Page 23 of The Henna Artist

“Women have their own reasons for needing to do difficult things.” I flattened my lips. “I don’t ask why. I don’t need to know.”

She looked at the cot. “How do they find you?”

I shrugged. “I’m known.”

“And those two men? Who were they?”

“Samir Singh is a friend. Someone I’ve known a long time. The other one, Dr. Kumar—all I know is he’s an old friend of Samir’s.”

Another pause. “Does Malik know?”

I made the slightest movement with my head.Yes.“One more question, Radha. Then we must start cleaning up.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll have to give me more time to explain things. It’s complicated.”

“No, I mean why do you do it? Help the women rid themselves of babies?”

Radha had seen and heard so much tonight that was new to her. I could tell by the quiver in her legs, the way her eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the bloodstain on the cot.

How could I explain men who knocked on the door in the middle of the night? Or women who had lovers outside their marriage?

I remembered what my mother-in-law said when she taught me how to make the contraceptive sachets. I’d been fifteen, a new bride in her home. “How can I say no to these women,bheti? Their land is dry. Their granaries are committed to thezamindarfor taxes. They cannot feed the little ones waiting for them at home. They have no one else to turn to.”

My sister was only thirteen. Simple explanations wouldn’t be enough. But I was too exhausted to find the right words, to help her understand.

In the end, I repeated mysaas’s words. “They have no one else to turn to.”

After a full minute of silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts, I said quietly, “Let’s go up to the roof to clean up.” I whipped the stained sheet off the cot. Joyce Harris’s blood had seeped into the jute below. I would have to scrub it with a mixture ofgheeand ash. “Radha?”

She looked up from the soiled charpoy. Her eyes were troubled.

“You did well tonight. But we must keep this to ourselves,accha?”

I hated having to ask this of her, but keeping this secret was too important to my livelihood. One word of Mrs. Harris’s misfortune would put a full stop to my business.

At first, I thought Radha would argue with me. Then, so quietly that I almost didn’t hear, she said,“Hahn-ji.”

FOUR

November 17, 1955

The next day I woke Radha at dawn, even though neither of us had slept very long, or very well. I showed her how to grind the henna, and to my surprise, she created a finer henna paste than I ever had. Apparently, old man Munchi had not been exaggerating. My sister even suggested adding more lemon juice to make the color stronger. When I complimented her, she looked alarmed, as if she weren’t used to praise.

I couldn’t enroll her in school until January, so I was taking her with me and Malik to my henna appointments.

My first appointment that day was with Kanta, one of a handful of clients who treated me as an equal. Perhaps it was because I was a little older than her—Kanta had just turned twenty-six. Perhaps it was because, like me, she was a transplant to Jaipur, having been raised in Calcutta and educated in England. Or perhaps it was because she was also childless, although, more than anything, she wanted to be a mother.

Kanta came from a long line of Bengali poets and writers; her father and grandfather had passed their time composing sonnets and organizing literary salons. “The only thing Jaipur women read isReaders Digest,” she’d once complained.

Now, before I’d even stepped foot on her veranda, Kanta herself opened the door, edging her seventy-year-old servant, Baju, out of the way. He straightened his Marwari turban and stroked his long mustache. “Really, Madam!”

She was tingling with anticipation. “Lakshmi! I can’t wait to hear what happened at Parvati’s. Baju, don’t just stand there! Take Malik into the kitchen and feed him a snack.” Finally, she noticed Radha standing behind me. Looking from my eyes to Radha’s, she cried, “Arré!I’m seeing double?”

I introduced Kanta to my sister, telling her that Radha had come to Jaipur to study at the government school here. I glanced at Radha to see how the explanation sat with her. I needn’t have worried. She was staring at Kanta, fascinated. She was studying Kanta’s shoulder-length bob, her slim capri pants, the sleeveless shirt tied across her exposed midriff. (Traditional women, like Parvati, who covered their plump midsections alluringly with saris, would sooner have joined a brothel than bare their stomachs.)

Kanta’s lipsticked mouth stretched wide. She grinned at Radha. “I heartily approve of education for women!” Kanta’s Brahmin family had always prized its daughters, never raising them as the lesser gender. They had sent her to England for her graduate studies.

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