Page 99 of The Henna Artist

Nikhil’s silver rattle skidded across the marble and bounced off the wall.

The book Radha had brought with her from Ajar,The Tales of Krishna, split in two as it hit the terrazzo.

Nothing else.

Radha squeezed her eyes shut. “Jiji.” It was difficult for her to get the words out. “I have to leave my baby.” Her mouth gaped. She released the sobs she’d been holding back.

I ran to her. My sister clung to me, and I felt the full force of her heartbreak. I rocked her, as she had rocked her baby.

“I’ve been so ungrateful. All I’ve done is cause trouble.” She hiccupped. “The gossip-eaters were right. I’ll always be the Bad Luck Girl.”

I pulled my head back to look at her. I lifted her chin. “No, Radha, you won’t. You never were. You never will be. I’m sorry I ever said that of you. You’ve brought so much good luck into my life, into our lives. If it hadn’t been for you, do you think I’d be going to Shimla? Building my own healing garden? Working with Dr. Kumar? How would I have done any of that without you?”

She blinked her wet lashes.

“For years, I’ve been serving women who only needed me to make themfeelbetter. In Shimla, I’ll be serving people who want me tomakethem better. Because they’re truly suffering. Those are the peoplesaastrained me to work with. Theyneedme. And Iwantto be with them.”

I smoothed her hair.

“And look how you’ve helped me create a family. Malik. Kanta and Manu. And Nikhil. And, of course, you.You, Radha, Krishna’s wisegopi.”

What a miracle that she had found me, and I, her.

“So,Rundo Rani, burri sayani...are you coming to Shimla with us?”

Radha looked up at me. After a while, she nodded.

In the pause that followed, I heard a dog yelp, atongaclop, crows flutter in the trees.

When, at last, she relaxed her hold on me, I kissed the top of her head.

“We’ll get your things in the morning from Kanta’s.” I wiped her face with my sari. “Come. I havealoo gobi subjiwaiting. I don’t know why it always tastes much better at night.”

The next morning, while I swept the Rajnagar house, Malik and Radha loaded our carriers onto the waitingtonga. We would stop at Kanta’s and say our goodbyes en route to the railway.

I took one last round of the room. Touched the walls. Trailed my fingers across the mosaic.

My life as a henna artist was over. I would never again paint the hands of the ladies of Jaipur.

I pulled the pocket watch from my petticoat, ran my thumb over the smooth white pearls that made up the initialL.

I set the watch on the countertop, stepped outside and closed the door behind me.

TWENTY-TWO

Jaipur RailwayStation

November 4, 1956

The platforms of the Jaipur railway station were teeming with passengers, spiced peanut vendors, shoe shiners, toothless beggars and stray dogs sniffing for discarded morsels. Even after a train started moving, people continued to board, asking for a hand up, their luggage loaded by helpful passengers who themselves were hanging by handrails on both sides of the cars. It was a wonder any trains managed to take off at all.

Our train was scheduled to depart in ten minutes. With the money from the sale of my house, I had splurged on a first-class private cabin for all of us. Inside the cabin, Malik and Radha chatted excitedly.

I stood in the passageway just outside our compartment, along the row of windows facing the platform, where porters swathed in mufflers were hauling bags on and off the trains. Important-looking husbands in wool vests, trailed by wives and children, shouted at the baggage handlers to be careful. Families with first-class tickets walked to our part of the train. Most headed to second-class seats. Those who couldn’t afford porters were stuffing their mismatched carriers into the third-class cars, yelling at everyone to make room. The chai-wallasstrolled up and down the platform, selling glasses of tea through the car windows. Keeping one eye on the departure schedules, men hurriedly consumedchappatiand curriedsubjisin tiffins prepared by their wives, mothers, sisters, aunts and friends.

I thought back to the first time I laid eyes on Jaipur at the age of twenty—my first ride on a train. How exciting it had all been! The promise of a new life. The worry about whether it would all work out. And it had. I had come to this city with nothing but a skill for drawing and the lessons my mother-in-law had taught me. I had helped women fulfill their desires—whether in the pursuit of something or in the pursuit of its absence—so they could move on with their lives. Now, Jay Kumar was giving me a chance to reinvent myself, to use my knowledge to heal the old and young, sick and infirm, poor and in need of solace.

So many people had helped me in my journey. Mysaas. Hazi and Nasreen. Samir. Kanta. The Maharanis Indira and Latika. Mrs. Sharma. And even Parvati.

---