{"product_id":"as-sweet-as-honey-isbn-9780307950611","title":"As Sweet As Honey","description":"Once thought to be destined for spinsterhood, Aunt Meterling seems to have found love at last with a short, elegant Englishman who wears white suits. But while all the tongues on the small island of Pi start to wag as soon as their engagement is announced, even the most stalwart of the gossips is shocked when the wedding ends in tragedy and Meterling is left widowed and pregnant.   \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe family, from its children to its grandmother, does its best to keep a watchful eye over the grieving expectant mother. Still, when the groom's cousin arrives from England and a new romance blossoms, no one knows how to react, least of all Meterling herself, who is suddenly torn between respecting tradition and taking the first few steps toward a new life.“[A] sweet, sun-drenched, lovely book.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“The considerable appeal of \u003ci\u003eAs Sweet as Honey\u003c\/i\u003e is that East and West, romance and novel, coexist so enticingly.”  –\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“The imaginary Indian coastal island of Pi . . . works beautifully as the setting for this East Asian homage to \u003ci\u003eTo the Lighthouse\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . Irresistible.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e (starred  review)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Beautifully crafted.” –\u003ci\u003ePeople \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whether she is describing verdant, lush Pi or bustling, crowded London, Ganesan brings two worlds . . . to vibrant life.” –\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003eIndira Ganesan is the author of two previous novels, \u003ci\u003eThe Journey \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eInheritance\u003c\/i\u003e. She has held fellowships from the Paden Institute for Writers of Color, the Mary Ingraham Bunting Institute at Radcliffe College, and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown in addition to the W. K. Rose Fellowship. Her essays and short fiction have appeared in \u003ci\u003eAntaeus\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBlack Renaissance\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBombay Gin\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHalf and Half: Writers on Biracialism \u0026amp; Biculturalism, Glamour\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eMississippi Review\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Boston and Provincetown.\u003ci\u003eExcerpted from the Hardcover Edition\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eChapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur  aunt Meterling stood over six feet tall, a giantess, a tree. From her  limbs came large hands, which always held a shower of snacks for us  children. We could place two of our feet in one of her sandals, and her  green shawl made for a roof to cover our play forts. We loved Meterling,  because she was so devotedly freakish, because she rained everyone with  affection, and because we felt that anyone that tall had to be  supernaturally gifted. No one actually said she was a ghost, or a saint,  or a witch, but we watched for signs nevertheless. She knew we  suspected her of tricks, for she often smiled at us and displayed  sleight of hand, pulling coins and shells out of thin air. But that,  said Rasi, ­didn’t prove anything; Rasi had read The Puffin Book of  Magic Tricks and pretty much knew them all, and was not so easily  impressed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was interesting, and never expected, was that  Aunt Meterling married the littlest man she knew. He was four feet  seven, dapper, and jolly. The ­grown-­ups were embarrassed and  affronted, for like Auntie Sita said, it was bad enough having a  freakishly tall woman in the family. Yet, they were all relieved that  Aunt Meterling found Uncle Archer and he, her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wedding was a  small enough affair as weddings go, but the bridegroom rode to town in a  white baby Aston Martin decked with garlands of roses and basil, and  the first marriage rites took place at dawn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone said how sad  it was that Meterling’s parents could not be at the wedding, but  neither could Archer’s. I wondered what Meterling’s father had been  like. He had named her, after all. Who had he been? A man smitten with  the German language, it seemed, for her name sounded German, and  smitten, too, with his family. A man who died, with his beloved wife, in  a car accident, all those years ago. A man who loved his daughter  enough to name her something special. A man who must be still alive in  Meterling’s heart, I thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd her mother? A small, sweet  woman who must have loved her daughter, even as she might have seen  something in her that marked her for a fragile future. Also absent, also  loved, also missing the wedding. I could comprehend Meterling’s longing  for her family, because my own father and mother were in America, land  of dreams and snow. But lose a mother and ­a father—­no, that was  impossible! I could only imagine so far.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rubbed the sleep out  of my eyes, straining to see if my aunt would change somehow after the  fire ceremony, the part where she walked seven steps hand in hand with  Uncle Archer, but she kept her eyes downcast, as became a modest bride,  while the priests chanted all around her. She wore a ­reddish-­pinkish  gold sari from Kanchi, with twelve inches of gold jhari on its border  and thirty-six on the paloo; she had mendhi on her hands and feet, aglow  from a bath of turmeric and sandal. In her hair was jasmine, rose, and  tulsi. She wore an engagement ring, and during the ceremony she’d get a  gold ring on her third finger, left hand, and a ring on her toe. Uncle  Archer would get a ring as well. He wore a white pajama suit of heavy  material all the way from Bombay, a pink tie, a boutonnière, and  sandals. That he was wearing a suit instead of a formal dhoti was  radical enough, whispered the aunts, but to hold hands before the  ceremony was too much. We knew something was afoot but were not quite  sure what the problem was. He’s being intimate, giggled Sanjay, stamping  his feet while Rasi and I pretended not to know him. We just shook our  heads as our aunts ­did—­we were smart enough to know that rules were  being broken left and right, and ­didn’t need Sanjay to tell us, even if  it appeared that he did know more than us. Afterwards, Auntie Pa (her  real name was Auntie Parvati, but Sanjay started saying Pa when he was  two and could not roll his r’s, and the name stuck) said that she had  had a funny feeling in her heart that something was not right, but at  that moment, when they were simply standing at the ceremony and later at  the reception, everything was fine and there was plenty to eat and  drink and toast the couple’s happiness. He was now our uncle. Auntie Pa  smiled and playfully tugged Sanjay’s hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut no one could have  predicted what happened next. One minute Uncle Archer was laughing and  dancing with the littlest cousins, and then he took Aunt Meterling out  to the dance floor. She had gone to Western dance classes, whispered an  aunt, just for this moment. No one doubted Uncle could dance; he was  born to wear a suit and tails—in fact, he bore more than a striking  resemblance to the Monopoly man, with a full white mustache and a round  tummy. A Western waltz was struck up, and everyone left the dance floor.  Some of the elders among the guests frowned and turned away, because  touch dancing was severely looked down upon, even though we lived in  town. As my grandmother would say, this was not Delhi, not Bombay, but  Madhupur, a town on the island of Pi in the Bay of Bengal: a place as  sweet as honey, where people lived decent lives. Touching was meant for  procreation, nothing else. Once, we had looked up “procreation” in the  Animal Encyclopedia, but ­didn’t learn much except about the mating  habits of the stickleback fish. But there she was, Aunt Meterling,  swathed in gold tissue silk, and there was he, monocled and marvelous,  and the music from the hired band began. One turn, two, three, and he  was down. Uncle Archer was on the ground. A flurry of activity, then a  scream, and we children were pushed aside. The youngest of us ­didn’t  understand but started to cry anyway. Rasi, Sanjay, and I ­didn’t  ­really understand, either. When it was all over, no one had any  appetite for the plates of round halvah and sugared grapes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe  were stunned into silence. We had not been paying attention. We never  would have believed it if someone told us. We grew still with shock. We  were eleven, nine, and ten. Plus all of our other cousins. All of us  kids. It was the worst thing we had seen, or nearly seen. He had died in  an instant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was not even a chance to see where exactly he  came up to measure against her, someone said, in a ­half-­giggle or cry,  whether to her knee (“That’s silly,” said Rasi), her elbow, her chin.  In truth, most of the guests hardly knew him, had only seen him once or  twice, and mostly from afar. And it was hard for us to see much during  all of the ceremony, because Sanjay started chasing Mani, who had swiped  his spin top, and Rasi joined in to help Mani, and she dragged me with  her. Mary Angel from two doors down called to us to share her caramels.  We forgot about Mani and Sanjay as we ate the caramels. Rasi said we had  to avoid her schoolteacher. She did not look so menacing to me when I  saw her, a perfectly nice woman with her husband, who smiled broadly,  making me think Rasi ­hadn’t done some schoolwork, or had skipped out on  a class. All in all, we hardly saw them wed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut their love was  palpable, like a color that was visible, almost heard. Their arms  reached for each other with the sweetest sigh. Fingertips touching,  swish of gold, monocle flash. One step, two step, three, gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeterling  sobbed in a corner. She sat right down, three feet of her against the  wall, another three and more stretched on the floor. Her crying was  fraught and unabashed, and no one seemed to know what to do. No one had  ever seen her cry, because her height made her seem protected from  whatever ill might befall ordinary women. Grandmother, no slouch,  sharply spoke to anyone who said “It’s too bad,” and gave them work to  do. The other aunties crowded around; some, you know, were waiting for a  moment like this, because Meterling, that awkward fish, had landed a  man before they did. But others, like Nalani, just burst into tears for  the loss and grief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe marriage hall quickly cleared, and they  took Uncle Archer’s body away. Uncle Darshan and Uncle Thakur ushered  Aunt Meterling out. I looked back at the decorated hall, the garlands of  pink, white, and orange flowers trailing from the ceiling, and those  crushed on the floor. A funny feeling filled my stomach as I stared at  the trampled blooms. A handful of cooks and cleaners began to clear up  the food and sweep up, while a priest continued to pray, and there was a  loud murmur of voices all at once as we exited. Outside, the musicians  bowed their hands to our grandmother, offering condolences.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe  gathered on the veranda that evening, not sure what to do. In an  instant, our house had gone from celebration to mourning. The family  doctor had been a guest, and now she was in charge of the body. Was it a  heart attack? An attack on the brain? All we heard was the muffled  crying of Meterling, which made Auntie Pa want to have us stay with  neighbors, but my grandmother decided we should stay home and not cause  trouble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChapter 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur family is ­medium-­sized. I used to  wish for sisters and brothers, but ­really, having Sanjay and Rasi and  all our other cousins was enough. My grandmother had four daughters and  one son: Rema, Parvati, Jyoti, Chandra, and Tharak. Rasi and Sanjay are  my cousins closest in age. We all lived in Grandmother’s house, along  with Auntie Meterling and Nalani. ­Rasi’s father, Uncle Thakur, is  usually in Dubai or Singapore for business; but her mother, Auntie Pa,  lives in Madhupur. Uncle Darshan, Sanjay’s father, lives nearby, a few  districts over, and is a college professor. His wife, Chandra, who was  also the sister of my mother and Auntie Pa, died giving birth to little  Appam, so Sanjay practically lives with us as well. Appam stays with  Uncle Darshan’s sister and her husband, who have no children and are  looking after him like a mother and father would. Rasi (whose real name  is Rasisvari) has two sisters who are much older than her, both already  married and living in India. Nalani (who we call just Nalani, not  ­Nalani-­Acca, or Elder Sister, because she is still unmarried and  young) says there are enough kids for everybody. She is the daughter of  my mother’s sister Rema, who died with Nalani’s father, both of them on a  hiking trip in Ooty, while Nalani was in school, long before Rasi,  Sanjay, and I were born. Meterling is the daughter of our uncle Tharak,  my mother’s brother, but we still call her Aunt even though technically  she is our cousin. My mother and father are Jyoti and Jai, both in  America, working on their PhD’s in astrophysics and organic chemistry.  I’m Mina, and at the time of the wedding I was ten, Rasi was eleven, and  Sanjay was nine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe had heard snatches of their story before, of  how Meterling and Archer met at a party thrown for a local nawab,  minutes before Meterling was to leave to go home. A Cinderella story,  only they ­didn’t live happily ever after. And no glass slipper.  Instead, Archer and Meterling spoke, captured each other’s hearts  without intending to, and went home determined to meet again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He  wore funny socks,” said Meterling. “Imagine wearing socks in this  heat.” Meterling had worn yellow and looked like a radiant flower, said  Grandmother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey met at the train station next, where they  nodded hello, and Archer asked Meterling to another party. This was a  more awkward situation, because Meterling was, despite her height and  name, a proper girl of specific caste and region, and Archer was an  unknown. Marry an unknown to a known, and who knows what the net result  might be! But marriage ­wasn’t in anyone’s head, merely social  edification, so Meterling was sent to the party—a reception, ­really,  for one of our neighbors who came back from the States with a degree.  The grumbling was minimal, more or less, but two chaperones were  provided, just in case. Meterling was ­twenty-­eight (too old already,  according to our ­town’s standards) and as such was ripe to marry a fat  ­fifty-­year-old from a neighboring town, Mr. Govinda, but as fate would  have it, she fell in love with Uncle Archer, who was only Archer at the  time, fat enough himself and close to forty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the second  party, the hostess had decided on a theme of jellyfish to honor the  local marine biologist, and served vegetable cutlets with ketchup and  multicolored badushas. Meterling stood in front of a punch bowl full of  seashells, and looked for something to drink. Archer offered her a cup  of something ­sea-­green, tasting like a little of this, a little of  that, with the tiniest kick thrown in between.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vodka?” she wondered out loud, before accepting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shook his head, saying, “Seven-­Up with food color.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeterling  had never tasted such a fizzy drink before and immediately burped.  Archer let one out too, to save her embarrassment, and ­that’s how their  fate was sealed. They decided to go outside to see the roses. Mrs.  Mohan’s roses were famed all over the district; it was rumored she  ordered them direct from ­En­gland. They were large, immensely fragrant,  and individually named.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeterling smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How complicated it must be to live here as a foreigner,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How hard do you think it is to grow roses?” he asked in reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRiddles, they both thought, feeling awkward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Archer looked away a bit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he held her gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  felt embarrassed, and wondered if anyone could see. Who was this man  anyway? A footfall prevented intimate conversation, and they went back  inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the American films we were not allowed to see, couples  fell in love at first sight. In fact, they did in Hindi films too. One  of my grandfather’s friends fell in love when he saw a girl on a bus,  and married her within a week. My aunt did not fall in love with Uncle  Archer so quickly. She said he made her laugh, but she could not take  him seriously at first. In fact, only when the entire family had fallen  in love with him could she entertain the notion of marriage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  was easy to love. He came to our house bearing small, funny gifts, and  flirted outrageously with our grandmother and Auntie Pa. He complimented  them on their saris, spoke knowledgeably about market prices for  potatoes and string beans, and knew the words to old filmi songs. He  made them smile. With Uncle Darshan, he was more reserved, but only in  the beginning. He soon cheerfully played and lost game after game of  Parcheesi and cards, and sometimes he and Uncle Darshan retired with  glasses of gin.A Novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303940575461,"sku":"NP9780307950611","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307950611.jpg?v=1767721838","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/as-sweet-as-honey-isbn-9780307950611","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}