Page 82 of The Henna Artist

There was nothing else to say. There would be no more chances for Kanta.

“I would have welcomed a girl. Why couldn’t it have been a girl? Maybe, then, it would have lived.”

I wasn’t sure why she thought this, if she really did, but she was grieving. She would have loved to rewrite the story of the last two days, toward a different ending. All of us would have liked that.

“I know,” I said. “Look how good you’ve been with Radha.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “My record there is not exactly perfect. She strayed on my watch.”

“And mine. But she loves you as much as ever.”

“She loves you, too, you know.”

I cocked my head. “Not a single letter in five months. Not one.”

“You never came to see her.”

“She’s too stubborn.”

“So are you, my friend,” she said.

I straightened my spine. She was right; I could have made the first move.

I looked out the window. “I saw Manu out in the garden earlier.”

“I sent him there. No good both of us being sad together.” Her eyes sought mine. “He was so looking forward to meeting his child.”

“Shh.” I massaged the space between her brows.

“Manu told me Radha had a boy.”

We regarded each other in silence.

“He must be beautiful.”

I didn’t want to talk about him now. Kanta was in too much pain. Instead, I did something quite unlike me. I gathered a few tendrils of her hair in my hand and pulled them across my mouth like a mustache, exaggerating the pucker of my lips the way her servant, Baju, did.

“Madam,” I said, doing my best to imitate his village accent. “I escaped! I stole money from yoursaas’s purse to join you. Please not to tell her. She will most definitely jail me.”

She managed to smile through her tears, and put a hand on my head to bless me, a gesture usually reserved for elders and holy men.

After Kanta fell asleep, I went to the baby nursery.

Radha’s boy had all his fingers and toes, two legs, two arms. He was a beautiful baby. His skin was a delicious color: tea with cream. He even had a full head of wispy black hair. I stroked his silky cheek, ran a finger across his chubby ankles. I felt a magnetic pull to him. We shared blood. We shared eyes the color of the sea. We might even have shared family in a previous life.

“How is it that you don’t have children of your own?”

I turned to look at Dr. Kumar, who had just come into the room. I wasn’t sure how to answer his question.

He was looking at thepalluof my sari, worry lines crossing his forehead. “I’m sorry. It’s impertinent of me to ask.”

I looked down at the sleeping baby. Under his pink lids, his eyes made tiny, rapid-fire movements. He had only been in this world for one hour. I couldn’t imagine what he was dreaming about. One tiny fist opened, then closed, as if he were squeezing pulp from a mango.

“I have no husband, Doctor.”

“So you aren’t—forgive me—I thought it was Mrs. Shastri.”

I am divorced.It was official now, but the words wouldn’t leave my mouth.

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