As Sweet as Honey

13




Meterling was twenty-eight when she lost everything she could lose in losing Archer. And yet at twenty-eight, she had everything she could hope for as well. Three short months, that was the entirety of their courtship, their desire, their hope. Twenty-one, that shiny age, had passed her, then twenty-three. By twenty-five, she was treated tenderly, assumed to a life of spinsterhood. At twenty-five, Meterling became a warning for marriageable daughters as well. It happens, the elders mused. If, as the gossips say, a daughter can only be so dark, or so poor, she certainly could only be so tall as well. That golden promise of a perfect bride required golden skin, golden height, and the golden means of proportions. And Meterling had nothing—her skin was dark, like amber gone opaque, and she was so tall. Meterling was a beauty in a school all her own, and that’s why we flocked to her. She was not film-star material, our Meterling, she was no universal beauty. But she was our standard.

I told her I did not plan to marry, ever. I would be a famous scientist who had no time for cooking and husbands. I would live alone with lots of animals, including a horse, like in the storybooks where children rode on horses and lived with cats and big shaggy sheepdogs. “Beti,” Meterling would say, using Hindi, because sometimes in Hindi, the tenderness required to cut through an excess of emotion with a perfectly pitched honesty was available—beti, which means “child”—“beti,” she’d say, “don’t worry. All is possible; all is good in this world.” And Meterling would smile. She who had lost her love, her joy, at twenty-eight. She’d smile with tenderness, hoping to ease our pain, even as her back ached.

When someone dies, everything dies as well. At least it seems like that. It seems like the gods are punishing you, and no matter what treasure you might have amassed, it all becomes rot, becomes meaningless. Death changes everything. It changes everybody.

Meterling changed, becoming clouded, becoming worn, withdrawn. A light was quenched in her as her sorrow took seed. But Oscar, growing inside her, moved the seed around somewhat. He didn’t let it settle. Life, life, life, he whispered, this voice coming into being, this child, shouting at Meterling not to give in. No, live! he must have shouted, this child in being, live so that I may live as well. And we responded to Oscar, this child in being, as well. We responded to his light, as did the aunties, as did everyone who flocked around Meterling. “Live,” we told her, “do not give in to this sorrow, do not succumb to this pain. Let it out, yes; let it out so we can carry it for you.” Because that is what people do when they care deeply about someone: they shoulder their pain, put their heart to work, put their mind to the grief. And they carry the burden. And that is how some people live. That is how some people—whose time to die is not yet, because of whatever grace is granted in their life—this is how some people survive.


At twenty-eight, Meterling had discovered the one person she realized she had waited for her whole life.

“No,” said Meterling. “That’s not entirely true. I just met Archer by accident. All that drama came later, because I lost him. But meeting him was accidental. Loving him was the crux of the matter, a choice I made. I was happy before I met him, though. I wasn’t pining for something missing. How could I be, with all of you loving me so?” Her eyes filled with tears. The baby was due in four months, twenty-one days.

Rasi and I listened, and Rasi agreed with Meterling, but then she turned to me. “Sanjay stole my transistor,” she said.

“What?”

“I left it out and it was gone.”

“How do you know it was Sanjay?”

“He had it this afternoon.”

“Oh.”

“He said he didn’t.”

“Did you tell Grandmother?”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got a plan.”

Rasi went to confront Sanjay over her transistor.

But Sanjay had found a kitten.

Sanjay found a kitten that was hiding under a banana leaf. Scrawny, white, with pink-tipped ears, it cried when Sanjay removed the leaf.

“C’mon here, kitty,” he said, but it tried to scurry away. Its paw was caught in a trap. It lay bleeding, and without thinking, Sanjay reached in, pulled away the leaf, and pushed apart the trap’s jaws.

The kitten nestled onto his lap, and that is how the kitten named Scrap and Sanjay became fast friends.

We went to ask Uncle Raj, who was a doctor, what to do next. Uncle Raj tidied up the kitten, and gave a lecture, but Sanjay wasn’t listening too much. He was wondering how he could keep the kitten, how to convince everyone to let him have a bit of milk or water—what did kittens eat anyway? As it turned out, it was easier than he thought to keep the kitty and feed her as well.

“I want to pet it, I want to pet it!”

“How come you got to keep it when we couldn’t keep the puppy?”

“I still see that puppy in the street sometimes.”

“I think Mrs. Shankar takes care of it.”

“I wish we could keep a puppy. Who needs a cat anyhow?”

“Look at its little nose.”

“Look at its eyes.”

“It likes you, Sanjay.”

“Let me see, let me see!”

“I want to feed it.”

“Not an ‘it.’ Her name is Scrap.”

“Scrap?”

“How do you know it’s a girl?”

“Yes, it’s a scrap of a kitten.”

“Did you think it was a scrap of paper when you found it?”

And Sanjay admitted that he had, that he had been looking for some paper to jot down—

“Jot down what? Jot down what?”

“Nothing. Anyway, you see, it isn’t a scrap of paper, it is a kitten.”

“Can I pet it again, Sanjay?”

“You don’t have to ask permission.”

“Don’t scare it!”

“Look, it’s sleepy.”

“Maybe we could sing to it.”

“Okay, okay—just take turns.”