by Alka Joshi
I handed Radha the empty sacks. “Go home. Have Malik help you with the ladies’ treats for tomorrow.”
She left without a word.
Dusting my palms, I made my way to the kitchen. I needed to make sure the servants weren’t aware of what happened this afternoon and to see if they had anything to tell me about Sheela Sharma’s marriage prospects.
Several burners were in use and the heady fragrance of fried cumin, garlic and onions filled the kitchen. Mrs. Sharma’s cook, a broad woman with coarse hands, was separating the atta into tiny balls that she would roll later into samosa pastry. A younger woman sat cross-legged on the floor. She cradled a stainless steel bowl in which she was mixing boiled potatoes with peas and masala for the mixture that would go inside the samosas. The back door had been propped open to let the cooking heat out.
I smiled at the cook and asked for water. She filled a glass for me and went back to her task. If anyone in the household had seen Radha throwing rocks at Sheela, the cook would have let me know as she saw me.
I lifted the glass and drank without touching my lips to the rim.
“Are you making your famous drumstick dal for tonight’s sangeet?” I asked. The Sharmas’ cook was from Bengal. She was famous for flavoring her lentils with the flowers and fruit of the sajna tree. She would chop the drumstick-like vegetable finely and sauté it with poppy and mustard seeds before adding it to the cooked lentils.
She lifted her arms in a shrug and opened her palms to the ceiling, a piece of dough resting in one hand. “When am I not making my dal, Ji? It’s these people I must make it for one day, those people the next.”
“It’s because your skills are so refined.”
“What can I do? I was born with this gift.” She sprinkled a little dry flour on a round wooden board and slapped the ball of dough onto it. “Lately, everyone wants to see the little miss. Last week, we had many Pukkah Sahibs here.” She flattened the ball with a rolling pin, pressing left, then right, back to the left, until she had created a perfect circle for the pastry.
“Really?”
“Hahn-ji. The Mariwars. Lal Chandras.”
“Mathur Sahib and his wife.” The cook and I turned to look at her assistant, who had contributed this information without looking up from her task.
“Are you mashing the potatoes fine enough? I don’t want to see lumps in the samosas like last time!” The cook scowled at the other woman, and the assistant lowered her head closer to the bowl.
I hid a smile. “Did I hear a rumor about the Prashads, as well?”
“They are coming next week.” The cook wiped the glistening skin above her upper lip with the end of her sari. “After all, there is only one of me.” She jerked her head at her assistant. “That one over there, I have to watch every minute. How much time does that leave me to cook?” she asked as one of the lids began clattering on its pot, steam trying to muscle its way out. She turned to the other woman and shouted, “What? I have to watch all the pots, too? Can’t you see the kofta is done?”
Her assistant scrambled to her feet and wrapped the end of her sari around the handle of the pot to lift it off the burner. For good measure, the cook directed more insults her way.
As I’d suspected, the competition for Sheela Sharma was keen; the Sharmas were entertaining offers. Parvati would have to make a move soon. An offer from the Singhs, one of the most prominent and among the wealthiest families in Jaipur, would give the Sharmas what their humble background lacked—an official tie to the royal family. Parvati was smart to drive home the point by inviting Jaipur’s royal family, along with the Sharmas, to her holiday party.
The sooner the marriage was settled, the sooner I could clear my accounts. Until then, I would keep the arrangement to myself lest any other matchmakers picked up the scent.
I set my glass on the counter and left the two cooks to their work.
FIVE
November 18, 1955
I waited for Samir at my Rajnagar house, having finished another inspection with Naraya, the builder. (I’d had to request another coat of plaster on the walls to make sure it was skin-smooth.) I was sitting on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees, gazing at the patterned terrazzo.
It’s better to have a petticoat be too tight rather than too loose or your sari will sag and the pleats will come out.
Place a compress soaked in cold tea on each eye daily to diminish under-eye circles.
Never wear common rubber chappals, only sandals or shoes.
How foolish I’d been to think advice like this was enough to prepare Radha for city life! I couldn’t even say, with certainty, how I had learned to manage challenges like the Mrs. Iyengars and Parvatis and Sheelas of this world. Radha would have to learn not only patience, but also the necessity of moving indirectly toward her goal. Like I did. Like Malik did.
But how could I keep vigil over her and still meet with clients, negotiate with suppliers and solicit new commissions?
When I returned home exhausted from the Sharmas the evening before, I asked Radha if she made a habit of throwing stones at people.
Her face crumpled. “It’s the only way the gossip-eaters would stop taunting me, Jiji,” she said. “They always called me the Bad Luck Girl. Saali kutti. Ghasti ki behen. All kinds of curses. Little boys would trip me when I carried well water on my head. Everything was my fault. If the cow’s milk wasn’t sweet, the gossip-eaters said it was because I’d walked in front of it. If insects ate the grain, the farmers said it was because I’d called them in the night. When the headman’s son died of fever, they came looking for me, carrying sticks. Maa couldn’t stop them. I ran to the riverbank and climbed up a peepal tree. I stayed there for two days until the traveling doctor told them the baby had died of malaria.”
Radha wiped her wet eyes and nose on the sleeve of her kameez, a habit I was trying to break. “It’s been like that since I was born. The gossip-eaters have long memories.”
In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumormongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village. Today, when she saw how unfairly Malik was being cast off, she reacted as she always had—like a defenseless animal. She knew no better because no one had taught her any better.
She dropped to her knees in front of me. “Jiji. Please don’t send me back. I have no one else. I won’t do it again. I won’t. I promise.” Her thin body was shaking.
Embarrassed and ashamed, I helped her to standing and wiped her tears. I wanted to say, Why do you think I would send you back? You’re my sister. My responsibility. But all that came out was, “I promise I’ll do better, too.”
* * *
Someone was nudging my hand. “Beauty, wake up.”
My eyes fluttered open; I knew it was Samir’s voice, but in the dark, I couldn’t make out his face. I looked around to get my bearings. At some point, I’d stretched out on the terrazzo and fallen asleep.
“Joyce Harris is recovering.” His white shirt glowed in the dark above me. He smelled of cigarettes, English whiskey and sandalwood, scents I recognized from the houses of the courtesans. “Her husband has returned from Jodhpur. He thinks she miscarried naturally.”
I rubbed my eyes. “You know I did nothing wrong, Samir, don’t you?”
“I know.” With a sigh, he lowered himself to the floor and lay down beside me. He pulled a pack of Red and Whites from his suit pocket and lit a cigarette. “But we have to go easy on the sachets for a while. What happened to Mrs. Harris has made people nervous.”
I swallowed.
“So what’s going on? Malik said you needed to talk,” he said.
�
�I owe a great deal of money.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“And I’ve run into some...unexpected expenses.”
“Like?”
I cleared my throat. “A sister.”
“The girl who was in your bed?”
“Yes.”
“She lives here in Jaipur?”
“She does now. As of a month ago.” I turned to look at him.
He studied my face. He knew our rules: we only revealed what the other needed to know. He turned back to the ceiling.
For a while, he was quiet, now and then taking a puff from his cigarette. A man of business, he thought before he spoke. “To whom do you owe money?”
“The builder, for one.”
“How much does he want?”
“Doesn’t matter. I just need more time to pay him.”
“Why not let me—”
“No,” I said, perhaps too forcefully. “It’s my debt. I’ll take care of it.”
He blew out cigarette smoke noisily. We’d had this discussion before. The only time I’d borrowed money from him was during my first week in Jaipur, when I needed to pay for henna supplies and my herbs. I had paid him back within a week and never asked for another paisa.
I reached for his hand and shook it lightly. “Sorry to take you away from cards.”
Samir chuckled. “How did you know I’d been playing?”
“You haven’t been playing. You’ve been losing.” I looked at his profile. “You drink more when you lose. You start buying rounds for everyone so they won’t feel sorry for you.”
He squeezed my hand. “I have one wife already, Beauty.”
I turned my eyes back to the ceiling. He smoked.
“Who’s your builder?”
“Naraya.”
Samir groaned. “He’s third-rate. If you weren’t so stubborn, you could have let me hire mine.”
“And it would have cost me twice as much. This is what I could afford, Samir. It’s my house. And Naraya has been fine.” He’d been difficult, yes, but I was too stubborn to admit I could have done better.
He sighed.
“Do you know Mr. Gupta?” he asked after a pause.
“I did his daughter’s bridal henna.”
“Gupta wants to build a hostel near the Pink Bazaar. I think your builder is just the man for the job.”
Puzzled, I looked at him. “How will that get him off my back?”
“Gupta’s loaded.” Samir sucked on his cigarette. “He’ll keep Naraya busy for a few months and pay him well.”
“To do what?”
He smiled at me. “Install WCs—hundreds of them. To a clerk a bribe; to a Brahmin a gift.”
I laughed. The irony was not lost on me. Naraya was willing to build toilets, which the Shudra caste normally did, for the handsome profit to be made. Like me, he, too, was a fallen Brahmin.
My hand, loosely knotted with Samir’s, rose and fell in rhythm with his breath. I could have stayed like this forever. He turned his head toward me. I turned mine, too, until our noses almost touched and his warm breath floated over my cheek.
We were alone, our bodies touching. It was late. It would be so easy. I felt myself yearning to press my body against his. As if in response, he turned on his side to face me, one arm supporting his head. He lifted his free hand and smoothed my hair away from my forehead, the touch as delicate as a feather.
“So beautiful,” he said in a voice so soft I barely heard him.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I released it.
I forced myself to look away. I heard him sigh. He lay on his back again but he didn’t let go of my hand.
I’d already decided not to tell him about Hari. My husband was my problem, a problem I had created by running away. Samir didn’t need to know about him, didn’t need to know more about my past than I was willing to share.
“How are the courtesans of Agra, Samir?”
“They were asking about you just last month. It’s been ten years, and Hazi and Nasreen have never let up. I stole you, their best-kept secret, they always claim. They finally imported a girl from Tehran. They say her henna is almost as beautiful as yours.”
“Liars!” I laughed.
Samir blew smoke at the ceiling and pointed to it with his cigarette. “You should do one of your designs on the ceiling. Bloody spectacular that would be.”
“I’ve already designed a floor I can’t afford.” I unwound my hand from his and sat up to fix my hair. “Once I pay that off, I’ll think about the ceiling.”
He stood and reached down with his hands to help me up. As he pulled me, I lost my balance and tumbled toward him. He twirled me, pinning me to the wall. His lips, so close to mine, were wet. If I put my mouth on his, would his lips part softly, gently, or would they crush mine, eagerly, hungrily? Then, as always, I remembered his wife, Parvati, my other benefactor.
I fastened one hand on his chin and eased it downward toward the floor. “You haven’t admired my work yet.”
Samir groaned and pushed himself off the wall, then felt his pockets for his silver lighter. Using its flame, he looked more closely at the spot where we had lain.
He snapped his fingers. “You hid your name in this!”
I suppressed a smile. Of course he would know. He’d been around nautch girls who concealed their names within the henna design on their body. If a man found it, he won a free night in their bed. If he didn’t, the women were paid double rate.
“What if I find it?” he asked.
“You don’t have to do me the second favor.”
“Is there no end to your demands?”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
The cigarette glowed orange and red as he drew in the smoke, surveying the floor. “I give up.” He scratched behind his ear.
“Word has it the palace might need my services.”
“Whose word?” Smoke curled up from both sides of Samir’s mouth.
“Your wife’s. Something about the Maharani Latika not feeling well. Parvati thinks I could help her.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Could you whisper my name in the right ears there? Two echoes in a well are louder than one.”
He blinked, and I knew he wasn’t thinking whether he would do it but how and when. With his cigarette, he pointed at the floor. “This was worth whatever you paid for it.”
“Or haven’t yet paid.” I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders. “In return, I have something for you.”
One corner of his mouth lifted—a half smile.
“The Rambagh Palace remodel. Swallow your pride and meet with Mr. Sharma. Convince him you’re the architect for the project.”
He squinted. “Sharma already has architects.” He made a face. “Second-rate ones.”
“But the maharaja wants only you.”
He released a stream of smoke. “Really?”
I smiled and drew my shawl tighter around me. “You’ll make sure Parvati knows that information came from me?” I walked into the moonlit courtyard. “Come. I have to get a rickshaw.”
“That’s all the thanks I get?”
“You don’t need thanks. You’ve got a driver.”
SIX
December 20, 1955
My sister and I sat in the Singh drawing room, painting henna on the hands of girls from the finest Jaipur families, smart in their English dresses, chatting about the latest film they had seen and the clothes their favorite actresses were wearing. Some watched me work; others danced to Rock Around the Clock, next to the gramophone; several were glued to Parvati’s Life magazine, admiring the photos of the glamorous film star Madhubala.
Sheela Sharma had grown up with most of these girls, having attended the same schools, the same parties. She
held court on Parvati’s sofa. Radiant in a champagne silk frock and matching heels, she was clearly the most beautiful girl at the holiday henna party. It was easy to imagine her as the future doyenne of Jaipur society. I allowed myself a private smile, knowing I’d proposed an excellent match.
Radha and I were seated next to one another on footstools, an armchair in front of each of us. One by one, the girls sat in front of Radha so she could prepare their hands, then moved to my station for their henna application.
“Has anyone seen Ravi?” Sheela asked the group. “He should at least come to his own party.”
Next to the gramophone where she was showing another girl how to do the swing, a girl said, “He’d better be here. I heard he’s performing tonight,” she said.
“Performing what?”
“Didn’t you know? Mrs. Singh hired the Shakespeare theater troupe and Ravi is playing Othello.”
“Sheela, you’re next,” I said, patting the chair in front of Radha’s stool.
Sheela moved to take her place in front of my sister. We had rehearsed this moment, Radha and I. I had dressed my sister differently so Sheela would not be able to recognize her from the mandala fiasco. Instead of a salwaar-kameez, Radha wore one of my saris, a fine cotton in pale blue with white embroidery. With her hair up—topped with a sprig of jasmine—she looked older, like a miniature version of me.
As I’d suggested, Radha avoided looking at Sheela’s face. She concentrated on oiling her hands.
Having taken no notice of Radha, Sheela was addressing the room. “I’m singing tonight, too.”
“Onstage?” a girl asked.
“I wanted to sing Na Bole Na Bole from Azaad—”
“I adored that movie!”
Sheela shrugged her graceful shoulders. “Yar. But Pandey Sahib is so old-fashioned. He tells me only a gazal will do for the maharaja.” As if she sang daily for His Highness.
I stole a sideways glance at Radha, who liked our neighbor Mr. Pandey and wouldn’t take kindly to criticism about him. The color rose in her face, but she kept her eyes focused on her task.