Page 52 of The Henna Artist

“For luck,” hersaassaid, nodding at the plate.

Grumbling under his breath, Baju left the room.

Kanta’s mother-in-law settled in for a visit, telling me that, without her help, Kanta wouldn’t know how to raise a baby. “She didn’t even know that rose milk gives babies pink cheeks!”

Kanta hid a smile behind her glass.

Finally, hersaasleft, saying she didn’t want Baju making thesubjitoo spicy. “Too much heat and the baby comes out angry,” she said.

When she was out of earshot, I set my cup down. I felt awkward talking to my friend about Radha, embarrassed that I wasn’t able to understand or handle my own sister.

“Kanta...you and Radha—you’re so close. I was hoping you could help me figure out—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Radha burst into the room, followed by Malik, Kanta’ssaasand Baju. Still in her school uniform, my sister was holding her hand over her left eye. She looked glum.

I rose from the sofa. “What happened? Why aren’t you at school?”

Radha froze. She hadn’t expected to see me. She lowered her hand. Her left eye was swollen and surrounded by a deepening purple hue.

I gasped and ran to my sister.

“Hai Ram!”Kanta cried from the sofa.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I put my hands on Radha’s shoulders, scanning her for other injuries. “Baju, bring me ice.”

Kanta’ssaasasked, “Should we call the police?”

“No!” Radha said, too loudly, curling her fists.

“Radha!” I scolded her for speaking harshly to an elder.

Baju brought the ice bag. I pressed it to Radha’s swollen eye until she yanked it from my hand and took over. She walked farther into the room and flopped down in an armchair, still holding the ice bag against her eye. “That stupid Sheela Sharma!”

My heart did a somersault. What now?

“Sheela Sharmarobbedyou?” This was from Saasuji, who directed her next comment to Kanta: “I told you that the Sharma girl was ill-mannered. And to find out she’s agoonda!”

Kanta said nothing. Her eyes were round with shock.

Radha said impatiently, “She didn’t rob me. She hit me with her elbow when we were dancing the fox trot.”

“Fox trot?” Saasuji said in heavily accented English. Her tone implied that Western dance was a worse offense, to her, than robbery. “You see what kind of thing that school is teaching? These foreign customs—not at all suitable for Rajasthani girls.” She sniffed.

“Baap re baap, Saasuji!”Kanta turned to Radha. “This happened at school? It was an accident?” Kanta asked.

“Yes. No.” Radha looked down at the carpet. “I know she meant to do it.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t like me.” My sister hesitated. “The maharani paired us up for the dance—Sheela and me. Sheela kept telling me I would never learn how to dance—my feet were too big. Then she hit me in the eye with her elbow and said,‘Kala kaloota baingan loota.’”You’re as dark as an eggplant.

Kanta looked at me. “We should call Mrs. Sharma.”

Radha slapped her free hand on the arm of her chair, making us all jump. “No! I’m not a tattletale. It’s just—I didn’t grow up in a big fancy house like her. I don’t fit in with any of them. I’m clumsy. I don’t wear the right clothes. I don’t have the right shoes. I’m different and they know it.”

She flicked a nervous glance at me, caught my startled expression. She’d never told me that she felt left out. It never occurred to me that more privileged girls might pick on her.

Kanta frowned. “That’s the reason Sheela did this? Because you’re not like them?”

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