Page 87 of The Henna Artist

“Please.”

“What’s in it?” She took the cup from me and sniffed it.

“Burdock root. Mullein leaves. A little dandelion root. It will make the swelling go down.”

As she sipped, she watched me pour hot liquid from the other thermos into a cup. I dipped two strips of flannel in the liquid, one at a time, wetting them thoroughly. “Open your gown.”

She set her cup on the side table and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She unbuttoned her gown, exposing her breasts. Her nipples were twice as large as they had been when she first came to Jaipur. Her face flushed in embarrassment, but I pretended not to notice. Tenderly, I placed a warm compress on each breast.

Radha let out a sigh and closed her eyes. “Ginger?”

“Chamomile oil, too. And calendula flower.”

Her face relaxed. She took a deep breath.

This was how mysaashad taught me to show my love. Not with words or touch but through healing.

Outside, a green warbler tweeted, and we turned to see it fly past the window.

“Auntie’s breasts are filled with milk, too.”

I sighed. “I offered her the compresses, but she doesn’t want them. She wants to feel the pain. I think it’s her way of saying goodbye to her baby. Her breasts will be hard and sore for a while, but her milk will eventually dry up.”

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. “I feel so guilty because my baby is alive.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“She came to Shimla because of me—so far from her husband. And look what happened.”

“Lady Bradley is far better equipped than the hospital in Jaipur. The air here is better for her asthma. Besides, shewantedto be here with you.”

The warbler returned with its mate; both landed on a rhododendron near the window. He stood guard while she scratched under her feathers with her beak.

“She can try again, can’t she?”

Someone had to tell her. “Dr. Kumar doesn’t think it likely.”

“Oh.”

We watched as the female warbler turned toward us. She was either gazing at us or admiring her reflection in the window.

“I wanted Auntie to replace you as myjiji, you know.”

It hurt to hear her say it, but it didn’t surprise me.

“But the day I sent the telegram I’d never been more glad that you were my sister.”

I met her eyes. She didn’t look away.

“I knew you’d make everything all right.”

Something hard inside me yielded. She depended on me to be there for her, even when she was angry and told me she hated me. I smoothed her coverlet, scratchy from too many washings and ironings. Her hand lay on her lap, and I clasped it. She let me.

“How’s Malik?” she asked.

“Busy. Delivers a few orders—hair tonic, that sort of thing. He’s always coming around. Thinks I need the company.”

“Do you?”

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