Page 90 of The Henna Artist

“We will take thebestcare—”

“—already, he’s one of the family—”

“—I know he favors salted cashews—”

“Of course, we’ll wait until he has teeth...”

If I had known what Kanta was going to say next, I would have stopped her, told her that it was rash—the sort of gesture made by the heart, not the head. But Radha nodded excitedly, accepting the offer: Radha wouldn’t be going back to school. She would stay with Kanta to be the baby’sayah.

Kanta and Manu rushed to embrace Radha, the three of them laughing and crying at the same time, wiping the tears from each other’s cheeks.

Dr. Kumar was seated at his desk, pen in hand, when I walked into his office.

“I’ve thought about your offer. I will consult with you on a professional basis, Doctor.”

He dropped his pen and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from looking overjoyed. “That’s smashing! Absolutely...”

“But there’s been a change in plans.”

“Change?”

I braced myself for his reaction. “Mr. and Mrs. Agarwal will adopt Radha’s baby.”

Now he looked confused. “I—I don’t understand. The palace—”

“I was hoping you could... The papers you’re submitting to them...”

He put both hands to his temples and looked down at his desk. “Mrs. Shastri? May I ask, what are you—”

“I need to know reasons why the palace would reject the baby. Medical reasons.” I knew the contract by heart, but he would know the proper terminology.

His hands slid from his temples to his cheeks. He left them there, his skin stretched clownishly. Abruptly, he got up and went around the desk to check his office door, though I’d made sure to pull it closed behind me.

“You realize you’re asking me to do—”

“The proper thing.”

He took his seat again, behind his desk, and folded his hands together. He picked up the fountain pen and capped it, tapped it lightly on the piece of paper in front of him, smudging his hand and whatever he’d been writing.

“Radha has made this decision?”

“Yes.”

His gaze landed on the bookshelf behind me. “I told you something like this might happen. Before the baby arrived, we could have canceled the contract. It’s too late now.”

“Haven’t you discovered, Dr. Kumar, that the wrong course can, at times, turn out to be the right one? The baby is better off with a woman who loves him than with a palace full of strangers. The royal family can adopt another baby from the Kshatriya caste with the right bloodline.”

It was difficult to read Jay Kumar’s expression. His eyes were gray pearls, the outer rim luminescent. He chewed his lower lip, pushed his lanky frame out of the chair and started to pace, rubbing his jaw with his ink-stained hand.

“Dr. Kumar,” I said. “Please.”

He sat again, picked up the letter he was writing and noticed the smudge. He blew out a breath, tore the page in half. Then he searched through the stack of papers to his left and pulled out a sheet; I saw that it was a form, embossed with the royal seal. He uncapped the fountain pen, threw a hasty glance in my direction and carefully amended a number on the form.

“A newborn’s heartbeat generally ranges from a hundred to a hundred and twenty beats per minute,” he said. “However, when the heart is enlarged, the heart rate is much slower.”

He tore a clean sheet from his writing tablet. His pen glided across the paper and filled the page in less than two minutes. He lifted the finished letter in his hands, blew on it to dry the ink, then handed it to me.

September 3, 1956

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