As Sweet as Honey

by Indira Ganesan

  We met my mother at the harbor: Nalani, Uncle Darshan, Uncle Thakur (who was on leave from his office), Rasi, Sanjay, and me. I wore a nice frock, which came with shorts attached that my mother had sent to me for my birthday, and my hair was painfully pulled back in two braids. Every now and then, I’d tug at the ribbons to loosen them. From where we stood, we saw the boat dock. Crowded with people waving and shouting to us on land, the small boat was majestic in a way. Soon the passengers descended. There she was! My mother, in a very bright green sari, holding a big purse. Uncle Thakur kept me from running to the door to meet her. At the arrivals building, then, we waited for her to clear customs, and finally my mother swept me up in her arms. She hadn’t forgotten me, as I secretly worried; she knew who I was.

  While we waited for her luggage, my mother told us about the flight. She described the meals they had been served, the passengers next to her, and the hard candies the stewardesses brought in trays. Opening her bag, she distributed almond cookies wrapped in beautiful paper from the Italian airport. She described the way the plane rocked through a lightning storm, which was called “turbulence.” All the while, I clung to her, as if I were five years old instead of ten.

  We crammed into the Ambassador van Uncle Thakur had hired, and drove home. Outside, green rice paddies flew by, and silvery lakes. Coconut trees rippled their fronds lazily, and my mother pointed out a man climbing up one, using a small piece of rope to help him ascend.

  “There is nothing like this in the U.S.,” she said. “All the coconuts are in supermarkets—but at least there are coconuts! But no fresh coconut water. I miss that.”

  So Uncle Darshan immediately asked our driver to stop at the next roadside stand, where a woman hacked off the tops of green coconuts, scraped the soft white flesh inside, and handed us each one, with a straw and a scraper. The driver said he didn’t want one, and went off a ways to smoke. Happily, we drank and ate. Once we finished, we handed the nuts back to the vendor, who scowled and smashed them into a pile behind her.

  “Everybody wipe your fingers—no stickiness in the car! Okay, now let’s drive fast, because they will all be watching the clock,” said Uncle Darshan as we got back in.

  Everyone was waiting on the veranda. Aunt Pa rushed toward the car door as we spilled out, and hugged my mother fiercely.

  “Vare-va, look at your hair,” she said, smoothing my mother’s short pixie cut.

  My mother grinned, and touched Grandmother’s feet.

  “Finally, finally. Why did you take so long to return?” my grandmother said as she held her foreign-gone daughter.

  “And look at you, my dear,” said my mother, turning to Aunt Meterling, who was really her niece, to hug her. “Look at you. And look at this darling boy.”

  • • •

  The entire month she was home, I slept in her bed. My mother cuddled me, but morning usually found us facing out, back to back, deep in our own separate dreams. I asked her what her school was like. She told me the brick walls were covered in green ivy, which made me think of Sleeping Beauty. She was studying astrophysics, and said that her team was building a telescope better than any before. Sometimes, her team worked all through the night, taking naps on couches. She was helping with the lens, creating mathematical formulas to make sure the dimensions were right. She smelled good, like perfume and powder. She gave me extra kisses and hugs from my father, who was hard at work, she said. She let me wear her jewelry, but not her marriage chain (“One day you’ll have one of your own”), and showed me the clothes she’d brought for all of us: T-shirts and jeans, more dresses, and, best of all, sneakers. When I laced up mine, I felt I could run as fast as I wanted to, that anything was possible.

  During the day, we went to temple, visited all the relatives and friends nearby and far, went to see silly movies, and, every day, got an ice cream at the beach. My mother laughed a great deal, and with her, both Aunt Pa and Aunt Meterling looked like girls. Or at least, they looked less auntie-like. We played with Oscar, who was fatter now, sturdy, and happy to cry whenever he felt like it. My mother brought him a stuffed tiger, the mascot of my father’s university school, with which he was delighted. She also brought baby clothes and soft rattles, and teething rings. My mother met Ajay, and promised to return for the wedding with my father. She squeezed Nalani’s hand, hardly believing, she said out loud, that Nalani was already marrying.

  Late at night, she spoke with Grandmother and Aunt Pa about America, encouraging Auntie and the uncles to move to the States. She said we’d all get a good education. Aunt Pa was not that interested, but Uncle Thakur was. He was eager to see Rasi get an education in the U.S. Aunt Pa wondered if it wasn’t risky to leave a good job for one that didn’t exist.

  “Life is an adventure, Parvati!”

  “Life also means providing for your children.”

  As they began to argue, my mother told Grandmother about my father. He was working on his dissertation, and would be going on job interviews. We would likely settle in New York or New Jersey, she said.

  I was not certain of the move. If Rasi and Sanjay moved as well, it would not be so bad. Everyone wanted to go to the U.S., everyone. But what about Pi? What about Madhupur, and the beach? No coconut water—what else would there be none of? Already Meterling was going to London, and Nalani would be going to medical college while Ajay applied for jobs in the U.S. I worried my grandmother would feel lonely, for we would be abandoning her like a sinking ship. Why couldn’t she come too? But Grandmother had no desire to move. She liked Pi, her world, as she had known it from birth. Yes, the house might be quieter with all of us gone, but she would not move in with her daughters. Meterling begged her to come to London, but in the end, Grandmother said if she had to live with anyone, she would take on boarders. The house could be rented, providing an income, and kept open for us when we all visited.

  27

  An auspicious day was selected for Nalani’s wedding. Our family had spent months getting ready, securing the hall, the musicians, caterers, sending the hundred-plus invitations. Everyone was coming. Oscar was now almost three months old. I was so excited to see both my mother and my father that I could hardly contain myself with anticipation. Sometimes I just jumped up, feeling my skin would burst.

  By now, the baby could roll onto his stomach. He seemed more and more a person. Simon brought all sorts of baby gear back with him from England, including soft little knitted socks from his mother. Oscar would get a tiny snap-on kurta for the wedding, with gold embroidery. Every time we saw it, Rasi and I would exclaim, “So sweet!” But far sweeter was Oscar, who gurgled happily and kicked his hands and feet for no reason. My grandmother had feared that Simon would be nonvegetarian, but he surprised us all by revealing he had been vegetarian since his college days.

  Simon had located a flat within walking distance of his new job, with a small garden. The subletters of his old flat had decided to stay on. He showed us photographs. The building it was in was of a yellow-white stone, and you entered through a small wrought-iron gate. There were geraniums poking out of tiny pots behind the railing, and a gray cat snoozed nearby. You walked down the stone steps to a door painted green. Inside, there was a kitchen we eagerly pored over, it having a refrigerator, and a stove with an oven, a round wooden table with two chairs. There were two larger rooms, and a Western-style bathroom with a big tub that stood on claw feet. From the kitchen, another door led into a small rectangular garden, growing roses, herbs, and some flowers we could not identify in pots. The street was above the garden, so it felt secret. Meterling liked the whole place, but I liked the garden the best.

  There were more photographs of the street, of an Indian takeaway, a large grocery store called Waitrose, a pub, and a park. There was also a picture of Simon’s office, and some family pictures, including ones of Simon as a boy. He looked pretty cute, we had to admit.

  Would Meterling like England? We played a game called L-O-N-D-O-N, but we didn’t know much about the city. Uncle Dar
shan brought us a picture book and we learned about various buildings, the Globe Theatre, Buckingham Palace with the Changing of the Guard, and the Parliament buildings. We all liked the map of the Underground trains. When we visited, we would use it a lot, we decided. Still, it was very different than Pi. There were no bullock carts, no motor rickshaws, no temples, no beach. No us.

  “Sometimes I think he is too perfect, and wonder how I am blessed enough to have him in my life,” said Aunt Meterling, to which Grandmother always responded by saying that Meterling always deserved the best in life.

  Simon finally met my parents, who hoped to go to a postdoc conference in London one day. They spent a long conversation about the city and its restaurants. We were gathered to see the saris Meterling and Nalani had bought for the wedding. They had bought saris for the groom’s family, as well as silk and gold thread dhotis for Ajay, his father, and his brother. They were appropriately appreciated, but what everyone wanted to see were the saris for the aunties and Grandmother. Here was the real show. Auntie Pa received a lovely dark-brown gold-shot Banaras silk, with an extensive mango-design paloo; Meterling received a beautiful blue Banaras silk, the color of twilight when just the faintest hint of sun is on the horizon; and my mother and grandmother received Kanjeevaram saris, one red and gold, the other heavy emerald green, while Rasi and I received long silk skirts with matching tops, yellow-gold and pink, respectively. Our skirts had already been made, so we rushed to try them on and twirl. They didn’t flare out like our Western frocks, but billowed like bells.

  Nalani had four saris: one six-yard in orange for the formal engagement; one six-yard in red for the wedding; one tissue-silk gharara in pale pink with an all-over pattern in silver thread for the reception; and one that would be presented to her by Ajay’s parents at the wedding itself, a nine-yard one into which she would change for the final ceremony. Ajay’s parents would also present her with a sari at their home. Nalani had chosen the first three. When coaxed to try on the gharara, she came out looking like a film star. All of a sudden, I felt like I was going to cry. I didn’t want Nalani to get married, go live in Ajay’s house, even if she did like him. My mother must have noticed, for she gave me a hug, and told Rasi and me to take off our new dresses before we spilled something on them.

  All day and night, women sat stringing flowers together with needle and thread for the garlands. Cooks had been hired to make the wedding feast. Men who were champion sweetmakers set up shop with a seriousness that would have seemed almost funny if they hadn’t given us tastes when no one was watching. The man who made murukkus was famous throughout the town, because he could coax enormous spirals out of the most delicious chickpea batter dropped in hot oil; his sons helped him make small ones for the reception dinner. A man delivered glossy plantain leaves that needed to be kept moist. Coconuts were being broken and shredded, vadas being fried, sambars and rasams were simmering, vegetables cut and peeled. A very strange concoction resembling mini-volcanoes were shaped out of sugar; they’d be present at the wedding ceremony, but would not be eaten.

  First was the official engagement party. The next day would be the wedding, beginning at seven a.m. That evening, after we had stuffed ourselves with sweets, we sought out Nalani. She looked so small. Yesterday, she had henna applied to her feet by Auntie Shobana, who was born in Lahore and relocated to Madhupur. The designs she drew were intricate, spirals and flowers, which she also applied to Nalani’s hands. We had been shy around Nalani in her engagement sari and all the gold jewelry and flowers, but now she wore a simple blue chiffon sari. Tomorrow her hair would be transformed into an elaborate style with jasmine flowers and tassels, but now she wore it in a simple braid. Again, I was overcome with a sadness I did not understand.

  Rasi was curious about the wedding night, but Nalani batted away her questions. She lay full length on her bed and stared at the ceiling. We lay beside her. We used to lie like this on our roof, looking at the stars. Nalani had once told us that each of us was born under a special star that connected us to our ancestors, that heritage was never something to throw away. Now she told us when it came time for us to marry, our parents would choose wisely, that they would match family, education, outlook as well as stars. I didn’t tell her I was going to live alone.

  “Rajan?” I asked.

  “Will always remain my fond classmate,” she replied.

  If she doubted herself, she hid it well. I wondered if it really was for the best she was not marrying Rajan. I had read enough Mills & Boons to know that the road to true love was a rocky one. Maybe they would have had a lovely wedding, but so much could happen afterwards. Rajan might have died like Uncle Archer. Maybe the horoscopes were right, and the stars knew more than we did. I remembered Aunt Meterling asking me if I understood why Nalani could not marry Rajan.

  “It has to do with his family not wanting her in the house during her monthlies.”

  Aunt Meterling looked at me.

  “Beti, it was because his parents wanted a rich bride, and Nalani is poor, but worse, an orphan.”

  “She’s an orphan?”

  “Yes, that what the word means. No mother or father, and some people are very particular about family.”

  I didn’t tell my aunt that I thought you couldn’t become an orphan; you just were one, like being poor, or short. I realized I hadn’t really thought it through and felt embarrassed.

  “She’s better off with Ajay,” said my aunt. “Imagine having to live with the kind of family Rajan must have.”

  Maybe Aunt Meterling was right; maybe Nalani was truly at peace, as her paper fortunes predicted, trusting in the future she and Ajay would have. She would become a doctor, and both she and Ajay would have jobs in the U.S. I thought of how many different ways stories are told, how many lies and truths. I resolved to tell the truth, no matter what. I felt fairly proud about that.

  Nalani rolled over onto her side, and looked at me.

  “You must marry when the time comes, Mina. It is your duty,” she said.

  Rasi smirked, but I felt as if my destiny had been written then and there, only it troubled me.

  “Of course I will,” I said.

  At five a.m., Nalani bathed, and dressed in the first wedding sari, as centuries of women had done before her. We made our way to the marriage hall, in our silk and flowers and jewelry. The hall was completely decorated with flowers, as the priests tended the fire. Nalani looked like a princess, but also a stranger, with her makeup and jewelry. Ajay arrived with a fan and ceremoniously pretended he wanted to live the life of a brahmachari, and Uncle Darshan interceded with him, saying that married life as a householder would be equally fulfilling. Ritual after ritual was performed. For some reason Rasi dug her nails into my hand, and I could tell she was crying a bit. Nalani and Ajay exchanged heavy garlands of flowers as they were raised up in the crowd. Then the muhurtham, when Ajay tied the marriage thali around Nalani’s neck as we threw handfuls of rose petals, and the drums and horns played loudly. Done! Nalani was married.

  Nalani was to spend the night at Ajay’s home, where his mother and father presented her with another sari. Their neighbors visited, and we came over for a big dinner. I had eaten so many sweets and snacks by this time that I eyed what was on my plate with trepidation, but I dutifully held out my hand for the wedding payasam and then the wedding ladoo. Meterling leaned her head on Simon’s head, then laughed as he attempted to scoop the rice and rasam with his hand. There had been banana leaves provided for the lunch, but Simon was served on a plate then, too. Always, he was asked if he wanted a spoon, and always, he shook his head no. Finally, half-asleep, my uncles singing filmi songs, my aunties looking tired and happy, we wandered home. The stars were bright in the sky, and I looked for constellations. Behind us, the house was quiet, just Nalani and Ajay and his parents, maybe some cousins, too. How good it must have felt to Nalani to finally unwrap herself, and slip into her nightgown. And if it was Ajay’s presence that awaited her, maybe that was good, beca
use together, they could sleep, exhausted, and married.

  PART TWO

  Time Passes

  But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. Winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken …

  —To the Lighthouse

  28

  She had dreamed of him again. Sitting jackknifed on the new bed she shared with Uncle Simon, her heart racing, my aunt Meterling woke with panic. For seven consecutive days, she had dreamed of her Archer dying in seven different ways. In her first nightmare, she pushed him over slippery rocks in water; in the second, he walked backward off a cliff. He clutched his heart only once, falling to his knees, wearing a yellow tuxedo; that was dream number six. In dreams four and five, he was shot by an assassin and stabbed by a knife. Only in the first was she directly responsible for his death, although in all, she was implicated. In this seventh, the latest, her hands slipped from his as he tumbled off the Middle Tower of the Tower of London.

  All she told me years later was that she had nightmares; as always with my aunt, I embellish the stories. I was not there. Had I been there, I tell myself, maybe I could have prevented them, and though I had desperately begged at the time, the idea of sending an eleven-year-old to a foreign country while her own parents already lived in another one, and her extended family lived on Pi, was dismissed.