Authors: Indira Ganesan
Aunt Meterling’s arms filled up with glass bangles as our aunties and neighbor aunties each took turns placing them on her, until they reached her elbow. Laughing, they then removed them, and everyone chose some to take home, different from the ones they had brought. Rasi and I chose some as well. Then, into Aunt Meterling’s open sari paloo, held like a pouch, went fruits of all sorts, describing a fruitful birth. Aunt Pa said these were ways to distract a pregnant woman, because she might feel restless, or even sad.
I wondered what it must feel like to have such a big belly. Sometimes, Auntie put her hand on her lower back, as if to help carry the weight. Once, Rasi and I imitated her at the mirror, stuffing pillows under our skirts. When we heard someone approach, we quickly tossed them away and jumped on the empty bed, giggling. Rasi did not play with dolls anymore, but I still did, in secret, at night. I’d hold my doll and rock her. She came with a bottle, which I could fill with water, and then she would pee, only, it was from a hole on her behind. She had beautiful black hair that was painted on, and her eyes would open and shut. Sometimes I whispered, “Good, good baby,” over and over in her ear.
In school, we were reading
A Christmas Carol
. I’d pretend that my doll was Tiny Tim’s sister, and I would hold her tight to keep her from shivering. I asked my mother if she was shivering in America in my weekly letter. No, she replied, she had a warm coat, and wore lots of sweaters. I knew she meant she had lots of sweaters to choose from, but for a minute, I imagined my mother bundled up in sweater over sweater. In her class, Rasi was reading
Treasure Island
, and she wanted to be a pirate. She made treasure maps, and buried toys that Sanjay and I had to hunt for. Sanjay said they were reading Asterix comics in his class, but I knew that couldn’t be true.
• • •
In her sixth month, Meterling became more beautiful, as if lit from within. The morning sickness had passed, and it seemed she had made peace with her situation. The baby moved inside her, and we felt it twitch. In a few months, she told us, we might be able to see a foot. I didn’t know if I wanted to see a foot.
My mother, writing from America, enclosed photographs of snow. I missed her, missed my father, but they seemed abstract, like sketches. They had been gone two years, and each day, it was easier to accept. In some ways, it was like Rasi without her older sisters or Sanjay without Appam. Yet they both got lots of visits back and forth, and it didn’t seem like a loss. No one clucked their tongue and shook their head at them as they did when I proudly told friends of the family that my mother and father were doing very difficult studies in the States. My grandmother told me to never mind them. I wondered if she missed my mother, but when I asked her, she said my mother had my father, and they were both working hard to give me the best life.
It was easy to hero-worship Meterling. She was our hero because she was brave enough to marry Archer; brave enough to say no to the not-so-great part of old culture, the part that asks women and men to walk a certain path. Meterling strayed away, and she married Archer. She was a freak of nature, people used to say, encountering her height as a child for the first time, and so was Uncle Archer. It was easy enough to wander into each other’s lives, some said, because like likes like and kind marries kind. And maybe that was the case. But it seems to me that Meterling was so fortuitously cast on a stage that was fast changing, born as she was in a time of shift and great
disturbance. Even as islanders and Indians fought for the British in World War II, Pundit Nehru saw the hypocrisy. Gandhi believed the oppressed must fight for the oppressed. Meterling’s mother was five when Pi got its independence, and died before she saw thirty. Meterling naturally relied on herself when she was orphaned so unexpectedly, and she grew a lot taller than the girls around her. She was never really a freak of nature. No, she was just capable of change, which scared some people. She was still a dutiful daughter, they said, for don’t you know, who can ever really escape that bondage except with another kind of bondage? She sought security and she sought to fill in the blanks of the life that she had.
18
T
hen, just like that, Meterling retreated into sadness. The fire quenched in her eyes. Give her time, said Grandmother. We did, and the day Meterling woke up from her darkness, it was as if the moon came out. For two weeks, she had been veiled in absolute despair. (“Like Absolut vodka!” cried Sanjay, still trying to make jokes, in near-equal despair to see our favorite aunt all choked and clouded and alone like this—but no vodka was involved, sad the luck and more the pity, we’d later think.) She would not speak to us, keeping to her bed, not even letting Grandmother minister to her. She stopped bathing, which made Grandmother mad, because that was one of the top ten don’ts in the household. On the fifteenth day of relentless grief, Meterling emerged, not as bright as a full moon, but more like a half-moon on the way to becoming
whole again. The darkness, her hunger moon, her moon madness, her mood shift, her mad moon passed, and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. The half-moon remains a beautiful moon. It is a midpoint moon, best viewed after twilight, but really even better when dawn is a few hours away, surprising you with its presence.
At the same time Meterling emerged from her darkness, Rasi found her transistor. She had felt lost without it. No one had taken it. It was where she had forgotten she put it.
“Now,” said Auntie Pa, “I once lost a hat that was precious to me.”
“A hat?” We tried to picture Aunt with a hat and couldn’t.
“I had a hat like that,” said another aunt. “A party hat given to me by a friend.”
“A party hat!”
“A straw hat with a grosgrain ribbon—”
“What kind of ribbon?”
“You know, those ribbons that are striated.”
We stared, but Rasi shook her head. “They’re talking about ribbons, and I’m talking about my radio.”
“Hats, ribbons, radios, all the same,” chirped in a third aunt, who we didn’t even know was listening.
“No—” said Rasi.
“Child—” said an aunt.
But we ran away before they could impart even more wisdom.
One day, Meterling turned to us and said, “You know, being tall was never an impediment in my life.”
We stared at her. We all knew that Meterling was accustomed to shrink a bit when she encountered other people, feeling her gait awkward and out of place. She’d hunch her shoulders; wear only flat-heeled sandals, hiding her strength.
“No, I never did feel bad. If I did, I tended to look at all there is in the world that goes right. The world is a strange and marvelous place. And there might be much that is wrong with it, or with how you are feeling, how this might hurt, or that … Anyway, I don’t know what I’m trying to say …”
We waited.
“What I’m trying to say is that being tall never stopped me for too long. It’s who I am, after all. When I was little, I didn’t like being the tallest and the biggest, while everyone else—all the other children—were so little and cute. And children can be mean if they want to, make fun.”
We looked at her. I suddenly felt my heart grip a bit as I imagined her longing to be like everyone else, the teasing she must have received for her height. She squinted a bit and continued.
“The thing is, the thing is that at some time I accepted who I was and started to grow into myself. I mean, I knew I was unusual for this town—and you know, children, we are really just talking about Madhupur itself, and not the whole island of Pi—but I knew that in this whole world there are lots like me, and in fact, probably in the whole wide world there were so many like me that I wasn’t even the tallest anymore for my age, and possibly, in some places, the smallest. Do you see what I am telling you?”
We nodded—except, of course, we weren’t quite sure.
“What I am saying is that we just grow to like ourselves and become who we are.” She stopped here and looked at us, vigorously nodding, and shrugged her shoulders.
“Auntie. Would you like some water?”
Her sanguinity did not last long. Again, a mood appeared: Meterling with her anger. Sitting day after day, swallowing it all. So painful her throat ached. Until one day she exploded, and let out a scream. Then she quietly put herself back together again. Sometimes you can see the cracks where a shell or a pot
has been mended. Some value the cracks even more and paint them gold to honor the impermanence of the world. Or perhaps because the gold makes the cracks striking. Meterling, when she cracked, just a little, patched up fairly quickly, no scar. But how could there not be scars? To lose so much: parents, husband; then to gain so quickly: a child.
19
N
alani’s bridegroom’s family was to pay a visit. Everyone fussed to prepare, and Nalani herself tried on several saris, supervised by Aunt Pa. Shanti-Mami made carrot halvah, and in addition, sweets from the Chandigar store were bought, along with some savories. She also made idlis and sambar, and prepared two vegetables—a small luncheon feast. We were also told to dress and mind our manners and behave. When Aunt Pa announced, “They’ve come, they’re here,” we ran to the gate. A group walked in, taking off their chappals. Rajan’s parents, we saw, looked like distant aunts and uncles, and his sister wore pretty glasses. Rasi whispered to me that she did not like her sari, and I began to giggle. Imagine our surprise when we found another man walking in behind the sister, instead of Rajan, hands in a namaste for our aunts and family. Was this Rajan’s brother? Where was Rajan?
This was how we met Ajay. He was the fiancé, Nalani’s fiancé. Rajan’s horoscope did not match Nalani’s. So they found someone more suitable, with prospects in the U.S., who had completed his master’s degree.
He had brought Nalani a necklace, and brought us sweets from
Grand Street that first visit. Sanjay had on a Beatles T-shirt that he refused to change. The fiancé remarked on it, saying it was really “cool.” He seemed to genuinely mean it, too, and Sanjay glowed. Rasi and I were more withholding of our praise. Meterling peeked in, but stayed away, not wanting to cause confusion in his parents. Everyone knew about Meterling’s condition, but it seemed everyone walked carefully around it, too. The marriage would take place after the birth of Meterling’s baby, in an auspicious time. Nalani was quiet, and later went up to the roof—to meditate, she said, which meant we weren’t to follow.
The next day, the poet visited our house. Her name was Neela Chandrashekar, we discovered, and she had a strong laugh, and arrived with vegetables from the market. She took Meterling for a stroll, and when they returned, arm in arm, Neela said that what Meterling needed was a doula.
A dollar? we wondered. We thought she needed a lot more.
But the word was “doula,” a person who helps the pregnant woman in different ways than a doctor or midwife. Meterling met her the next week. A Belgian woman, with a robust face, she had been in India and Pi for decades, and delivered babies for expatriates and hippies, when the flower children wanted natural, loving births, and now some islanders trusted her to help deliver their own.
She came on Tuesdays and Thursdays, armed with massage oils and therapeutic sacks filled with seeds and hulls. The latter she warmed on the stove to place over Meterling’s shoulders. She spoke to Meterling about what to expect in the final months, how important it was to walk every day, and feed herself nourishing foods, not just halvahs. Anyway, the halvahs and sweets had been mostly in the first three months. She explained that grief was part of the pregnancy, even in women
who had not lost their husbands. Meterling’s life would change, and she needed to gently prepare for it.
Meterling at seven months was ready, ready, ready to give birth. Ready to lie down, feel less pregnant. But she was very pregnant. Round and pregnant, told to take walks, keep up her spirits. The doula repeatedly advised healthy eating, what Grandmother had been urging from the beginning. Meterling still wanted to eat round foods as round as her belly to deliver a healthy child, Archer’s child, hers. Eating rice and dal with lots of ghee, mild vegetable curries, drinking lots of water, and waiting, she imagined sensual meals, tiny eggplants stuffed with curry, long pieces of purple okra dripping with flavored oil, saffron-scented pilafs. She wanted to suck on her food-laden fingers, let her tongue slowly catch the drips of thandai, close her eyes as the cumin broths coursed down her throat. Were her nipples becoming hard, was this kundalini brought on by dreams of food? She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
20
T
he cousin from England called again. Archer’s cousin. He asked Meterling to come to England and see the fields Archer had left her. This time Meterling took the receiver. “I can’t,” she said, hesitating, and then saying, “I’m pregnant.” There was silence on both ends for a while.
“Then I’d better come see you,” said the cousin.
He did not waste time. He arrived one morning at the house, dressed in a beige kurta and nicely pressed pants. He didn’t look much like Archer, being younger, taller and lanky, like
someone who didn’t know what to do with his limbs. He brought chocolates from Belgium for us. We were all curious to see him, and wondered how our aunt would react to his presence. I wondered if his family’s snub still hurt. Grandmother, pursing her lips, led him to our front room, where we had some charpoys and chairs. I loved this room because of the mirrored red coverings on the pillows, and the low table made of a dark wood that held an elegant silver tea service, one of my grandmother’s wedding presents. Only a few years ago, Rasi and I would hold tea parties with our dolls. That was when Rasi too played with dolls. Sanjay was not allowed, “only girls,” we said, but Sanjay didn’t care anyway. He practiced cricket with some boys in the street, batting nicely, he’d tell us later.
This man looked like he might play cricket. He had an open face, and since he had shaved off the mustache he wore at the wedding, he no longer looked so funny. He seemed embarrassed by our frank stares, and Grandmother was on the verge of scolding us when Meterling entered. The cousin, whose name was Simon, blushed, and stood up. She calmly walked in, eight months of pregnancy in front of her, wearing a pale-rose sari. She had placed jasmine in her hair, too, because he was Archer’s cousin and had come all this way.