Blue Jasmine by Kashmira Sheth 1 "So what if this summer is cooler than last, Seema? Last summer you were not leaving us. Last summer our family was not breaking up. I wish this year and this summer had never come. I hate this year!" Raju said. He swung his face away and spat. Without looking back, he sprinted home. I stood near the acacia tree growing at the edge of an abandoned lot and watched Raju's back as the dust rising from his shoes covered my white blouse and my beige pinafore. I didn't worry about my clothes. School was over, and I would never wear this uniform again. But Raju's anger worried me. I glanced at the acacia. It was brown and bare except for the thorns. It looked like a starved stray dog baring its teeth. I started walking home. Raju was my cousin, and I wanted to tell him that everything would be fine -- but how could I? Today was the last day of fifth grade, and after summer vacation when sixth grade started, he would be walking to school by himself. For the first time, I wouldn't be going with him. I would be in America. Only a few months earlier, when the mango trees were jeweled with purplish-green leaves and milky-white blossoms, a letter came that changed everything. At that time, Mommy and my four-year-old sister, Mela, had gone to see Mommy's parents, my Nanaji and Nanima. The letter was from Dr. Davis, and Pappa was excited. "Seema," he said to me, "Dr. Davis wants me to go to Iowa City to work with him." Pappa was a microbiologist. He loved his work, and some days when he got busy doing experiments in his laboratory, he forgot to eat lunch. On these days my grandmother made one of his favorite dishes for dinner. I never could understand how Pappa could forget his lunch while working with tiny bugs that he could only see under a microscope. When I was eight, Pappa had gone to Iowa City for three months during the summer to work with Dr. Davis, and I had missed him. I didn't want him to go away again this summer. "How long will you be gone this time?" I asked. "We'll all go this time," he said, stroking my long hair. "All of us?" "I mean, Mommy, Mela, you, and I," he said. "What about the rest of the family?" I asked. In our family, besides Mommy, Pappa, Mela, and me, there was my grandfather, Dadaji; my grandmother, Dadima; Pappa's older brother, my kaka; his wife, my kaki; and their two children, my cousins Uma and Raju. "We can't all go," Pappa said. "But you just said, 'We'll all go this time.'" "I meant the four of us, Seema." From that day on, the four of us, Pappa, Mommy, Mela, and I, broke off from our family the way a lump of ice breaks off from a whole snow cone. In some ways the lump is still the same as it was on the snow cone, but somehow, after it breaks off, it's different. It melts away too fast and it doesn't taste as good as the whole cone does. When Pappa told me that Dr. Davis wanted him to work in his laboratory, I asked, "You mean, we would . . . we would go and live in Iowa, and I would go to school there?" "Yes! Would you like that?" "I . . . I don't know." He looked at me. He was as excited as Mela when Dadaji lifted her up and bounced her on his knees. "Does Raju know yet?" I asked. "Kaka and Kaki are telling Uma and Raju right now." That night I wondered why they hadn't told all of us at the same time. Why had Kaka and Kaki told Uma and Raju, and why had Pappa told me? When I went to bed, I wondered how I could leave the rest of my family and go to America. We all lived in the same house, ate in the same kitchen. Raju and I went to school together and were in the same class. Raju was my cousin, but he was as much my brother as he was Uma's brother. He was my best friend. I missed Mommy that night. Pappa was so happy about going to America that I didn't want to talk to him about my fears, but I wanted Mommy to hold me tight and tell me that without the rest of the family we would be fine. That we would go to the new country and make new friends. Pappa had called Mommy and told her about our going to America, and I wondered if Mommy herself was as scared about the move as I was. That night my sleep didn't flow like a stream, but came in spurts, like the water that spewed from our faucet, on and off, in the heat of the summer. The next morning I was tired and groggy. At breakfast Uma was quiet and kept stirring her milk with a spoon, while Raju glared at me. "What is it?" I asked Raju. "What is what?" he snapped back. "Why are you staring at me?" "Am I?" he said. "Yes, why?" "I don't know. Do you?" "Why do you keep answering me with a question?" I asked. "Why do you keep asking me questions?" he answered. Uma glanced at me. Her eyes were red. And then it occurred to me that last night Kaka and Kaki must've told them that we were going to America, and that's why Raju was as sour as stale buttermilk. It was Saturday, so Raju and I only had school in the morning. In our garden the hibiscus was blooming. The flowers were as red as a parrot's beak, and I wanted to pick one to put in my hair -- but I couldn't stop, because Raju kept marching ahead. I tried to hurry, but ended up watching his dark brown hair. It shone with streaks like flame in the sunlight. Our school building was across the grassy field and two streets away. The tall neem trees lined the streets, forming a green tent that stopped the wind. As usual, Raju's white shirt was half tucked inside his khaki shorts, half hanging out; but his shoelaces were tied securely. He was the fastest runner in the school and tied his laces very carefully. When we reached school, he slipped away. For the next few days Raju hardly spoke to me. In class I saw him writing furiously. He covered his writing with his right arm while he wrote with his left hand. I knew it was about our going to America, but he never mentioned it at school or at home. Slowly, he began talking to me again, but he still wouldn't discuss our leaving for America. For the next few weeks I thought he was fine, until today when I was standing by the acacia tree, and he burst like an overfilled water bottle and ran away. Why is Raju running away from me? I thought as I reached home. The iron gate was wide open. Inside the front garden, the air was full of the sting of red pepper, and the smell of yellow turmeric, ground cumin, and coriander. Mommy and Kaki were in the back courtyard getting ready to make pickles out of the pieces of green mango that were soaking in a salt-and-turmeric brine. The sight of green mangoes and spices made my mouth water. "Wash your hands first and then you can have a couple of pieces," Kaki said. When I came back, Raju had taken three pieces of mango. I took mine and walked out. He followed me, and as I sat on the swing in the front veranda, he sat next to me. The black of the ebony swing and the brass rods that supported it shone brightly in the afternoon sun. For a while neither one of us spoke. "You won't be here this year to tie a rakhi on me," he said, staring at his wrist. "I know," I mumbled. I remembered last August, on Rakshabandhan, the special holiday that celebrates the love between brothers and sisters, when I'd made a rakhi out of red velvet for Raju. "I'll always make a rakhi for you and mail it." "You won't be here to tie it on me." "I'll pray to God to keep you safe," I offered. "It won't be the same. Eating all the good food on Rakshabandhan without you won't be any fun. And I'll have to mail you a gift. I won't be able to see the surprise on your face." "Raju, you can give me those gifts when I come back." "Yeah, every ten years! Do you remember what you said to Charu last year when she said that I wasn't your real brother?" Before I could answer he continued, "I'll remind you. You told her, 'Charu, I'm glad you have two brothers of your own, but I'm happy to have one Raju; I've never felt sad at Rakshabandhan, and I never will.' Now I know Charu was right. If I were your brother and not your cousin, you'd stay here with me. Having a cousin who is like a brother is not the same as having a brother, is it? And when the next Rakshabandhan comes in August, you'll be oceans away from me. You won't be here to tie a rakhi on my wrist. Uma will have to do it." I bit my lip. "Why do you have to go to America? Why can't you stay here and we can keep going to school together?" Raju pleaded. "Pappa and Mommy and Mela are going, so I have to go," I said. "You don't have to! We're all here and you can stay here and go to school with me." I didn't know what to say. I put one piece of mango in my mouth. It was tart and salty and very refreshing. I sucked on it while I thought. Raju was right. I could stay in Vishanagar, our town in Gujarat, and go to school. There was a girl named Sarla in my class whose mommy and pappa had gone to Canada, but she had stayed behind with her grandparents. One part of me wanted to stay and continue going to school with Raju. Home was like the smell of ripe kesar mangoes that made me happy even before I took a bite. If I went to America, everything would be unfamiliar. But another part of me knew that if I stayed behind, I would miss Mommy, Pappa, and Mela too much. The days would pass, but when the sun set, I would be miserable. A slice of me wanted to go to America, to fly away in a big plane and start at a new school and make new friends. "If you go, nothing will be the same again for me," Raju said. "I can't stay. I can't stay without Pappa and Mommy." "What about your school? Everything will be in English. You won't understand what your teachers are saying." "I know," I said, choking on the mango juice. "Isn't it better that you stay here?" "I don't think so." "Then, go," he said, as he slipped on his sandals and scrambled down the veranda steps. "Where are you going?" I asked. "Jahannam ma! To hell!" he said. "Wait!" I shouted. He didn't look back. "Jahannam ma!" I said, and threw the two mango pieces in the flower bed. They hit the parijat bush and landed on the gravel. I looked at my hands. They were stained yellow with turmeric. I washed them twice, but the stain wouldn't go away. That evening, I found out that Raju wasn't the only one who wanted me to stay in India. During dinner Kaka said to Pappa, "Take Mela to America with you, but leave Seema here with us." Dadaji agreed, saying, "Suman, I think it is a good idea. The plant flourishes best in its own soil. Mela is too young and needs to be with you, but leave Seema here." "How can you ask us to leave Seema here?" Pappa wondered. "Why not? Uma and Seema are the same to me. Both our daughters will be raised the same," Kaka said. I shuddered. I loved Kaka, but his ideas and Pappa's ideas were as different as teeth and tongue. Kaka was as hard as teeth and would never change his opinion, while Pappa was as supple as a tongue and always open to ideas. "I know Uma and Seema are the same to you, but who knows how long we will stay in America? Seema should come with us," Pappa said. I noticed he hadn't touched his khichdi, a mixture of mung beans and rice served with curried potatoes and spinach. It was his favorite food. "Once you go to America, you will not come back," Kaka warned. "I . . . we're not sure what we'll do," Pappa said. "You will stay in America, and if you stay there, then it's even more important to leave Seema here. That way she can grow up in our culture and go to America after high school," Kaka said. "What kind of talk is this? Seema belongs with her Pappa and Mommy. If they go to America, she goes to America; if they go to Africa, she goes to Africa. If they go for a year, Seema goes for a year; if they go for five years, she goes for five years," Dadima declared as she crumbled a piece of millet bread in a bowl of milk. Lately, for supper, she only ate millet bread soaked in milk. "Isn't Seema our granddaughter? I say she stays here," Dadaji said. "I want to go with Pappa and Mommy. I don't want to stay here." Before I'd realized it, the words sprayed out of my mouth. "Listen to her! It's important for our children, especially our daughters, to have Indian values. My Uma wouldn't dare talk back to her elders. You've already spoiled Seema, and once you take her to America she will forget our culture and become too independent. I can tell you now that you'll lose a daughter," Kaka said. "Bhai," Pappa said, "I know you love us and you're concerned about Seema, but she is my daughter and I have to take her with me." "And you should," Dadima said. "I know Aruna and you would be unhappy if you left Seema behind. Besides, she's growing up and she needs her Mommy more than ever now, and Aruna will need Seema's help in America too." I glanced at Kaka. He was silent, but I could see that the anger had spread in his body and stiffened it. Dadaji asked me, "Do you really want to leave us all behind?" I looked around. All eyes were watching me. Even Mela was quiet. "I . . . I don't know what I want to do. I don't want to leave you, but I . . . want . . . I have to go. I . . . I want to go with Pappa and Mommy," I blurted, trying to curb the rush of tears. "Then you'd better start packing your bags," Dadima said, putting her arm around me. She turned to Kaka and added, "There is no reason to discuss this anymore." And to Dadaji she said, "Don't make Seema miserable by asking such questions." Dadaji nodded a sad smile. I wondered what Mommy and Kaki thought of all this, but they were quiet as rose petals. That night I kept thinking about our conversation. Even though we slept in the back courtyard, it was warm under the mosquito netting. Once in a while a slight scented breeze carried the smell of jasmine to me. The stars smiled like jewels in the museums: I could see them and admire them, but could never touch them. Dadima pulled up a chair close to me and began singing a Sanskrit shloka, a special prayer. "May everyone be happy, may there be peace for everyone. May good things happen to everyone, may no one suffer any pain." For a while her singing soothed me, until I realized that once I went to America, Dadima wouldn't be there to ease my sadness.