“You want to be my deejay,” I said. “Forget it.”
“Why you gotta be like that, shorty?”
“Be like what? I know all about DJ Vijay. Do you own any records from this millennium?”
“You got something against ‘Billie Jean’?”
“Veej, that song is older than you are.”
“It’s what the people want.” He shrugged. “Listen, shorts, if I promise to play what your peeps want to hear, can I get the gig?”
Truthfully, I didn’t care all that much. I mean, I hadn’t been consulted on anything else of importance, so …
“Ask Mum,” I said bitterly. “She’s making all the decisions.”
“Come on,” he pleaded. “You ask. You know I ain’t got no creds.” (This because of the peanut M&M’s he sold to Mum’s book group as a “fund-raiser” last year—the “fund” being Vijay and Biff’s pockets.)
“Ask her yourself,” I said firmly. “I’ve got my own problems.” And I certainly wasn’t going to cash in my chips for this.
Vijay perked up. “Problems? Like what? Maybe we could help each other.”
“I don’t think so, Vijay, unless …” I stopped. Unless what? Unless Vijay learned to sew? Unless he took the blame for ruining the sari? “Never mind,” I said, knowing that anything I said to him could and would be used against me someday. Besides, he really couldn’t afford to get smacked in the head anymore.
“Did perfect little Tara do something wrong?” Vijay wheedled, still fiddling with the rakhi cord on his wrist. “Tell it to me, cuz. I’m here for you.”
Without meaning to, I glanced down and saw a corner of the sari still sticking out from beneath the couch. I tried casually to push it back some more with my foot, but Vijay noticed.
“What have we here?” he said, pulling the sari out. When he saw what had happened to it, his eyes got wide. “Dude,” he said, “you’re toast.” He turned to look at me gravely, and then he burst out laughing like a demented hyena, pointing at me and clutching his stomach. “Bah-ha-ha! Busted!” He couldn’t seem to believe his luck at my misfortune. “Tara’s in truh-uh-ble.” His eyes lit up like neon dollar signs.
“Shut it,” I hissed, snatching back the sari and rolling it into a ball.
“Vijayyyyyii!” Meena Auntie yelled, sticking her head out the door of Mum’s office. “What is happening out there?”
“Nothing, Mataji,” Vijay called back in a high falsetto, cracking himself up again.
“Stop aggravating your cousin.”
Vijay turned to me with a cunning smile. “You know what this means, don’t you?” He did an exaggerated bhangra dance move, turning his palms toward the ceiling as if he were balancing a heavy tray in each hand while rhythmically pumping his shoulders up and down to the beat of an imaginary dhol drum. “Hoi, hoi, hoi!”
“Whatever.” I sighed, stuffing the balled-up sari under the couch again. “You breathe one single word about this and the deal is off—and I’ll tell Meena Auntie what really happened to her cobalt vase.”
He shrugged happily. “Can I tell Rita Auntie you practically begged me to deejay?”
“You will anyway.”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“Whatever,” I said again. “But listen—I’ll give you a list of songs to play. You just play them. No Michael Jackson, no Kool and the Gang, definitely no Sinatra. You’ve got to promise.”
“Not even ‘Celebration’?”
I shook my head vigorously.
“‘New York, New York’?”
“Not even once,” I warned.
“Hip-hop?”
“Fine, but nothing more than three years old.”
“A’ight. A’ight. I’m hearin’ ya.”
“Seriously, Vijay? You’re such a poser.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that,” he said, indicating the sari. “You’re gonna need it.”
Mum walked Meena Auntie to the living room, a trick she uses when she wants her to leave. Meena Auntie took the hint.
“Chalo, beta,” she said to Vijay. “He will be waiting.”
“He” meant Aravind Uncle, her husband. They didn’t speak to each other. I don’t mean they were getting divorced or anything. They were together; they just didn’t talk. Meena Auntie didn’t even like to say his name.
The only thing they actually argued about was the reason they weren’t on speaking terms in the first place. Everyone knew Uncle was dying to move back to India, where it’s warm and the food is familiar and all the men chew paan and have small mustaches like his. Meena Auntie won’t live anywhere but her “Amreeka”—certainly not India. It’s a mystery why he didn’t just go back without her.
Auntie was hard to figure out. On the one hand, she was ferociously patriotic and wouldn’t trade her U.S. citizenship for anything, but she was also much more “Indian” than Mum. Like, Mum wouldn’t be caught dead in a salwar kameez, which is what Auntie wore every day except when she had to appear in court to defend a client. Mum said Auntie turned America into her own little India instead of assimilating. Auntie said where else but in America could you have the freedom to do that? Which was a good point. Besides, it was hard for me to imagine Aravind Uncle being happy anywhere.
He wasn’t even happy the last time we all went to India. I remember him standing around glumly in Nani and Nanaji’s garden, wearing a gray woolen cap even though it was like seventy degrees outside. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring absently through the wrought-iron bars of the car gate, watching the life outside the little compound—the chaiwallah selling steamy tea in clay cups, the wandering ear-piercer, a pack of filthy puppies sucking on their mother’s underside in the dirt road. A bored cow batted her tail at the flies circling her behind and munched on the charred trash at the corner, not bothering to pick out the paper bags from the fruit rinds.
Auntie had followed his gaze and snorted. Just moments before, Daddy had plugged up the toilet again, for like the third time, and she was still ranting about the state of plumbing and hygiene in India.
“This is your precious India, haan?” she said, turning viciously on Aravind Uncle. “Dysentery. Third-world plumbing. This is your paradise.”
Uncle had looked right through her, without saying a word.
Now, while Auntie put on her raincoat, Vijay turned to me once more, doing his bhangra moves as if to remind me of my promise. I shot him back a menacing look to remind him of his.
“Rita Auntie,” Vijay said, with wide-eyed, blinking innocence, “Tara here was just begging me to deejay at her bazmatzah—”
“Bat mitzvah,” I spat.
“Begging you?” Mum said, skeptical. I shrugged and looked out the window.
“What a lovely gesture,” Auntie said. “Vijay would be honored, won’t you, beta?”
“Of course,” Vijay said, smirking.
“Well,” said Mum, “if that’s what you want, Tara, I don’t see why not.”
I thought, Really—you don’t see why not? Because I could think of a reason or two. I didn’t mind having him deejay, as long as he stuck to my rules. It’s just that she agreed so easily, after nitpicking me about every little detail. She didn’t even stop to consider that he might show up late or not at all or that he might play something inappropriate, like hardcore. He might do any of those things. It was as if she wasn’t even paying attention anymore. I wished she had half as much faith in me as she seemed to have in him. Not that he’d even earned it.
was waiting at the door for Gran when she arrived Sunday morning.
“What are you two plotting?” Daddy asked when he saw us whispering.
“Who’s plotting?” Gran answered, shoving the sari into her enormous purse once more. “Can’t I take my only granddaughter out for breakfast on a Sunday?”
Daddy raised an eyebrow. “Tara, don’t you have Hebrew school at ten? It’s already nine fifteen.”
“Oh, look who learned to tell time,” said Gran.
“Ma—” Daddy began, then changed his mind. “Have a good time. Just get Tara to Hebrew school on time. Don’t get her into any trouble.”
“Who’s making trouble?” Gran replied.
We took two trains downtown, then walked about seven blocks to Marvin’s shop, Eisenman and Bergstein’s Embroidery and Finishing. The shop gate was rolled halfway down. I had to stoop down to get inside, but Gran barely had to duck.
“Knock, knock!” she called. “Ah, there’s my Marvin.”
Marvin’s really nice. He has the same kind face and light green eyes as Daddy, only he’s ten years older and has a fuzzy reddish beard. He also wears a yarmulke at all times, not just in temple.
“So, Aunt Ruth,” he said, clasping his hands, “let’s see it.”
Gran pulled the sari out of her purse and spread it on Marvin’s cutting table, explaining all the while. She shook her fist at me when she got to the part about the incense.
Marvin admired the fabric silently for a long time, rubbing the substantial silk between his thumb and forefinger, nodding along as Gran spoke. “A fine material like this, I could really do something,” he said after a long pause.
“That’s my Marvin,” said Gran, pinching him hard on the cheek even though he’s a grown-up.
Marvin and Gran discussed the dress details at length. I tuned them out completely, playing with the pinking shears and the little scraps of fabric that were everywhere. Then Marvin came at me with a tape measure and jotted down some notes. They both seemed satisfied with the plan.
“Well?” said Gran.
“Leave it to me, Aunt Ruth.”
“With the leftovers, you’ll make me a cushion,” she added.
Great. Gran’s couch and I would have matching outfits.
“I’ll try, Aunt Ruth, but I doubt there will be much left.” Marvin winked at me, and I smiled.
“Don’t do anything yet, Marvin dear,” Gran said, rolling up the sari and stashing it back in her purse. “First we have to break the news to Rita.”
That was the part I’d been dreading. I stopped smiling.
We took a taxi back uptown. Gran had the driver drop me off near the synagogue, as part of my alibi. I got there just as Hebrew school was letting out. Rebecca was on the steps talking to Sheila Rosenberg when I walked up.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” said Rebecca. “How’d it go?”
“Good, I think. Marvin’s going to make me a dress.”
Rebecca seemed truly relieved. Sheila just looked from one to the other of us, bewildered.
“You cut Hebrew school to go shopping?”
“I wasn’t cutting,” I said. “Or shopping. I was with my grandmother.”
“Rabbi was asking where you were.”
“Why would he ask you?”
“Not me,” said Sheila. “Rebecca.”
“What did you say?” I asked, turning to Rebecca.
Rebecca shrugged. “Nothing. I said I didn’t know.”
“I don’t think he believed you,” said Sheila.
“Well, it’s technically true,” Rebecca said.
When we got to Sheila’s corner, she didn’t cross the street right away.
“What are you guys doing today?” she asked, more to Rebecca than me.
“Studying,” I answered for her. “We have an English quiz tomorrow. Why?”
“No reason.” She shrugged. “I thought maybe we could hang out.”
Seriously? I caught Rebecca’s eye with a look that said I’ll handle this. “You’re not in our class,” I pointed out matter-of-factly. Rebecca looked embarrassed.
“It’s okay,” Sheila said. “Another time.”
“Another time,” Rebecca echoed.
“What was that about?” I asked after Sheila left.
“Nothing,” Rebecca scolded. “You don’t have to be so blatantly rude to her.”
“Whatever,” I said. Rebecca can be a bit too neutral sometimes.
Rebecca went home to get her English book. I walked the rest of the way home by myself.
“You make it to Hebrew school today?” asked Daddy.
“Yeah,” I said—which, as Rebecca would say, was “technically true.” I neglected to mention that Hebrew school was over by the time I got there.
“Hmm,” said Daddy, still vaguely suspicious. “Where’s Rebecca?”
“She went home to get her English book. We have a quiz tomorrow.” As if on cue, the doorman buzzed.
Rebecca and I made ourselves a power snack of peanut butter and celery. Then I spent about a half hour drilling her on the parts of speech until she stopped mixing up her adverbs and adjectives. Next, we turned to our bat mitzvah readings, because Rebecca said that Rabbi wanted us to bring discussion topics to Monday’s lesson.
Rebecca’s Torah portion was Mishpatim—the one about Jewish laws, all the “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth” stuff and how to punish a bull if it gores someone. I didn’t get why that was a law, when bulls couldn’t even read. I also noticed that a lot of the laws were negatives: don’t do this and don’t do that. It sounded a lot like Mum, actually.
Here’s the part that blew my mind, though: Jews owned slaves. I’m not kidding. Jewish slaves. The parashah starts with all the rules about how to treat your slaves, such as not hitting them with a rod and letting them go free after seven years. I was stunned.
“I know, right?” said Rebecca. “I couldn’t believe it either, the first time I read it.”
“But—what are you going to do with that?”
“Like in my speech, you mean? Find a lesson in it,” she said, in a pretty good Rabbi Aron imitation, deep, gravelly voice and all.
“I’m serious,” I said. “How can you even joke about it?”
“I am serious. There’s got to be a good explanation, right?”
“I hope so.” But what could that explanation be? Those were exactly the kinds of contradictions that had started me wondering if I believed in God in the first place.
I flopped down across the bed. “Rebecca, do you believe in God?” I asked her, staring at the ceiling.
“Is that your discussion topic?” Rebecca asked, alarmed.
“Of course not. Just—do you?”
“This is getting way too heavy, T. Can I at least finish my snack first?” Crunch, crunch.
“I’m serious,” I said again. “Why is it such a hard question?”
Rebecca licked a glob of peanut butter from her lip. “Yes.”
“Yes, it’s a hard question?”
“Yes, I believe in God.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’m sure,” she said.
“Then why’d you have to think about it?”
“Because—” Rebecca said, chewing slowly. “It’s complicated. For me, God is something specific. A symbol of good and hope. Something to aspire to. A role model, I guess.”
“God is your role model? I thought your grandmother was your role model,” I joked, remembering the essay we’d had to do for English homework last year. Mine was about Kalpana Chawla, who had been the first Indian American woman astronaut.
“Don’t make fun of me; it’s personal.”
“I wasn’t—promise. I was just thinking about that dumb English assignment—remember? When Ryan Berger said his role model was an RX-7?”
We used to laugh about that all the time, but now Rebecca seemed annoyed.
“You’re changing the subject,” she said.
I popped the last bite of PB&C into my mouth while I considered.
“Rebecca,” I said thickly, “what if I don’t believe in God?”
“Well, do you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I really didn’t. I wondered again if I had to in order to have a bat mitzvah.
I mean, what if I had to swear an oath before God and everyone that I believed in Him? I’d never heard of that happening at a bar mitzvah, but then again, I didn’t know Hebrew too well. Maybe they slipped it in somewher
e between the last aliyah and the haftarah. What if I was swearing and I didn’t even know it? I could promise to try. I could promise to be a good person. But beyond that—I didn’t know.
t my bat mitzvah lesson on Monday, Rabbi Aron asked me if I had any ideas for my speech, which he called my “remarks.” My Torah portion was the one about Joseph and his coat of many colors—except Rabbi told me it may or may not have had many colors and it may or may not have been a coat. More contradictions.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why can’t it just be a coat? I mean—why does everything require interpretation? It’s very …”
“Ambiguous?” Rabbi Aron offered.
“I was going to say frustrating, but yeah.”
“Would you like it better if you were told exactly what to think?” he asked, a faint smile on his lips.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. Without ambiguity, there could be no debate. Debate is a good thing, a useful thing. Have you heard of dialectics?”
“Not really,” I said, not wanting to sound stupid.
“It’s a philosophical method, a device, really—a way, through discussion and questioning of each other’s ideas, to reach a satisfactory answer together.”
I understood we were no longer talking about anything as trivial as Joseph’s coat.
“You’ve read the parashah, I presume?” Rabbi asked.
I’d read it, and I didn’t like it. I mean—Joseph was so full of himself, probably because Jacob spoiled him rotten even though he had, like, eleven other kids and two wives. In fact, don’t even get me started on Jacob—in class the week before, we had just read how he cheated his brother Esau out of his birthright; yet, which one of them got to be our forefather? That’s right. Jacob.
“Can you find a lesson in it, Tara?” Rabbi asked, predictably.
“Yeah,” I said, recalling the conversation with Rebecca on Sunday. “Jacob was a terrible role model.”
“Say again?”
“Think about it. Jacob cheated his elder brother out of his birthright. Now we’re all supposed to look up to Jacob and not Esau. How is that right? And Joseph learned everything he knows from him. That’s why his brothers sold him to the Ishmaelites as a slave. Speaking of which—” I said, thinking again of Rebecca’s parashah. “Never mind.”
My Basmati Bat Mitzvah Page 8
