The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  I grieved for my friend. “You and Manu have spent the last five years getting to know each other. You know whether he likes chapatti more than rice. Whether he prefers poems to prose. If he favors starch in his kurtas. And that’s so important because when the children come, you’ll be too busy asking him, ‘Arré, arra-garra-nathu-kara! Manu, you char-so-beece! Where have you hidden my girlish figure?’” My voice had risen in imitation of village women selling bitter melon in the market.

  Kanta bit her lower lip and started to laugh. She looked at Radha, who was also giggling.

  I was ready to begin. I told Kanta to lay down on the divan and lower her capris. We were covering her stomach with henna today, and she would need to be absolutely still. I dribbled some clove oil on my hands. “Radha, why don’t you read to Kanta while I work?”

  “Splendid!” Kanta said. Restored to her cheerful self, she said, “Radha, choose a book from my bedside.”

  Radha’s face brightened. She had told me last night that she had read and reread all of Pitaji’s books that the rats hadn’t chewed: Dickens, Austen, Hardy, Narayan, Tagore, Shakespeare. (I remembered those books fondly, too.) When Pitaji died, she said she began teaching the village children their letters and maths so she and Maa could go on living in the hut. Of course, after Maa died, the villagers would no longer allow a young girl to live in the schoolteacher’s house by herself.

  I watched Radha examine the books on Kanta’s bedside table. “Jane Eyre. Bahagvad Gita. Lady Chatterley’s Lover?” As she read the last title, Radha looked at us; she was blushing.

  Kanta laughed at the expression on her face. “If you haven’t already read Jane Eyre, let’s start with that. I read it every few years. I love how the orphan girl gets everything she wants at the end.”

  I rubbed the clove oil on Kanta’s stomach while Radha started. Faltering at first, Radha gained confidence as she read aloud. The big words took her a little time, but her command of English was impressive. “‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner...’”

  I began painting with henna. With a slim reed I drew a large circle around Kanta’s navel. Next, I painted six lines from the navel to the edges of the circle, like the spokes of a wheel. In each of the resulting triangles, I drew a baby eating, a baby sleeping. Reading. Playing with a ball. Putting on a shoe. Crying.

  As Radha read about Jane Eyre’s isolation, I thought about Kanta’s loneliness. Jaipur was not as cosmopolitan as Calcutta, Bombay or New Delhi. The ideas here were far more traditional, the people more entrenched in the old India, less given to change. She felt separate from my ladies and longed for friendship. Motherhood, she felt, would be her entrée into a world of cozy chats, shared intimacies. She had faith that I could help her get there. And I was loath to disappoint her. I was continually trying different recipes for treats that might help strengthen the eggs in her womb. Today, I’d brought burfi: sweetened with yam and coated in sesame seeds. I didn’t let her sit up for tea but fed her lying down so the henna could dry properly. All the while, Radha read aloud, inflecting her voice with emotion and drama. Where had she learned to do that?

  When it was time, I rubbed my hands vigorously with geranium oil and massaged Kanta’s belly to remove the dried henna. After I finished, she jumped off the divan and walked to the mirrored doors of her almirah. She turned left and right to admire the design, framing her flat stomach with her hands.

  “Oh, Lakshmi! My very own baby. Six of them! I can’t wait to show Manu!” She turned to look at me. “But why is one of them crying?”

  I shrugged. “In real life, babies cry.”

  There was mischief in Kanta’s eyes. “Only if they have my saas for a grandmother.”

  Her gaze landed on Radha. “You are welcome to borrow my books anytime. You read beautifully. Be careful when my saas is around, though. Always leave Lady Chatterley’s Lover at the bottom of the pile and the Bahagvad Gita on top!”

  Radha looked happier than I’d seen her since she arrived in Jaipur.

  Kanta put a finger on her lip. “Lakshmi, have you ever taken Radha to the Minerva?”

  I balked at telling her I had no idea if Radha had ever been to the cinema.

  Misunderstanding my silence, Kanta laughed. “It’s all right, Lakshmi. My treat. There’s a Marilyn Monroe film that I’ve been dying to see. I can take Radha.”

  The suggestion made my stomach flutter. My ladies fretted about the influence of these movies—and the behavior of men at the cinemas—on their impressionable daughters. Indians were crazy for films, and the sight of American stars like Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe in tight skirts drove the rickshaw drivers and charannas so wild they threw coins at the screen. (At some point, the manager would always come out to scold them.)

  “Is it wise to expose her to—to—” I felt my face grow hot. I sounded just like my matronly clients!

  “To Western women? Scary, aren’t they?” Kanta’s cackles made my words seem priggish. I was being too protective. If Radha was going to live in a big city, she needed to experience it. If wouldn’t do any good to shield her excessively. And who better than Kanta—so worldly and sophisticated—to guide her? Besides, it was only a film!

  Clapping her hands, Kanta smiled at Radha, “Oh, we’ll have such fun!” She raised her brows at me. “It’s very naughty of you not to tell me you had a sister. Look at those eyes! Men will be falling all over her.”

  I smiled, uneasy. It pleased me that my sister’s beauty had not gone unnoticed by one of my favorite customers. But I worried. Would her curiosity go unchecked? Her impulsiveness? I shook my head; I was being far too Victorian.

  * * *

  Outside Kanta’s house, I jotted a few lines in my notebook. Radha leaned against a pillar on the veranda. We were waiting for Malik to return with a rickshaw.

  “Kanta Auntie is sad.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why can’t she have babies?”

  “I don’t know, Radha. Her bleeding has always been irregular. She may not be able to produce enough eggs. You know the burfi I fed her? I’m hoping the wild yam in them will help regulate her cycles.” I frowned, realizing how little I knew about my own sister. “Have you started your menses yet?”

  Her cheeks colored and she lowered her chin. “Two months ago. Just before we came to Jaipur.”

  “Well, it means you’re a woman now, you know. You can...have babies.” I stopped, not sure how to explain it to her. “You must be careful of men at the cinema. And on buses. And don’t walk on the street unless Malik or I are with you.”

  Her eyes flickered, glazed with doubt.

  There were probably a thousand other things I needed to warn her about, but this was new territory for me. When was the right time to tell her about what husbands do in bed? My reticence surprised me. Women told me intimacies all day long; why did it embarrass me to talk to my sister about sex?

  But Radha’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. She asked, “What was Kanta Auntie so excited about when we first came to the house?”

  I tucked the notebook into my petticoat. “Ah. The Maharaja of Jaipur is converting one of his palaces into a hotel. He wants Samir Singh to design the remodel. But Mr. Sharma, who is the official contractor for the palace, has another architect picked out. So Kanta’s husband wants to figure out a way to get Mr. Sharma to hire Samir.”

  “Can’t the maharaja hire anyone he pleases?”

  “Of course. But it’s not his way to order people around. He wants Mr. Sharma to think it was his idea.”

  “How can you help?”

  “You’ll see.” I smiled.

  When Kanta first confided Manu’s problem to me, I knew the answer straightaway. The best way to seal the fate of the Sharmas and the Singhs was through an arranged marriage, which would make
the business partnership an afterthought. I wanted to wait until both parties had agreed to the marriage before telling Kanta.

  We turned at the sound of Malik’s high-pitched whistle. He stood off to the side of Kanta’s veranda, gesturing for us to step down. His clothes, which had been spotless when we left the house this morning, were splattered with mud. A trail of blood was on one shoulder, and his ear on that side of his head was red, oozing. I ran to him, removing a cloth from my carryall. Radha ran after me, the tiffins clanging in her hands.

  “Malik! Kya ho gya?”

  Before I could reach him, he turned away, walking quickly toward the front gate and leaving us to catch up.

  When we were safely out of the chowkidar’s earshot, he said, “That maderchod builder! I paid him the two hundred rupees you gave me, and he threw it back at me! ‘You’re putting a cumin seed in a camel’s mouth,’ he said. He boxed my ear and told me not to return unless I had the entire amount we owed.” He pivoted to a stop. “Here.” Malik reached in his pocket. He handed me the two hundred rupees I’d given him.

  I pressed the cloth to Malik’s bleeding ear. He yelped and then took over, flattening the fabric against his head. Instantly, the cloth turned pink. I stared at it.

  I didn’t want Malik paying for my mistakes. But how could I pay the builder the thousands of rupees I owed him? I hadn’t heard from Parvati yet about an audience with the palace. I would have to go around her.

  “Malik, you need to get word to Samir that I must see him. But first, Radha, let me have the lavender oil for Malik’s ear.”

  After attending to Malik, I told Radha to go home and launder his clothes. When Malik was presentable again, they were to join me for our afternoon appointment at Mrs. Sharma’s house.

  * * *

  In the front courtyard of the Sharma residence, Radha, Malik and I set down our bags. Malik had changed into a clean shirt and the swelling on his ear had gone down.

  We had come to create a courtyard mandala, which was usually designed by the women of the family using colored chalk and rice. But Sheela, Mrs. Sharma’s youngest and only girl child, was singing tonight at a big family gathering, and Mrs. Sharma wanted something far more elaborate. She’d commissioned a design similar to my henna work. In addition to white rice, we had brought bags of turquoise and coral chalk we’d ground to a fine powder, red brick we’d crushed into the size of tiny pebbles, mustard seeds and dried marigold petals.

  We were waiting for the grocery-walla to clear out of the courtyard. His camel chewed placidly on dry grass as the storekeeper pulled tins of sugar biscuits and sesame oil from his cart. Mrs. Sharma was checking the delivery before signing off on the receipt. When she noticed us, she plodded down the veranda steps, her homespun cotton sari rustling in her wake. Where Parvati was vain, Mrs. Sharma was practical. She saw no reason to fuss with her appearance when she had a large household to manage—her own three children and Mr. Sharma’s five younger brothers. Even though she could afford better, her habitual garb was a khadi sari, an ode to Gandhi-ji, and a simple ruby and diamond nose stud.

  “Lakshmi, if you’ll be patient, we’ll have these folks out of your way shortly. I want to make sure you have enough time to create your magic before the musicians start arriving.” She smiled broadly, the large mole on her right cheek lifting. “Everything must be perfect for Sheela’s performance at the sangeet tonight.”

  “I’m sure Sheela will be wonderful, Mrs. Sharma.”

  The matron laughed. A mandala welcomed the bounties of Goddess Lakshmi. “With a mandala created by you,” she said, “we can welcome the entire pantheon!” She extended her arms wide, the wedding bangles on each pudgy arm tinkling, the soft gold misshapen and dented after thirty years of wear.

  At last the area was cleared, and Radha and Malik began sweeping a ten-foot square area with long-whiskered jharus.

  I took a handful of rice from one of the sacks and released a steady stream of grains from my palm to create the inner circle. A small fire would be lit here in the evening. Around this circle, I drew a lotus flower with eight enormous petals. Radha followed me with the tiny red pebbles, filling in the outlines.

  Suddenly, she cried out. “Waa!”

  I looked at her. Radha was staring at the veranda, where Sheela Sharma stood in a satin frock the color of a sunset after rain. The half-sleeves were puffy—the current rage—and the empire waist sat just under her growing bosom. She looked like the princess of a miniature kingdom. All she lacked was a tiara to crown her blue-black hair, curled at the ends, Madhubala-style. She was striking.

  I smiled at her. “I hear you’re the star of tonight’s show.”

  She flipped her hair over one shoulder. “It’s only family. I’ll perform for a real audience at Mrs. Singh’s party next month. The maharaja will be there, you know.”

  So Parvati was taking my proposal seriously. She knew that any daughter-in-law of hers would have to entertain heads of state, and she’d decided to test Sheela’s poise in front of royalty. I would need to do my part to ensure that Sheela caught Ravi Singh’s eye. It was clever of Parvati to let her son fall for Sheela on his own; she wanted to choose his mate, but she didn’t want him to know it.

  I looked to my left to indicate Radha, who stood agog. “Sheela, this is my sister, Radha.” I tilted my head toward Malik, who was sweeping at the edge of the courtyard. “I believe you’ve seen Malik before?”

  He nodded at Sheela.

  I turned to look at Sheela, whose gaze flitted from Radha to Malik. Radha also looked at Malik. Sheela pursed her lips and lifted her chin, scanning him from head to toe—his rough hair, his pink ear, his soiled feet, his too-small chappals. He, too, looked down at himself to see what she found offensive.

  “Lakshmi, I only want you to work on the mandala,” Sheela said. She was used to getting her way.

  I allowed her an indulgent smile. “Without help, Sheela, the design will take twice as long, and I still have all the ladies inside to henna. We want your party to be a big success, don’t we?”

  But Sheela didn’t smile back. Pivoting smartly on her black patent heels, she marched inside the house. Malik shrugged at Radha.

  I decided to ignore Sheela’s mood. She was a spoiled child, but she ruled her mother’s heart. It didn’t do any good to make an enemy of her. “Radha, the brick pebbles, please.”

  “Lakshmi?”

  I looked up to see Mrs. Sharma standing in the front door, Sheela behind her. I poured the rice from my palm back into the sack and walked up the steps.

  “My daughter is not comfortable with the boy here. Perhaps you have an errand for him?” Mrs. Sharma asked the question in a voice both commanding and apologetic. Her eyes skittered around the front garden, distressed. Over her shoulder, I saw the satisfied face of Sheela Sharma.

  “Has he done something, Madam?”

  “Sheela is...particular...about who works on our mandala.”

  I glanced at Sheela. “Of course.”

  I went back down the steps and made a show of looking through my cloth carrier. “Malik, I need you to grind more henna for tonight and bring it back. I don’t think we mixed this batch well enough.”

  But Malik was looking at my lie: two large earthenware bowls of rich henna paste wrapped in damp cloth—enough for twenty hands—sitting inside a carryall. This morning, I had even praised the smooth texture of Radha’s paste within Malik’s hearing.

  He gazed at the veranda, at Sheela, who was staring at him defiantly. I could see him rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, something he did when he was angry. I didn’t know if she was singling him out because he was male (the mandala was, after all, a woman’s chore) or because she didn’t like his appearance.

  Malik dropped his sack on the ground.

  I took two rupees from my waistband. “Hire a tonga.”

  It was a small consolat
ion. I forced the money into his shirt pocket and put my hands on his shoulders until he nodded.

  As I was returning to the circle, I saw Radha plunge her hand into the sack of brick pebbles, then draw her arm behind her head. She was aiming for Sheela’s retreating back. Hai Ram!

  “Radha!” I called, loudly, as I placed my body in front of her to hide her gesture from Sheela. I seized her arm, forcing her hand back into the sack, and held it there. She was stronger than I’d realized. I pinched the inside of her wrist, hard. She loosened her grip and released the pebbles.

  I could feel Sheela’s eyes on my back. Making sure my voice carried to the veranda, I said, “Remember not to pour so much into each circle. The mandala will come out uneven, and we need it to be perfect for Sheela, don’t we?” My eyes pleaded with Radha to behave. “Let’s get started on the turquoise chalk.”

  My sister blinked, stared into my eyes, blinked some more. She lowered her gaze, and I let go of her arm.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Sheela go back inside the house. My knees were shaking, and I squatted, sitting back on my heels to steady myself.

  I licked the sweat off my upper lip. Had any of the household servants seen anything? Who knew what damage they could cause!

  My hands trembled as I grabbed a fistful of turquoise powder to fill the interior. What could Radha have been thinking? We could so easily be replaced, but Sheela would always be the princess of this kingdom. I’d never had to teach Malik that; he understood the nuances of class and caste instinctively. He would never have compromised us.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Radha and I worked in silence. I would point to a sack, and she would bring it to me. I was too upset by what she’d done to say anything.

  The farther out I went from the center circle, the more detail I added to the lotus flower. Finally, I stood back to inspect my work. In the middle of each petal were the things associated with the goddess: a conch shell, an owl, an elephant, gold coins, pearl necklaces. My back would suffer tomorrow from hunching over the mandala, but Mrs. Sharma would be pleased with the result.