The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  When I found my voice again, I said, “But if Maa has been gone two months...why has it taken you so long to get here?”

  The girl snuck a peek at Hari and lowered her eyes.

  He rubbed the scar on his chin with his hand. “We needed to prepare. For the journey.”

  I knew he was lying by the way he hid his scar. He’d done the same when he told my father that he could support me by pulling a rickshaw.

  Again, I held the match’s flame up to the girl’s face. Was that a bruise on her throat or merely a shadow? She smelled of cow manure. So did Hari. They certainly hadn’t used the money I’d sent to my parents on train tickets.

  I looked at Hari. “What did you do with the money I sent?”

  Hari pressed his lips together and stared at me, defiant now.

  The match went out, and I lit another, turning to the girl again. My breathing was ragged as I said, “Rundo Rani?”

  The girl wrung her hands.

  I tried again. “Rundo Rani?”

  Her lips parted.

  “Rundo Rani,” I repeated, louder this time.

  Her words came out in a rush. “Rundo Rani, burri sayani. Peethi tunda, tunda pani. Lakin kurthi heh munmani.” She clapped a hand over her mouth to hide a smile.

  My father had made up that nursery rhyme and sang it to all his baby girls, including me. Little queen, thinks herself so grand. Drinks only cold, cold water. But does so much mischief!

  I held my breath for an instant and let it out slowly. She confirmed what I’d already seen: my mother’s eyes in Radha’s face.

  The girl lowered her hand. She was smiling openly now, her face transformed—a woman’s face in a girl’s body.

  I had a sister—and she was growing up all the while I’d been running from my past. But why hadn’t my parents let me know? But how could they have done that without an address on the letters I sent?

  I’d forgotten Hari was there until he said, “We’re still married. You are still my wife.”

  My shoulders twitched.

  “We can try again, Lakshmi.”

  No! I threw the box of matches back at his feet. “We will divorce.”

  His nostrils flared in anger. This was the Hari I knew. “I see now.” He jerked his head at Radha. “You two really are sisters. You both lie.”

  What did he mean by that? I looked at Radha for the answer, but she was staring at the floor.

  Hari’s jaw clenched as he turned back to me. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Even your name is a lie, Lakshmi. Not a Goddess of Wealth, are you? You could never have earned this by yourself.” He waved his arm to indicate the house. His eyes narrowed. “Whose keep are you?”

  Of course he would think I was a rich man’s mistress. Leave it to him to think a woman could never do this on her own!

  With an effort, I kept my voice under control. “They passed a law this year, Hari. We can divorce now.”

  He bit his lip and picked up the matchbox. He looked around the room again, at my floor, my sari. For a few moments, we stood in silence.

  Then it came to me. “You want money,” I said. Of course he did! Instead of going to the bigger cities to pull a rickshaw for a week and coming home to give me what he’d earned, Hari had spent most of his time in the village sleeping, eating or trying to bed me. If his mother hadn’t earned a small income from her medicinal herbs and treatments, we wouldn’t have had enough to eat.

  Suddenly, his features softened. “Just until...” He sounded contrite.

  “How much?” I snapped.

  He scratched his forehead, shifted on his feet. “How much can you spare?”

  “I work hard, Hari. Everything you see here came from years of work. And it’s not even mine yet.” I narrowed my eyes. “I have debts, and unlike you, I honor them.”

  He was working his jaw again. “You want me to tell people the truth about you? What would your MemSahibs say if they knew?”

  My heartbeat quickened. In his current state, no chowkidar would let him past the front gates of the grand houses they protected. But he knew as well as I did that the gatemen—like everybody else with mouths to feed and dowries to arrange—could be bribed.

  Radha was watching us closely.

  I said to Hari, “How long will you stay in Jaipur?”

  He shrugged.

  I inhaled deeply once, twice, three times. I pulled the roll of rupees from my petticoat. Rupees I’d been saving to pay my next installment to the builder. I tossed the bills onto the terrazzo floor—the way he had tossed his meager earnings on the floor of our hut all those years ago.

  He stared at the bills. It was probably more money than he had ever seen. After a pause, he moved forward to pick up the rupees.

  He rubbed the bristles on his chin. He lifted his eyes to meet mine. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say more.

  I waited.

  But his mouth clamped shut. His eyes shifted to Radha, who would not meet his eyes. He shook his head and walked out the door.

  I stood, unsettled, without knowing why. For years, I had imagined what I would do if I saw Hari again. I would beat him with my fists. I would slap him with the flat of my hands. I would kick him with my feet. For all the times he had hurt me, made me feel small. Yet, when I faced him for the first time in thirteen years, I felt more pity than anger.

  Radha’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Jiji, have you been in Jaipur the whole time? Your clothes—”

  I silenced her with a motion of my hand. I ran to the window and watched Hari move down the street. When he was out of sight, I put my fingers to my mouth and whistled. Within seconds, Malik was at the window, two young men twice his height behind him, all there to protect me.

  “Gone, Auntie-Boss. Rickshaw waiting for you around the corner.”

  I counted out five rupees. Malik gave his pals one coin each, pocketing the other three. He was a born businessman.

  * * *

  On the rickshaw ride home, I felt Radha studying my clothes, my hair, my sandals. I imagined her questions, the ones I hadn’t allowed her to ask. Where have you been all these years? Why did you run away? How did you come to be in Jaipur? I was still trying to recover from the shock of seeing Hari, of learning that the three people who were once so dear to me were no more. And I was getting used to the idea of having a sister, who was sitting next to me, as solid as the headache at my temples.

  Slowly, deliberately, I rearranged the sari over my shoulder and cleared my throat. “First thing—it is not polite to stare.”

  She looked away, but, as if she couldn’t help herself, turned her head to me again. “Jiji—”

  I held up a hand between us. “Second thing—we talk at home.” Like birds that sowed the land with the seeds they ate, rickshaw and tonga-wallas spread the gossip they consumed. I made it a point not to feed them.

  I felt Radha’s gaze again, and I closed my eyes to shut her out. The pressure on my temples was worse now. Could this girl really be my sister? How filthy she was! As dirty as a Brahma bull that had been in the pasture for a week. At her age, I was fixing my own hair, wringing my wet petticoats clean by the river, washing my feet before lying down on my mat. Had Maa not taught her anything? She smelled like a hay bale, which meant Hari had roped passing farmers into giving them a ride to Jaipur. And pocketed the money I had sent home.

  I glanced sideways at her clasped hands. Her blackened fingernails looked no cleaner than a beggar’s. How was I to explain a sister I never knew I had? It wasn’t as if my clients knew any details of my family life, but Mrs. Iyengar—what would I tell her? I added to the list in earnest. Third thing: never mention Hari to anyone. Judging by the looks of him, he still wasn’t able to rub more than a few rupees together. It was possible he intended to stay in Jaipur and live off my money for a while. Why, at a time when I was finally reaping
the efforts of my labors, had I been given two more mouths to feed?

  But how unfair I was being! I would happily have accepted responsibility for feeding the two people I had been expecting: my mother and father. Maybe Radha was my penance for the disgrace I had brought upon them. My parents, my mother-in-law and Hari—they would all have been ostracized and ignored after my desertion. Kept away from holy ceremonies, weddings, births, funerals, even spat upon. I felt my face grow warm with guilt.

  Radha’s head nodded forward, and I realized she had fallen asleep to the rhythmic movement of the rickshaw. She was starting to lean toward me, and I found the closeness uncomfortable. I shifted on my side of the seat, and her body tilted to the other, her head resting against the battered canvas roof of the carriage.

  Now I was free to study her face, which was the shape of Maa’s, more oval than mine. Mine was heart-shaped, the chin coming to a point, like Pitaji’s. If she’d been born the year I left, Radha must now be thirteen, but she looked older. For such a young girl, she already had a deep crease between her brows. And worry lines along the corners of her mouth.

  I examined the dark, round indentations on her arms where I imagined Hari’s hands had been. Had I escaped Hari’s cruelty only to have him inflict it on Radha? The thought made me shudder.

  As if in response, Radha shivered. I removed my woolen shawl and tucked it around her thin body. I doubted she owned a sweater. She must have frozen on the trip here!

  The color of her skin was a shade darker than mine. No doubt she had spent more time in the sun, pulling water from the village well or collecting cow dung in the midday sun, as I had done all those years ago. The soles of her feet were cracked. A bath would have to wait till early morning. I couldn’t risk waking all of Mrs. Iyengar’s household as well as Mr. Pandey’s family.

  If she was thirteen, she must be in sixth form now. I would need to look into a government school for her. I knew from the daughters of my ladies that the next school session would start in January. Until then, what? I couldn’t leave Radha home in our lodgings while I attended to my ladies. Mrs. Iyengar was nosy and would ask her a hundred questions. Could I take Radha with me to henna appointments? Clothes! She would need new clothes before I could present her to society.

  My head felt too small to contain all the thoughts swirling around. I didn’t dare think beyond tonight. If I did, I might never sleep again.

  I shook Radha’s shoulder to wake her. There was much I had to teach her, and soon.

  THREE

  November 16, 1955

  Mrs. Iyengar charged me a small sum for the rental of her almirah. On one shelf of the cupboard, I kept folded saris in pastel hues. The prints were delicate—tiny dots, thin stripes or embroidered flowers no larger than a ladybug. The next shelf held my blouses, arranged in columns according to color: light blues, leafy greens, candy pinks, spotless whites and ivories. The salwaar-kameez sets, which I used to wear more often when I was younger, sat on the bottom shelf with their matching chunnis.

  “These are all yours, Jiji?” Radha, her body wrapped in a towel, fresh from her bath, peered inside the almirah. She rubbed her fingers together, as if she were longing to touch the fine cottons, the silks. Last night in the rickshaw I’d told her about the women I worked for and warned her, “Fourth thing—do not touch anything that is not yours. The ladies will accuse you of stealing faster than you can deny it.”

  I chose a rose pink sari bordered in small fuchsia flowers and, with practiced fingers, pleated the folds before tucking them into my petticoat. “Most of my ladies don’t wear cottons, only silks so fine you can pull them through a ring. For special occasions, they wear saris heavy with embroidery. Mostly gold and silver threads.” I looked at my sister. “I did the henna of a bride recently. There was so much gold on her sari that three of the bride’s sisters had to help her up the steps to the mandap.”

  “How did she manage to walk around the fire?”

  I raised one eyebrow. “Very, very slowly.”

  Radha’s laugh was surprisingly deep. It fluttered like the sound of playing cards that boys wove into the spokes of their bicycle wheels.

  Slapping a pair of brown sandals on the stone floor, I urged her to slip them on. The heel was flat, the straps plain. From her calloused soles, I could tell she was used to walking in bare feet. These would ease her transition into shoes.

  As she unwrapped the towel, my eyes went to her bruises again. Their color had faded from the angry red of yesterday. When our eyes met, she crossed her arms across her chest to hide them. “A sheep on the truck—she butted me in the ribs. The marks will be gone by tomorrow.”

  So much remained unspoken between us. It had been the same on the roof when I’d bathed her this morning, at dawn—before the female street sweepers made their rounds and before Mrs. Iyengar’s servant girl took yesterday’s saris off the clotheslines. Radha refused to talk about some things while I stayed mum about others. I was torn: part of me wanted to know if Hari had hurt her (as he had hurt me), but another part of me was afraid to find out. Whatever her answer, I was sure it would have been my fault. He would have done it to get back at me.

  I pulled a tunic in leaf green cotton over her head and smoothed the fabric over her thin shoulders. The kameez was loose through her small chest, and I gathered the extra fabric to see how much needed to be taken in. The white cotton salwaar also needed to be hemmed a few inches; the pants were pooling around her feet and the waist was five inches too loose. Finally, I draped a white chiffon chunni loosely around her shoulders. I stepped back to inspect my work.

  The green of the tunic intensified the pond-green of her irises and made her hair appear blacker. My zealous scrubbing had made her skin rosy and the coconut oil had given her arms a lovely sheen. With her hair piled high on her head, a jewel or two around her neck and a little more flesh on her bones, she could have been mistaken for one of the daughters of my ladies.

  She could tell the effect pleased me and she pressed her lips in a shy smile. “Jiji, do you have something in a brighter color?”

  “Gaudy colors will mark you as a village girl,” I said. “The only way to wear bold colors is on silk, like my ladies do. And forget those ticky-tacky mirrors sewn into your clothes like a common washerwoman.”

  Her mouth fell open and her lips trembled.

  Had I sounded too harsh?

  Her gaze fell on the mutki she had carried all the way from our village. From the mouth of the vessel, the hundreds of tiny mirrors on Maa’s wedding sari twinkled at us.

  Too late, I realized I had hurt her feelings, just as I had on the roof when I was picking ticks out of her hair.

  “Don’t you ever wash?” I had asked.

  “For ten days we rode a sugarcane cart, and then we were picked up by a truck carrying sheep to Jaipur.”

  Her voice had been small, apologetic, and I’d instantly regretted my tone. If Hari had wanted to spend my money in other ways, what could she have done? Besides, hadn’t ticks also latched on to me back in Ajar when I’d wandered among goats and mangy dogs? I would have to be gentler with her.

  Clang-clang. The jostling of metal canisters announced the arrival of the milkman in Mrs. Iyengar’s courtyard. Relieved by the distraction, I hurried into my sandals. “I have to catch the doodh-walla. We’ll need another liter to make burfi.”

  I opened the door just as Malik was about to knock. His thick hair was uncombed, but his shirt and knickers looked clean. His jaws were working on something.

  “Arré, Malik! You’re early.”

  He jutted his chin at Radha. “Who’s she?”

  “That is Radha, my sister. She has come to stay.”

  No further explanation would I give and, with Malik, none was required. “Chewing paan will make your teeth black, you know.”

  Unfazed, the boy replied, “Today’s market day, Auntie-Bos
s. No ladies to swoon over me.” He grinned, his teeth stained with tobacco paste.

  From my petticoat, I pulled out a shopping list and handed it to him. Malik scanned it. “Anything else?”

  I glanced at the row of bottles on my worktable. “Lavender oil.” We’d used the last of it on Radha’s bruises this morning. “And magnolia extract.” Radha’s feet had been far drier than Lala’s. I wondered if Radha had ever worn shoes in her life.

  Malik nodded. He was staring at my sister again.

  From the floor, I picked up Radha’s dirty traveling clothes. “When you come back from the market, burn these.”

  Radha let out a small cry.

  I turned to look at her. Perhaps they were her only clothes. “They’re infested, Radha. We’ll get you something new.”

  She blushed, glanced at Malik and quickly dropped her gaze. Had I embarrassed her by saying such a thing in front of him? I glanced at him to see his reaction, but his face was a blank. I ushered him out the door, and we walked down the stairs to our separate errands.

  When I returned to my room with the steel milk jug, I stopped at the threshold, aware that something had changed. Radha stood to one side of the long table where I kept my herbs, her hands clasped behind her. Her eyes had the wariness of a wild animal. What had she done? Whatever it was, she must have thought I was going to punish her. My eyes scanned the bottles of oils and lotions, my mortar and pestle, the marble board where I spliced my plants and seeds—all were slightly askew and not in the order I had left them. The jar of fresh herbs had also been moved. Then I saw it. In the bowl where I’d submerged my blouse with frangipani blossoms, one blossom was missing. I looked at Radha, whose hands flew up to her hair. There, on top of the bun I had arranged on her head, was the other flower.

  Her smile was sly. “Tenth thing—always smell of flowers if you want ladies to invite you into their homes.”

  Last night, after the first, second, third and fourth thing, I taught her the fifth thing: sit up straight (she was hunched, as if she were used to squatting on the ground over the laundry or the cooking); sixth thing: don’t let your mouth hang open (she stared at scooters as if she were seeing monkeys singing in Hindi); seventh thing: eat with your mouth closed (she barely finished one bite of chapatti before starting another, as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks); and eighth thing: smile when I introduce you to Mrs. Iyengar in the morning (Radha’s usual expression seemed to be a worried scowl). When I was up to the ninth thing, Radha had finished her dinner, and her eyelids were starting to droop. I spread a bedsheet in front of the almirah. She’d been scratching her head, and I told her once we got the juey out of her hair, she could sleep on the cot with me. She didn’t argue. Either she was used to sleeping on the floor or she was too exhausted to fuss.