Read Online Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins - Free Book Online Page A

managing to cover his surprise. “We’ll deliver it to your place for free. I’m sorry, madam. I didn’t know you were together.”
    â€œThat’s quite all right,” Mom said. “Shall we get started?”
    A boy about Eric’s age brought us two bottles of cold orange soda. A female clerk measured every inch of me, knee to thigh, underarm to wrist, shoulder to hip, and all the way around me in three places. She raised her eyebrows over some of the figures and remeasured me several times.
    I noticed a barrel of jumbo umbrellas for sale in a corner of the shop. “Could I get one of those, Mom?” I asked when the clerk was finally finished.
    Mom paid the tailor for the uniform and the umbrella and gave him our address. One of the clerks hailed a rickshaw for us, and the tailor walked us to it himself, using his bulk as a human shield until we ducked inside.
    â€œAllah wa akbar!”
Muslim leaders proclaimed five times each day. “The Only One God is Great!” Amplified chanting from tall minarets called faithful Muslims to prayer. Sister Das had told us that the city of Pune was mostly Hindu, but there was a large Muslim minority as well as a tiny Christian one.
    Buttoning the two collar buttons of the starched blouse, I muttered my own prayer for survival. The tailor had come through on his promise and delivered the uniform to our apartment late Tuesday night. The blouse had to be tucked into the elastic waistband of the uniform’s dark skirt. My knees gleamed palely beneath the pleats, and I groaned at my reflection.
    The dreaded uniform outlined me like a tight figure eight, exposing some of my best-kept secrets. In a certain type of bathing suit (which I’d never wear in a trillion years), I could easily pass for one of those old-fashioned movie stars from the 1950s—the ones with round hips and big, pointy brassiere cups. That’s why I always felt more comfortable when my curves were camouflaged under loose T-shirts and baggy jeans.
    Eric, Mom, and Dad were waiting for me downstairs. As I descended, I could tell they were fighting to keep the shock from showing. Eric failed completely; his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged out of his head.
    â€œYou look great, Jazz,” Dad said, recovering first. “That uniform fits perfectly.”
    I groaned again. “It’s got so much starch in it! I feel like I’m wearing a guitar.”
    â€œWell, you look terrific, Jazz,” said Mom. “You have such a beautiful figure, darling.”
    Beautiful? Hah! Bountiful is more like it, I thought. I didn’t say it aloud, because like Steve, my parents hated it when I put myself down.
    â€œYour saree looks terrific, Mom,” I said instead.
    I couldn’t help envying how slim and small she looked. She’d managed to wrap and fold a saree around herself perfectly, even though she’d worn one only once or twice before in Berkeley. The one she was wearing now was green, with small yellow flowers embroidered along the border. It was an inexpensive cotton, like the sarees poor women wore on the street, but Mom’s looked new.
    â€œThanks, honey. I’m so nervous about making a good first impression,” she said. “I’ll start right away by visiting that settlement beside the orphanage.”
    Sister Das had told us that the women who lived around the orphanage rarely visited doctors or hospitals. When they got pregnant, they took care of things themselves. Some of the babies were born too early and had to fight just to survive. And some of the women died in childbirth. The grant the orphanage had won would provide enough money to pay for doctors, nurses, and supplies. On top of that, the clinic would offer any pregnant woman in the community one nutritious meal a day of rice, lentils, eggs, and vegetables. Mom was hoping the free food would draw them in, that they’d visit the clinic for checkups during their