As Sweet as Honey

  The radio played film music as we navigated the last rotary to head to the mountains. In thirty minutes, the car in front stopped on the side of the road.

  Raman went to investigate, as we got out to stretch a bit. It was the first rest stop of a total of four. Nalani, of course, needed the facilities often, but so did Meterling. The countryside started to get prettier as we left the city at last. We left the highway for Old Commissioner’s Road, where there was more foliage and thatched and mud houses, not brick. It was not long before Western-style toilets disappeared at the rest stops. Grandmother had fallen asleep, and Oscar nestled in the place where her blouse ended, before her sari tuck began, a roll of soft brown flesh that had comforted us all at one time or another. In half an hour, Sanjay and Ajay were asleep as well, while I looked out the window, as the landscape sped by, until my eyelids too became heavy. In the other car, Rasi later reported, they sang songs. First Aunt Meterling began a tune from an old film, so familiar that even Rasi knew the words. Song by song, they sang a repertoire of film hits from the fifties and sixties.

  Adding to the beauty of the island was the variety of terrain. Mountains, forest, and shore, all in a space that was not too difficult to explore. No wonder Captain Geert Pieter thought he had stumbled onto an enchanted island in 1726, thinking it might indeed be peopled with “elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves.” The greater magic was that the Dutch did not find it until the eighteenth century. Life here was so leisurely, in spirit at least, if not in actuality. Of course, we were on vacation, away from the all-nighters cramming for exams and papers, the days regulated by the buzz of the alarm clock, and weekends at home in front of the drone of the television, where all the studying could be nullified only by endless repeats of old shows.

  We stirred as the car began to climb up into the hill country. We passed a coffee estate, and I saw a sign advertising Banac’s Best, Ltd. I could smell the roasting beans, a fragrance that was said to increase one’s intelligence. Skinny trees jutted out as coffee plants thickly enveloped the hillsides. We drove up a dirt road, with a background of almost violet-colored mountains. There was mist in the air still, and the freshness that comes from altitude. As we rounded a turn, a field of lilac primula caught me by surprise. I heard Grandmother’s intake of breath. The driver said these were the royal carpets Akkase was known for as he brought the jeep to a stop.

  We got out, stretched, and waited for the rest of the family to climb out of the other car. From where we stood, we could see a vast view that was largely preserved in its natural state. Some sixty miles further was a bird sanctuary near a lake. Birds, coffee, mountain, and flower jostled for space. Oscar declared he was hungry, which made sense to all of us, as we had driven so long. Uncle Simon and Ajay set up the blankets under a tree, until Grandmother pointed out that the monkeys would not hesitate to steal the food and scamper up the leaves. So, we settled on a grassy open space, and set about opening the contents of our picnic. That must be why eating outdoors is so captivating: unpacking food from containers, stretching out on mats and blankets, not minding if an ant comes by for a crumb. The drivers went off for a smoke and their lunch.

  After eating, we split up to explore. There were many other travelers about, and Grandmother happened upon an elderly woman who, it turned out, knew Grandmother’s sister’s doctor. They might even find shared family, I thought, smiling to myself. That’s how it was on Pi. The woman’s son and his wife had brought her out for a visit, but when Grandmother stopped to chat, the couple wandered away for a walk, as we did as well. Akkase was a paradise for young lovers and hikers. Soon, even in our party, the couples went off on their own, Ajay helping Nalani up a steep path, Simon drawing in Meterling for an embrace. So, Sanjay, Rasi, Oscar, and I walked by ourselves, Oscar carrying a stick in case of tigers.

  We didn’t see any tigers, but what I was thinking of was snakes. We didn’t see any of those, either, except for a slender fellow that darted away. I wondered about Dickinson’s “tighter breathing,” how she got it just right in that poem. I shuddered in the way one does in the aftermath of seeing something alarming, shivering in its memory. Rasi and Sanjay had walked ahead with Oscar leading, and I hurried to catch up.

  When we came back, after investigating a pond, a view, and a splendid old tree full of monkeys, we found Grandmother deep in conversation with her new friends. This was Mrs. Shukla, we learned, a retired professor of astronomy—who had, we were astonished to learn, a side interest in astrology—and her son, Rajendra, and his wife, Asmati.

  “There is so much we don’t know, with the universe constantly in motion, and so much mystery,” she laughed, as our faces betrayed our surprise. She had learned to read charts, making her a South Asian woman who excelled in two things a woman of her time did not ordinarily do.

  “Mrs. Shukla is as revolutionary as Rukmini Arundale,” said Grandmother.

  “No, no, I just would not listen to those oldies who said only men can be versed in certain arts. We both have the same brains inside, don’t we—nice gray matter that is waiting to be filled with knowledge.”

  Nalani and Ajay arrived, receiving a good deal of teasing because their clothes showed signs of leaves and dirt.

  “We were merely sitting on the ground, you fools,” Nalani protested, waving away our sounds of cooing.

  Introductions were made, and made again, when Simon and Meterling arrived. They too looked like young lovers, smiling quietly and accepting hot cups of tea. We drew forth the biscuits, and shared Asmati’s homemade fruitcake. Asmati and Rajendra were visiting from Kerala. We listened to Mrs. Shukla’s story of studies, her marriage, and moving to Kerala from her original home in Kanyakumari.

  “Do you know the story of Kanyakumari Devi?” Grandmother asked us. “She was jilted at the altar by Shiva, and all the food for their wedding was left to turn to stone. That’s why the sand there resembles rice grains.”

  “Why would he jilt her?”

  Grandmother laughed. “He was supposed to arrive exactly at midnight, the time Narada selected as auspicious for the wedding, but on the way, an insomniac rooster crowed, and Shiva, thinking it was morning, and therefore too late to marry correctly, went home.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “The point is that he had to leave her unwed so the demon she was destined to kill would try to marry her and initiate the battle that would leave him dead by an unmarried girl. That was why the gods created her.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Shukla, “I heard that the rakshasa in fact was the one who tricked Shiva, so that he could take his place, but of course, our Kanyakumari could see right through that deception.”

  “But wasn’t it Narada who tricked Shiva, because on no account could the wedding take place? Oh, there’s another story too about Kanyakumari. They say the diamonds adorning her statue’s nose are so bright that they could light the seas for the catamarans,” said Nalani.

  “A holy lighthouse.”

  “But instead of safely guiding boats home, the light made the boats crash onto the rocks. That doesn’t happen anymore, because they keep the door to her shrine shut.”

  “They open it five specific times a year, though. You know, the sand at Kanyakumari is also tricolored: red, pearl, and black. As a child, I once visited, and we collected the sand,” said Grandmother. “We used it to decorate our Navratri golus.”

  “What’s a golu?”

  “It’s when we arrange dolls on the steps of a tiny stage, for the nine-day festival, when we honor Saraswati, Lakshmi, and Durga with special poojas.”

  “Oh, a doll festival,” said Oscar, disappointed.

  “Yes, a doll festival,” I said, tickling him.

  “Durga-Kali too was created to kill a demon,” said Rasi.

  “But she kept on killing after the demon’s death, so she became anger uncontained.”

  “And had finally to be subdued by Shiva.”

  Meterling hid a smile.

  “Do you thi
nk we could go there, Mummy?” asked Oscar.

  “Not on this trip, darling, but on the next one, perhaps.”

  Mrs. Shukla patted his head.

  “My home is also famous for being a place where our rajah and his son ousted the Dutch East India Company by capturing their commander. I named Rajendra after him. But this was before the Geert fellow found Pi. Holland was already in decline,” she said.

  So we discussed history and mythology, and inevitably, the talk came round, as it always does, to partition. By the time we were ready to leave, Grandmother and Mrs. Shukla, who had by now discovered they had at least two common acquaintances, were still discussing Gandhi, and how they wore kadhi.

  Mrs. Shukla and her family said goodbye to us warmly. She looked at Rasi a moment longer and smiled.

  “Remember, be sure to look at the moon the third day after it is new,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure she was really addressing Rasi, but it seemed that way. Overall, a mysterious encounter. The moon would be full that night, which was all I knew.

  54

  It would be nice to come here each summer, Mum.”

  Oscar played with a loose thread on his shirt as he said this. Swiftly, Meterling snapped it off, and then tousled his hair.

  “Why do people do that? To my hair?”

  “They’re just showing affection. Do you really want to come back each year?”

  “Yeah. Great-Grandmum is getting old, and I think it’s important to see her. Plus, I like it.”

  “How about moving here? See her all the time?”

  “Mum.”

  Meterling sighed. “You really want to learn karate?”

  “Yes.”

  Arrangements were being made to invite Nalani’s friends the Krishnaswamis and their son Laksman over to the house. Grandmother got a new sari for the occasion, and as in the old days, all of us were told to behave properly and dress nicely. Sanjay and I still couldn’t understand Rasi’s reasoning, and went to seek Aunt Meterling’s thoughts. We found her looking at Oscar’s painting of the ferry, which Grandmother had framed and hung near drawing models of Grandfather’s buildings and photographs of our ancestors. A large portrait of Lakshmi, shimmering and seated on her lotus, faced a portrait of Saraswati playing her sitar. Oscar’s watercolor looked good; for all his trouble, he got all the details.

  Aunt Meterling continued to surprise me. When we asked her if Rasi was being foolish for agreeing to meet this boy, she smiled.

  “Why foolish?” she asked.

  I never could keep a secret from Meterling.

  “So that’s her plan?” she said when I told her. “Well, I wouldn’t worry, you two. I hear he’s a very good boy, has lots of prospects.”

  “Auntie?”

  “Ah, you think because I married Simon, I’d be against arranged marriage. Not at all. I think we have a selection process that’s been in place for thousands of years, and it has held its own.”

  “But so many things can go wrong.”

  “Of course. But that’s true of all marriages. When Archer’s sister, Susan, first got married, she had a terrible time adjusting. She used to spend nights at our house, weeping in my arms. But after the initial shock of sharing space—things like finding dirty socks carelessly strewn about, or even other more irritating habits—you get over it. Susan did.”

  “So her marriage worked out, then.”

  “Well, her second marriage has. The first husband turned out to be a philanderer. She’s doing very well now, I think.”

  Sanjay and I glanced at each other.

  “Look,” she said, “nobody knowingly wants his or her child to marry badly. That’s why backgrounds are checked and horoscopes consulted. Of course, I’m not talking about dowry.”

  Or sati, which is all anyone wanted to talk about at my university, even as our parents insisted that the ancient texts never required it.

  I thought of the story of Kanyakumari. She was a good role model, a warrior who helped her people. I always thought of Rasi as a warrior, keeping Sanjay and me from harm. Maybe I would have to become a warrior as well. I don’t know why that thought occurred to me, but it had a nice ring to it. It was funny, though, that Rasi was going about her ordinary life, and somewhere, perhaps a mixed-up rooster had crowed. Bad timing and a preplanned life crept back like a wave returning to the shore, while a new suitor and a new life appeared.

  55

  Laksman arrived at the house on an auspicious Wednesday. In two days, we would have a new moon. Aunt Pa told me long ago that women were powerful three days before and after every full and new moon. I had argued that women must be entitled to more than just twelve days a month, but she said it made up for the monthlies, and men, as far as she knew, had no powerful days they could specifically claim. Because every day is a man’s day, teased Sanjay. Aunt Pa had been kept up to date on the Krishnaswamis. She may have even spoken to Rasi on the phone, but Rasi didn’t tell me.

  Oscar and I were out on the veranda, while Sanjay sat on the swing and played us what he knew so far on the guitar. Raman, the driver, had found him one. All Sanjay knew so far was “Blowing in the Wind,” which he must have repeated a dozen times already.

  “I’ll get better when I get calluses,” he said.

  “I seriously doubt it. It only has three chords.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been watching you all afternoon.”

  Oscar was on his stomach, drawing.

  We were expecting Laksman to come with his family, but he sauntered in alone. Introducing himself, he apologized for coming early, but said that he had been at a cricket match nearby and wasn’t sure when it would end.

  “It was a terrible match, it ended very fast,” he said with some disgust.

  I was struck by how affable he seemed, his hands stuck in his pockets, a broad smile on his face. Poor sap, I thought. I hesitated at taking him inside immediately, because he might throw the house in a tizzy. There was a word. What was its etymology? I put the question to the boys.

  “It rhymes with ‘dizzy,’ like ‘You make me dizzy, Miss Lizzy,’ ” said Sanjay, aiming the lyrics at Oscar, who giggled.

  “And ‘tipsy,’ it might have to do with things ajar,” I said.

  “I think it’s German,” said Laksman. He frowned, adding, “It sounds German, anyway.”

  “Do you know German?”

  “I was born there, actually, in Leipzig. I’m here visiting my parents.”

  “Are you studying there?”

  “In Warwick, actually. Civil engineering.”

  “I’ve been to Warwick. It’s on the way to Scotland,” said Oscar.

  “Well, that’s one way of describing it,” said Laksman, nodding.

  In a few minutes, his parents arrived at the gate, along with his sister. They looked more cosmopolitan than I expected, dressed in subtle, expensive clothes. His sister sported a large red bag that looked like it could hold three others. She looked a little bored as we introduced ourselves and took everyone inside.

  Grandmother had just finished pooja, and offered prasad, beaming. A very auspicious arrival. Nalani led them to the charpoys and chairs, and went to get drinks. Ajay and Simon had gone off for a walk and would return later, so it was just us seven and their four.

  “Thank you, darling,” said Laksman’s mother, taking the chilled nimbu pani from Nalani. How easily she said that, without sounding snobbish.

  His father told us how they had lived abroad until a few years back, when he and his wife returned home. “At heart,” he said, “we are Madhupurians, but Laksman is—”

  “European, darling, as is Sita. She is starting her studies in Warwick, too.”

  Sita smiled. Clearly, she wanted to be back there. Unlike Laksman’s, her accent was not a curious blend of German and English, but completely British, an urban manner of speaking that sounded hip and cool and trendy.

  Nalani told us how she had met Seema, Laksman’s mother, at an art gallery
. “I heard a voice say, ‘But where is the rabbit in that picture?’ So I told her where to look.”

  From that, they had started a conversation that led to tea at the Royale Tea House on Ningumbakum Road. Soon, Nalani and Ajay were invited home for dinner, which was where Nalani spotted Laksman’s photograph. For a minute, I wondered why they thought of Rasi and not me, but obviously, that was because Rasi was a year older.

  “Ordinarily, we don’t believe in long engagements, but we want Rasi to finish university first,” said Seema.

  Grandmother beamed even more.

  Meterling and Rasi came in, and after introductions, an uncomfortable silence descended. Even Sanjay had no jokes for the occasion. We sat on our seats, not wanting to offend, not wanting to look foolish or needy. Some of my grandmother’s rarely glimpsed hauteur returned, but only briefly. She knew who she was, and Rasi was her granddaughter. Rasi, meanwhile, just held herself with an elegance that surprised me. She answered questions that were asked about her studies and her parents efficiently. I wondered if she had practiced for graduate-school interviews.

  “Maybe,” suggested Laksman’s father, Prem, “the young people should go for a walk together,” indicating Laksman and Rasi. They agreed.

  When they returned in three quarters of an hour, they were engaged.

  56

  He’s Mr. Darcy without the pride.”

  “Then he can’t be Mr. Darcy. And since when did you want a Mr. Darcy?”

  “We all want a Mr. Darcy, Mina.”

  “Bend it like Beckham and don’t marry Wickham.”

  “What?”

  “Something Nalani said.”

  “Who’s Beckham?”

  “Soccer player.”

  I had had to wait until night to talk to Rasi by herself. We were in our large bed, with the mosquito blaster plugged in. It had begun raining outside, and I could hear the patter of water on the roof. The summer monsoon would be upon the island soon, but we’d be back in the States before then. The window let in the night breeze.