Page 5 of The Secret Keeper of Jaipur

Nimmi nods, absentmindedly, and takes a bite of the candied fruit. Her eyes widen. The sweet-and-sour taste takes her by surprise. She hides a small smile behind her teacup as she takes a sip.

I lower my eyes and drink my tea. “Before I read Malik’s letter, there are some things I would like to say.”

With an effort, she lifts her eyes. It’s hard to tell what’s in those deep orbs. Her features are sharp, lean, but there is beauty there. Her brows are prominent, as are her cheekbones. Years in the high sun, crisscrossing the Himalayan mountains with her family’s tribe on their annual migrations, have toughened her skin. I’m not a tall woman, yet she stands a few inches shorter than me.

“Nimmi, I know Malik cares for you and is fond of you. I wish you no ill will. I only want what is best for him.”

The words fly out of her mouth in anger. “You aren’t his mother.”

I take a breath before answering. “No,” I say. “We may never know who his real mother was, but I’ve been looking out for him since he was a boy. And I was his legal guardian once we moved here until he came of age.”

She may have heard this much from Malik, but I want her to hear it from me. And so I tell her how Malik, a shoeless, bedraggled child, had followed me around Jaipur and attached himself to me when I worked there as a henna artist. He had a pride in his bearing, but also hunger in his eyes. So I’d let him run small errands for a fewpaise. He’d done everything I asked of him so quickly and so well that, over time, I’d given him more responsibility—until he was purchasing supplies and delivering my aromatic oils and creams all over the city. He’d quickly become a part of my small family, as necessary to my life as the hands with which I painted henna on the bodies of my clients. Together with my younger sister, Radha—who was nearing fourteen at the time and like a sister to him as well—the three of us had all come to Shimla twelve years ago so they could attend the excellent schools here while I worked at the hospital.

“We were so lucky that a benefactor from Jaipur financed Malik’s education at the Bishop Cotton School for Boys. It was such a relief, Nimmi. I knew it would open doors for him anywhere he chose to go—”

“Could you please just read me the letter?” She’s squeezing her hands so tightly that her knuckles have turned pale.

I reach for her hands. She seems surprised, but she lets me. They are a laborer’s hands for one so young. Rough, scarred. I rub my thumbs over the evidence of her short, but hardworking, life: hoeing, planting, shearing, herding, milking. I turn her hands over, feeling for her pulse points between thumb and index finger, gently pressing them to relax her. I give her time to study the henna on my hands; I’ve noticed her curiosity about it. To me, henna is a way for a woman to find a piece of herself she might have mislaid.

When I used to apply henna for a living in Jaipur, it was so satisfying to watch the change in women after their skin had been oiled and massaged and decorated with a cooling henna paste, after they had whiled away a half hour telling me stories about their lives, after they’d seen the reddish glow of a custom imprint as the henna dried and flaked off. They emerged calmer, happier, more content.

I miss those intimate moments with my clients as much as I miss the joy of their transformations. I think that’s why I paint henna on my own hands now. (In Jaipur, I would never have allowed my hands to upstage the work I did on my ladies; I merely oiled my hands smooth and kept my fingernails neat and trimmed.) But that precious feeling of serenity is missing from Nimmi’s watchful countenance—I want to offer her that.

“Other than the time of your marriage, has anyone ever painted your hands with henna?”

She shakes her head, interested now.

“Would you like me to do it?” I turn my wrist to consult my watch. I have work to do, but this is more important. “I have two hours before I must start at the clinic. We have plenty of time.”

She looks again, with wonder, at my hands, then at her own undecorated ones.

“Perhaps I can draw the wildflowers you harvest? Or something your children particularly love? How about that cricket Malik found for them?”

At the mention of Malik’s name, Nimmi snatches her hands back. She rubs them together, as if I’ve scalded her.

She’s not ready for this kind of comfort.

I pick up the envelope, remove the folded onionskin pages and smooth them out with the flat of one hand on my lap. I want so much to reach her. I know she’s had a difficult life. I know how hard she’s working, still, to put food in the mouths of her children. But I’d been thinking about Malik’s future long before she arrived on the scene. I press my lips together, almost as if I’m trying to keep any harsh words from leaving my lips.

“I did not send Malik to Jaipur to keep him away from you, Nimmi. I merely wanted to keep him from getting into trouble here,” I say. I’m searching for the right words. I don’t want her to resent me; that would create a gulf between Malik and me, and I couldn’t bear that. “He is an enterprising young man, and I’m sure he sees the money to be made across the Nepalese border. Surely your tribe has seen some of that activity in your treks up and down the mountains. The unrest along India’s northern borders seems to have created many illegal businesses—gunrunning and drug trafficking among them.” I watch Nimmi for signs that she’s understanding what I’m saying. I think I see her nod slightly as she picks up another candied lemon. “Of course, I’m not suggesting Malik is actually doing any such thing. I sent him to Jaipur to work with our family friend Manu Agarwal because that seemed the best way to keep him safe and expose him to the professional world there. Manu is the director of facilities at the Jaipur Palace. He can introduce Malik to many people, people who can help shape his future.”

To my own ears, I sound like an overinvolved mother. Is that how Nimmi sees me? I reach for my cup and drain my chai. Malik is twenty, a grown man. But in him I still see the eager, enterprising boy he used to be. He hasn’t lost his taste for risk.

I know Nimmi is upset with me for sending him away, but I need to do what’s in Malik’s best interest. I gather the tea tray with the teapot and unused cups from the table and take it to the kitchen. Having been at the service of so many of the elite in Jaipur, I prefer to do my own tidying up rather than hiring a servant. Once a week, a local woman—Moni—comes to clean the house. Moni’s husband clears our walkways in the winter.

When I reenter the room, Nimmi is gazing into the fire. Her hands are clasped under her chin, under her tribal tattoo, her elbows resting on her thighs. I sit down again.

“If Malik does not take to the work of construction and building, he will come back, Nimmi. But I want him to try it. Here in Shimla, he is at loose ends. And I fear he stays because of me.” This draws a sharp look from her.What about me, I hear her thinking.I know he is fond of me, as well.

She says, “My children have grown used to him. They never stop asking about him.”

I hear the sadness in her voice and want to press more candied fruit on her. There is no denying Malik’s attachment to Nimmi and her children. I’ve seen the way his eyes caress her face and light up when he sees Rekha and Chullu. She’s a strong woman, and he has always been drawn to strong women. I take a deep breath, remind myself what I need to accomplish.

I pull out the drawer on the side table next to me. Inside are my eyeglasses and a notebook. With my glasses on, I know I appear sterner, but I can’t help it. I flip through the book, stopping at a page.“March 8, 140 rupees, Nimmi.February 24, 80 rupees, Nimmi.”I turn back a few more pages.“January 14, 90 rupees, Nimmi. December 1, 75 rupees.”I look at her.

Her eyes are blazing now. “What is that?” She points to the notebook in my hand.

“His bankbook. I opened an account for him when he started school here. It’s part of what all smart young men must learn to do.” I put the book back in the drawer.

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