Page 47 of The Henna Artist

“Goonda!”Malik said.

Maybe he was a bad man. Maybe not. I’d known the Hari of long ago. Was he different now? I was skeptical.

I put my hands on Malik’s shoulders, forcing him to look at me. “Tell me you willneverbecome a thug. Promise me.”

Malik didn’t answer. He picked up the tiffins and walked away.

I arrived home earlier than usual. Seeing Hari had rattled me, but I was trying not to think about it. I focused instead on the news I wanted to share with Radha. The Maharani School for Girls. How excited she would be to read Shakespeare alongside the elite young ladies of Jaipur!

From Mrs. Iyengar’s gate, I watched Radha at the outdoor hearth, pouring graham flour from a sack onto a steel plate. Her hands worked quickly, sifting through the powder, removing the pebbles. She was still brusque, dismissing me with a toss of her head. Or she ignored me completely and buried her head in one of Kanta’s novels. But things would be different now. Especially now that I could offer her what neither of us had anticipated—something even better than Kanta could offer.

I approached Radha, bade her good evening.

She flicked her eyes at me but said nothing. She poured flour from the plate in a pan of meltedghee. The rich smell of warm butter and flour filled the air.

I squatted next to her. For the first time, it occurred to me that she’d never had her earlobes pierced as a baby. Maa and Pitaji probably couldn’t afford gold for the earrings. I would get them pierced with small gold hoops.

“The next time I go to the palace, Radha, I’d like to take you with me.”

My sister blinked in surprise, but continued stirring the flour. I waited for a response. None came.

“You’ve been so diligent with your work. You grind henna finer than I ever could—”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Go to the palace with you.”

“Of course you can. Kanta would excuse you for an afternoon—”

“She’s cooped up in her house all day,” she said flatly. “And hersaasis difficult.” She began pouring a sack of sugar into the hot pan. “She needs me.” I heard what she didn’t say:You don’t.

I was stung. How could this girl, who had cried all night two weeks ago when I wouldn’t let her go to the palace with Malik and me, now act as if it made no difference to her? Perhaps I chose the wrong time to tell her? I should have waited until she finished cooking. Since the fire at Mrs. Iyengar’s hearth when she first arrived, she had tried to be especially careful.

I lifted the bowl of crushed cardamom, intending to pour it into the sugar mixture.

Radha grabbed my wrist. “Not yet.”

I set the bowl down, embarrassed. I shouldn’t have interfered. Herladdusturned out far better than mine.

She turned over a spatula-full of flour. It was browning nicely.

The silence between us lengthened.

“I have a surprise for you. The Maharani Latika has offered you a scholarship at her school. Just think, Radha! Instead of a government school, you’ll be going to a private one. Where all the girls from Parvati’s holiday party go. Starting next week.”

She kept stirring the flour.

“Radha?”

“I’ll tell Auntie tomorrow when I see her. She’ll be pleased.”

Perhaps she was too tired to take it in. Had I been working her too hard?

“You’ll have to take an entrance exam, but I know you’ll pass easily. You know so much already about books, Radha, and your English is so good—”

“I’ll go, if that’s what you want.”

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