Free Blue Jasmine by Kashmira Sheth

we talk to Dadima? She doesn’t know English.”
    â€œYou won’t forget Gujarati,” she promised. “I’ll make sure of that.”
    â€œHow about wearing a pearl necklace instead of a gold one?” Pappa suggested when he saw Mommy.
    â€œWhy? Doesn’t this match?” she asked.
    â€œI 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,’’
    â€œNeither 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.
    â€œYou 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 andbreads, 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?”
    â€œTurkey.” I said.
    â€œThat wasn’t a turkey. I have a picture of a turkey. It didn’t look like that,” she said.
    â€œThat’s what it was,” Mommy said.
    â€œWhere was its face?”
    â€œI 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,