Page 38 of The Henna Artist

Our guide disappeared briefly through the door, then returned and held the door open. Earlier, we had agreed that Malik would wait with our supplies in the waiting room while I met with the maharani privately. Now, he grinned and wagged his head from side to side in approval, giving me courage.

I walked through the door. It closed behind me with the barest of clicks.

I found myself in a beautifully appointed sitting room. The ceiling, high above us, depicted the courtship of Ram and Sita. Facing me were three damask sofas, the middle one occupied by a stout woman of about fifty in emerald green silk. Her blouse was stamped in a goldbotehmotif. She was playing patience, the cards spread in front of her on a polished mahogany table. Dense salt-and-pepper hair, cut into a pageboy, grazed her shoulders and her diamondkundannecklace.

It was the first time I’d stood in front of royalty, and I felt a tickle in my throat. Was I going to cough in front of the maharani? I swallowed, fought the urge to clear my throat. With trembling hands, I adjusted my sari to cover more of my hair and walked toward her, my hands clasped in anamaste. When I reached the sofa, I bent to touch first her feet and then my own forehead. She waved me away with a flick of her bejeweled fingers.

She had just extracted a card from the deck and was looking for a place to put it, deciding finally to lay it facedown on the table.

“You see,” she said, “I’m always looking for the king, but he eludes me.” Her voice was deep and husky.

A high-pitched whistle made me stand straighter. From an elaborate silver cage behind the sofa, a bright green parakeet turned its head to fix, first, one eye on me, then the other. The door to the cage was open.

The maharani, who had yet to look directly at me, made a careless gesture at the cage. “Meet,” she said, “Madho Singh.”

The bird said, “Namaste! Bonjour!Welcome!” and whistled again, rolling a black tongue in his red beak. His neck was ringed iridescent black and bright pink, as if he were wearing a necklace like the maharani. His top feathers were the color of a summer sky.

I had heard of talking Alexandrine parakeets but never seen one myself. He was beautiful. “Your Highness has named the parakeet after the late maharaja?”

She fixed her dark eyes on mine for the first time and arched an eyebrow. “Regrettably, the two never met. My husband died thirty-three years ago, and little Madho Singh is only fifteen.” She regarded me coolly, from head to toe. “Please sit.”

I did so on the adjacent sofa, smoothing my sari over my knees to calm myself.

Yet another attendant, who must have been standing just inside the door, came forward quietly.

“Tea,” the maharani said.

He bowed and left the room. She pulled another card from the deck. “You’ve been to the Elephant Festival?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure, Your Highness.”

“Great fun it used to be. Rajputs came from all over to play polo on their gorgeous elephants. Everything was painted: tusks, trunks, feet. They would even paint the nails.” She swept an arm around the room to indicate how vast the decorations had been. “Before Maharani Latika married my stepson, I used to give the prize for the best decorated elephant. One year, as a gesture of appreciation, they presented me with little Madho Singh.”

The parakeet whistled again and screeched, “Namaste! Bonjour!Welcome!”

The maharani looked at the doorway. There, peeking around the open door, was Malik. I stiffened. How many times had I told him to wait outside? Hadn’t I made it clear how critical the elder queen was to our future?

She beckoned him with a hooked forefinger, and he stepped gingerly into the room, looking for the source of the sound. I was thankful that I’d bought the long-sleeved yellow shirt and white pants for him the day Parvati had first mentioned a palace appointment. This morning after he arrived at Mrs. Iyengar’s, I’d washed and oiled his hair and scrubbed his neck and ears until they turned red. Today, he was even wearing sandals that fit.

The maharani was studying him curiously while he examined the bird, taking no note of her at all. “Would you like to say hello to my precious?”

Madho Singh flew off his perch and landed on the back of the maharani’s sofa. “Precious,” the parakeet repeated prettily.

Maliksalaamedthe bird with his graceful hand. “Good morning,” he said in his best English, not once taking his eyes off the parakeet.

The bird repeated, “Namaste! Bonjour!Welcome!”

Malik smiled. “Smart bird.”

“Smart bird,” repeated Madho Singh.

The maharani, who’d been watching Malik all the while with interest, asked, “How old are you?”

He seemed to give the matter some thought. First, he looked up at the ceiling, then back down to the maharani. “I prefer to be eight.”

The corners of her lipsticked mouth quivered, then gave way to a generous smile. “How perfectly charming.” Her laughter began in her chest and bubbled up to her throat, jangling her bracelets and rustling the folds of her sari. She looked from Malik to me. “Yours?”

I shook my head.

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