Page 71 of The Henna Artist

“How could we be sure of his lineage? A blood test will prove it, he assures me. When I ask for more details, he says I must talk to you, my dear. Now why would Samir continue to intercede on behalf of a woman we know only as a henna artist?”

I felt my neck flush with heat.

The maharani continued. “I begin to think your talents may extend beyond your art.” Her gaze dropped, pointedly, to my stomach.

I set my cup and saucer on the table. “The baby is not mine, Your Highness. It’s my younger sister’s, who is underage. I am her legal guardian. Because of my negligence, she spent unsupervised time with the Singhs’ elder son, Ravi.”

“Ah.”

“The baby will be of Rajput blood and fine features, Your Highness. All the guardians involved are in agreement.”

From the recesses of her sari, the maharani produced a fine linen handkerchief, and brushed the pistachio salt off her fingers. That accomplished, the handkerchief disappeared once again in the folds of her sari.

“I see,” she said. She picked up her teacup.

“You know the Singhs well. You know their past, and pedigree, Your Highness,” I said. “The Shastris are Brahmin. My sister, Radha, attends the Maharani School for Girls thanks to a generous scholarship from Maharani Latika.”

“And how is she doing?”

“First in her class, Your Highness.”

She sighed. “Pity.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant. “Your Highness?”

“I’d rather hoped it was yours.” She grinned, then shrugged charmingly. “Very well. I have already spoken to His Highness. As Samir is a favorite, the maharaja has consulted his advisers and has approved the agreement—pending this interview and paternity tests, of course.”

I exhaled a long, slow breath.

She pushed her saucer and cup to the side and beckoned the attendant who had been waiting discreetly. He laid a silver tray in front of her. In addition to a sheaf of papers and a fountain pen, the tray held a silver bowl filled with red-gold liquid, a small silver spoon and two cloth napkins.

The maharani reached into her bosom for a pair of half-moon spectacles. She put them on, and instantly looked more severe, which, I think, was her intention. Before handing the papers to me, she scanned them briefly, although I knew she must have scrutinized them, line by line, earlier.

I had never seen royal adoption papers, nor had I ever expected to. The contract contained phrases such as “the child’s legal relationships,” “permanent transfer of parental responsibility” and “forbidden access to birth family.” A clause on page three specified the required physical attributes: birth weight, height and length, pulse rate and, of course, the baby’s gender, which had to be male. Samir had asked, aloud, what would happen if Radha gave birth to a girl. I didn’t know that he had an answer to that question any more than I did, but I refused to think about it. This may have been shortsighted on my part, but I knew Samir didn’t want to consider the possibility, either, because he had let the matter drop.

There was a long clause specifying the royal physician’s role. In particular, he needed to certify that the baby’s sexual organs were healthy, and that his genital identity was unambiguous. This last, I realized, was to prevent a futurehijraor intersex child in the royal family.

Page four made clear that if any of the aforementioned conditions were not met to the palace’s satisfaction, the contract would be declared null and void, and the Jaipur royal family would be held harmless, and released from any monetary obligations, which obligations were specified on page six.

In addition to the cost of the labor and delivery, the birth mother or guardian was to receive thirty thousand rupees. The numbers swam before my eyes.Thirty thousand rupees.Not once had it occurred to me that compensation might be offered. Thirty thousand rupees was enough to pay for a university education for Radha; she could study abroad. I read further: if the contract were canceled, for any reason, I, as her legal guardian, would be responsible for the hospital bills. I bit my lip. I would not entertain that possibility either because I simply could not afford it.

“I must ask, Mrs. Shastri.” Her Highness’s spectacles had slipped halfway down her nose. With her chin, she indicated the papers in my hand. “Do you not trust us to present a fair contract?”

My forehead felt clammy but I resisted swiping it with my sari. I was doing what was best for Radha, but this formal document made the relinquishing of her baby much more real than just talking about it.

“If it pleases Your Highness,” I said with all the humility I could muster, “I’ve never before been given the responsibility of signing such important papers. I hope it won’t offend you if I give the details their due.”

“As you wish.”

She began laying out a fresh hand of patience as I continued reading.

By the time I finished, the Maharani Indira had started on her third card game. I straightened the papers in a stack and set them on the coffee table, aligning them as perfectly as possible with the table’s edges. The tea things had long been cleared. The maharani gathered her cards onto a single deck.

“Satisfied?” She smiled.

“Yes, thank you.”

She adjusted her spectacles, uncapped the fountain pen and signed the papers quickly in the three places designated. Then she handed the pen to me. My first two signatures flowed with ease, as if I were doing nothing more than drawing with henna—nothing that would change, forever, who this child would become, what kind of life he would lead and how his destiny would be shaped.

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