As Sweet as Honey
Page 24
Rasi raised herself on an elbow. “Anyway, the thing is, I like him. I didn’t think I would, and I really wanted not to, but I don’t know, he’s kind of nice, don’t you think?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Rasi kept talking.
“He only agreed to see me to please his parents. He’s leaving for England in a week, anyway. So he hadn’t planned it, either.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sanjay, coming in and dropping onto the bed. “Isn’t his sister supposed to be married before him?”
“Of course, but get this. She’s already engaged to this French guy who Laksman’s parents aren’t that crazy about—a total soap opera—so we’ll get married after them.”
“That’s why they want you to finish your degree.”
“Well, no way am I getting married without my degree, plus there’s law school.”
“You don’t even know him!”
“I know he’s kind, responsible, likes sports, likes animals …”
“That’s like a personals ad. You only spoke to him for twenty minutes.”
“An hour. How long does it take to know a person? I read that in one second you know if you are or are not attracted to someone.”
“Yes, and that women over thirty who aren’t married will never get married.”
“Attraction is a lot different than knowing someone, Rasi. I mean, what if you get in an accident? Will he just go off and watch cricket? What about money? Will you have a joint checking account or separate?”
“And,” I said, “he could be a philanderer!”
They both stared at me.
“Well, you don’t know!”
“I could be a philanderer. Are women called philanderers?”
“I think they’re just called brazen.” Sanjay yawned. “I can’t believe you’re getting married. It’s so—” He searched for a word.
“Terrific?”
“Peculiar.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s all we seem to do in this house. Get married, have babies, get married, have babies.”
Rasi sighed.
“The thing is, I trust him,” she said. “I know it sounds crazy, but I don’t know, I think he makes sense. I like him.”
“Like finding the perfect puppy at a shelter, and knowing that one before all others is yours.”
I began to laugh, but Rasi seemed hurt.
“You can’t understand, and you won’t until it happens to you. It’s not anything you prepare for. You go for a walk with someone and there’s a vibration in the air, a shift of some sort—”
“A moon wave.”
“—and your heart cracks open.”
• • •
We were quiet after that, in our own heads. Sanjay lay across the foot of the bed. If men could be called odalisques, then Sanjay would be one, always at ease stretched out. I would always have a lot to learn about love. I never thought Rasi would accept an arranged marriage, but then perhaps she too, like our aunt Meterling, was merely following her heart. Who could predict what the heart will dictate, and who among us has the courage to listen? My trailblazing aunt and cousin, daring the rules, Eastern or Western, defying the customs of what was accepted or expected, and choosing freely. Would I be brave and honestly answer my heart when it called? Would I face the truth if it met me eye-to-eye, and accept it, or would I turn away, be ruled by convention?
Nalani came in wearing one of her Juliet gowns, and quietly slipped into bed with us. She too had defied convention, by choosing adoption, something our ancestors would have not allowed.
“I heard you talking,” she said, sighing as she freed a pillow for herself. In five months, she would have a baby and a five-year-old, but for now, she cuddled, our dreamy cousin who wished on paper fortunes and made matches for other people. She stroked my hair.
“You could be next on the list,” said Sanjay.
“Don’t get any ideas. I’m Kanyakumari,” I said automatically.
“What?”
“Is this a private party?”
We turned our heads to see Aunt Meterling at the door.
“Come in, come in, there’s plenty of room,” called Rasi.
There was. No matter where we were in our lives, married or not, with babies or not, we would always have room. We only imagined we were adrift like Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, fishing for stars, but our shoes always led us home, into a reality that seemed more touched with enchantment than most. Aunt Meterling laughed when she saw us, a giant belly laugh that lifted our spirits, and must have woken the house. That was fine, for waking by laughter was always good.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel began in a green-tinted notebook presented to me by three kind graduate students from Southampton College in 2001. It is a pleasure to thank them and to thank the Paden Institute for Writers of Color and the Fine Arts Work Center’s Long Term Residency Program for support during the writing of this book.
Thank you to Rosemary Marangoly George, who read, scolded, and encouraged; Rachel Harding, who cheered on; and Lillias Bever, who kept up the conversation.
Thank you to Caitriona Barclay, who gave me permission to fabricate a love story.
Thank you to Diane Cooper, Ani Kalfayan, Florence Ladd, Maureen Clyne, Scott Hamashige, Naomi Horii, Bhanu Kapil, Willow King, Emily Wilson and Joy Wallin, Karen Tei Yamashita, Brian Kiteley, Carole Maso, Vicky Tomayko, Harini Subramanian, Agnes Chouchan, Megan Smith, Chris and Michelle Hogas, Jeffrey Green, Michelle Ryan and Dean Chapla, Quincy Troupe, Henry and Arlene Geller, and the Ashtanga Project for support, advice, inspiration, and good cheer.
Johnny Jenkins and Chris, Danielle, and Nina of the Laughing Goat provided sweet welcomes and fine cappuccinos no matter my mood; and Marcia Douglas always offered wise guidance and deep support of my work.
Richard Freeman and Mary Taylor, and all of the teachers at the Yoga Workshop, gave me solace and strength, and I would not have made it through a dark year without them, nor the light ones before and after.
I owe much to Southampton and Sag Harbor, Long Island, where friends, students, and colleagues supplied coffee, Sunday dinners, and over-the-counter wisdom, especially Lisa Bonsal; Kathryn and MaryAnn; Jeanelle and Terry; and Doug and Bessim.
I owe much to my colleagues and students at Naropa University.
I owe much to Boulder, where I found great neighbors, a wonderful farmers’ market, and made lasting friends.
Thank you to my Nineteenth Street neighbors, Amanda Rankins-Stark, Ben Holland, Ben Oliver, Niko Wojczuk, Brigitte and Tom, David and Pamela, and Jack and Jenny.
Thomas Crown, Katie Heath, Luke Iwabuchi, Megan O’Brien, and Sue Zemka gave hugs and words sorely needed.
At the eleventh hour, both Andrew Wille and Dennis Mathis provided comments and notes for which I will always be grateful.
Thank you to Emi Ikkanda, who asked good questions.
Thank you, Andrea Cavallaro.
Thank you to Elise Capron who enthusiastically and consistently sent e-mails and e-vitamins.
I am always deeply grateful for the presence of Ann Close and Sandy Dijkstra in my life.
Thank you to everyone at Knopf, including my exceptional copyeditor, Patrick Dillon; Caroline Zancan; and Chris Silas Neal.
My parents, Subashree and Shankar, Shreyas and Meena, and my extended family as always provide love.
Finally, I would not have finished this book without the generosity and love of Anashua Sinha and Shridar Ganesan. They believed in the work and gave me time, space, and compassion.
Also by Indira Ganesan
Inheritance
The Journey
A Note About the Author
Indira Ganesan is the author of two novels, The Journey and Inheritance. She has held fellowships from the Paden Institute for Writers of Color, the Mary Ingraham Bunting Institute at Radcliffe College, the W. K. Rose Fellowship, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. Her essays and short fiction have appeared in Antaeus, Black Renaissanc
e, Bombay Gin, Half and Half: Writers on Biracialism & Biculturalism, Glamour, and Mississippi Review. She lives in Boston and Provincetown.
Visit: www.indiraganesan.com
Follow: @GanesanI
For more information, please visit www.aaknopf.com