Page 22 of The Henna Artist

“No more herbs, Mrs. Shastri.” Dr. Kumar’s voice sounded tired.

“She trusted me to help her, Dr. Kumar.” I walked to the table of herbs. “Radha, quickly!” I said, waking the girl out of her daze.

Radha hurried to join me and began separating the chamomile petals and stems from the pregnant pollen centers, which she handed to me. I ground them in the mortar along with two leaves of peppermint and a few drops of water. As I worked the paste, a scent sweet and sharp, fruity and floral, filled the small room.

“Wet a rag,” I told Radha.

Radha dampened a fresh scrap of cloth. I placed the paste in the middle, folded the cloth and knotted the two ends closed to form a poultice.

I sat opposite Dr. Kumar on the narrow cot, tenderly blotting the woman’s feverish forehead with the poultice. For a second her eyes opened, and I saw a flicker of recognition before she closed them again.

“Breathe, Mrs. Harris,” I told her. “You will be fine. Breathe.” Like a priest’s incantation or a templegoer’s plea to Ganesh, I repeated the mantra steadily, until her forehead relaxed.

I pulled the quilt down. The Englishwoman’s hands were still gripping her stomach. I pressed a point just below her sweaty wrist until her fingers uncurled, releasing their hold. Then I placed the poultice on her stomach. After a minute, her limbs stopped twitching. Her breathing became more regular.

Dr. Kumar stared, incredulous.

“It draws out the infection,” I told him, handing him the pouch.

“It’s hot.” He held it gingerly, as if it burned his fingers.

I smiled. “Mysaastaught me how to make it.”

The door latch clicked. We turned to see Samir rushing toward us. He lifted the patient from the cot. “We’re taking her to Gola’s private hospital. Remember him from school, Kumar?”

Dr. Kumar nodded.

“Is she doing any better?”

“She’s in less pain. But she will lose the baby.” The doctor looked at me as he said it. He sounded resigned; he wasn’t accusing me. He picked up his black bag.

“Can’t be helped.” Samir was halfway to the door. He seemed eager to let the matter drop. “Let’s go, Kumar!”

I followed them to the door. “You’ll let me know how she fares?”

“I’ll send word in a few days,” Samir whispered as he carried Joyce Harris down the stairs.

Dr. Kumar looked around the room, his gaze alighting on various objects before settling on me. He tilted his head to one side in farewell and hurried out.

I shut the door behind him and rested my forehead against it. The silence in the room was as noisy as cicadas on a hot summer day. I waited for Radha’s questions.

After a while, she said, “That woman—theAngrezi—shewantedto lose her baby?”

“Yes.”

“And you helped her?”

“Yes.” My shoulders slumped. I hadn’t thought I’d have to tell her for a few more years. How naive I’d been.

“But earlier you said the henna is how you make money...”

I pressed my lips together. I looked away.

Radha frowned, considering. “The beggar woman we saw yesterday. With her baby. You said she shouldn’t have any more children. She couldn’t afford to feed them.”

“Yes.”

“But tonight. TheAngreziwoman. She must be rich.”

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