The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  One of the girls at the gramophone, now playing an Elvis Presley hit, said, “Pandey Sahib is brilliant. He’s really improved my singing this past year.”

  Sheela smirked. “Is that what you call it, Neeta? Singing?”

  The other girls burst into giggles while Neeta’s cheeks turned pink.

  “You idiot! You’re hurting me.”

  With a start, I looked to my right. Sheela was glaring at Radha. Radha looked up briefly, mumbled an apology for pressing too hard on Sheela’s hand and dropped her eyes again. Sheela blinked, as if wondering where she had seen Radha before. My pulse quickened.

  “Sheela.” I patted the armchair in front of my stool. “Come sit. You’re the star tonight so I have a special henna design planned for you.”

  A chorus of “Lucky you, Sheela!” and “Waa! Waa!” went up.

  Her attention diverted, Sheela hopped off the armchair with a smug smile, upsetting the bottle of clove oil Radha was capping. Did she do it on purpose? Radha managed to catch it in time, and looked at me, her eyes filled with fear. The velvet armchair could have been ruined!

  I gave Radha a comforting smile and, with a tilt of my head, indicated that she had other girls to attend.

  My sister had behaved admirably. In less than two months in Jaipur, she had learned a lot that was new to her. I felt the beginnings of a small hope: everything would be fine from here on out. Ravi Singh and Sheela Sharma would be married. Samir would make sure I was introduced to the palace. Hari would give me a divorce. I would pay off the builder and he would finish my house. We would move out of our rented room. And my life of true independence would begin.

  Comforted by these thoughts, I finished Sheela’s hands with a design of large roses and perfumed them with pure rose oil to arouse feelings of the heart. I usually reserved the precious oil for wedding henna, but tonight I wanted Ravi to be drawn to Sheela as a bee to chameli.

  After Radha and I finished with the girls, they joined their parents and other party guests on the lawn, while we gathered our tiffins. As we walked down the long hallway to the kitchen, we could see the back terrace, half a level below us, through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Torches glowed along the edges of the velvety lawn beyond. Bearers in red turbans and white coats offered drinks and hors d’oeuvres to guests on silver trays. Gold rings flashed on the gentlemen’s fingers as they raised glasses filled with ice and sharab. The women’s pallus, threaded with gold and silver, fell like shimmering streams from their shoulders.

  Radha slowed to admire the glamour. While I had been to such occasions before, it occurred to me that this was the most elegant party she had ever attended. It wouldn’t hurt to let her enjoy it a little. I set down my tiffins, and motioned to her to do the same. Putting an arm around her shoulders, I led her closer to the windows and pointed my chin at the gentlemen directly below us.

  “See that fellow with the glasses? Recognize him?”

  “Yes! From the photo. Kanta Auntie’s husband?”

  I nodded. Manu Agarwal, in a smart suit and tie, chatted with a gray-haired man in a Nehru cap and a wool vest over his kurta, common attire at this party. It was a mild night and the windows were open; we could hear their conversation.

  The older man waved his glass of Scotch. “Only, you have to talk to my friend Mr. Ismail at the Transportation Ministry. He will give you all the permits and licenses for the bus routes you want. Without delay.”

  Kanta’s husband adjusted his glasses. “The maharaja will be pleased.”

  “Zaroor. I only have to ask and it will happen. That is...” Nehru Cap smoothed his mustache over his lip. “Perhaps the maharaja would consider extending his bus route to Udaipur? A beautiful city—if you’ve never been. An investment of, say, half a lakh would pave the way for your project, so to speak.” He took a sip from his crystal tumbler, observing Manu over the rim.

  I murmured in my sister’s ear, “Bribes. This is how roads, petrol pumps, bridges—even cinema houses—get built. Before independence, that man was a cobbler. He’s illiterate, but he knows his numbers.”

  She smiled. “Jiji, why isn’t Kanta Auntie here with her husband?”

  I’d noticed, too, that Kanta wasn’t at the party. “Maybe she preferred her saas’s company tonight.”

  Radha chuckled.

  We moved to the next window. Two plump matrons in bright silks, both clients of mine, huddled with Parvati, whose pink satin sari must have cost more than I paid for my yearly lodging. The ladies talked excitedly, gesturing with their hands, their earrings dancing with every nod and shake of the head. Every now and then, they looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

  “The maharaja’s driver went to your friend’s house and just left His Highness’s Rolls there?” Parvati was asking, incredulous.

  The woman in the beaded shawl nodded. “But my friend didn’t ask to borrow the car. Didn’t need to. He owns four cinemas in Jodhpur—so much money he’s making!”

  The third woman cut in. “That’s because His Highness wasn’t loaning the car. The palace was sending a message: pay up.”

  “What did your friend do?” Parvati asked.

  “He paid the Maharaja of Bikaner ten thousand rupees.”

  “Hai Ram!” Parvati exclaimed.

  “The maharajas are all broke, I tell you. All the money they spent on polo ponies, tiger hunts, fancy cars!”

  Parvati, who came from tiger-shooting, polo-playing gentry, raised her chin.

  “The Maharaja of Bharatpur is the only one who really went crazy. Buying twenty-two Rolls Royces. He uses most of them to haul municipal garbage. Which is a good thing, don’t you agree?” she said.

  The matron with the shawl sniffed. “I just hope I won’t be seeing our maharaja’s car at my gate anytime soon.”

  Parvati chuckled. “I’m sure His Highness is smart enough to avoid bankruptcy.” Her lips twitched. “Either that or he’ll run for Parliament.”

  The ladies burst into laughter.

  Radha glanced at me, a question in her eyes.

  “Politics and real estate. The two favorite career options of royalty,” I said.

  I guided Radha to the next window. Her breath caught. It looked like a meeting of the royals. The Maharaja of Jaipur was easy to identify from the photo at Kanta’s house—the long brocaded coat, white leggings, ornamented headdress. He carried himself like the sportsman he was—chest thrust out, legs planted firmly on the ground, strong calves—taking up more physical space than his companions, including two nawabs, their Muslim headdresses and elaborately jeweled coats rivaling the maharaja’s. Samir stood in this group, too, gesturing animatedly with a glass of Scotch in his hand, telling a story by the look of it. As he finished, the group exploded into laughter.

  The maharaja addressed Samir and I saw him turn toward the stage on the lawn, beckoning to someone. We watched as Ravi, dressed as Othello in a yellow silk dhoti and gold crown, jogged into view. His face, neck and naked torso were covered in dark blue greasepaint. The muscles of his chest rippled as he ran.

  “Who is he?” Radha whispered, pointing at Ravi.

  I pulled her finger down gently. “That’s Parvati and Samir’s son, Ravi. A handsome Othello, don’t you think?”

  She looked happy. “That was Pitaji’s favorite play.”

  I hadn’t remembered that. “Accha?”

  “That and The Taming of the Shrew. He’d have me read them aloud. Over and over. Till I knew them by heart...almost.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  She grinned wickedly. “I adored it!” she sing-sang in British English, imitating the girls from the henna party.

  I laughed along with her, and at that moment, Samir and Ravi looked up at our window. I pulled Radha back into the hallway. “Time for us to clean these tiffins.”

  As we rounded the corner, Samir en
tered from the veranda, “I thought I saw you up there!”

  I smiled and introduced Radha, who set her load down to namaste him. “Good evening, Sahib. You have a lovely home.”

  If he remembered her from that awful night with Joyce Harris, he didn’t let on. Samir placed a hand over his chest, the sides of his mouth creasing in a warm welcome. “Have you come to break my heart?”

  I raised an eyebrow, surprised that Samir would flirt with such a young girl. “Pay no attention to him, Radha.”

  Samir pretended to be offended. “I get Lakshmi an audience with the palace, and this is how she treats me?”

  I blinked, not sure I’d heard correctly. “Kya?”

  “You have a meeting with the maharani tomorrow.”

  Radha turned to me, cupping her mouth with her hands. “Oh, Jiji! A maharani! We’ll get to see the palace!”

  I put a hand on her shoulder, as much to steady myself as her. It’s finally happening!

  Samir laughed and pointed to the ceiling. “Take your dinner plates up to the roof. You can see tonight’s performance from there and tell me how good of an actor my son is. He fancies himself a thespian.”

  “Oh, Jiji! Can we? It’s Othello!” Radha asked me, her face full of hope.

  I hadn’t planned on staying, but she had been on such good behavior today. I smiled at her. “First the kitchen, then the play.”

  She excused herself politely and continued down the corridor with the tiffins, trying not to run. I knew she couldn’t wait to share the news with Malik. They talked about anything and everything.

  Samir followed Radha with his eyes. “Pretty girl.”

  He gestured to the open door of the library and followed me inside.

  This room, with its built-in bookshelves, crammed with English, Hindi and Latin tomes, and red leather armchairs, was Samir’s favorite. The hearth had been lit for the evening.

  “More good news. Gupta has agreed to hire Naraya, and Naraya has approved an extension on your invoice. Happy?”

  I was excited enough to throw my arms around him and kiss his feet, but I settled for a generous smile. “Thank you, Samir. This means a lot to me.”

  “Good.” The reflection of the hearth fire flickered in his eyes. “I’m looking forward to seeing how you’ll handle the palace commission.”

  “Any idea what’s troubling the young queen?”

  “All I know is she needs cheering up. You’ll sort it out. I have faith in you.” He reached into his suit coat pocket. “In the meanwhile...”

  Samir took my hand and laid a gold pocket watch on my palm. It was a beautiful thing, the size of a betel nut—much smaller and more delicate than the other Victoriana watches in his collection. On the cover, an engraved hand held a lotus flower, similar to the one the goddess Lakshmi carried.

  “Open it,” he said, crossing his arms.

  The false cover masked the scene of an Indian woman holding the hands of another. When the timepiece moved, one of the woman’s hands moved up and down. That’s when I noticed she was holding a tiny stick.

  I gasped. “A henna artist?”

  “Hahn. A lovely one. Like you.” He sprang open the next layer to reveal the watch face. “White enamel dial. Gold hands. Nineteen-jewel lever movement with gold escutcheons.”

  “It’s exquisite.” I gave the watch back to him.

  “I had it made.” He turned it over, so I could see the seed pearls on the back forming a cursive L. He placed the watch in my hand again, folded my fingers over it and clasped my hand with both of his. “For you.”

  No one had ever given me anything this fine. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last gift I had received. I cleared my throat to thank him but couldn’t find my voice. A gift from Samir. What would Parvati say if she found out?

  I heard a rustle and, from the corner of my eye, a bright swish of pink satin. The door to the Singh library was ajar. Has someone been crossing the hallway or had they been standing in the opening, watching us?

  I tried to extract my hand from his. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Do what others do. Tell time.” He let go of my hand. “The Maharani Indira is expecting you tomorrow morning at ten sharp.”

  “It’s lovely, but—”

  “Hide it in your petticoat, along with the Singh silver.”

  * * *

  At intermission, Sheela Sharma sang a ballad in a high, clear voice about a woman’s devotion to love. It could have been Desdemona’s swan song. From the rooftop, where I sat with Radha and Malik and the household staff, I had a good view of the admiring audience below, and despite what Mr. Pandey had said about the challenges of teaching Sheela, I could see that his work had been rewarded. Her performance was flawless. For his part, Ravi turned out to be a convincing Othello.

  My mind, however, was distracted, planning for my meeting with the dowager maharani. I thought about the supplies I would need. What would I say? What would I wear? Were any of my garments appropriate for a palace visit? Resisting the impulse to check my notebook (how could I see anything on the dark rooftop, anyway?), I tried to remember which appointments I would have to reschedule tomorrow to accommodate Her Highness. My stomach felt so jittery that I barely touched the crisp aloo tikki or the creamy spinach and paneer curry on my plate.

  When the final curtain came down, Ravi, who looked larger than life in his blue-dark body, the greasepaint shimmering in the stage lights, delivered a pretty speech. He thanked the maharaja and the nawabs for gracing the holiday gathering with their presence, bowing a namaste to His Highness and cupping a salaam to each of the nawabs. Ravi appeared perfectly at ease addressing the royals, who tilted their heads in acknowledgment.

  I signaled to Radha and Malik to take our plates to the washing area and gather our supplies for leave-taking.

  I went to the kitchen to ask after Lala. I’d been on the lookout for Parvati’s servant all evening to see what she’d wanted to talk to me about the last time I was here, but I hadn’t seen her.

  The head cook told me Lala and her niece no longer worked for the Singhs.

  * * *

  I was packing the last of our supplies in the Singh drawing room when Malik drew up beside me.

  “Auntie-Boss, MemSahib wants to see you in the library.”

  I smiled. Of course! Parvati wanted to thank me for the henna work. She’d been so busy with her guests that I’d barely crossed paths with her all evening.

  I arrived at the library where I’d met with Samir a few hours earlier. Parvati was pacing in front of the hearth like a restless lioness. With every turn, her satin sari swished angrily, the pallu threatening to catch fire. Her back was ruler-straight, her generous bosom thrust forward.

  When she saw me, her dark eyes flashed. “How can I trust you to arrange a good marriage for Ravi when your own sister is playing with him behind my back?” The bright red bindi on her forehead flashed accusingly at me.

  “What—H-how? My sister?” With Ravi? What nonsense was this? Radha doesn’t even know the boy!

  Parvati crooked a finger and Radha came out of the shadows. Her face was flushed, her mouth pinched in anger. Were those welts on her cheek? On closer inspection, they appeared to be slashes of blue paint. Her arm had the same streaks. My heart hammered in my chest. “Radha, what happened?”

  “I won’t allow my family to be touched by scandal. I have my son’s future to think of.” Parvati resumed her pacing.

  I waited for Radha to say something, anything. But her eyes were focused on some spot far away, not in this room, the way they had in the Sharmas’ courtyard. It was as if her mind were somewhere else.

  Parvati hissed, “She was covered in Ravi’s greasepaint. What am I to believe but the obvious?”

  Greasepaint? The evening flashed before me: Radha and me with the girls in the drawing room, she and
I standing together at the back windows, having dinner on the roof, watching the play. I looked more closely at the blue marks on my sister. When did she have time to be with Ravi? Surely there had to be some other explanation?

  “What did Ravi say about all this?”

  Parvati hesitated. “He doesn’t have to say anything.”

  My breath tightened. “Did you ask him?”

  She pointed her forefinger at me. “You know as well as I do men can’t control themselves. It is up to women to stay out of their way. If your sister had been brought up properly, she might know that.”

  Nudging my sister’s arm, I said quietly, “Go. Clean your face.”

  Radha glared at me for an instant, then went out the door, slamming it behind her.

  I swallowed, gave myself time to think. “Parvati-ji. Please. Sit down,” I said. “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. Radha is only thirteen. Much too young to...”

  Parvati slowed her pacing.

  “Your Ravi, such a mature boy—indeed, young man—can’t be interested in a girl like my sister. He is completely taken with Sheela. Did you see how perfect they looked together onstage? What a handsome couple they’ll make when they’re married.” I indicated the sofa. “Please, Ji.”

  Abruptly, she sat down on the leather couch with a heavy sigh. “If my late father were with us today, he’d know what to do. Everyone listened to him. But I can’t get Samir to—” Her voice cracked. She looked at me with moist eyes. “What were you and Samir doing in the library earlier?”

  Parvati had been at the library door.

  I folded my hands together. “He was telling me how generous you had been in recommending me to the palace. I’m truly in your debt. If not for your relation to the royal family...” I let the implication hang.

  She looked away. I was lying and she knew I was lying, but no matter. The truth was less important than saving face. If she’d kept her end of the bargain and spoken to the palace on my behalf, I wouldn’t have had to ask Samir to intervene. She could no more admit that she hadn’t fulfilled her promise of a palace introduction than I could admit that I had asked Samir for help.