As Sweet as Honey

11




Meterling said we are all of us braver than she could ever be. I didn’t understand, because to me it was Meterling who was the bravest of anyone I knew. She was the one in the family who went outside tradition, the one whom the aunts scolded, the one who gave rise to so much talk. But Meterling said we were young and therefore would always be able to do more than her.

“I can’t even drive a car,” she said, “but you girls will drive as soon as you are able.”

“Why can’t you drive, Auntie? Aunt Shobana can.”

“I fear crashing, Mina, of hurting someone else with my hands. I fear panicking between choosing accelerator and brake. Perhaps I fear making mistakes. I worry about forgetting how to drive while driving. I worry I won’t know what to do at intersections. I know I need more experience behind the wheel to gain confidence, make left turns, merge into traffic, but I get scared. So if someone makes fun, says, ‘Take the bus,’ I think okay, yes, I’m not too proud to do that. But you, my dear, you will drive, and drive well, in all sorts of weather, at night, safely, securely.”

“I will learn to drive a motorcycle,” said Rasi.

“Of course,” laughed Aunt Meterling. “And why not?”

What she didn’t tell us: that with Archer came her chance to travel, that without him, she was moored, unable to drive, fixed.

Aunt Meterling herself had a friend, Chitra, who rode a turquoise blue Vespa scooter, always with her hair in a braid, tossed like a scarf around one shoulder.

“Every girl has a friend like Chitra—even I had a friend named Chitra,” grumbled Grandmother, and I knew she loved Chitra. I suppose Grandmother meant there are always girls who test the borders of every life. I wasn’t sure if I had that kind of mettle. Rasi did—she did for sure. But me, I tended, even at a young age, to be more cautious, to be the follower, not the leader. If we lied as children, it was my palms that would break out in a sweat, my eyes that widened slightly for fear of being caught. To this day, I can’t tell lies very well.



“What is it?” Meterling asked, putting down her knitting.

“Here, it’s from Archer’s estate.” Uncle Darshan smiled, handing her the envelope. Meterling saw the letterhead of Archer’s solicitor. Opening the note, she read swiftly.

He had left her three fields: one for rye, two for spice. He’d left her a house. He’d left her his legacy in England.



Rasi whispered, “She’s going to tell us that old story about the golden mango.”

But Meterling shot us a piercing look, and said, “This is also a story about family.”

And Nalani would tell us more later. Nalani would tell us to remember that Aunt Meterling was always thinking tenderly about her parents.

And we knew the story by heart. One day Shiva and Parvati held a contest between their two squabbling children, Ganesha and Murugan. Whoever spun around the world three times first would receive the prize of a most special golden mango. Murugan was the older, and more prone to quick action. He sprang on the back of his peacock, laughing at his brother, and sped around the world. But Ganesha, slower, smaller, more compact, simply folded his hands together in a gesture of respect and circled his parents three times. Delighted, his parents presented him with the golden prize. When I first heard this story, I felt sorry for Murugan, because I too would have chosen to fly fast on a chariot. I thought that this was a story told by parents to keep their children home and safe.

“They gave you life so you spin this way and that. Sideways and upside down, like an astronaut, so you can see the world.”

“I want to be an astronaut!” shouted Sanjay at once.

“An astronaut?” said Rasi.

I was mad because I wanted to be one too but Sanjay said it first. In our games, he would get to do it then.

(“You dolt, Mina—of course, you could have been an astronaut,” he said years later. “What were you thinking?”)

Meterling spoke again:

“Your parents are the people who let you dream. Your parents are the ones who taught you how to fly. Spin. See the world. Come home and report, then fly out again.”



I dreamed of an enormous cow walking through a field of grain. From the cow’s belly grew stalks of grain and rice mixed with barley. The grains mixed freely as the cow swished her tail. She wore a yellow headdress, with rows upon rows of bells, sewn with green and red thread. The cow’s feet danced, and I dreamed of anklets tinkling silver with sound. The cow’s eyes were unfathomable and reminded me of Meterling’s (which is strange, because, of course, her eyes were always dancing or deep or dark) and I woke up.