My Basmati Bat Mitzvah

by Paula J. Freedman

  “Mum made me wear a training bra. It itches.”

  “Feh!” said Gran. “A waste of material.”

  She was right about that, too. It was weird going back to school and seeing which girls had suddenly sprouted boobs over the summer—not that I was going around staring at people’s chests; it was just hard not to notice. In the yes column: Sheila Rosenberg, Jenna Alberts, Missy Abrams. In the no column: me, Rebecca, Aisha Khan. I wouldn’t even care if it weren’t for all this drama about my bat mitzvah dress. Mum is a normal, average size—a lot smaller than Meena Auntie, a whole lot bigger than Gran—so I suppose I had nothing to worry about in the long run. It just made me wonder if I was going to wake up one morning soon in a totally different body. I kept checking, but so far, I was still me. Yet another good reason to go for a sari, I thought—you couldn’t outgrow one.

  I was regaling Gran with horror stories about the selection at Macy’s when Mum came back into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. I could tell she had switched gears and was now thinking about one of her building plans, because her eyes seemed to be focused on something invisible about a foot in front of her face.

  “Macy’s—feh!” Gran was saying. “You’ll go see my nephew Marvin.”

  Mum rolled her eyes.

  “What?” said Gran. “You think the goyim—pardon me, the non-Jews—don’t shop on the Lower East Side, I got news for you.”

  Of course Mum knows the meaning of goyim. Along with shiksa—a not-nice word for a girl who isn’t Jewish. It’s one of Gran’s most frequent Yiddish vocabulary words.

  “Tomorrow we’re going to Bloomingdale’s,” Mum said. I moaned.

  “Why don’t you let her wear the sari like she wants?” Gran said. “It’ll be a real standout.”

  Mum gave Gran a pointed look, but Gran waved her hand dismissively. “Eh, that was entirely different,” she said.

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Ask your mother,” Gran said.

  “You mean Mum’s wedding dress?”

  “Enough, Tara,” Mum said.

  Famously, Mum had worn a traditional red bridal sari to her own wedding, under pressure from Nani, who wept when she found out Mum was planning to wear a white gown. “Like a widow,” Nani had cried, wringing her hands. Mum was mortified, but she finally caved and wore the bright red-and-gold sari, which thoroughly scandalized Daddy’s Jewish relatives, especially Gran, who said only a nafka—a really, really mean word I refuse to translate—wore red to her own wedding. Mum had regretted the decision ever since, even though I’ve seen the pictures and she looked absolutely gorgeous. I hope to look even a little bit like her when I grow up.

  In other words, “standing out” was the last thing Mum wanted. With her chestnut brown hair and dark eyes, some people at our synagogue mistook her for a Sephardic Jew, from Israel or Spain. She never corrected them, even though she spoke no Hebrew, or Spanish.

  “Bloomingdale’s,” she repeated emphatically.

  “But I have Hebrew school tomorrow.”

  “After that.”

  “But Rebecca’s coming for lunch.”

  “Before that. It doesn’t have to take a lot of time, if you stay focused.”

  We heard a key in the lock. “Anybody home?” Daddy yelled.

  “In here!” I yelled back. Daddy came into the kitchen with two cloth grocery sacks from the farmers’ market.

  “Bloomingdale’s?” Gran shrugged, turning back to Mum. “Suit yourself.”

  “What’s going on?” said Daddy.

  “We have to go shopping again, for dumb dresses.”

  “Just maybe,” he said, putting down the grocery bags, “you ought to be less concerned with what you’re going to wear and focus more on the sanctity of the occasion.”

  Well, that was kind of my point, wasn’t it? I wished I had expressed it like that myself. More than anything, I hated being misunderstood.

  “Maybe if I didn’t have to go dress shopping, I could spend more time studying my haftarah,” I pointed out.

  “Well played,” Daddy admitted. “What do you say, Rita?”

  “Bloomingdale’s. Tomorrow. End of story.”

  he Bloomingdale’s trip was a bust, as predicted, which made Mum irritable. Plus, it was raining when we stepped out of the subway, and I had accidentally left her best umbrella on the train. When we got home, she retreated to her office and shut the door, popping her head out just once to remind Daddy it was still his weekend to make lunch. I also reminded him that Rebecca was coming over, so he’d better get started on his famous baked mac and cheese with the crispy goodness on top—her favorite.

  “I’m way ahead of both of you,” he said, lifting the lid off a steaming pot of macaroni, ready to be drained.

  Ten minutes later, Sal buzzed to say Rebecca was on her way up. I don’t know why he bothers. She practically lives here.

  When I opened the door, Rebecca was sucking on a huge iced caramel mocha frappé. I gave her my best gagging face.

  “I’m carbo loading for basketball tomorrow,” she explained.

  “I don’t think it works that way. That thing is mostly sugar, no complex carbs. Besides, if you’re going to drink all those calories, have a shake. It tastes better. Plus, that caffeine’ll kill you.”

  Rebecca shrugged and went back to slurping her drink.

  “Hello, Miss Becky,” said Daddy. He’s the only one who calls her Becky. Even to her own parents, she’s Rebecca.

  “Hey, J.F.,” said Rebecca, because she can never bring herself to call him Joshua, like he asked her to. She sniffed the air. “Speaking of complex carbs, is that my mac and cheese?”

  “It just went in the oven. I’ll call you girls when it’s ready.”

  “Let’s go say hi to Mr. Elephant,” Rebecca said, meaning the little statue of Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu god Nanaji had given me.

  I poured myself a glass of water, and we went to my room. The first thing Rebecca did was rub Ganesha’s belly, because I once told her it brings good luck, and money. At least that’s what Nanaji had told me. He used to keep it on a little altar that I’d replicated as well as I could on top of my dresser, next to a small brass bowl of teeka made from turmeric and incense ashes that I’d shmear on its head just the way he used to do. For me, it wasn’t a religious thing. Just a little ritual to remember him by. I did it now.

  I used to love it when Nanaji came to visit us. He was like a giant kid when he came to New York, and he loved to explore. He marveled how the drivers didn’t lean on their horns, and how everyone stayed in their own lane—the smaller cars and cycles didn’t try to squeeze in between the larger, slower vehicles. Only Nanaji would think New York drivers are polite.

  He loved Central Park best. He would swing me to his shoulders and walk the four blocks to the park, stopping to buy peeled mangoes on a stick or coconut ices from the Latina ladies along the way. Inside the park he would point out the trees bearing edible fruit, and it was my job to reach up and pick some, then feed them to him one at a time as we strolled across the grassy fields. We were never hungry for dinner when we came home.

  I knew he would have liked my sari idea.

  I ran it past Rebecca now, but she seemed skeptical.

  “I don’t know,” she said, draping the fabric over her arm. “I mean, it’s so pretty, but …”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing, it’s just—different, you know?”

  “That’s the point!” I said. Rebecca and Mum can both be so exasperatingly conformist.

  Then Rebecca had an idea: “Why don’t I go with you guys next time?”

  “Why, so you and Mum can gang up on me? Thanks but no thanks.” Rebecca was way too preppy for my taste. Today, for example, she wore a striped oxford under a royal blue V-neck, dark skinny jeans, and black leather basketball shoes—on a Sunday. She looked like an ad for a country club.

  “Fine,” she said, changing the subject. “Let’s play Bolly
wood movie.”

  “Okay,” I said, relieved. I gathered up the usual assortment of accessories—colored glass bangles, jingle-bell toe rings, silk scarves, stick-on rhinestone-and-velvet bindis—while Rebecca kicked off her shoes and popped in the CD. We pretended we were dancing in the rain, winding ourselves in the sari and then spinning free. For the full effect, I broke off a generous hunk of sandalwood incense from the stash I’d taken from my cousin Vijay, kneaded it into a tall pyramid, and buried the base in the brass teeka bowl. After I lit it, I opened the window a crack to keep the smoky sandalwood smell from wandering into the hallway, since technically I’m not allowed to use incense, or anything requiring matches, in my room. Luckily, though, Daddy had burned something in the kitchen, so no one was the wiser. That crispy top gets him every time.

  Rebecca and I took turns playing the heroine, and the villain behind the tree. When it was her turn to be the villain, I drew a thin mustache on her upper lip, using Mum’s old mascara wand. We were cracking ourselves up pretty hard.

  “Nahee! Nahee!” I cried, whenever Rebecca-as-villain caught me. “No! No!”

  “Bwa-ha-ha!” Rebecca replied, more horror movie than Bollywood musical, but it didn’t matter. She yanked the free edge of the sari, sending me spinning like a top. Then it was her turn to be the heroine, even though she still had the mascara mustache. I wrapped her in the sari, arms and all. She looked like a silk burrito with just her head sticking out, her baby-fine reddish brown hair flying in all directions. Her hair was practically standing on end from static. I yanked the free end of the sari to give her a good spin. She reeled into my dresser, snagging the sari on the edge of the top drawer, and for a second we thought we’d ripped it. I unwound her slowly to inspect it, but it was fine. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “That was close,” she said, smoothing down her hair.

  What happened next was like that dream where you can see disaster coming from a mile away, but you’re powerless to stop it or even scream. The wind kicked up outside, blowing the window shade inward. Rebecca reached out to keep it from knocking everything off my dresser, accidentally brushing against the smoldering pyramid of incense. She yelped and pulled her arm back, sending both Ganesha and the teeka bowl—ashes, turmeric, glowing incense, and everything—tumbling down. I snatched frantically at the air, not even caring if I burned myself, but I was too late. The incense had landed, smoldering side down, on the sari, burning a large, incense-shaped hole in the fine silk. Rebecca threw her drink on it.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled. “I had water.”

  “Reflex!” Rebecca said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Lunch!” Daddy called from the kitchen.

  I picked up the incense carefully and plopped it in the glass of water, where it fizzled out. Then I turned off the CD player and gave Rebecca one of the makeup towelettes to wipe off the mascara mustache while I stashed the ruined sari under my pillow, caramel mocha frappé and all.

  “Did you burn yourself?” I asked.

  Rebecca shook her head. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but I put out my hand.

  “DON’T say anything—I need to think.”

  “I’m really sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said, opening the door and pulling her through it. “Now go out there and act natural.”

  Lunch was pretty gloomy. Mum was already irritated by our disaster of a shopping trip, so luckily she didn’t notice Rebecca and me staring mutely at our plates. But Daddy did.

  “Why is everyone so quiet?” he asked, looking from Mum to me to Rebecca. “Did someone die while I was burning lunch?”

  At the word “burning,” Rebecca jumped, dropping her fork. Daddy can be kind of clueless, but this time I was glad.

  “Don’t be morbid, Joshua,” said Mum.

  “More, Miss Becky?” Daddy offered, even though Rebecca had barely touched what was on her plate. “You can scrape the burned stuff off.”

  “No, thanks, J.F.,” Rebecca mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “I have to go home—um, basketball practice.”

  ebecca and I started our bat mitzvah lessons Monday after school. Mine was first.

  Since it wasn’t a regular Hebrew school day, just a one-on-one lesson, Rabbi Aron was wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt, which seemed kind of weird to me. I mean, I guess rabbis are the same as other people, but still.

  “You seemed a little distracted in class last week, Tara,” he said. I blushed, hoping he hadn’t witnessed me and Sheila Rosenberg fighting after all. I nodded. “Is there something you’d like to talk to me about?”

  Sometimes I get the feeling he knows more than he lets on.

  “Rabbi Aron, can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything, Tara.”

  “Sheila Rosenberg says I’m not Jewish,” I said.

  Rabbi put down his pen and folded his thick, freckled hands on the desk. “And why would she say that, Tara Feinstein?”

  “She says because my mother isn’t Jewish—but she is.”

  Rabbi smiled. “I know that, Tara,” he said.

  “But—”

  “Let me ask you something: Are you Jewish?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I said, relieved.

  “Bubeleh,” he said, “you’re Jewish. No one can take that from you. I’m asking you how you feel. In your heart.”

  “How is being Jewish supposed to make my heart feel?”

  “Oy, Tara.” Rabbi chuckled. “Who but a Jew answers a question with another question?”

  I didn’t know whether I was supposed to answer that or not, so I kept quiet. Somehow, though, I felt a little bit better.

  “Shall we look at your haftarah now?” he asked, referring to the special reading I would chant at my bat mitzvah. I was supposed to have studied it over the summer, but that had never really happened. I’d been cramming for the last two weeks, trying to catch up, but I still wasn’t quite ready for an in-depth discussion, so I was glad when Rabbi asked, “Is something else troubling you, Tara?”

  I hesitated. There were several things I wanted to ask him: about God, and religion, and maybe some practical advice on how to tell Mum about the sari. I decided to start with that.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Only, I kind of did a bad thing.”

  “How bad?”

  “Not on purpose. I, like, accidentally—I mean, I broke something, or—something. And I’m afraid to tell my mother.”

  “Something of hers?”

  “No, it’s mine. But it’s something very special and old. And probably expensive.”

  “You don’t want to tell me what it is?” Rabbi asked. I shook my head. “Is there another adult you can talk to?”

  “No,” I said. “Just Gran.”

  Rabbi seemed to be suppressing a smile. “And what would your grandmother say?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged.

  Rabbi raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Wouldn’t she say you ought to come clean—tell your mother what happened?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “They’re not exactly besties.”

  Rabbi chuckled. “All right, what do you think the right answer is, Tara?”

  “I know I need to tell her,” I said to the floor. What I really wanted to know was how.

  “Are you worried she’ll be angry?” Rabbi asked.

  “I know she’ll be angry,” I said. “I can handle that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’m afraid … she’ll be …” I fished around for the right word, the right feeling. All at once it came to me: “Disappointed.”

  “Aha!” said Rabbi. He sounded rather cheerful. I raised an eyebrow. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “We are?”

  “You’re afraid of how this … accident reflects on you as a human being, yes? That’s a bit out of proportion to the crime, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. After all, there was the wr
ath of Meena Auntie to be reckoned with. The thought made me shiver.

  Meena Auntie was terrifying. One time when I was little, she said she wanted to eat me up, and I believed her.

  “She doesn’t mean it,” Mum had assured me.

  “Oh, but I do, Rita,” Meena Auntie teased.

  “Not literally,” Mum said, glaring at her older sister.

  “Mumma’s gonna eat-choo, Mumma’s gonna eat-choo,” Vijay sang, and Meena Auntie smacked him on the side of his head. That’s why Vijay is a pothead now.

  “Tara, you’re a very mature young lady. Whatever happened was, as you say, an accident. Tell your mother the truth. Don’t let it hang over your head. You have more important things to think about—your haftarah, for example.”

  After that, there was no more stalling. I flipped open the study guide, and we got to work.

  Later, on the way out, I bumped straight into Sheila Rosenberg and her mother. I bet they didn’t have any secrets from each other.

  Rebecca was still sitting on the steps outside. “Your turn,” I said. “Except I saw Sheila and her mom by Rabbi’s office.”

  “I know. Mrs. R needs to talk to him about some kind of special aliyah for her uncle Walter. He had a stroke.”

  I was too distracted by my own problems to spend time wondering why she knew that much inside information about the Rosenberg family. Rabbi was right: I had to tell Mum the truth. Just get it over with. Caught up in my own thoughts, I turned to leave.

  “Hey! Aren’t you going to wait for me?” Rebecca asked in surprise.

  “Can’t today. I have to go straight home.”

  Her face fell. “You’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad. I just need to talk to Mum.”

  Rebecca had an idea. “Want me to tell her? I mean, it was my fault.”

  “It wasn’t,” I said, getting exasperated.

  “Okay,” she said in a small voice. “Call me later?”

  “I will.”

  “Tara—good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll need it.”

  ll during dinner, I practiced in my head. I had decided to go with the direct approach. Just tell her what happened, beg forgiveness, and move on. Maybe I’d be grounded, but I didn’t care. It couldn’t be worse than this guilt.