As Sweet as Honey (21 page)

Did she have enough matching napkins? She found herself getting excited and at the same time slightly ashamed. No, not enough, but she could mix the red with the gold vine-patterned ones Rasi and I had given her. We had selected them because
they were bright and bold and big, just like our aunt. Only foreigners bought napkins; we rinsed our fingers and mouth at the sink after eating, but foreigners must not have enough sinks. We worried about our aunt going off to a country without enough sinks and bought her napkins to take with her. If we could have, we’d have rolled ourselves right up in the red-and-gold vine cloth and gone too.

“She needs to be protected,” I said.

“Uncle Simon will protect her,” said Rasi.

I wasn’t sure. Uncle Simon was too thin to be a warrior, I felt, too soft and easygoing. If our aunt needed protection from baffling foreign ways, would he be able to cope? Uncle Archer seemed a better choice, it occurred to me; he was so solid, so capable. Aunt Meterling needed Uncle Archer to help her out in London, we decided; but of course, Uncle Archer was dead.

There was enough silverware, Aunt Meterling decided, but the glasses would be an assortment of juice jars and wine tumblers, some plain, and others featuring bold bubbled surfaces. Simon had brought boxes of odds and ends as well as books from his old flat, and she burrowed through them.

“You could always borrow some from Mum,” Simon had said.

But Meterling refused, wanting somehow to do this herself. If she asked her mother-in-law, she’d get beautiful napkins and advice.

“I can give you plenty of advice,” said a voice, but when she turned around, she didn’t see any sign of Archer. Had her toes tingled? She wasn’t sure. Shivering slightly, she rubbed her arms.

A simple pulao, following a delicate lemon rasam, with Brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes in a curry stir fry, red moong dal, spinach and potatoes, naan or parathas for Simon’s father,
who much preferred it to rice; and for dessert, in addition to the Indian shop sweets, a tea cake.

Now, she had things to do. Since it was Diwali, she needed to purchase new clothes. She made her way to the Indian shops where she felt like she was in Delhi, entire streets full of desi shops, selling everything from dishes to food to clothing. Hindi, Gujarati, and the occasional Malayalam filled the air in quick streams, as shoppers haggled over the prices and the quality of wares. She looked at rolls of sari material in one cart, but went into the store opposite, which sold good Mysore silk. She could have been back on Pi. The store was quiet, and saris were stacked neatly against walls in vivid colors. A plump matron eyed her height warily at first, but came forward quickly. Soon she was suggesting colors and silks, tissue versus heavier cloths. There were even old-fashioned prints, borders that seemed ancient, handloomed and outrageously expensive, even for London. These beauties were displayed behind glass. Meterling fingered a pale-pink georgette sari and thought how nice Nalani would look in it. For herself, she turned to a muted blue with a border done in silver thread. She had the option of buying a readymade choli or being measured for a blouse that would be ready in two days.

“Two days?” asked Meterling, surprised at how quickly it could be done.

“This is London,” shrugged the proprietor, apologizing for the delay.

But the days of tailors stitching up a blouse in an hour for their clients were nearly gone, even on Pi. Grandmother used to make her own, on an old Singer, her feet rhythmically pedaling as her hands fed the cloth. Meterling, followed by every other grandchild, used to thread the needle for her. In school, they had learned to sew, embroidering handkerchiefs with
tiny rosettes, and unraveling the hems to tie them up neatly for a pretty edging. Nalani used to say that was the best thing about the convent school she’d attended: everyone could hem perfectly.

Meterling got measured, protesting that the front should not be so low cut as to upset her in-laws, and the back needed to be more than two inches.

“Then, madam, you will have an unfashionable choli,” said the tailor.

As she and Oscar made their way to the bus, she noticed a small sign: S. D. Shakur, Ayurvedic Doctor and Specialist—Walk-in Consults Available. Taking a breath, she walked in. She found herself in a small, musty room without a receptionist, although there was a desk facing the door. To one side was an electric kettle, with paper cups, tea bags, instant coffee packets as well as sugar and powdered milk. She was tempted to make herself a cup when she noticed another door off to the side. She knocked, but received no answer. They must have left the outer door unlocked by accident, and she sighed, preparing to leave, when a slight man entered the office. He looked surprised to see her.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Dr. Shakur.”

“I am he. Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I—”

“Well, you are lucky. My three o’clock canceled—come on in.”

My aunt was about to protest she was already “in” but instead followed him, rather bravely, through the side door, which he left open. She doubted he had a “three o’clock.” She sat down on a wooden chair and he filled in a few lines on a chart at his desk.

“So, what seems to be the matter?”

“I have a friend.”

“Ah.”

“She lost her husband, but remarried. Now she imagines”—she began, shifting Oscar to her other shoulder—“that she can see the ghost of … I’m sorry—it sounds ridiculous.”

“Your friend sees the ghost of her dead husband?”

My aunt nodded.

“How did he die?”

Meterling told him.

“He died without fulfilling his life’s desires. He cannot rest because he was neither burnt nor old enough to die. I suspect what he wants is not your friend, Mrs. Forster, but her child.”

“I—”

“But don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Forster; ghosts seldom get what they want. That’s why they are unhappy. Now, I need you to return so I can do a complete history, medical, physical, including temperament calculations.”

“I could ask my friend.”

“Yes, by all means, come back, Mrs. Forster.”

Two days later, when she picked up the blouse, she saw the tailor’s decisions about the back were correct, and was grateful that the front was more modest than fashionable. She picked up a nice shirt as well as a kurta for Simon and a little kurta for Oscar. She looked for Dr. Shakur’s office. She went in.

This time, a receptionist in a green sari and cardigan greeted her, and offered her a cup of tea. My aunt sipped from a cracked cup with a painted rose, and waited. Oscar waited as well in his sling pouch. The receptionist smiled at Oscar and then went back to work. Presently, Dr. Shakur ushered them in. The receptionist, who was a nurse or perhaps a doctor as well, took
her blood pressure, her height and weight, and listened to her heart behind a screen. Oscar was placed in a cloth baby hammock that was hung from the ceiling, as on Pi. When she was done, she closed up the screen, and Dr. Shakur took my aunt’s wrist and listened to her pulse. There was no mention of her “friend.”

“Where do you live now?”

My aunt told him.

“Where are you from originally?” He questioned her about her diet, her preferences for temperatures, her bowel movements, and her sleep patterns and any resultant dreams. Aunt Meterling told him about her nightmares.

He took notes, and then told her that her humors were out of sorts.

“This is why you are having these kinds of dreams. You do not want the Bhuta to interfere with your present life, so even before you met it, you tried to kill it. That is good.”

“I didn’t try to kill him—I just didn’t help him survive, in the dreams.”

“I want you to eat ghee every morning, and refrain from any food after seven o’clock in the evening. You need to eat cooling foods, no chilies, spices, no caffeine, everything room temperature so the Agni will be soothed. You understand? The Bhuta is bothering you because it is angry it is not having a life with you. Do not encourage it. Do not engage with it. If it wants to speak, don’t respond.”

Dr. Shakur gave her some tiny moist pills in a packet.

“This is to strengthen your blood. Come see me next week.”

Meterling said goodbye to both the doctor and the woman in the sari.

Together, with Oscar in the Snugli that her mother-in-law got them, the brown pills in her purse, she boarded a bus to
buy sweaters at Marks & Spencer for the rest of the family, and then, with all their purchases, took a taxi home.

37

Simon ate crisps out of a packet at the kitchen table, looking at the paper. She put down her packages, transferred Oscar, who was already asleep, to his cot, and returned to the kitchen. Sighing, she slid into a seat and hungrily ate the crisps Simon offered. She liked to douse hers with hot sauce, which Simon complained made them soggy. But Meterling liked her snacks hot. For now, though, she would stay away from spicy foods. Archer appeared almost casually, reading over Simon’s shoulder. Salt. She had forgotten about salt.

She fled to the bedroom.

“Meterling, what’s wrong?”

But Meterling cried harder into her pillow, her skin damp, her wild, unmanageable hair sticking to forehead and pillows.

“Please, let me in, tell me what’s wrong.”

For a moment, Meterling lifted her head, but she could see him beyond Simon, smiling. With some force, she embraced Simon, kissing him, thinking that if she were to make love passionately to Simon, Archer would have no choice but to go. “Forgive me, Simon,” she said silently, undressing quickly.

“I don’t understand you,” said Simon, later, buttoning up. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“I went to see an Ayurvedic doctor.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I can see him, Simon.”

“Who, for godsakes?”

“Archer. I can see him. He is always there.”

“Archer.”

“I know you must think—but I’m not imagining things.”

“I’ve seen him, too.”

Meterling stared at Simon.

“At first, I thought I was dreaming, but there he was, opposite me on the train.”

“And then you realized it was someone else.”

“No, it was Archer. I thought he’d tell me something, bless our marriage, get angry, anything.”

“You were on a train.”

“Even when I got out at the station.”

“What was he wearing, Simon?”

“The white suit he had on at the wedding, with the pink tie.”

“Do you think Oscar sees him?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only seen him that once. My scalp started itching.”

“My toes tingle before he appears. It’s eerie.”

“My great-grandfather on my mother’s side saw ghosts. He claimed several lived in his house. He said that they were friendly. When I was six, I once visited him with Archer and Susan. He was dying then. He asked me to come close to him. I went near, thinking he’d tell me about them, give me a secret, but all he did was tweak my ear.”

Simon rubbed his ear as if it hurt still.

“Archer, Susan, and I combed his house, but we never saw the ghosts.”

“He wants me to live on Pi and eat mangoes.”

“Archer?”

“Simon, maybe I should invite him to the dinner party, but the doctor said not to interact with him.”

“I don’t think he needs an invitation.”

“I think he wants Oscar.”

“Well, he can’t have him.”

Meterling wiped her eyes. “Mrs. Vickers might leave us if she sees Archer’s ghost.”

“Mrs. Vickers hasn’t seen him.”

“Am I being rude, Simon? He left me the house and the fields. Maybe he’s lonely, maybe he just wants company.”

“His inheritance actually brought us together, Meti. Don’t feel guilty about that. The expected hardship for an heir is the estate tax, not the ghost of the deceased.”

“Maybe we ought to sell everything.”

The next day, Meterling woke rested. She threw back the covers, upsetting Pibs, who had nestled by her ear. It was Diwali and she had not had a nightmare. Maybe Archer’s ghost had decided to go away at last. The pale sun lit up the curtains. Her first Diwali with her husband—a tremendous thing. A buffet was the perfect choice. That would be easy. Simon started to laugh, but agreed to help. Mostly that meant chopping vegetables and then staying out of the kitchen. By the time all four burners were on, he decided to take Oscar out, “to get from under your feet.”

Having made his escape, my uncle Simon wrapped his scarf closer around his neck, and made sure Oscar was sufficiently bundled but not suffocating. Navigating the buggy, and listening to Oscar’s delighted squeals, he remembered how worried he was that he might accidentally drop the baby. Or go to a supermarket and forget him in the car. He had never once dropped him or forgotten him, but the thought plagued him in the rare nightmare. He would then get up and make sure Oscar was breathing.

He missed Archer. The shock had hit him with such force. Archer had been his older brother, the genial advisor. His parents let him do anything if Archer was around, even if they recognized that the latter was more often co-conspirator than chaperone. Archer would keep Simon safe. Archer did keep him safe. It was Archer who introduced him to the first taste of the family gin, and bought him his first packet of condoms. It was Archer who insisted that Simon keep up his studies, who let him use his flat in London later as a place to crash. Archer’s flat overlooked the Thames, and when Simon brought his first girlfriends there, they could hear the water lap as they clumsily unwrapped themselves and learned to make love.

It was Archer who pressed upon him
The Tao of Sex
and Henry Miller and
On the Road
. Those books and others occupied the shelves and the floors of Simon’s first flat after matriculation. Degree in hand, he wound up not at the great financial houses like his peers, or the courts, but as an intern for Roman Books, a small publisher of volumes about Italy.
A Hundred Ways to Look at Spaghetti
and
Love in Tuscany with a Picnic Hamper
all found themselves between hard covers, and Simon’s job was to read through assorted manuscripts, fetch coffee, make coffee, answer phones, and open mail. Soon, he began to write rejection letters:
We are so sorry to have to return your manuscript. It is just not what we are looking for now
. Then back would go the proposal into an envelope helpfully provided with the submission. In a year, he became an assistant editor, and in two, an editor. In three years, he found another house, one that published travel exploits, trekking guides, and garden books. He began and ended affairs with (or was left by) two women he worked alongside: a girl in marketing straight from university, and an assistant who began to arch her eyebrows at him when they passed each other, as if they were sharing a secret joke. The
joke was their brief cohabitation; the joke was he never fully satisfied her. So here were her eyebrows, raised upwards, and her eyes widening in their sockets, in the hallways, in the tiny coffee area, expecting his to respond in kind. She left to work at Faber or Penguin or Bloomsbury, and the university student immigrated to the States.