Page 72 of The Henna Artist

Above the last signature line, however, my hand, so used to skating over skin, hovered. Instead of the relief I’d thought I would feel, I was seized by anxiety: I was giving away a life—a living, breathing person—as randomly as I had given my old saris to the beggar women in Choti Chuppar.

I was sending Radha’s baby away, forever. He would not know his mother. He would be raised in a royal household with no blood relatives. Radha’s son—my nephew—would be attended by two queens, each with her own reason to resent him. Maharani Latika would never forgive him for displacing her son, and Maharani Indira would be forced, once again, to accept a child into her family who was not her blood. When this baby awakened from a nightmare, his mother would not soothe him back to sleep with caresses, would not whisper sweetly in his ear, would not sing him lullabies as my father had done.

When this baby tried to take his first steps and failed, his real mother would not smother him with a hundred kisses, or stroke his cheek. The only substitutes for a mother’s love would be devoted wet nurses, nannies and governesses. We could hope, but there were no guarantees.

How could this have seemed so logical a solution only a week ago?

The room was cool; I could hear the low hum of the air-conditioning. Yet, I was perspiring. The faint glimmer of a headache at my temples would soon explode into a throbbing pain. When I ran my tongue across my mouth, my lips were as rough as sand.

“May I have some water, Your Highness?” It was impertinent to ask, but I couldn’t continue otherwise.

Her Highness looked at me curiously but gave the order. The bearer poured water from a crystal pitcher and handed the glass to me. For whatever reason, as I drank, I thought of Samir the night I’d told him about Radha’s baby. The look of terror, anger and shame on his face. I thought of orphanages and boys and girls with lonely eyes and pinched mouths. A palace upbringing was surely preferable to that. There was no other choice available to me or Samir or Ravi or Radha. Before I could reconsider, I scrawled my name, and pushed the stack of papers far away from me.

The maharani removed her glasses and patted the cushion next to her. “Come, now, Mrs. Shastri. We will seal the contract.” She turned her head slightly to include the parakeet. “You may join us.”

Her tone signaled that Madho Singh had been forgiven. He flew out of his cage and landed on the tea table.

Her Highness spooned the red-gold liquid into her right palm, lifted the hand to her lips and sucked, expertly. Madho Singh crooked his neck to watch. He was expectant, nervous, hopping from one foot to the other. I assumed he’d been present at many such ceremonies.

The maharani wiped her hand on a clean napkin, poured another spoonful of liquid into her palm, and held it out to me. “Drink,” she commanded.

I obeyed, slurping inelegantly from her hand. The liquid was odorless and slightly sweet. I raised my brows, not daring to ask.

“Liquid opium.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “If it’s good enough for the maharajas to seal a treaty, it’s good enough for us.”

Another, much smaller spoonful, she gave to Madho Singh, who licked with his black tongue until it was all gone. He fluttered his wings and squawked, “Namaste! Bonjour!Welcome!”

A strange calm descended over me. My headache began to recede.

“One more matter,” Her Highness said, settling back against the cushions.

“Yes?”

“A man called Hari Shastri.”

My heart sped up, and not, I was sure, because of the opium.

“Chef told me about a cousin-brother of his—named Shastri—a do-gooder, I gather. He’s been helping the women of GulabNagar—a relief since we can’t find doctors to attend to them. At Chef’s request—pleading, really—I have agreed to finance Mr. Shastri’s efforts. Everyone has a right to make a living,n’est-ce pas?” She grinned. “And Chef learned—almost overnight—to season my food just the way I like it. A jolly trade!”

So this was what Malik had been so cagey about. He’d bribed the palace chef (with promises of cheap cooking supplies, I supposed) into persuading the maharani to help Hari so he would stop asking me for money.

The maharani puckered her lips. “Shastri is not a name you come across often in Rajasthan. He wouldn’t, by any chance, be a relation of yours?”

When I looked her in the eye, I didn’t blink. “No, Your Highness.”

She considered me a long moment before speaking. “As I thought.”

FIFTEEN

May 6, 1956

We decided Kanta would be the one to tell Radha that we had an adoption contract. I’d been relieved to learn that Radha had been agreeable when Kanta brought it up. If I had brought it up with my sister, I doubt she would have listened to what I had to say. Kanta and I also agreed not to tell Radha that the Jaipur Palace was adopting her child. If she knew, I worried that upon her return to Jaipur, she might take to loitering outside the palace gates for a glimpse of her baby. (Samir had told me that before Radha left for Shimla, she had often been spotted outside the Singh compound, hoping to speak to Ravi.)

May 6, 1956

Dear Dr. Kumar,

Once again, we seem to be cooperating under difficult circumstances. Perhaps you’ll recall our conversation from last December—in another strained situation—when you questioned whether my herbs had any medicinal benefit. Now it appears that my sister is more in need of your sort of medicine than mine.

---