of course you can. I'll talk to Mrs. Kramer about your joining her class.”

At lunch recess, as soon as I saw Jennifer, I blurted, “Ms. Wilson asked me to take advanced math.”

“Seema, that's great. Are you going to do it?”

“I said yes to Ms. Wilson, so I guess I have to. I still struggle with English, but not as much as I used to.”

“You're doing first-class in English too,” she said. We both laughed.

*
*
*

I realized that even though I missed everyone in India, especially Raju, I wasn't miserable in Iowa City. One day when I came home from school, Mommy gave me a letter. I knew right away it was from Mukta. The letter had carried her scent across the ocean. I sat down by the window in the light of golden leaves.

I read Mukta's letter twice, folded it up, and slipped it into the bottom of my drawer where I had put her handkerchief. I was happy that she was going to school, but I didn't like to read about her
kaki
having tuberculosis. Pappa's only sister had died from it when she was twenty years old. Dadima had told me that in the old times it was called a
rajrog
, a king's disease, because it cost so much to cure. I wondered how Mukta's family could afford it. Mommy asked me how Mukta was and I said she was fine, I didn't feel like telling her about Mukta's
kaki
being sick. I thought that the less i talked about Mukta and her family, the faster I could forget about them.

The days hurried by as if they were late for a party and
the nights hung around like they had nowhere else to go. On some days the sun was brilliant and those days sparkled; on other days I could look at the sun without squinting my eyes. What use is the sun when it is as mellow as the moon? I thought. At least the moon was lovely, but the afternoon sun draped in gray clouds could never be lovely.

Pappa was very busy at work, and when he got home, it was always dark. One day when I came home from school, Mommy said, “Seema, let's go get some groceries while it's still light.”

“Can I stay at home?” I asked.

“I can't do it alone. I need you.”

“You can leave Mela with me.”

“I want to go with Mommy,” Mela said.

“Let's all go,” Mommy said.

Mommy quickly loaded milk, juice, bananas, apples, an eggplant, a cauliflower, a few cans of chickpeas, and bread into the cart. By the time we'd paid and walked out, the sun had set and the wind was furious. I was reminded of the sandstorms we used to get before the monsoon in India. As we waited for the bus the wind howled, and each blast was icier than the last. Even through gloves my hands were freezing, and the grocery bag was getting heavier. I glanced at the store, where shoppers were out in the cold for a few seconds before entering the store or heading
back to their cars. Mommy knew what I was thinking and said, “Days like this are not going to come often, Seema. We don't need a car.”

“It will get colder than this, Mommy. Everyone at school says so, and there will be snow.”

“Colder than this? I don't think so.”

“A lot colder than this. It's only October, and the coldest month is January. That's what Jennifer told me.”

Mommy didn't reply.

“I'm cold,” Mela said.

“Would you like a candy?” I asked.

“
Na
, I'm cold. I want to go home,” she said, and started crying.

“Do you want to play a guessing game?” I asked.

“
NA
.”

“How about a story? The one that Dadima used to tell us?”

“
NA, NA, NA
. I want to go home. NOW,” Mela said, and pulled Mommy's hand. Mommy almost lost her balance.

“Mela,
choop ker
, be quiet. If you open your mouth once more, I'll slap you,” Mommy said.

Mela was so shocked that she stopped crying and said, “Slap me like Kaka slapped Raju?” I didn't know Mela had seen Kaka slap Raju and remembered it after all these months.

We rode quietly in the bus, but as soon as we got home Mommy started crying, and so did Mela. I got them both some water to drink, and after a while Mommy took Mela in her lap.

“Are you okay. Mommy?” I asked.

“I'm miserable.” she said. “I don't know why we're in this dark, depressing cave. I feel so trapped. If I go out, the cold grabs me, and if I stay in, I suffocate. My feet are freezing, my hands never warm up, and my back is stiff. I sleep with two pairs of socks, I, who never owned a pair of socks for thirty-five years! I never liked cold, and now I hate it. I hate it.”

“It will be all right. Mommy. It will be,” I said.

“How can it be? You said it is going to get colder. What are Mela and I going to do cooped up in the house all day? I miss India. I miss the markets, the crowds, the music, our language, our books, the sunshine and its warmth. I miss our family and our friends. These deserted streets, the darkness of the daytime, the stillness, they choke me.”

“I'm sorry, Mommy, I didn't know you were so sad,” I said.

Before Mommy could say anything. Mela gave her a kiss. “You're not sad now, Mommy. Are you?”

“No,” Mommy said and put her arms around both of us. We all sat quietly for a while on the couch and Mela fell asleep. Mommy and I went in the kitchen. While
making tea. Mommy said. “I'm sorry, Seema, for getting so upset. I surprised myself. This must've been boiling inside me for a long time, and the cold and the wind made it spill out. You and your Pappa have something to do here and you both meet new people, learn new things, and do your work, but Mela has no one to play with and I have no one to talk to. In India I didn't know where time went, and here I am, with time laughing in my face.”

“You and Mela used to go for walks a lot and meet neighbors. What about that?”

“It's getting colder, and I haven't seen too many people out.”

“Can Mela go to a preschool? I can find out which school Ria's brother goes to. He's four, like Mela.”

Mommy sat down with a cup of tea. I snuggled up to her. “Do you think Mela knows enough English to be in school?” she asked.

“She does. And once she goes to school she'll learn fast.”

Mommy didn't make dinner that night. We called for pizza instead. Someone delivered it in a huge cardboard box. It was hot and delicious. Pappa listened quietly when we told him about our day.

“I'm sorry, Aruna. I have a list of telephone numbers of Indian families in town that I should have given to you,” he said.

“Where is the list?” Mommy asked.

“In the office.”

“When did you get it?” I asked.

“About a month ago.” he replied.

“A month ago?” Mommy and I both shouted together.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I got so busy that I forgot all about it. As soon as I get to work I'll call some of the families.”

“Get me the list, that's all. I'll call them. I'm also going to send Mela to preschool,” Mommy said.

Pappa nodded and smiled. “Seema, Mommy is as feisty as the day I met her.”

“It's the icy wind that has made her feisty,” I said. Mommy had been so different that day that I was worried about her.

I
met Mrs. Milan one day in October. When I came home from school that afternoon Mommy and Mela were raking leaves in the yard with a lady. I couldn't see her face, but her hair was as pretty as silver embroidery on a sari. I'd seen her from my window working in her garden when we first moved, but then she'd disappeared. For two months her house was empty, except occasionally, when someone came to cut the lawn and work in the garden.

When Mommy introduced me to Mrs. Milan, I noticed that she had kind eyes, like Dadima's, and her face was large, with an upturned mouth.

“These are such beautiful leaves. I mailed a few to my cousin in India,” I said to Mrs. Milan.

She stopped raking, and put her chin on the top of the rake handle and said, “Are you pulling my leg?”

I looked at her leg, I wasn't touching her leg, so how could I be pulling it? “I'm not pulling your leg,” I said.

“So you really sent them to your cousin. What did she think of them?”

“He liked them a lot. He said that after a peacock's feather they were the most beautiful things.”

“I suppose leaves don't change colors in India?”

“No. The leaves turn brownish yellow and not all at the same time. Do you get such bright yellows and reds every year?”

“Yes. That's what fall is around here. Some years we have sharper, brighter colors, depending on the spring and the moisture in the ground. The best fall I've seen is in Vermont. It's as if the mountains are on fire. You'd like it.”

In school I had seen a map of the United States, and I knew where Vermont was. It was far away. “Someday, I hope I can go to Vermont in the fall,” I said.

“You will.” she said, putting her arm around me.

When Mommy went in to make some tea, Mela jumped on the leaf pile that she'd made.

“Mela, come out of there,” I said. I stole a glance at Mrs. Milan. I thought she'd be angry, but she wasn't.

Her eyes sparkled even more in the setting sun as she
said, “Why? She can't hurt herself in the leaves. You can jump in, too, if you want.”

I hesitated, “Jump in, sweet pea. I used to do that all the time,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, and jumped on the pile.

While Mommy and Mrs. Milan drank chai—spiced Indian tea—they talked. Mrs. Milan had never had chai before, and she liked it a lot. Mela and I had a piece of apple pie that Mrs. Milan had brought. It was tart and sweet, with a flaky crust. It was my first slice of apple pie ever.

I sat at the dining table to do my homework, but one ear was turned to Mommy and Mrs. Milan's talk. Sipping her chai, Mrs. Milan reminisced about her childhood, her large family, and the hardships of the Depression. Her parents had immigrated from Switzerland and her husband's parents had come from Italy. Mommy talked about our family in India and how much we missed them. Outside, the sun had set and it was getting colder and darker, but inside our hearts we were feeling the warmth and light of a new friendship.

That night I took out an extra notebook that I had not used for school and wrote down, “
To pull a leg
”—
does it mean to tease someone, to make
mashakari
of someone? I think it does. Mrs. Milan called me
“
sweet pea
.”
I like that
.

*
*
*

The leaves were falling by the sackful each day, and some trees were almost bald. One night it rained and rained, and in the morning the few leaves left clinging to the trees made them look like beggars in ragged clothes. I pushed away the image of
neem
trees with warm sunshine dripping between branches.

“Seema, do you know what's on Tuesday?'' Mommy asked, as I was putting my lunch box in my backpack.

“No,” I said.

“It's Diwali,” she said.

“Diwali?” How could I have forgotten Diwali? In India, it didn't matter if Diwali came in October or in November. There I always knew when it was Diwali without anyone telling me and without looking at any calendar, because Diwali meant bazaars full of bright silk saris and embroidered dress materials. Diwali meant sweet shops filled with red, green, and yellow gift boxes. Diwali meant jewelry shops' showcases full of gold necklaces and bangles.

How had Diwali snuck up so quietly? It had come without Mommy Diwali-cleaning the house as she did in India. It had come without Pappa buying all the fireworks and dividing them among Uma, Raju, and me, and keeping some sparklers for Mela and some big rockets and bombs for himself. It had come without anyone making spicy
fafda
and sweet
ghugra
with plump raisins to eat.

“Seema, it is Diwali next Tuesday,” Mommy repeated.

“What are we doing to celebrate?” I asked.

“I'm making
fafda
and
ghugra
and we're going to make a special dinner on Diwali night.”

“Yes,” I said, and slipped out the door. On the way to school I thought about the last Diwali. Uma and I had hidden our fireworks from Raju, but he'd found them. Every day he stole a couple packages of sparklers, or tiny bombs, or a
chakerdi
that swirled on the floor, streaming sparkles. We caught Raju one day when he thought Uma and I were not home. In the storage room Raju's back was turned toward the door and his rear end was sticking out. As he grabbed the sparkler packets, Uma and I came from behind and grabbed his arms and twisted them. He let out a shriek and dropped the boxes. The year before that, Uma and I had hidden our fireworks in the closet where we stored extra pillows, blankets, and mattresses. When Dadima found out about it, she was so upset that she took our fireworks away. Two days before Diwali she gave them all back to us, as we knew she would. Dadima could never stay angry.