Page 81 of The Henna Artist

The nurse brought another steaming cup, which he accepted. The skin under his eyes was puffy; he’d been up all night, too.

“I want to show you something,” Dr. Kumar said. He led me down the hall and out the double doors to a garden. We were closer to the sun here, in the Himalayas; the light was so bright it hurt my eyes. I had to wait a moment for them to adjust, and then I managed, just, to squint, taking in the pink roses, blue hibiscus and orange bougainvillea surrounding us.

On this early September morning, several patients, wrapped tightly in shawls, were strolling along the paths, aided by family members or nurses.

He gestured with his teacup. “What do you think?”

After the events of the past twenty-four hours, I could barely stand straight. But the sight of the flourishing garden revived me a little. “It’s lovely.”

“It does the patients good, but I think it can do much, much more.”

A cool breeze blew over us, chilling my arms and legs. I sipped the tea for warmth. Dr. Kumar set his cup down on a bench, removed his white coat and draped it over my shoulders. It was still warm from his body, and smelled of spearmint, antiseptic and limes.

“As I’ve been saying in my letters to you... I’ve begun to see that the herbal remedies of the Himalayan people have a place in modern medicine. If their homemade poultices and potions didn’t work...well, they wouldn’t still be using them.” He spoke as if thoughts came to him in short, staccato bursts. “I’m convinced that we must learn from their methods.Andpractice our medicine. Both. I’ve... I’d like to test my theory.” He ducked his chin. “I was hoping you could help.”

“Me?”

“You could tell us what to plant, what herbs and shrubs—here, in this garden. Thatneempowder. It worked so well on my young patient. Absolutely cleared his skin... Why couldn’t we grow plants like those here?” Excitement flashed in his gray eyes like lightning.

“You’re serious?”

“Frightfully so.”

The teacup rattled in my hand, though I didn’t know if it was because of nerves, fatigue or excitement. For ages, I had dreamed of growing a large-scale herb garden where I could planttulsiandneemand almond trees and geranium and bitter melon and crocus. It wasn’t long ago that the means to make it happen had been within my grasp, in my own courtyard, and then—suddenly—had vanished.

“Surely you’ve noticed I live in Jaipur,” I said with a smile.

“We’ll consult by correspondence, as we’re doing now. Look, I saw the way you...helped Mrs. Harris. She received more benefit from your herbal compress than she did from my injection. I simply haven’t been able to get that out of my mind. And the mustard poultice that eased my cough...amazing!”

He shifted his feet on the cobblestones. “I’m thinking that the new India, well, she may not be quite ready to give up her old ways. And that might be for the best.” He looked at my shoulder. “Think about it, anyway.” He glanced at his teacup. “I confess I’ll be very disappointed if you...if you say no.”

A tight-lipped nurse in a white wimple called his name. She was at the double doors, pointing at the watch pinned to her habit.

“Patients.” He grinned shyly. “Perhaps we could continue after my rounds—”

“I’ll be here.”

“I could have a cot set up for you in Radha’s room. You must be tired.”

I thanked him.

He nodded and walked to the waiting nurse, then swiveled on his heel. He pointed to his coat. He was blushing.

“Um, could I?” he said. “Unless, that is, you’re planning to do surgery.”

I laughed and handed his coat back to him. The scent of him was on my sari now, and as I resumed my walk, I imagined him by my side, explaining his plans for the garden.

Radha was asleep in her hospital bed. I wondered at the miracle of this girl, at once familiar and alien, who had come to me less than a year ago. I felt as if I’d known her all my life, and yet, as if I didn’t know her at all.

As before, Kanta lay in the bed opposite Radha’s. She was awake now, staring dully at the ceiling.

I looked for the bottle of lavender-peppermint oil in my carrier and took it to Kanta’s bed. I lifted her free hand (the other had an IV tube attached to it), kissed the back of it and hugged it to my chest. She had aged years in five short months. Her skin was gray and the lines around her mouth were more prominent. Her hair lacked luster, as if it, too, had been sapped of life.

I put my forehead to hers, and left it there.

Her hollowed eyes filled. “I took such care,” she said, struggling to get the words out.

I placed a drop of lavender-peppermint oil on my forefinger and traced the skin above her brows and down her temples to calm her. “I know you did,” I said.

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