Page 4 of The Henna Artist

“Well,” I continued. “They’ve only just arranged for their son to marry the Kumar girl. You know the one—with the beauty spot on her cheek? Of course, the marriage will be put off until he’s completed his degree.” I looked out the window at her sons in their cricket whites. “The good ones are going like hotjalebis. Once a son is off to Britain or America, parents worry he’ll come home with a wife who doesn’t speak a word of Hindi.”

“Quite. The happiest marriages are when parents choose the girl. Just look at Samir and me.”

I could have said something, but I didn’t. Instead, I made a show of blowing on my tea. “I also heard the Akbar girl has been promised to Muhammad Ismail’s boy. One of Ravi’s classmates, isn’t he?”

I took another sip while holding Parvati’s gaze.

She sat a little straighter and looked out the window. On the lawn, Lala’s niece was serving the boys their tea. Ravi spoke to the girl and tapped her nose once, playfully, which brought a fit of giggles from her.

Parvati frowned. Without taking her eyes off the scene outside, she leaned toward me, slowly, like a baby bird, a sign for me to feed her. I placed anamkeenin her mouth, the one I’d made this morning, seasoned with parsley. Like all my ladies, she never suspected that the ingredients in my treats, combined with what I drew on her hands and feet, fueled her desire and her husband’s lust.

After a moment, she turned from the window and set her teacup delicately on the table.

“IfI wanted a match—and I’m not saying I do...” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Would you have anyone in mind?”

“There are many eligible girls in Jaipur, as you know.” I smiled at her over the rim of my cup. “But Ravi is not just any boy.”

When she turned to look at her sons again, Lala’s niece was gone. Parvati’s face relaxed. “When I ask him to, Ravi always comes down from school. What’s the good of sending him away, Samir says.” She laughed lightly. “But I miss him. Govind misses him, too. He was only three when Ravi went to boarding school.”

She lifted the teapot and poured herself another cup of chai. “Have you heard anything of Rai Singh’s daughter? They say she’s quite striking.”

“Pity. Only yesterday she was snatched up for Mrs. Rathore’s son.” I let out a sigh. It was delicate, this conversation we were having, one where neither Parvati nor I could tip our hand.

She searched my face with narrowed eyes. “Something tells me you have a girl in mind.”

“Oh, I fear you’ll think my choice unsuitable.”

“How so?”

“Well...unconventional, perhaps.”

“Unconventional? You know me better than that, Lakshmi. I went not once, but twice, to the Soviet Union last year. Nehru-jiinsisted I go with the Indo-Soviet League. Come now, let’s hear it.”

“Well...” I pretended to tuck a strand of hair back into my bun. “The girl’s not Rajput.”

She raised one tweezed brow, but would not look away. I held her gaze. “She’s Brahmin.”

Parvati blinked. She may have thought herself a woman of the times, but the possibility of Ravi marrying outside his caste was something she hadn’t entertained. For centuries, each of the four Hindu castes—even the merchant and laborer castes—married largely within their own group.

I fed Parvati another snack.

“I can’t imagine a better match for the Singh family,” I continued. “The girl is beautiful. Fair. Well-educated. High-spirited. The sort Ravi would appreciate. And her family’s well connected. Oh, has your tea gone cold? I fear mine has.”

“Do we know the girl?”

“Since she was a child, in fact. Shall I call for more?” I set my cup down and reached for the silver bell, but Parvati caught me by the forearm.

“Forget the tea, Lakshmi! Tell me about the girl or I’ll wipe my feet on this towel and ruin the last hour’s work.”

Instead of meeting her eyes, I tapped the henna on her feet to test for dryness. “The girl’s name is Sheela Sharma. Mr. V. M. Sharma’s daughter.”

Parvati knew the Sharmas, of course. The two families often moved in the same business circles. Mr. Sharma’s construction company, the largest in Rajasthan, had just won the contract to remodel the maharaja’s Rambagh Palace. Parvati’s husband owned an architectural firm that designed many of the residential and commercial buildings in the city. It would be an unexpected union of two prominent families. If I could pull it off, Jaipur’s elite would be clamoring for my services as a matchmaker, a far more lucrative prospect than being a henna artist.

She cocked her head. “But...Sheela’s still a child.”

Over the past year, rice puddings and extra helpings ofchapattiwithgheehad added a layer of soft flesh to Sheela’s body. Now, she looked less like a girl and more like a young woman.

“Sheela’s fifteen,” I said. “And quite lovely. She attends the Maharani School for Girls. Just last week her music master told me her singing reminded him of Lata Mangeshkar.”

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