Page 31 of The Henna Artist

“Or haven’t yet paid.” I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders. “In return, I have something for you.”

One corner of his mouth lifted—a half smile.

“The Rambagh Palace remodel. Swallow your pride and meet with Mr. Sharma. Convince him you’re the architect for the project.”

He squinted. “Sharma already has architects.” He made a face. “Second-rate ones.”

“But the maharaja wants only you.”

He released a stream of smoke. “Really?”

I smiled and drew my shawl tighter around me. “You’ll make sure Parvati knows that information came from me?” I walked into the moonlit courtyard. “Come. I have to get a rickshaw.”

“That’s all the thanks I get?”

“You don’t need thanks. You’ve got a driver.”

SIX

December 20, 1955

My sister and I sat in the Singh drawing room, painting henna on the hands of girls from the finest Jaipur families, smart in their English dresses, chatting about the latest film they had seen and the clothes their favorite actresses were wearing. Some watched me work; others danced toRock Around the Clock, next to the gramophone; several were glued to Parvati’sLifemagazine, admiring the photos of the glamorous film star Madhubala.

Sheela Sharma had grown up with most of these girls, having attended the same schools, the same parties. She held court on Parvati’s sofa. Radiant in a champagne silk frock and matching heels, she was clearly the most beautiful girl at the holiday henna party. It was easy to imagine her as the future doyenne of Jaipur society. I allowed myself a private smile, knowing I’d proposed an excellent match.

Radha and I were seated next to one another on footstools, an armchair in front of each of us. One by one, the girls sat in front of Radha so she could prepare their hands, then moved to my station for their henna application.

“Has anyone seen Ravi?” Sheela asked the group. “He should at least come to his own party.”

Next to the gramophone where she was showing another girl how to do the swing, a girl said,“He’d better be here. I heard he’s performing tonight,” she said.

“Performing what?”

“Didn’t you know? Mrs. Singh hired the Shakespeare theater troupe and Ravi is playing Othello.”

“Sheela, you’re next,” I said, patting the chair in front of Radha’s stool.

Sheela moved to take her place in front of my sister. We had rehearsed this moment, Radha and I. I had dressed my sister differently so Sheela would not be able to recognize her from themandalafiasco. Instead of asalwaar-kameez, Radha wore one of my saris, a fine cotton in pale blue with white embroidery. With her hair up—topped with a sprig of jasmine—she looked older, like a miniature version of me.

As I’d suggested, Radha avoided looking at Sheela’s face. She concentrated on oiling her hands.

Having taken no notice of Radha, Sheela was addressing the room. “I’m singing tonight, too.”

“Onstage?” a girl asked.

“I wanted to singNa Bole Na BolefromAzaad—”

“Iadoredthat movie!”

Sheela shrugged her graceful shoulders. “Yar.But Pandey Sahib is so old-fashioned. He tells me only agazalwill do for the maharaja.” As if she sang daily for His Highness.

I stole a sideways glance at Radha, who liked our neighbor Mr. Pandey and wouldn’t take kindly to criticism about him. The color rose in her face, but she kept her eyes focused on her task.

One of the girls at the gramophone, now playing an Elvis Presley hit, said, “Pandey Sahib is brilliant. He’s really improved my singing this past year.”

Sheela smirked. “Is that what you call it, Neeta? Singing?”

The other girls burst into giggles while Neeta’s cheeks turned pink.

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