Page 17 of The Henna Artist

“Do you have any more questions?”

“Only the ones neither of us can answer,” she told me in a voice I had to strain to hear.

As soon as I entered my lodgings, Radha sprang up from the floor, where Malik was gathering pebbles from a game of fivestones. She ran to the cooking pots and came back with a steel plate of food, relieving me of my carryall. “For you, Jiji.”

Something was amiss. My eyes circled the room.

Malik stood and pocketed the pebbles. He stared at the floor sullenly, not meeting my eye. Radha ran to the water jug and returned with a full glass.

Now I was standing with a plate of fried dough and a glass of water, two anxious faces watching me.

“Dal batti?I thought I told you to makeladdus.”

She offered a nervous smile. “Malik saiddal battiis a Rajasthani specialty. I took off the burned pieces. Taste, Jiji.” She was anxious to please.

I ignored her. “Malik?”

Radha took a step forward, as if to shield him. “It’s not his fault, Jiji. He was only putting out the fire. Then Mrs. Iyengar started screaming—”

Fire? Mrs. Iyengar screaming?“Chup-chup!”Putting the plate and tumbler on my worktable, I took a deep breath. “Start from the beginning.”

She told me she was makingdal baatiwhen herchunnicaught fire. Malik rushed down the stairs to help, and Mrs. Iyengar yelled at him for polluting her hearth.

Malik made circles on the floor with his big toe. “Sorry, Auntie-Boss.”

Radha frowned and looked from him to me. “Malik has nothing to be sorry for. He saved me from burning! That mean old crow—”

Had it not been for her insolence, I might have been more sympathetic. But her attitude must be curbed now or it would color my relationship with the landlady.

I held up a finger. “That old crow is our landlady.” I held up another finger. “This is her home, not ours. She has the right to tell us what to do.”

“That’s not fair! Why don’t we just move now to your new house? Get away from her?”

The vein on my temple throbbed. I pressed it gently with my fingers, resisted the urge to raise my voice. “I told you, Radha. We’ll move into our house when it’s ready. Not before.”

I looked at Malik. “Did it happen as she says?”

He nodded.

I placed my hand on his head. “Thank you for keeping Radha from burning the house down.”

He gave me a small smile.

“As for you, Radha, you must be more careful from now on—”

“But—”

“Especially when it comes to Mrs. Iyengar’s hearth.”

“Jiji—”

I reached for Radha’s shoulder to calm her. She flinched, as if I were about to slap her. Is that what Maa used to do? Or what Hari did?

I dropped my hand. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I let out a sigh. Appeasing the pious Mrs. Iyengar would cost me plenty. The last (and only other) time Malik had unknowingly walked across her hearth, she had insisted on a Brahminpanditto purify it. (Muslims like Malik ate meat; the Iyengars didn’t. They would have objected even if the Singhs had crossed their hearth. Rajputs ate meat also.) The first purification had cost me forty rupees. First my debt to the builder, then Hari. Now, this.

I tucked the end of my sari in my petticoat, steeling myself for a chat with my landlady. “I will go see what our punishment is.”

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