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6 Small Things Satisfied B ack from India, the four of us dropped back into routine. I found myself helping Mom with chops in the kitchen. Mom’s cream and orange-trimmed curtains fluttered around a slice of backyard and I could see the honeysuckle bush nestled against my bedroom window. As always in the late afternoon, the tips of the branches gleamed gold and verdant tendrils grasped at the air like delicate fingers. I hurried with my part of the chops, not really helping all that much, and left the kitchen. The humid press of clothing suctioning onto my skin after the air-conditioning felt good, despite all the Indian adults telling me it was bad to feel the heat, that the sun was to be avoided. But to me it felt like Rani Villa heat, like my grandparents’ veranda at midday, like what we had just left again for years, and I found that I relished the hot Kansas sun at four o’clock, softened and less angry. The neighborhood girls appeared from out of their yards just as if I’d never been away and Susan, Kathy, and I plucked honeysuckle flowers, gently pulling the stamens to get at the tiny liquid drop poised on the end. Bee-hum made the surrounding air pulse: the effortless chant of small things. I had heard this hum at Rani Villa, and I heard it in Kansas: satisfaction in a vast realm right beneath our noses. Our own bodies thrummed with the bees as we carefully pulled the tender, slightly rubbery, translucent stamens smoothly between our lips. As the sun 50 Small Things Satisfied warmed our necks, we looked cross-eyed at our fingers and concentrated on softly pinching the orange tips. The taste was fleeting-sweet and could be missed. There were so many flowers we did not fear the drowsily buzzing, satiated bees. My father was mowing and dandelion fluff was smoothly drifting through the air. I looked up to see him pause and drink water in the Indian way: the rim of the glass never touching his lips, the liquid arcing through the air and hitting the back of his tongue. He swallowed and his strong neck convulsed. The timing of the act was impeccable. No dribbles marred his shirt as he turned the glass upright after the water was airborne. He then walked over and handed the remaining water to me and I tipped the glass while holding it slightly above my nose, trying to imitate his technique. I felt a burst of pride in the fact that my friends would never think to do this. They continually passed each other their Pepsis or Dr Peppers for a sip, gumming the straws or bottle tops without thought. In India, my parents had cautioned us to not drink anything from street vendors unless it was from a coconut stall. The coconut vendor would puncture a round brown coconut husk and stick a straw through the opening. No need to do the water trick, as nothing needed washing. I watched as vendors of other drinks, like delicious salty or sweet yogurt lassies, put the used glasses in tubs of graying water at their feet once a customer was done. Lassies were a favorite of mine: lush and also light with froth, my favorite kind fruity and sweet. I would much rather have had a lassie. But even though I was young, I could see the wisdom of choosing a coconut drink. In our backyard, I watched one friend’s face when my father did the water trick on that hot, dry Kansas day when he had stopped mowing. I still felt such admiration for the feat—it showed cleanliness, consideration, and savvy—and I expected awe from my friend. But her look was different from admiration: something a little horrified but almost tender, like someone watching a quaint custom of the natives. The small thrum of contentment forming in my throat slowly constricted until I could not feel it at all. To distract myself, I looked over at the clothesline, and remembering the birds, I put the glass down on the patio, wiping dribbles off my chin, and ran around the honeysuckle to check the hollow ends of the T-shaped pipe. The fat honeysuckle effectively blocked my view of the clothesline and for days I would forget about the birds that might nest there. But if the birds built a [18.220.137.164] Project MUSE (2024...

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