As Sweet as Honey (31 page)

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

L
aksman 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

H
e’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.

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.