Page 11 of The Henna Artist

I looked at Hari. “What did you do with the money I sent?”

Hari pressed his lips together and stared at me, defiant now.

The match went out, and I lit another, turning to the girl again. My breathing was ragged as I said,“Rundo Rani?”

The girl wrung her hands.

I tried again.“Rundo Rani?”

Her lips parted.

“Rundo Rani,”I repeated, louder this time.

Her words came out in a rush.“Rundo Rani,burri sayani. Peethi tunda, tunda pani. Lakin kurthi heh munmani.”She clapped a hand over her mouth to hide a smile.

My father had made up that nursery rhyme and sang it to all his baby girls, including me. Little queen, thinks herself so grand. Drinks only cold, cold water. But does so much mischief!

I held my breath for an instant and let it out slowly. She confirmed what I’d already seen: my mother’s eyes in Radha’s face.

The girl lowered her hand. She was smiling openly now, her face transformed—a woman’s face in a girl’s body.

I had asister—and she was growing up all the while I’d been running from my past. But why hadn’t my parents let me know?But how could they have done that without an address on the letters I sent?

I’d forgotten Hari was there until he said, “We’re still married. You are still my wife.”

My shoulders twitched.

“We can try again, Lakshmi.”

No!I threw the box of matches back at his feet. “We will divorce.”

His nostrils flared in anger. This was the Hari I knew. “I see now.” He jerked his head at Radha. “You two really are sisters. Youbothlie.”

What did he mean by that? I looked at Radha for the answer, but she was staring at the floor.

Hari’s jaw clenched as he turned back to me. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Even your name is a lie, Lakshmi. Not a Goddess of Wealth, are you? You could never have earned this by yourself.” He waved his arm to indicate the house. His eyes narrowed. “Whose keep are you?”

Of course he would think I was a rich man’s mistress. Leave it to him to think a woman could never do this on her own!

With an effort, I kept my voice under control. “They passed a law this year, Hari. We can divorce now.”

He bit his lip and picked up the matchbox. He looked around the room again, at my floor, my sari. For a few moments, we stood in silence.

Then it came to me. “You want money,” I said. Of course he did! Instead of going to the bigger cities to pull a rickshaw for a week and coming home to give me what he’d earned, Hari had spent most of his time in the village sleeping, eating or trying to bed me. If his mother hadn’t earned a small income from her medicinal herbs and treatments, we wouldn’t have had enough to eat.

Suddenly, his features softened. “Just until...” He sounded contrite.

“How much?” I snapped.

He scratched his forehead, shifted on his feet. “How much can you spare?”

“I work hard, Hari. Everything you see here came from years of work. And it’s not even mine yet.” I narrowed my eyes. “I have debts, and unlike you, I honor them.”

He was working his jaw again. “You want me to tell people the truth about you? What would your MemSahibs say if they knew?”

My heartbeat quickened. In his current state, nochowkidarwould let him past the front gates of the grand houses they protected. But he knew as well as I did that the gatemen—like everybody else with mouths to feed and dowries to arrange—could be bribed.

Radha was watching us closely.

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