of rice dedicated to my grandfather. My grandfather had the rice grain framed, and to this day, it hangs proudly in the house.
My mother adored my grandfather. She told me all the time about the good things he did. Even though his son-in-law had childhood polio, he never let him feel bad, so to this day, Uncle Darshan is the jolliest man we know. Grandfather married my mother off to a scholar who drank far too much espresso, who had too much brilliance for India, so he sent him to America. He was part of a crowd of men accused by India: Brain Drain! Sons abandoning Mother India! But even though Kennedy, ayoung, smart man who once had said, Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country, did not govern America, he had once, and that spoke of hope, even if they had killed him. He was an American who was as good as Nehru perhaps, but maybe not as wise, “for really, who could be as wise as Nehru and Gandhi, Mina?” My aunties loved to tell me about Indian history, about Asoka and the Pallavas. My head swam with story, lived for story—“Then what? … Then what?” I’d ask. In my school, my teacher said she could not continue the lessons, for I would constantly erupt with questions. She gave me a notebook so I could write them down to ask her later, but instead, I began to draw.
10
M eterling stood in an archway. She saw the sunrise in bits—bright orange low in the sky. She saw the clouds grow purple, saw the sun loom large, awake. She saw the sun loom large, loom large and become round, filling her view—making her round, filling her view of the sky. She walked in the path of the sun, thinking of her son, and smiling and grimacing at once at the interplay of words, at the poor pun, but then her mind calmed again—she saw in the sun’s progression her own limitations and saw also her son’s possibilities. She knew she would have a son. She saw the possibilities for her son, who, like the sun, would turn from round orange to transparent yellow to a blue steel—a silvery steel, climbing high before she knew it. Her son would see the world, travel through the sky. And with a mother’s intuition, she heldhim strong in the womb, and gritted her teeth in anticipation of the childbirth months away.
She greeted the day each morning by walking her coriander coffee to the herb garden. The tulsi in the pedestal was lush; the thyme had begun flowering too early, because of the spate of recent hot days. The oregano stood tall and full. Only the lavender was slow, raising perfumed leaves to herald the still-green buds. The burst of lavender had always been significant to Meterling, ever since as a child she weaved wreaths from the flowers to shape into crowns. The day was overcast. A thundery day might well ensue. This time, she did not think of Archer for a full ten minutes. Her fingers were growing plump. She had long taken off the rings, thinking she would give them to her son to give to his bride. What would Oscar grow up to be? Would he have his father’s white skin, his blond hair? Would he be ridiculed in school? She placed her hands protectively over her belly. She would protect him, she would surround him with such love, and it would shield him from taunts and cruelty.
Nalani also spent a great deal of time in the garden. She liked to walk deep into the backyard, where there was a small clearing under the lemon tree. There, she could lose many minutes just staring at the green grass and breathing in the heady aroma of lemon blossom. She placed a small chair and table there, so she could sometimes sit with her feet up. One day she noticed a papery wasp nest deposited neatly on the table. It was so light and carefully constructed—a honeycomb of networking. As she tossed it away—it looked like there were some waspy remnants inside—she wondered how it got there. Three days later, a small bird’s eggshell was on the table. Two halves actually, beautifully oval and colored pale
My mother adored my grandfather. She told me all the time about the good things he did. Even though his son-in-law had childhood polio, he never let him feel bad, so to this day, Uncle Darshan is the jolliest man we know. Grandfather married my mother off to a scholar who drank far too much espresso, who had too much brilliance for India, so he sent him to America. He was part of a crowd of men accused by India: Brain Drain! Sons abandoning Mother India! But even though Kennedy, ayoung, smart man who once had said, Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country, did not govern America, he had once, and that spoke of hope, even if they had killed him. He was an American who was as good as Nehru perhaps, but maybe not as wise, “for really, who could be as wise as Nehru and Gandhi, Mina?” My aunties loved to tell me about Indian history, about Asoka and the Pallavas. My head swam with story, lived for story—“Then what? … Then what?” I’d ask. In my school, my teacher said she could not continue the lessons, for I would constantly erupt with questions. She gave me a notebook so I could write them down to ask her later, but instead, I began to draw.
10
M eterling stood in an archway. She saw the sunrise in bits—bright orange low in the sky. She saw the clouds grow purple, saw the sun loom large, awake. She saw the sun loom large, loom large and become round, filling her view—making her round, filling her view of the sky. She walked in the path of the sun, thinking of her son, and smiling and grimacing at once at the interplay of words, at the poor pun, but then her mind calmed again—she saw in the sun’s progression her own limitations and saw also her son’s possibilities. She knew she would have a son. She saw the possibilities for her son, who, like the sun, would turn from round orange to transparent yellow to a blue steel—a silvery steel, climbing high before she knew it. Her son would see the world, travel through the sky. And with a mother’s intuition, she heldhim strong in the womb, and gritted her teeth in anticipation of the childbirth months away.
She greeted the day each morning by walking her coriander coffee to the herb garden. The tulsi in the pedestal was lush; the thyme had begun flowering too early, because of the spate of recent hot days. The oregano stood tall and full. Only the lavender was slow, raising perfumed leaves to herald the still-green buds. The burst of lavender had always been significant to Meterling, ever since as a child she weaved wreaths from the flowers to shape into crowns. The day was overcast. A thundery day might well ensue. This time, she did not think of Archer for a full ten minutes. Her fingers were growing plump. She had long taken off the rings, thinking she would give them to her son to give to his bride. What would Oscar grow up to be? Would he have his father’s white skin, his blond hair? Would he be ridiculed in school? She placed her hands protectively over her belly. She would protect him, she would surround him with such love, and it would shield him from taunts and cruelty.
Nalani also spent a great deal of time in the garden. She liked to walk deep into the backyard, where there was a small clearing under the lemon tree. There, she could lose many minutes just staring at the green grass and breathing in the heady aroma of lemon blossom. She placed a small chair and table there, so she could sometimes sit with her feet up. One day she noticed a papery wasp nest deposited neatly on the table. It was so light and carefully constructed—a honeycomb of networking. As she tossed it away—it looked like there were some waspy remnants inside—she wondered how it got there. Three days later, a small bird’s eggshell was on the table. Two halves actually, beautifully oval and colored pale
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