Page 100 of The Henna Artist

I wouldn’t miss Jaipur—every city had its charm—but would I miss Samir?

To be honest, I thought about him still.

How companionably we had managed our business, the times we had laughed together, moments when our bond had felt true, strong, that one night of lust.

There were things I no longer admired about him, as I once had, but he had been a part of my life for so long. To quash those memories would have been like pretending that a third of my life didn’t exist.

If I hadn’t met him, I might still be in Agra, working with the courtesans, hidden away in their pleasure houses. Without his connections, who knows if I could have created a business as a henna artist? If he hadn’t introduced me to Parvati, I might never have been invited to the maharanis’ palace. Been served tea by Her Highness.

My attention was diverted by a commotion on the platform as the sea of travelers parted for a substantial man in a palace uniform. He wore the red cummerbund and headdress of the maharanis’ attendants. He was carrying a large container draped in satin. A thin roll of carpet was wedged under his left arm. Oblivious to the stares and hushed voices of people on the platform, the man was consulting a piece of paper and looking up at each car he passed.

I called Malik to the window and pointed at the platform with my chin.

Malik craned his neck to look out the window. He grinned and waved. “Chef!”

The palace chef turned toward Malik’s voice. His face relaxed into a warm smile. Malik ran to the door of our car to greet him. I watched them exchange greetings, asalaamfrom Malik and anamastefrom Chef. The big man handed Malik the parcels and an envelope from his jacket pocket. They talked for a few more minutes before Chef waved goodbye.

Laden with his packages, Malik came down the passageway of our carriage, beaming. He gave me a heavy cream envelope with my name on it. I broke the palace seal, unfolded the stationery and read aloud.

“My Dear Mrs. Shastri,

“Your young friend has stolen Madho Singh’s heart. All that bird can talk about israbriand Malik, Malik andrabri. He has started asking for Red and Whites, which leads me to believe that he has also taken up smoking. This I cannot abide. Furthermore, he refuses to learn any more French (bonjourandbon voyageare the extent of his repertoire), and as I’m spending all my time in Paris now, this presents a problem. So I must bid adieu to my lovely bird and ask if you will be so kind as to present him to Malik. I’m sure Madho Singh will be happier with him than in the tomb that is my sitting room at the palace.

“The two of them are quite a pair, don’t you agree?

“Your friend and admirer,

“Maharani Indira Man Singh

“P.S. The carpet is a favorite of Madho Singh’s. He would be homesick without it.”

Inside our compartment, Malik lifted the satin cover of the cage. Madho Singh hopped from side to side on his perch. He said, “Namaste! Bonjour!Welcome!” and whistled. Malik whistled back. Radha, who was meeting Madho Singh for the first time, let out a delighted chuckle.

I smiled at my family.

The shrill whistle of the train pierced my ears, announcing our departure. I took one last look out the window. In the middle of the platform where people scurried about like ants, one man stood as still as a statue.

His eyes were on me. He wore a spotless white shirt anddhoti. He had shaven his face. He had cut his hair. He looked...handsome.

I had lived with Hari for only two years, but he had lived in my mind for half my life. By turns, I had feared him, been indifferent, felt contemptuous, full of hate or pity. Not once had I believed him capable of change. But if I could change, why couldn’t he?

Slowly, the engine began to pull its heavy load. Its wheels chugged and heaved, heaved and chugged. Last-minute passengers threw themselves and their cargo onto the cars. Chai-wallascollected empty glasses from passengers.

Hari put his hands together in anamasteand raised them in front of his face. His smile was without reproach or anger. For the first time since I’d known him, he appeared content.

I returned hisnamaste.

The train picked up speed. He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but I could hear nothing over the screech of the wheels.

EPILOGUE

Shimla, Himalaya Foothills, India

November 5, 1956

“That was the last tunnel, Auntie-Boss!”

Malik had been poring over a railway map and he was counting every one of the hundred tunnels our toy train entered. We had taken the regular train from Jaipur to Kalka and then the toy train to Shimla.

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