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Friday, September 17, 2010


“Honey,” she said.

O, O!

This was not the nectar of flowers regurgitated by worker bees. This was not the honey mentioned in Biblical, Judaic, Buddhist, Islamic, Roman, and Western lore.

This honey had a certain presence – a nuance, an edge.

When whispered in the ears, by the fireside, on a furry skin (we will discuss animal rights another time) with outside temperatures dipping below freezing, and by a bowl of grapes and bottles of fermented or unfermented juices of the said grapes, depending on your inclinations and dietary proclivities, honey acquires a certain amorous sweetness.

I raked my brain. Both left and right sides cooperated fully.

The previous evening some friends had dropped in early and left late. When I was committed but unattached, cleanup was a chore to be done the next day. Or the day after – but certainly before the advent of the next weekend.

Today when I am committed and spoken for, cleanups are done before hitting the bed.

The assumptions in the above are obvious by the use of "hitting" – if I had written "crawling" then cleanups could have assumed a different colour alert code.

“Honey,” she said again.

Even though I am tone deaf, as happens in the times and history of committed men, I could detect a slight quivering impatience in the second “hello.” I could not be sure if it had husky or sultry overtones.

Committed – loaded word – in the first person it shows a degree of dedication and perseverance to a person, goal or passion – and in the second person it could mean dispatching one to a mental asylum in pursuit of that dedication.

The dishes, dinner plates, quarter plates, water glasses, forks, knives and spoons were collected from the dining table, sorted and placed in the sink to be cleaned after the guests left.

Once upon a time I had let all and sundry know I love doing the dishes. I do. Remove the detritus, soak, soap, wash, rinse, dry. There! Is there another job that shows such clean and shiny results in such short order? Show me any other item on the Things-to-do-list that can be completed in such short time.

The dishes were done, replaced. Phir kiya gaRbaR hay? Maybe nothing.

Could it be the stuff from downstairs? Glasses, trays, dishes, glasses, sheesha, ash tray? Had a look. All tabletops were clean, no glasses, no rolled or crushed paper napkins. The vacuum hose snaked its way around the furniture along a wall in anticipation of the morrow – the kids were asleep.

It cannot be a dirty dish, glass or leftovers. Did we run short of the celery or the dip? Was something stale? But everyone is gone, why fret?

When our first born had just learned to spit out words and phrases, one of the first ones that came out had sweet connotations, “eezzzsho shicky,” (eng: it is so sticky) he said playing with honey. We knew he would be the profound one in the family.

“If bee makes honey, why does honey attracts bees?” – son now aged ten.

What did I do – or did not do yesterday, last night? Grapes have a way of transforming crystal thoughts into foggy ones.

“Honey, come to bed.”

* * * *

M’s disclosure: I have never called t "honey"
t’s "honey" - delivered with a sigh, an exclamation mark and a query


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