Page 37 of The Henna Artist

She was right, and it stung. I hadn’t tried to get to know her. Not really. To be close to her made me feel my guilt more acutely, and I hadn’t wanted that. I didn’t want to be reminded of the terror she must have felt with a father who was defeated—or worse, a drunk—and a mother who seemed either resentful or indifferent. My sister had grown up alone in Ajar because of my transgression. Since her arrival in Jaipur, I’d buried myself in work, my steadfast companion. I was good at my work; it welcomed me, and I shined in its embrace. Radha, who was smart but naive, courageous but foolhardy, helpful but thoughtless, was far less manageable.

I let out a long sigh. “It’s not that easy, Radha. I can’t trust you. Not yet. Not in the houses of the women I’ve worked so hard to win over. Not when I have so much debt to pay off. We’re so close, Radha, to having it all.”

“You’re taking their side again! You think I’m the Bad Luck Girl just like—”

“No, I don’t. I believe you. I don’t think you did anything wrong. That’s not the point.” I wiped her cheeks with my thumbs and smoothed her brows. “But I can’t let you go to the palace with us tomorrow. I can’t take a chance that something like what happened tonight won’t happen there.” As I said this, I felt relief wash over me. Ever since that first episode at the Sharmas’, I’d been tense at every client appointment for fear that Radha might say or do something inappropriate. If she stopped coming with me, I could stop being so anxious.

“But, Jiji, Malik gets to go—”

“He’s been with me a long time, Radha.” I rubbed her slender arm, and trailed my fingers through her thick hair. “Tomorrow, you’ll go to Kanta’s house and tell her why we have to reschedule. She’ll understand. After that, you’ll come straight home,accha? I’ll have a list of chores for you.”

“Nooo!” She turned away from me, sobbing. I knew what it was to be young and powerless. At fifteen, when Maa told me I had to marry Hari, she had been sure—just as I was now—that she was doing the right thing. She had wanted to wait until I was eighteen, the age when she’d been married, but Hari’s offer of marriage had come at the right time: there was no money to feed two, much less three people at Pitaji’s house. I’d cried and cried, begged her to let me stay. I promised to eat less, to work as a servant in someone’s home. She’d cried, too. She said there was no choice; it was more honorable to marry than to be a servant. So I did as my parents instructed, and look how miserable it had made me. Was I making Radha that miserable?

I rubbed my forehead, which felt as if it were in a vise. “In a few weeks you’ll start school and you’ll forget all this. You’ll be too busy with your studies. You’ll see.”

She moved her arm out of my reach.

PART TWO

SEVEN

Jaipur, State of Rajasthan, India

December 21, 1955

The next morning, we set out for the palace. It was a crisp December day, and Radha, Malik and I, huddled in woolen shawls, sat in atongaloaded with our supplies. As much as I had wanted to be rested and refreshed for my first meeting with a royal personage, I hadn’t slept a wink, getting up every few minutes to add yet another item to our carriers. I hadn’t a clue about what was ailing the younger queen, so I had packed almost every lotion and precious item in my repertoire, including the Kaffir lime leaves I’d ordered from Thailand. So much depended on making a good impression on the elder maharani, the gatekeeper for the ladies of the palace.

The Pink City of Jaipur was a beehive this morning. Our carriage trotted past a basket weaver braiding flattened grass. A turbaned cobbler, who was shaping crude iron into a hammer, looked up as we passed. I watched a woman on the side of the road as she expertly threaded marigolds into cheerfulmalas.

A woman in a gaudy lime green sari caught my eye. Her color was off, an unhealthy yellow. Her head was uncovered, her hair oily. I had seen enough poor prostitutes in Agra to recognize them by sight. This woman’s cheap sari was a giveaway. The man next to her had his arm around her shoulders. He seemed to be guiding her—or was he forcing her?—along the road.

My heart skipped a beat.

It was Hari.

His clothes were cleaner than the night he’d delivered Radha to me, but there was no mistaking him.

Was the prostitute Hari’s new meal ticket? Was he now managing pleasure girls to pay for his food and lodging? Disgusted, I turned away and willed myself to focus on my task at the palace. Nothing else mattered.

When we arrived at the palace gates, I instructed thetonga-wallato take Radha to Kanta’s address. My sister looked small and frightened in the carriage. Her eyes were swollen—whether from crying or from rising at dawn to help me with our preparations for this morning, or both, I wasn’t sure. Last night, I’d listened to her sniffles and to her attempts to stifle them. She was still angry with me, but she had let me hold her. I’d rubbed her back, and eventually she had fallen asleep.

When thetongaleft, Malik and I stood for a moment to take in the maharanis’ palace. Compared to the maharaja’s palace, with its long, winding entrance lined withpeepaltrees and giant hibiscus, the maharanis’ residence, adjacent to the Pink City, was surprisingly modest. The tall iron gates were flanked by stone elephants, their trunks raised. Behind the gates was a circular driveway, barely large enough for three cars. Today, only one flag was displayed at the guard station, which meant the maharaja was away from the city. When His Highness was in Jaipur, an additional quarter-size flag hung at each of the palaces; he alone was considered to be a man and a quarter.

Clutching our heavy tiffins, we proceeded to the guard station. Malik winked at me—Enjoy this, Auntie-Boss!I smiled nervously at him while going through a mental checklist of my supplies yet again: jasmine and clove oil, thebawchi-coconut hair tonic,neemand geranium lotions, mustard oil, henna paste with extra lemon juice, akhus-khusfan, which I’d soaked overnight (to dry the henna quickly and perfume the air), a tea made fromtulsileaves, white paste from ground sandalwood (to apply to her forehead in case she had a headache), fresh reeds, cool water perfumed with jasmine and a number of sweet and salty edibles designed to elevate the maharani’s mood or increase her desire.

A guard in a red turban and pristine white waistcoat clasped with gold buttons sat behind a barred window. His long gray mustache danced from side to side as he asked me what my business with the palace was. When I told him we had an appointment with the maharani, he frowned and gazed past me, sizing up Malik. “Elder or younger?”

I took a deep breath. “Elder. Maharani Indira.” My voice shook. If she approved of me, I’d be hired to take care of the maharaja’s wife. If I did not please the elder Highness, we could take our supplies home without having opened one tiffin.

The guard asked us to wait. For the tenth time, I checked the pocket watch Samir had given me—I didn’t want to be late. After some minutes, another attendant appeared. He led us through an arched door and down a series of hallways lined with Persian carpets, tables made of silver and displays of Rajput spears, shields and swords. Our guide moved briskly, and we struggled to keep up with him, weighed down as we were with our supplies. I was out of breath, both from hurrying after our attendant and from the anxiety of meeting a maharani for the first time. We entered a colonnade flanked by lush gardens. Topiary elephants frolicked on the lawns. Live peacocks pranced around circular fountains. Stone urns sprouted honeysuckle, jasmine and sweet pea. We walked through a breezeway fronting a three-story building that, I assumed, was the ladies’ quarters. The younger queen, Maharani Latika, had attempted to abolishpurdah, but the centuries-old tradition had proved hard to overturn, and the palace females continued to live separately from the males.

We passed under a scalloped arch painted in blue, green and red enamel and outlined in gold—a peacock in courtship display. How Radha would love all this! I felt a pang of guilt for making her stay home. I glanced at Malik, who I knew was also thinking of her. His eyes were darting left, right, up, down, like a badminton birdie. He was storing details to share with her later.

Now we entered what looked like a waiting room. I recognized the elegant lines of the French chaise-longue from my ladies’ homes. Opposite was a row of damask chairs, the arms of which ended in gold tassels. On the center table, which was almost as wide as my one-room house, were marigold roses in a cut-glass vase. Chandeliers glittered from the ceiling. And on the walls, Rajput history: portraits of former maharanis in ermine capes or in riding gear, ready for a hunt.

The attendant gestured for us to sit. He knocked on double doors three times his height, each door ornately carved with a scene from Rajasthani life: shepherding, farming, shoemaking.

Malik raised his eyebrows at me, mouthing,“Pallu.”Taking the hint, I draped the embroidered end of my best silk sari, the cream one I’d worn last night at the Singhs’ holiday party, over my hair.

---