Page 43 of The Henna Artist

Happier to do Kanta’s bidding than mine, Radha smiled smugly and opened the book she’d been carrying to the page where they had left off. I looked at the cover.Daisy Miller.I hadn’t read it, but my ladies had talked about it. The novel was about a teenage American girl on a European tour. How generous of Kanta to help Radha improve her English—and her knowledge of the world. I was grateful that she had time for my sister when I didn’t. My days were so busy that it was a relief to have Radha taken off my hands.

“Oh, Lakshmi! Tomorrow I’m taking Radha to that American film I told you about.Some Like It Hot.Starring Miss Marilyn Monroe!” Kanta rattled on cheerfully like a purple-rumped sunbird. “And next month,Mr. and Mrs. 55is coming back for another run—it was so popular the first time! We’ll go see that, too. You don’t mind, do you, Lakshmi?”

How could I deny her when she was so generously chaperoning my sister? I glanced at Radha, who I knew was eagerly waiting for my answer even as she feigned indifference. I felt a vague sense of unease, but said, “Of course not. It’s very good of you, Kanta.”

Radha offered me a small smile.

My sister needed a friend, and so did Kanta. Allowing them to spend more time together was my way of asking Radha to forgive me for spending so little time with her. Or so I told myself.

EIGHT

January 5, 1956

During my second week of daily visits with the Maharani Latika, I sensed a shift. When I arrived, the young queen looked directly in my eyes. The dark color around her lids had lightened and she looked alert. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot. I touched her feet, inquired after her health. She didn’t respond but continued to study me with her large eyes.

“Her Highness slept a full six hours last night!” said the noblewoman who read aloud to the young queen.

I couldn’t conceal my excitement. I opened a tiffin with the lemon slices I had candied the night before. “Perhaps a celebration is in order?” I asked. Mysaashad taught me that women who had suffered a deep loss needed remedies rich in fruit and essences of flowers. Lemon promoted energy and gastric fire; the candied fruit would increase Her Highness’s appetite. “If you will permit me, Your Highness?”

Maharani Latika raised her eyebrows and looked to her ladies for guidance.

The first lady-in-waiting instructed one of the bearers to take the tiffin down to the kitchen. Food prepared outside the palace was suspect and one of the cook’s assistants would have to sample it before the maharani did. If all went well today, in a few days I could serve her creamyrasmalai, homemade curds with sugar, cardamom and rose petals. The maharani’s cheeks had become hollow; for weeks, she had refused everything but adalas thin as drinking water. By feeding her foods that stimulated hunger in her belly, I was hoping to correct thevataimbalance in her body. When we could switch to heavier textures like curds and spices like cardamom, her depression would lift more quickly.

Today, Her Highness took an interest in the henna and watched while I drew. Each day I added to the pattern from the day before. First, I had painted her nails, the tips of her fingers and her wrists with solid henna paste. I did the same thing to her toes and the soles of her feet. Another day, I drew intertwining branches down each finger, thumb and toe. The day after: a complex pattern of leaves on the backs of both hands and the tops of her feet. Now, I surrounded each leaf with tiny dots around the edges. My goal was to cover every inch of the skin on her hands and feet with henna; the more henna I applied, the more the calming properties of the paste would relax her mind and body, and allow Her Highness to rest.

When the bearer returned with the candied lemons, now arranged on an imperial blue china plate, the lady-in-waiting took it from him. She offered the plate to the young queen. Her Highness hesitated before taking a lemon slice. All eyes were on her. Even the guru looked up from his prayer with pursed lips as if he were about to suck the candy.

The maharani took a tiny bite, chewed and swallowed. She closed her eyes and took another bite. The tension in the room eased; shoulders were lowered as everyone breathed a collective sigh.

The lady-in-waiting resumed her reading. “‘When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down, the moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes amongst the bamboos. The crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.’”

The following day, Her Highness was dressed in an eggplant silk sari. Her ladies had placed a matching purplebindion her forehead. The borders of her blouse were hand-embroidered in gold and green flowers. Her hair gleamed with thebawchi-coconut oil I’d left with her dresser the day before. At the last minute, I’d added a drop of peppermint, which now perfumed the air along with the guru’s sandalwood incense.

I exchanged smiles with the ladies.

“Good morning.”

We all turned to stare at Her Highness, who had uttered this greeting. It came out as a croak; she hadn’t spoken in a month. She cleared her throat, and one of her attendants rushed over with a glass of water.

After taking a few sips, Maharani Latika tried again. “Good morning.”

Her voice was scratchy. Her Highness put her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. I thought she was about to cry. Then a shy smile spread slowly across her face. She opened her eyes and patted her chest. She was attempting a laugh, as if the sound of her hoarse voice amused her.

“HaiBhagwan. Itisa very good morning, Your Highness,” the guru said.

That evening, after using the privy in the Iyengar’s backyard, I was climbing the steps to our lodgings when I overheard Radha and Malik in our room. The door to the room was ajar. Since Radha rarely spoke to me at any length these days, conversations between the two of them were the only way I knew what was going on in her life. I stopped on the landing to listen.

“Marilyn Monroe is so different from Indian women, Malik.” Radha sounded dreamy. “Her skin is white like the petals of thechampaflower, and her hair is fluffy—like the cotton candy they sell at the theater.”

“Gopal says her clothes are so tight he can’t help staring at her breasts. They look like mountains on the cinema screen,” Malik said.

“Your friend is a cheeky boy.”

The more time my sister spent with Kanta, the haughtier Radha sounded, as if she were trying on city sophistication for size. It was hard to believe she was the same girl with the dusty petticoat, dirty nails and unkempt hair I’d met just three months ago. It made me a little nervous, how quickly she was changing. Was she growing up too fast? On the other hand, when I caught sight of her in a smartsalwar-kameezwith her hair glistening in a neat bun, didn’t it make me glow with pride? My very own Pygmalion sculpture?

“Was the movie funny?” Malik asked.

“I guess so. Kanta Auntie explained to me the bits I didn’t understand. Miss Monroe has the best smile.” A pause. “Do you think Americans have more teeth than we do?”

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