Page 45 of The Henna Artist

Surprised that the two queens talked, much less knew, about my private life, I nodded. “Yes. Radha. She’s thirteen.”

“Does she go to school?”

“In another week, she’ll start at the government school near our lodgings.”

The maharani looked at me and cleared her throat. “Would you consider having her attend my school?”

For a moment I forgot my manners and stared. The Maharani School for Girls was the most prestigious in the state of Rajasthan. Marahani Latika had founded it to train young ladies in the arts of grace and self-sufficiency. My clients could afford to send their daughters there, but even with the increase in my business, I could never have earned enough to pay the tuition.

As if she had read my mind, Her Highness waved a hand and said, “No need to worry about the fees.”

I continued to stare at her. A place at the maharani’s school meant Radha would have a future far better than any I could have imagined for her. It meant she might be able to study abroad—just like Kanta—and see the larger world, something I’d only dreamed of doing. Yesterday, I hadn’t even thought it was possible!

The queen looked down at her open palms, sighed and brought them together in anamaste, stopping just short of smudging the wet henna. “I’m grateful for what you have done for me.”

I was overcome with emotion. And relief. What had seemed an overwhelming task had come, finally, to fruition. I lowered my head and returned hernamaste.

When I could control my voice, I said, “May you always wear red, Your Highness.”

I did not complete the traditional blessing:And may your sons carry on your husband’s name. Her only son, Madhup, would never be crown prince, and at this point, it would have been kinder to wish that she would never be a widow.

I was summoned by the dowager queen for my daily status report. An assistant led me to the salon where she had first interviewed me, only this time she was sitting at a card table with three other elegant and bejeweled ladies. A bridge game was in progress. I brought my hands into anamastefor Her Highness first, then her companions.

Madho Singh whistled and squawked, “Namaste! Bonjour!Welcome!” He flew from his cage to the top of his mistress’s chair.

Maharani Indira said to the woman across the table, “Nalani, you met Helen Keller in Bombay a few months ago, but the real miracle worker is standing to your right.”

The woman called Nalani scrutinized me over her half-moon lenses. “Is that right?”

Her Highness studied her cards. “Ladies, meet Lakshmi Shastri, who has brought our young maharani back from the depths of gloom.”

I smiled. “I’m pleased to be of service, Your Highness.”

“I believe, Gori, that you’re hosting the French Minister of Finance next month. What a treat it would be for his wife to have Lakshmi henna her hands! And, Anu, aren’t you welcoming your third grandchild soon? Lakshmi is just the woman to design yourmandala. She’ll work her magic, and before you can blink, you’ll have a grandson.”

“Now thatwouldbe a miracle,” said Anu, chuckling.

The maharani smiled benevolently at me. I acknowledged her praise by touching a hand to my forehead.

She returned her attention to her cards. “I’d like you to continue seeing Latika several times a week for the next month. She’s sure to relapse when the maharaja permits her to speak to her son again, and she’ll welcome your assistance.” Then Her Highness dismissed me with a nod.

As I walked to the door, I heard her say, “Just my luck, ladies, I’m to open the ceremonies for the Desert Festival next week. Gori, you must accompany me this time. Why should I always be the one to judge the mustache competition?”

“You know what they say—the longer the mustache, the longer thelingam.”

Their laughter followed me out the door and down the corridor.

Malik and I were on atonga, headed to our next appointment. I was telling him about the new work we’d be taking on for the Maharani Indira’s friends when the carriage lurched to a stop. The horse reared and whinnied. I grabbed Malik’s arm with one hand and the rickshaw awning with the other to keep us from falling out. What had we hit? Pothole? Rock? Stray dog? Then I saw Hari. Off to our right, gripping the wooden pole he had just jammed into the wheel of our carriage. The driver was gesturing wildly and shouting insults at him. The motorists behind us honked. People turned to stare. Even the white calf by the roadside stopped munching on discarded potato peels to look up.

Malik tugged my arm. “Let’s get off.”

He grabbed our tiffins and jumped off, but I couldn’t move. Malik tossed several rupees at the driver, dragged me off the carriage, gathered the tiffins and pulled me into an alley. My limbs felt heavy, as if I were swimming through oil.Would I truly be tied to Hari for seven lifetimes?

When we were safely out of view, Malik turned and released the tiffins but still held on to my arm.

Hari approached, dropping the pole on the bare dirt.

Malik spat on the ground. “You can’t make an appointment like everyone else?”

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