As Sweet as Honey

55




Laksman 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.