As Sweet as Honey

39




Meterling kneaded the dough for chapatis and put it under a wet cloth in a bowl: after pinching them into a dozen or so little balls, Simon would roll them out into rounds, or near-rounds, and she would cook each one on a hot griddle. The boiled potatoes had cooled as she was making the dough. She rough-chopped them, and then coated them with a dry rub of turmeric, chili, and salt. Getting out a large pan, she popped black mustard seed in oil, sizzled cumin and asafetida, and threw in the onions Simon had chopped earlier. She added the potatoes, and after things had browned a bit, frozen spinach, and later, tomatoes. She covered the lid; in twenty minutes, she would have a wet curry. How easy it was to cook. In truth, if she did have a passion outside of her passion for Oscar and Simon, it would be cooking. She had met a food demonstrator at Sainsbury’s who cooked kebabs on an electric grill. She wouldn’t mind being a demonstrator—this is the way to make dosa, this is how to make pakoras. She knew there were Indian and Bangladeshi aunties who offered home cooking to students far from home, naan for pickup, curry to go. Why couldn’t she do something like that, after Oscar was ready for a baby minder?

She would give herself time to dress. Last night, she had taken out a seam in her petticoat, thankful for the efforts of Mr. Wali, her family’s tailor, who always had the foresight to make three sets of stitches in his clothing, knowing his clientele’s need to adjust. She had not lost all of the pregnancy weight, and in London she tucked into more food than was necessary, tucked so it showed on her body. Now, in addition to being tall and brown in London, she was becoming large. She didn’t mind. She rinsed the rice at the sink. Still, the only large women society seemed to accept were pregnant ones; all others were seen as incapable of controlling their urges, lacking discipline. Susan went to the gym six days a week, ate a diet of “twigs and leaves” according to Simon, but she did look smashing (what a word, “smashing,” Meterling thought, smiling, because it was one of Thakur’s favorite words) in her tall boots, slicked-back hair, her artful clothes. Meterling added water, a bay leaf, cumin powder, and lit the gas underneath the stockpot.

“Indian women are lucky—the sari hides all the imagined faults of our bodies,” Susan had once said. Meterling hadn’t bothered to remind her that she meant “island,” not “Indian,” because Susan was speaking of her. In Britain, everyone assumed she was Indian, and she had begun to let it go. Auntie Pa would bristle, saying Pi had enough of an identity crisis without its own citizens contributing to it.

Why was it Susan and she were so awkward around each other? Uncle Darshan would say that it was the old way of sisters-in-law, but there seemed to be more to Susan’s hostility. True, they had not begun on best terms. What had she said—“Did you have to needlessly ask him to dance?”? But sitting out the dance would not have prevented the aneurysm. It was waiting in his brain, building and readying to burst. Susan had been livid at the wedding, but meeting Oscar had changed that. She was not certain how to act around him at first, but Oscar, bless him, just grabbed her pinkie in his fist and would not let go. She was utterly charmed and then and there became his. Her mother-in-law, Nora, had not been won over so completely. Oscar was Archer’s child, and sometimes she made it emphatic, saying to Meterling “your child,” which caused Simon to shout, and John to pick up their coats and throw back an apologetic look.

“Yes, he is my child, but why should it bother her so much?” Meterling asked. “He is your child, too. Archer never knew him,” which led to tears she blinked furiously away.

Susan generally ignored Meterling, heading right to Oscar when she visited, bearing baby clothes and toys, which she tumbled onto any available surface. How easily women sting each other over men, when they should be embracing one another. Was any man worth the trouble? Yes, she had married Archer, and yes, she had married Simon, and yes, yes, yes, she was still here in the family, she had not gone away. Civility was the thin line between love and hate, was it not? Couldn’t Susan and she maintain détente—oh, couldn’t Susan just accept and move forward?

She looked at the next set of vegetables. Simon had cut the sweet potatoes into hexagons, and sliced the Brussels sprouts in half. He hadn’t complained that morning, singing as he wielded the knife, saying he always wanted to be a sous-chef. Curries in his post-university days meant takeaways, or cheap dinners in places full of plastic tables and luridly colored plastic chairs. Meterling had taught him, among other things, the sensuality of eating, the slow process of letting the fragrance enter the nostrils, the anticipation of the tongue. He learned to take his time. They fed each other midnight samosas while Oscar slept in his crib. “Imagine if the erotic Indian miniatures featured food instead of phalluses,” she said, but Simon rolled his eyes. He said, “Sometimes, there are no substitutions, my love.” They had argued that point well into the night.

She braised the vegetables, seasoning them with only salt and pepper, a counterpoint to the rice and saag. Maybe they could serve small glasses of mango lassi to start, but they’d have to use paper cups. So they’ll use paper cups—the pleasure is in the content, not the container, Grandmother would say. She wondered if she should have invited a friend or two of Simon’s, the ones from his university days who hid half their words, so she could never follow the whole of the conversation, or the ones from work. Next year, perhaps.

Meterling turned the rice onto a platter to season with lemon and spice. Turmeric would turn it light yellow; she’d keep plain rice on hand as well, and maybe she ought to do a coconut rice as well—there was shredded coconut in the freezer. People tended not to take big portions at parties, but still, she wanted enough. She was careful to keep aside portions for herself that were bland, according to Dr. Shakur’s instructions, and she reminded herself, no wine.

If Archer had to materialize, now would be the time, but the apartment was quiet, and she told herself, she would not be spooked.


Susan. She was far from the point of going shopping with Susan, the things women must do together in this country (well, their tastes would be different), but sometimes, Susan stole out of the office to share a sandwich with her and Oscar in Hyde Park. She even baby-sat one night so Simon and she could see a movie. They had returned, hardly able to watch the film, to find Susan holding a fast-asleep Oscar in her lap, listening to Bach. Susan had looked after them, he and Archer, Simon told Meterling; in the way, perhaps, she, Meterling, had looked after Nalani. Motherless daughters. Meterling had asked Susan to bring a dessert to complement the tea cake she bought at the bakery yesterday. Would Susan bring Tom? She had, last time she was over, giddy in a short white dress and long gold hoops. He was—an investment banker? An equities trader? Something with computers?

She’d need another curry—the takeaway, then. The dal! She’d forgotten the dal. Quickly, she found the saucepan and got to work.

Auntie Pa would be astonished that she had cooked the entire meal herself. Well, with Simon’s help. Where was he anyway? She hoped he’d remembered to feed the baby. Sitting down, finished at last, she realized how tired she was. She would draw a hot bath while it was still quiet. It was five o’clock, and dinner was at seven. She looked at the bookcases, bulging with books. She wanted a good novel to read slowly at night, something to sustain her, since she had finished the one she had been reading. When Oscar used to sleep in fits and starts those first weeks before adjusting, they thought, to the English weather, they’d read to one another from a copy of Middlemarch Uncle Darshan had presented them.

Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she took down a book. She hardly had any time to read. Oscar now slept through the night, though the doctor said the pattern might change again. She’d place the book on the nightstand at least, so she could begin after the party. It slipped a little from her hand—was she that tired?—and a postcard came fluttering out. It had a picture of the Eiffel Tower with “Paris” written across it in fin-de-siècle script. She turned it over. It was addressed to Archer. The script was a hasty scrawl. “Darling! Join me! I am lonely for your arms! Mouxx.” There was a large heart underneath the message.

She felt a jolt. Of course he had had a life before her, how could he not, but the postcard felt predatory, claiming “I was here first, he was mine before you.” Was she French? Mouxx? Was that really a name? Was it Mou, with two kisses? She slipped the book, “A Study in Scarlet” & Other Stories, back, but on second thought, took the postcard out to dispose of it later, and carried the book to the bedroom. More importantly, she thought, did Archer go by hovercraft to Paris to this Mouxx’s, an overnight bag in his hand? Was he already fat then, and was she tiny like a mouse? Did he lie on top of her, gathering her to him? Meterling’s anger, sudden, strong, surprised her. She had never before felt such rage against Archer, leaving her, leaving Mouxx, alone, lonely. Her anger ached. What if Simon hadn’t felt the need to come to Pi? What if he had just accepted her silence, written a letter, withdrawn? No more questions. It was the Festival of Lights. A new start.

As she filled the tub with very hot water, throwing Epsom salts in, she noticed how full the Boston fern had become. They had a tiny window in the bathroom that was three-quarters covered by a gnarled wisteria, which let in a little light, but the plant must thrive on the steam. Mouxx. What did that mean? A mouth pursed up for a kiss? She suddenly pictured a waggling bottom, a—what were they called?—a feather boa—and thought, I’m jealous of a ghost. She lowered herself into the tub, relishing the heat. Her skin seemed to melt into the water. Twenty minutes would be all she needed.