As Sweet as Honey

15




One day, Meterling woke in a panic. She could not recall Archer’s face. She remembered what they had done together—their walks, the boat ride, the wedding —but what did his face look like? She had no photographs. His hair, it was silvery, and he had a mustache. He was rotund. What did he look like?

How could she have committed herself to a person she hardly knew? And create a baby with him before marriage? They were so sure. She loved him, she told herself, loved him, but the words seemed in that moment empty.

What if Oscar asked her what his father looked like? What if he wondered what the Y chromosome deposited in his features, the nose, the mouth, the smile? What if Oscar became unrecognizable, the two of them a ludicrous pair of misfits? Could she bear to bring such a life to him? Meterling grasped her belly protectively. It had grown more—as, it seemed, had her feet. Her belly button popped out. Sometimes the baby kicked hard.

Archer had promised her the moon, and she had reached for it, expecting it. They would travel unfettered to Italy, to France, see the coasts of California he loved so. They would travel with sketch pads and charcoals, buy paints and canvas. They would honeymoon with easels on their backs and capture the essence of their adventure in art they would bring back and show us. Archer had planned an itinerary, and she had believed every word. She was mad for adventure, the need to leave Pi and see what lay beyond simple domesticity. Now, all of that was lost along with Archer. She would remain on Pi and give birth to a fatherless child, and if she was lucky, she would be enfolded in simple domesticity to ward off the gossip.


More had happened at that violin concert, we found out.

A man named Akbar came to stand in front of Meterling. “Who is that beauty,” he had asked at the violin concert, “from three rows down?”

“That’s the daughter of Rajeshswaran, the late doctor.”

“What is her name?”

“Nalani.”

“Nalani. An angelic name. How far till the child?”

“What child?”

“Her child.”

“What?”

And then Akbar’s friend understood.

“You don’t mean Nalani. You mean the tall one.”

“Of course I meant the tall one. She is heavenly,” said Akbar, his eyes full of dream and stars. “Who are you talking about?”

“I am—no one. I speak of no one. Do you mean the tall one?”

“Yes,” said Akbar, “the tall one.”

“I don’t know her name.”

And his friend was quiet, and embarrassed. A pregnant woman. And a widow, he’d heard, too. Who would want to speak to her?

“Introduce me.”

“How on earth—”

“Introduce me.”

So his friend took him down several rows to where Meterling stood, with Nalani, at the end of the concert.

“Madame.”

Madame? wondered his friend.

“My dear.”

My dear? Now everyone was embarrassed, but if Meterling was embarrassed, she didn’t show it. She merely said hello, and made small talk. Her disinterest was clear. This Akbar walked away, crestfallen. Meanwhile, Rajan and his sister also joined Meterling and Nalani, and now the group became livelier. So lively, it was remarked upon by some neighbors. Word got back to Grandmother—how could it not? Swiftly, inquiries were made, horoscopes were consulted, hurried consults were held, and a marriage date was settled.


We glimpse such a small part of our lives. Imagine a paper clip attached to a piece of paper—or better yet, three pieces of paper. We pride ourselves on our organization, we congratulate ourselves on our innate wisdom, but in truth, all we ever know at one time is the area contained by the paper clip, while reams of paper reside in us.

What became of Akbar? Whom did he marry in the end? No matter my beliefs about myself, I knew that all islanders had to marry. It was a part of the laws that were set down in ancient times, scratched on palm leaf. To break the laws—for island Christians, it meant the word we weren’t to say. For us Hindus, it would be a bad rebirth. We might become cockroaches. Yet it seemed to me even cockroaches must have their happy moments, their families and feasts. Maybe the townspeople were right—maybe something like widowhood was the worst life imaginable. Hunger, too, like the people who sat on the curbs begging for anything, the boys with broken limbs surrounding the tourists. We knew their fathers had done that to their children, to get more money. Then there were the girls younger than me who lived in shuttered rooms, who were sold to men, who never had the chance to simply go to the beach and breathe. One of Rasi’s teachers had told her, and when we asked Aunt Pa, she confirmed our fears. I had nightmares, certain that ghosts sat at the foot of the bed, ready to pull me to the curb, to the shuttered rooms.


Archer haunted Meterling’s mind quite a bit, surely, but our family only really knew of one—no, two, or three—actual reported sightings. One time in the garden, when the washer maid was hanging up the wash, but that could have been a trick of light; she claimed she could hear whistling. Once by the baby Aston Martin, which was parked sadly in the garage, dutifully polished by the driver, at least for the first six months, then left neglected. Except for the headlights, which for some reason Sanjay liked to polish. Not insignificant, because on turning twenty, one of the first things Sanjay did on arriving at Grandmother’s house that summer was go to the garage and set about restoring the car. But someone reported seeing Archer there once. Sometimes he was seen in town, a round man in a white suit, but we thought it must be someone else. Meterling herself said no, there was no ghost of Archer lingering around, there was no such thing. Did she wish there were? Meanwhile, in the garden, deep where she thought no one could see, Nalani sobbed.