Blue Jasmine (8 page)

His laughter followed me up the stairs. He was dressed up in a light-blue shirt, a leaf-patterned tie that I had picked out for him, and a navy blue sports jacket with beige trousers. He never dressed up when he went to work except on the special days when he had to give a presentation. Today he took extra care.

When I looked in Mommy's room, she was draping her
sari. It was a magenta silk sari with gold and off-white chrysanthemums. It was a perfect fall sari.

“Mom, you'll have to teach me how to wrap a sari,” I said.

“Yes. I will.”

“You put it on so quickly and smoothly. How does it stay?”

“It stays because I'm used to it. The first few times it kept coming apart, but the more I wore it, the easier it became.”

“In India you used to wear saris all the time. How come you don't wear them here every day?”

“We're in Iowa City and not in India.” she said. “We get used to what we're surrounded by. Have you noticed how Mela calls Pappa ‘Daddy' now? And you call us Mom and Dad sometimes.”

“I do?”

“Yes. And we are all getting comfortable speaking in English.”

“But I don't want us to forget Gujarati,” I said. “If we do, then how would we talk to Dadima? She doesn't know English.”

“You won't forget Gujarati,” she promised. “I'll make sure of that.”

“How about wearing a pearl necklace instead of a gold one?” Pappa suggested when he saw Mommy.

“Why? Doesn't this match?” she asked.

“I think pearls would be better.”

This was the first time Pappa had ever commented on something Mommy was wearing. I unclasped her gold necklace with the swastika design. The gold matched her fall sari, and I wondered why Pappa had asked her to wear the pearls instead. Then I remembered from my history class that the swastika we used in India—in our homes, textiles, temples, and jewelry—was feared and despised elsewhere as a symbol of Nazism. That must be the reason why, I decided.

On the way to the Davises' house I thought about how fast everything was changing.

Dr. and Mrs. Davis's house was nestled among the oaks and pines near the Iowa River. The brick exterior reminded me of my school building in India. Mrs. Davis opened the door. She was a large woman with a halo of hair around her face. Her lips were thin and bright red. It made me think of Dadima's saying, “Like the old mare with the red rein,” an expression she used when she thought something was inappropriate for her to wear because she was not young anymore. The fire was roaring in the fireplace and there were ten other people in the living room. They were either students of Dr. Davis or his colleagues, and there was no one my age.

When we sat down for dinner I whispered, “I've never seen a table so beautiful,''

“Neither have I,” Mommy replied.

The guests were all seated in their chairs and waiting for Mrs. Davis. She brought in a silver platter with a turkey on it. Mela asked in Gujarati, “Daddy, what's that?”

He didn't answer her. Mrs. Davis put the platter on the table. “What's that thing on the table? I don't want to eat that,” Mela whispered to me.

“You don't have to,” I said.

Everyone was admiring the turkey except us. Dr. Davis carved the turkey, and even though part of me didn't want to look at it, part of me wanted to watch him slice it. I wondered if Mom, Dad, and Mela were feeling the same way. All my family, in fact all the people we knew in India, were vegetarian, so Mela had never eaten turkey or any other meat before. I had seen two aisles at the supermarket filled with meat, but we always skipped those aisles. At school I knew people who brought chicken or tuna sandwiches, but this was the first time I had seen the whole cooked bird sitting on a platter. For the past few weeks when I'd seen turkey advertised on a television show I looked away, but now it was only two feet away from me. I wondered where its head was.

Besides turkey, there were mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce, three different kinds of rolls and
breads, and several different kinds of cheese, so we had plenty to eat. I wished Mrs. Davis hadn't kept apologizing for not having enough food for us and offering us more mashed potatoes and string beans. If I have to eat one more string bean or one more bite of mashed potatoes I am going to throw up, I thought.

The best part of the dinner was all the desserts. The pumpkin pie with cinnamon and nutmeg topped with whipped cream reminded me of an Indian dessert.

On the way home Mela asked, “What was that thing on the plate?”

“Turkey.” I said.

“That wasn't a turkey. I have a picture of a turkey. It didn't look like that,” she said.

“That's what it was,” Mommy said.

“Where was its face?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” I said.

On the fifth of December Mela turned five. For her birthday, Mela took treats for her class and invited Mrs. Milan for dinner. Mommy wanted to cook an Indian dinner, but Mela wanted pizza and cake, so that's what we had.

In early December we went on a class trip. On the way back when we stopped for a snack, Sam Bally said, “Hey, Seema, my mom packed an extra can of root beer. Do you want it?”

“I don't drink beer,” I said.

“I don't either. This is
root
beer.”

“A beer is a beer. I don't want it.”

“Okay,” he said and popped open his can.

“Danny, want some root beer? Seema here doesn't want to drink it. She doesn't drink any kind of beer,” Sam said.

“Why? Don't you like root beer?” Danny asked, opening his can and taking a big gulp.

“I've never had it.”

“Why not?”

I didn't know what to think! Sam and Danny were both chugging their root beer. Sam's mom had packed it, so maybe it wasn't
beer
.

“Try a sip.” Danny said. “You'll like it.”

I took a sip and wished I hadn't. The brown liquid had a medicinal taste and I was sure that it was something I shouldn't have had.

“I guess you didn't like it. I shouldn't have made you try it,” Danny said.

All the way back in the bus my mind was filled with the taste of root beer and my heart was filled with fear of how I was going to tell Pappa and Mommy that I had tried something that I shouldn't have.

When we got back to school I told Ria and Jennifer what had happened. Ria began to laugh, Jennifer shot her a look, and suddenly Ria stopped.

“It's all right, Seema. Root beer isn't really beer,” Jennifer said.

“It isn't? Then why don't they call it a root drink?”

“Root drink? If they called it a root drink do you think anyone would drink it?” Ria asked.

“I would rather drink something called a root drink then root beer,” I said.

That evening when I told Mommy and Pappa what had happened, Mela was listening Quietly. At the end I said, “I don't like root beer and I know none of you would either, so we never have to buy it.”

Mela said, “I like root beer. It's yummy.”

“You never had a root beer,” I said.

“Yes, three times,” she said raising three fingers.

“Where?”

“At school. Once we had it with ice cream. A root-beer float.”

I had no idea what a root-beer float was, but I didn't say anything. The transition from India to America was so different for Mela and me. For her it was as smooth as slipping a pillowcase over a pillow, and for me it was as difficult as turning a cotton pillow into a goose-feather pillow.

One day after school Ria and Jennifer came home with me. They gabbed about Christmas all the way. The last time I
had gone to the mall I'd seen trees with pretty things hanging from them.

“We always get a pine tree for Christmas. It smells so good,” Ria said.

“We go to the tree lot and my dad cuts the one that has the best shape,” Jennifer said.

“You put a real tree in the house?” I asked.

“Yes. Didn't you know that?” Ria asked.

“I didn't,” I said, stealing a look at Jennifer.

“It's a little like your Diwali. Tell Ria about the leaves and flowers you hang at Diwali,” Jennifer said.

“What's Diwali?” Ria asked.

“Diwali is our biggest holiday. During Diwali we take mango leaves and string them together with yellow marigolds and hang them in our doorways. I remember that special smell of mango leaves and marigold blossoms.”

“Marigolds and mango—I can imagine them smelling good together. You can't get mango leaves here, can you?” Ria asked.

“I haven't seen mango trees here,” I said. “Come to think of it, I haven't seen
asopalav, neem
, guava, or tamarind trees either.”

“Next year on Diwali we can string yellow and red maple leaves,” Jennifer suggested.

“It's not the same, but maybe with marigolds they would look pretty,” I said.

“And smell good,” said Ria.

We walked silently for a while.

“I can't wait to go see my grandparents. They always have snow for Christmas. I also get to see my brand-new cousin who's only ten days old,” Ria said.

Jennifer looked over at me and smiled. She knew that all our talk reminded me of my family and our festivals.

Mommy was shelling a pomegranate when we got home.

“What's that?” Ria asked.

“A pomegranate,” I said.

“What's a pomegranate?”

“It's a fruit. You've never had it?” I asked.

“No.”

Ria and Jennifer tried pomegranate for the first time. “It's . . . it's like having mini Juice pockets pop open in your mouth,” Ria said, laughing.

Jennifer didn't like it as much. “I like its color. Now I know why in some catalogues they have my favorite shade of red sweaters labeled as pomegranate,” she said.

After they went home I thought about how they'd never had pomegranate before and how I'd never seen a live Christmas tree in anyone's house before.

“Seema, there's going to be a dinner party at the Mehtas'. We're invited,” Mommy said the next day as soon as I came home from school.

“I don't want to go.”

“There'll be many children there and you'll meet them all. Their daughter Asha is in your school. Remember Pappa gave me a list of Indian people a while ago? I invited a few of the women for lunch today and one of them was Mrs. Mehta. She asked me to bring you and Mela.”

“Why didn't you tell me about it?”

“I was going to tell you yesterday, but you were so busy talking about Ria's and Jennifer's Christmas plans.”

“I'm sorry. Mom.”

That night I thought about how every day, as soon as I got home I talked about my day and never asked Mommy about hers. If Mela interrupted I got mad at her. It wasn't right. I made up my mind to listen to Mommy and Mela more.

That Saturday we went to the Mehtas' house. I dressed up in a long skirt and top with a matching sheer scarf. My outfit was pomegranate red with white-beaded embroidery. The embroidery reminded me of Mukta's handkerchief, and I took it out of the drawer and looked at it. I promised myself I'd write her a letter the next day.

The familiar smell of ginger, red pepper, cumin, and turmeric wafted through the air as soon as we entered Mrs. Mehta's house. The music from the movie
Aradhana
was playing in the background, and most of the women were dressed in saris.

Mommy had been right about the children. There were four other girls my age, and two of them went to my school. I'd seen them before. One was Asha and the other was Priya. They talked in American English and I was ashamed of having an accent, but they were so friendly that I soon forgot about it.

All the Indian children in America called adults “Uncle” and “Auntie,” and after one party I had many uncles and aunts. The house was filled with their voices and laughter. Mrs. Mehta, or Supriya Auntie as I called her now, had made so many dishes that there was no room to put potatoes on my plate. I thought of not taking any, but they were so tempting, with their diced red and green pepper and chopped-coriander garnish, that I piled them on top of my rice.

While eating I saw Mommy talking and laughing with the others. Her face was as radiant as if it were washed with moonlight. It made me realize how deeply Mommy had missed our family, our friends, and our home.

It was late when we got home and I got up at eleven the next morning. I had so much homework to finish that I forgot about writing a letter to Mukta.

O
n the first day after the winter break Ms. Wilson introduced us to a new student named Carrie Schuler.

“Carrie is from Chicago.” Ms. Wilson said. “She has lived in many different places throughout the country. Changing school in the middle of the year is always difficult, so I would like our class to welcome Carrie and help her in any way we can.”

I turned around to look at Carrie. Her hair was the color of chick pea, shiny and smooth, cascading down her back.

That day when I answered Ms. Wilson I felt a pair of eyes watching me. I could tell it was Carrie. When I looked at her, though, her chin was resting on her hand and her
head was down. Like me, she was new to school and I wondered if we could be friends.

At lunch I watched Carrie as she strode toward the cafeteria. She crossed the cafeteria as if she were in her own garden. Before she sat down to eat she looked around and ran her hand through her hair. She was not timid. She was not scared. It was her first day of school and
yet
she acted as if she knew everyone was going to pay attention to her. When I started my first day of school I kept my gaze down and my hands clasped. Yet here was Carrie breezing into the cafeteria, ready to blow us away with a puff. I admired her and envied her.

Opening my lunch bag, I pointed Carrie out to Jennifer and Ria. “She's so pretty,” said Ria.