The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

Over the past year, rice puddings and extra helpings of chapatti with ghee had added a layer of soft flesh to Sheela’s body. Now, she looked less like a girl and more like a young woman.

  “Sheela’s fifteen,” I said. “And quite lovely. She attends the Maharani School for Girls. Just last week her music master told me her singing reminded him of Lata Mangeshkar.”

  I picked up my teacup. I could imagine the list Parvati was making in her head, the same one I had made in mine the previous week. On the plus side: the two businesses—Sharma Construction and Singh Architects—once allied, would be more profitable than either were on their own; and Parvati would have an English-speaking daughter-in-law to entertain politicians and nawabs. The only minus: Sheela was of high caste—but the wrong one. There was more I wouldn’t disclose: the ugly twist of Sheela’s mouth before she yanked her cousin’s pigtails, the way she ordered her nanny about and the laziness her music tutor despaired of. I had spent years in the homes of my ladies, watching their progeny mature. I knew their children’s personalities, the tics that even a professional matchmaker wouldn’t catch. But these were flaws for a husband to discover, not for me to reveal.

  Parvati was quiet. She toyed with the fringe on one of the small bolsters.

  “Remember the Gupta wedding?”

  I smiled in acknowledgment.

  “The moment I saw your maiden-in-the-garden design for the bridal henna, I knew she would deliver a baby boy before the year was up. And so she did.”

  The Gupta girl’s marriage had been a love match, but I didn’t share that with Parvati.

  “Your work does perform miracles.” Her smile was coy. “I think you could help someone very dear to us.”

  I tilted my head politely, not sure where she was headed.

  “Last night, Samir and I were at the Rambagh Palace. A fundraising event for the final portion of the gymkhana,” she said pointedly. She wanted me to know she was progressive, after all. “The maharaja told us he was turning his palace into a hotel. Can you imagine? We fought for independence and threw the English out, only to have them move back into our palaces?” She shook her head, annoyed.

  I understood: only wealthy Europeans, mostly Britishers, would be able to afford the rates.

  “The maharani wasn’t at the function last night, which was highly unusual. Latika loves parties.” Parvati lowered her voice. “I heard she has been...out of sorts.”

  I waited.

  She rubbed her palms together and inhaled the fragrance of the henna. “Might your talents put her right?”

  I had waited so long for Parvati to make an introduction to the palace! At the thought of it, I set my cup down, afraid my hand might shake. A commission with the maharani would inevitably lead to others. I would have my house paid off before I knew it! Already I was doing the calculations in my head, barely listening to what Parvati was saying.

  She leaned forward for another savory, and I placed one on her tongue, careful not to meet her eyes. I was afraid she would see the eagerness in mine. She might already have seen my fingers tremble.

  “I told His Highness how your henna helped me conceive my Govind. Discreetly, of course. If I were to recommend you to the palace...”

  I could see where she was going now. Parvati wanted me to make the match for Ravi, but she didn’t want to pay for it. What cheek! A marriage arrangement took both skill and effort. She would easily have paid a man of high caste and a title two or three times what she might pay me. Even if I had agreed to take a mere ten thousand rupees, my services would still be a bargain. I could expect to put in weeks, even months, of work before all parties were satisfied. And it was not unheard of for a match to be rejected—for all that work to come to nothing.

  Here was Parvati, hoping I would make the match in exchange for an introduction to the palace. Before I countered, I needed to think. Her blood relation to the royal family (her father was a cousin of one of the maharanis) would guarantee me, at the very least, an appointment with the palace. But what Indian woman, no matter how wealthy, wouldn’t try to bargain? If she didn’t, she’d come off as a fool, easy prey. So if I accepted, outright, what Parvati was offering, I would seal my reputation as a woman who could be easily outmaneuvered. The risk to me was that I might—or might not—end up working for the palace at all. An appointment didn’t guarantee me anything.

  Sensing my hesitation, Parvati leaned forward and looked at me until I was forced to meet her gaze. “If I had the talent for drawing you have, Lakshmi, I might have gone into your profession.” To my ladies, the word profession was a slander, not a compliment.

  I swallowed. “Oh, Ji, your life was meant for grander things. Who else could throw such lavish parties for politicians? Someone has to do the work of making them feel welcome.”

  She chuckled in appreciation of my retort. And now we settled back into a comfortable footing: me, the underling; she, the MemSahib.

  But I meant to play my final hand. “Your confidence is well-placed, but I must warn you: Her Highness will probably expect the very best supplies.”

  Parvati pursed her lips. She looked thoughtful. “Would six thousand rupees cover it?”

  I straightened the velvet cloth under Parvati’s feet and tested the paste, then reached for the clove oil to remove the dried henna. “Some of the products may have to come from far away. The Kaffir lime leaves, for example. The most potent ones come from Thailand.”

  She was quiet. Had I overplayed my hand? I could feel the pulse at my temples as I massaged her feet.

  She squinted at the Pan Am calendar on the far wall. “Our holiday party is coming up,” she said finally. “December 20. That same afternoon I could give a special henna party for the girls in Ravi’s circle.” Parvati tapped her rosy cheek. “I’m thinking I might get that Shakespeareana Group to come. The kids are mad for their performances.” This would be her opportunity to scrutinize the girls who would be suitable for Ravi. Sheela Sharma was sure to be among them.

  She stretched her feet and turned them one way and then the other as she examined my work. “But perhaps your calendar is already full? Would you check?”

  A henna party would be a lot of work, but it would be well worth the promise of an introduction to the palace.

  I gave her my most gracious smile. “For you, MemSahib, my calendar is always open.”

  She grinned, showing her small, even teeth, her bright eyes. “It’s settled, then. Nine thousand for the Maharani Latika’s supplies?”

  I released the breath I’d been holding. I had secured my first marriage commission, and while it wasn’t as lucrative as I’d hoped, it would help me take another step toward finishing, and paying for, the house I would share with my parents—my apology for all I had put them through. Now all I had to do was make the match happen.

  As I replaced her heavy gold anklets, I said, “And you must let the henna party be my gift to you.”

  * * *

  On the Singh veranda, I slipped into my sandals. I spotted Malik laughing with the head gardener on the front lawn, under the enormous apple tree, its bare branches spiky against the cloudless sky.

  I called out to him.

  He ran to me on his stick legs. He could have been six or ten. How many meals had he missed before I’d finally noticed him, a half-naked street urchin in dirty shorts, following me around the city? I’d handed him a few tiffins to carry, and he’d smiled, a gap where his front two teeth would have been. Since that day three years ago, we’d worked together, mostly in silence. I’d never asked where he lived or whether he slept on hard ground.

  “Any news?” I asked. While I worked on my ladies, Malik often ran errands. Every day for the past few months, he had checked the train station to see if my parents had arrived. By now they would have received the money for the train tickets I’d sent them in my last letter. But so far, there had been no word.

 
; He shook his head and frowned; he hated disappointing me.

  I sighed. “Please get the tonga.”

  He ran off in the direction of the front gate. Today, he was wearing the yellow cotton shirt I’d given him to replace the bush-shirt he used to wear. His navy blue knickers were new, too. He refused to wear shoes, however, preferring cheap rubber sandals, which were often stolen by the other children in his neighborhood. The sandals were easier to replace; he could always steal someone else’s. Today’s pair, I noticed, were a size too big.

  Malik would have to get to a busy street to hail a rickshaw, so I sat on the veranda wall to wait, soothed by the fragrance of frangipani. I plucked two blossoms from the vine and tucked them behind my ear. Tonight, I would put them in a glass of water and wash my blouse with the scented water in the morning.

  I removed a tiny notebook from a pouch I’d sewn inside my petticoat. My father, the village schoolteacher, would rap his students’ knuckles with a ruler if they failed to provide the correct answers. To avoid such a punishment, I’d started keeping notebooks, in which I diligently recorded (and memorized) multiplication tables, names of British viceroys and Hindi verbs. It became a habit, and later, I used notebooks for appointment dates and times, summaries of conversations, supplies I needed to purchase.

  On the page labeled Parvati Singh, I wrote November 15: 40 rupees for hands/feet. Next, I wrote the date for the henna party at Parvati’s house and noted the nine thousand rupees I would receive for the marriage commission. I knew that Mrs. Sharma, another client of mine, was clever enough to grasp the benefits of a Singh-Sharma union. She was blind to her daughter’s petulant nature, but I had no doubts that Ravi Singh’s charms could overcome it.

  I turned to a blank page. With a shaking hand I wrote Maharaja Sawai Mohinder Singh and Maharani Latika—palace commission? My mind was full of possibilities. Such an engagement would have every woman in Jaipur demanding my services. I might, perhaps, retire that henna reed sooner than I’d planned. Just then, my mother’s words echoed in my head: stretch your legs only as far as your bed. I was getting too far ahead of myself.

  I closed the notebook and shut my eyes. Thirteen years ago, my only desire was to get as far as possible from the husband my parents had relinquished me to. I would never have imagined that I would, one day, be free to come and go as I pleased, to negotiate the terms of my life. How would my parents react when they saw all that I’d accomplished? How often had I thought about the day I would take them to my house, show them the beautiful terrazzo floor I had designed, the electric ceiling fan, the courtyard where I would grow my herbs, the Western privy no one in their village could afford? I’d hoped the builder would have finished everything by the time they arrived, but I kept adding little luxuries. And once my parents saw what I had designed, surely they wouldn’t mind sleeping at my lodgings until the house was complete?

  I pictured the astonishment on my parents’ faces when they took it all in. I could hear my father saying, Bheti, all this is yours? How proud they would be at the life I had made for myself. I would feed them rich kheers and subji and tandoori rotis till their stomachs were full to bursting. I would buy them sleeping cots so new the jute strings would squeak under their weight. I would hire a malish to massage Pitaji’s tired feet. I could see Maa, now, lounging on a rosewood settee like Parvati’s! And—why not—silk cushions! Stuffed with feathers! I was getting so carried away—of course, I couldn’t afford all this just yet—that I couldn’t help laughing at myself.

  “Am I that funny looking, Lakshmi?”

  When I opened my eyes, I saw Samir Singh coming up the steps, and my world suddenly felt lighter. Where Parvati was round, her husband was angular: sharp nose, bony chin, jutting cheekbones. It was his eyes I found the most appealing: a rich brown with the striations of a glass marble, alive with curiosity, ready to be amused. Even when his face was still, his eyes could flirt, coax, tease. In the ten years I’d known him, the hollows underneath his eyelids had deepened and his hairline had receded, but he’d never lost his restless energy.

  “The one-eyed man is king among the blind,” I replied, smiling.

  He laughed as he stepped out of his shoes. Samir was that curious blend of the new India and the old; he wore tailored English suits but followed Indian customs. “Arré! What does a silly monkey know of the taste of ginger?”

  “One who cannot dance blames the floor.”

  This was a game we often played, trading proverbs. I’d learned mine from my mother’s prudent tongue; his had come from years at boarding school and Oxford.

  I stood, tucked the pencil in my bun and slipped the notebook in the pocket of my petticoat.

  He arched one eyebrow as he walked toward me. “Are you hiding the Singh silver in there?”

  I smiled coyly. “Among other things.”

  “I see you’ve already helped yourself to my flora?” His eyes were on the frangipani tucked behind my ear. He leaned in, close, and inhaled. “Bilkul intoxicating,” he whispered, his breath warm on my earlobe, shaking something loose inside of me, just below my belly.

  Thirteen years had passed since I’d last felt the heat of a man against my skin, the weight against my breasts. If I turned my head just slightly, my lips might have grazed Samir’s; I could have let my own breath warm the hollow space between his neck and collar. But Samir was a natural flirt. And I was still a married woman. One wrong move and I could lose my livelihood, my independence, my plans for the future. I was alert to the sound of servants approaching—the swish of a broom, the slap of bare feet on stone. Reluctantly, I took a step back.

  “You have an intoxicating wife, as you’ll soon see for yourself.”

  Samir grinned. “On the days when Lakshmi Shastri has attended her, Mrs. Singh is always feeling very...amorous. Speaking of which...” He held out his hand.

  “Ah.” I removed three muslin sachets from the folds of my sari and set them in his palm. “You’re a lucky man, Sahib. A wife waiting in the bedroom and freedom outside of it.”

  He weighed the sachets in his hand, as if weighing rubies.

  “Freedom is relative, Lakshmi.” With one deft move, he laid several hundred-rupee notes and a piece of paper in my hand. “At one time the British were over us. Now they’re just under our feet.”

  I unfolded the paper and read the note inside. “An Angrezi woman?”

  “Even the English need your services. She’s expecting you tomorrow. She’ll be home.” He put the sachets in his pocket and said, “How’s the house coming?”

  Now would be the time to tell him how the builder had suggested, rudely, that I settle up my debt. I still owed four thousand rupees. But that excess was no one’s fault but mine. I was greedy for the kinds of things my ladies had: an inlaid stone floor, a Western toilet, double thick walls to repel the noonday heat. The problem was my own creation and I alone would solve it. A successful marriage commission would help put me in good standing. I said, “Tomorrow they will seal the terrazzo with goat milk. You should see it.”

  His eyes dropped to my lips. “Are you offering me a private tour?”

  I laughed. “You’ve already thrown my schedule off, and you think I should reward you?”

  From behind me came another voice. “He deserves paradise who makes his companions laugh!”

  Samir and I both turned to see who had just spoken. A tall man, dressed neatly in a gray wool suit and red tie, bounded up the steps of the veranda. Only his dark curls were in disarray.

  Samir stepped aside to embrace the newcomer. “Kumar!” he said. “Glad to see you, old chum! You made it out to Jaipur. Finally!”

  “I didn’t trust the Shimla railway to get me here in time for lunch—or even dinner,” Kumar said, glancing at me with a bashful smile, revealing two overlapping front teeth. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Singh.”

  Had Samir and I been standing that close
to one another?

  Samir patted Kumar’s back heartily. “Nahee-nahee. Allow me to present Mrs. Lakshmi Shastri, purveyor of beauty to all of Jaipur.”

  “I see she hasn’t started on you yet, Sammy.”

  Samir chuckled. Kumar looked at me, at Samir, at the veranda, his shoes, then back at me. Eyes like these belonged to the cautious.

  “Lakshmi, meet an old friend from Oxford. Jay Kumar. Dr. Kumar.”

  I folded my hands in a namaste just as the doctor extended his hand to shake mine, jabbing me on the wrist.

  Samir laughed. “Forgive him, Lakshmi. Too much time abroad. No wife to teach him Indian ways.”

  The color rose in Dr. Kumar’s face, his eyes darting from Samir to me. “My apologies, Mrs. Shastri.”

  “No bother, Doctor.” Over his shoulder, I could see Malik watching us from the veranda steps. “Tonga?” I asked him.

  Malik wagged his head back and forth in confirmation. A few blocks from the Singh house, we would abandon the horse carriage and continue in a cheaper rickshaw to our next henna appointment.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Kumar. Till next time, Sammy.” Coming from me, the old nickname must have sounded as ridiculous to their ears as it did to mine. They both laughed.

  I picked up the tiffins and my vinyl carrier and reminded Malik to fetch the other two holdalls under the apple tree. As I nodded my goodbye to the two men, I was thinking that I must remember to note Samir’s payment for the sachets in my notebook.

  I went down the steps and heard Samir say, “Let’s go in. Parvati is very much looking forward to meeting you!” On the last step, my sandal caught, and I turned to replace it on my foot. I glanced up just in time to see the doctor watching me as the front door closed.

  At the corner of the veranda stood Lala, biting her lip, her hands nervously twisting the ends of her pallu. I thought I saw a plea in her eyes and almost went back up the steps to meet her, but she turned quickly and was gone.

  A busy day of henna appointments had stretched into evening once again, and Malik and I were both exhausted. We stopped just outside the Pink City Bazaar, which was coming to life at this late hour—women in patterned saris selecting hairpins, men in kurthas munching spicy chaat, old men killing time, their glowing beedis cutting orange arcs through the dusky night. I envied them their easy camaraderie, the freedom with which the laborer and merchant castes moved about at night.