Page 70 of The Henna Artist

So I didn’t protest when Kanta asked to take Radha with her to Shimla, where she went every summer to escape the Jaipur heat and dust. This year, she decided to leave at the beginning of May, a lot earlier than planned.

Two letters arrived the following week.

May 2, 1956

Lakshmi,

The Maharani Indira will meet with you. I have broached the possibility of a royal adoption with her, but I will leave the details to you. If she agrees to it, the palace will require a royal physician to monitor the progress of the pregnancy and to see to it that the mother’s health is not compromised in any way. You told me that Mrs. Kanta Agarwal is taking Radha to Shimla to have her baby, and I was thinking of asking Kumar to serve as proxy for the royal physician there. Would that be agreeable to you? The royal physician has drawn Ravi’s blood. The baby’s has to match.

I made some calls on Ravi’s behalf. This week, he leaves for England. He’ll complete his studies at Eton.

Samir

The second letter was from Hari. It was the divorce decree I had sent to him. He had signed it. I showed it to Malik.

“He’ll never bother you again, Auntie-Boss.” Malik grinned. “I’ve taken care of it.”

He refused to tell me more.

At the doors of the Maharani Indira’s salon, Malik pointed to my sari to remind me to cover my head. Then he pinched my cheeks, startling me. “For color,” he said. He knew I was anxious about my meeting with Her Highness, and he was trying, in his way, to boost my courage. I knew my eyes were puffy, and there were gray half-moons underneath them. I’d spent a week of restless nights, sick with worry about what the maharani would decide about Radha’s baby. My hair had gone a week without being oiled and the flyaway strands would not be tamed.

For the tenth time, I reached in my petticoat to check my pocket watch before remembering that I hadn’t been able to find it at home.

The attendant beckoned me inside. The Maharani Indira was sitting on the same sofa, in the same position, as the first time I met her. The younger maharani had made a complete recovery and my services were no longer required at the palace. I had not seen either maharani for several weeks.

Now, as then, Her Highness was playing patience, her cards arranged in rows on the low mahogany table. Today, she wore a sari in marigold yellow silk and a matching blouse patterned with taupe leaves, large and small. Her neck was adorned with five strands of pearls clasped in the middle with the largest amethyst I’d seen.

Madho Singh was in his cage, making quiet noises that sounded very much like grumbling. His door was open.

I greeted Her Highness with anamasteand reached for her feet. She gestured to the adjacent sofa. She was faring better with her cards today. Most lay faceup, in orderly rows, a good sign.

“Madho Singh has been very naughty today,” she said. “He was stealing cards during our bridge game.” She turned to glare at him.“Badmash.”

The parakeet paced nervously on his swing with his head down. “Naughty bird.” He sounded miserable, stretching out each syllable as if to emphasize the depth of his regret.

The maharani looked at me but tilted her chin at the bird. “He’s as peculiar as his namesake. For King Edward’s coronation, my late husband insisted on taking water from the Ganga to avoid bathing in ‘filthy English water,’ as he put it.” She laid a ten of clubs on a jack. “To make matters worse, he carried the water in those preposterous silver urns. I knew the English would make fun of him, but did he listen?” She turned a baleful eye on the parakeet.

“Naughty bird,” Madho Singh repeated, as if he had been responsible for that idiocy, as well.

She turned her gaze to me. “You look unwell, my dear,” she said with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “You must take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine, Your Highness. Only a little tired.”

There was a crystal bowl filled with salted pistachios on the table to the right of her card game. The maharani selected a few and rolled them in her palm. Throwing her head back, she tossed a nut in her mouth, expertly, and chewed, studying me. She, at least, looked rested and refreshed. I heard she had recently returned from Paris.

“You’ve pulled off an amazing feat in a very short period of time, Mrs. Shastri. The maharaja is impressed. Latika has recovered, again, full of energy and purpose. Almost every day she leaves the palace to officiate at functions, or kiss babies, or cut ribbons. She’s been inaugurating government centers for the unfortunate. And I—” she tossed a second pistachio in her mouth and chewed “—am free as aoiseau.” She chuckled.

“I’m pleased to be of service.”

“Before Samir suggested your work with the maharani, His Highness was thinking of sending Latika to Austria to see a specialist. What an embarrassment that would have been! I believe you would agree that a family’s dirty laundry is best cleaned by its own?”

Bilkul, I thought, but said nothing.

An attendant brought the tea service and poured. During my previous visits, she had waited to drink until the tea had cooled, but today Her Highness took a sip right away. I had eaten nothing, and my body welcomed the chai, infused with hints of vanilla and saffron.

“And so we come to another bit of dirty laundry. Samir Singh tells me there is a baby, due in October, out of wedlock. A baby of royal blood. Whom we might consider adopting as the crown prince.”

She waited a few moments before resuming.

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