by Alka Joshi
She pouted, straightening a pillow on the sofa, smoothing the tiny beads embroidered on the silk. “I’ve seen you two talking, before—on the veranda. What could you and Samir have in common?” Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet mine. I saw something I’d never seen before: trepidation. As if she wondered what secrets her husband kept from her. And possibly, what secrets I kept from her. All she knew about me was that I had come highly recommended by the wives of Samir’s business associates in Agra.
I held my palms open, showing I had nothing to hide. “He likes to ask what I painted on you and where. I always tell him that’s for him to find out.”
She allowed herself a hint of a smile, perhaps recollecting a lusty afternoon with her husband. She touched the diamonds on her earlobe. “How did I not know you had a sister?” The same question Kanta and my seamstress had asked.
I sighed. “Parvati-ji, why would I bore my clients with the petty details of my life? But since you ask. Both my parents died recently, and I’ve taken Radha into my home. She’s working with me now, but she will attend the government school this coming term.”
Parvati picked at a loose thread on the pillow. If she kept pulling it, hundreds of beads no larger than poppy seeds would scatter across the floor.
I smiled with more confidence than I felt. “I’m certain nothing untoward has happened, but I’ll talk to Radha.” By degrees, I could see Parvati’s anger cooling, reluctantly, although she still looked peeved. It was time to press my credentials. “Have I ever let you down in the past ten years? And what about your miracle? Your Govind?”
Parvati’s face brightened at her son’s name.
“It’s important that I win back your trust, Ji. You’ve done so much for me over the years. Introduced me to the best of society.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against her lids. To save face, she needed to deliver the parting shot. “If I catch them together, ever again, it will be the last time you and I have anything to do with one another.” In her indirect way, I knew she was also warning me: stay away from my husband.
Blood pounded on my temples and my stomach felt queasy, but I tipped my chin serenely to indicate that there would never be a need for her to carry out her threat.
Regal once again, she rose, threw her pallu over her shoulder and walked out. Alone in the library, I let myself collapse onto the sofa. Perspiration had soaked my blouse. I used a corner of my sari to dab my forehead and neck. I had seen Parvati angry before, but never more so than today, and never had her anger been directed at me. I found it hard to believe that a simple village girl like Radha, not in the same league as Sheela Sharma, could have attracted Ravi’s attention. If, in fact, that was what had happened.
My reputation relied on Parvati Singh’s word. Without her approval, I would get no work for henna, mandala designs or marriage commissions; my income would come only from the contraceptive sachets I provided Samir—and even those had been jeopardized now.
My insides were in knots. I had to get out of here—now.
Radha and Malik were waiting for me on the front veranda. Malik looked troubled, Radha nervous. I rushed past them, gulping the cool night air, skipping down the front steps to the garden gates.
“Jiji,” Radha said behind me, running to keep up. “I did nothing. Malik and I were coming out of the kitchen when Ravi started talking to me. Ask Malik. He’ll tell you.”
I stopped so abruptly that Malik, who was behind me, tripped on my sari. “Is it true?”
He nodded. “Ravi Sahib saw us when went to the kitchen to put down our dinner plates. He asked if we enjoyed ourselves. We said his performance was first rate. Then Radha—” Malik stopped.
“I told him Othello was a general, not a king, and he’d do better to get rid of the crown.”
“Radha!”
Her peacock eyes were defiant. “Well, it’s the truth. In any case, he didn’t seem to mind. He laughed.”
“He did laugh, Auntie-Boss. He told her he would do anything as long as she would be his—what was it?”
“Desdemona.”
“Then he—” Malik looked uncertainly at Radha.
“Go on.”
“He touched her.” Malik pointed at Radha’s arm.
“And my face,” Radha added.
So, not an accident, then—worse than I imagined. How could I be sure she hadn’t encouraged Ravi with a look or a smile? But then, I’d never seen Radha flirt with anyone. She and Malik teased each other, but as a sister and brother would.
A headache knocked at my temples. “We’ll talk later.”
Radha’s brows rose, as if she couldn’t believe I was taking it so well. She shot a look at Malik.
Frankly, I didn’t know what to do. I’d never known Malik to lie, but would he lie for Radha? If he and Radha were telling me the truth, my sister was innocent. And if she was innocent, how could Parvati have jumped to such a ridiculous conclusion? It was laughable.
On the other hand, there were so many things Radha clearly didn’t know. Like how to keep boys like Ravi—confident, worldly, a little arrogant—at a distance. All she had to do was to drop her gaze, clamp her mouth shut and walk away.
When we stopped to let Malik off at Jhori Bazaar, I told him to meet me early the next morning for our appointment at the palace. The news that would have had him spinning like a top a few weeks ago now only elicited a tip of the head. He squeezed Radha’s hand before heading off.
The rest of the way home, Radha hugged her stomach with both hands, suppressing her moans. When we arrived at Mrs. Iyengar’s, I filled a pan halfway with milk and took it down to the outdoor hearth, puzzling over tonight’s events. After the milk boiled, I returned upstairs to find Radha sitting on the cot, doubled over. I stirred turmeric into the warm milk and added a little sugar.
Radha, her arms wrapped around her belly, rocked back and forth. “Jiji, please say something. Anything. I did nothing bad. I don’t want to be the Bad Luck Girl anymore.” She hiccupped. “I can’t help it if he talked to me, or touched my face. I swear on the holy waters of the Ganga it wasn’t my fault.”
“Shh,” I said, handing her the glass. “You’ve had too much rich food tonight. This will settle your stomach.” She sipped the milk, cupping her belly with her free arm.
Delicately, so as not to jostle the glass of milk in her hand, I sat down next to her.
“I’ve never had a client speak to me the way Parvati Singh spoke to me tonight. If Parvati removes her support, I stand to lose everything—we stand to lose everything. Do you understand what I’m saying? She’s the one all the ladies follow. If I lose Parvati, we can say goodbye to the roof over our heads, the atta in our bellies, the fine cotton sari you wore tonight.”
I lifted the empty glass out of Radha’s hand, and set it on the floor. I took her hands in mine. “I shouldn’t have accepted Samir’s offer to stay and watch the show tonight. We didn’t belong there. We should have done our job and left.”
Her face fell. “You’re not listening! Jiji, he grabbed my arm! He started talking to me!”
I continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. I rubbed her back, moving my hand in tiny circles. “You had no one to teach you things that a girl your age should be taught. By the time you were old enough, Pitaji was not really there, was he? And Maa was too upset about me to pay attention to you. You were on your own. And that wasn’t good. You’re my sister, Radha, but I don’t know you that well—”
“Ask me anything! I’ll tell you. Anything! You’ve never asked me the month I was born. October. What’s my favorite food? Gajar ka halwa. I love saris that have mirrors sewn into them. And I love kajal on babies. My favorite color is the green of mango leaves. And I like the taste of guavas just before they’re ripe, when the flesh is tart enough to make my mouth water.”
She was right, and it stung. I hadn’t tried to
get to know her. Not really. To be close to her made me feel my guilt more acutely, and I hadn’t wanted that. I didn’t want to be reminded of the terror she must have felt with a father who was defeated—or worse, a drunk—and a mother who seemed either resentful or indifferent. My sister had grown up alone in Ajar because of my transgression. Since her arrival in Jaipur, I’d buried myself in work, my steadfast companion. I was good at my work; it welcomed me, and I shined in its embrace. Radha, who was smart but naive, courageous but foolhardy, helpful but thoughtless, was far less manageable.
I let out a long sigh. “It’s not that easy, Radha. I can’t trust you. Not yet. Not in the houses of the women I’ve worked so hard to win over. Not when I have so much debt to pay off. We’re so close, Radha, to having it all.”
“You’re taking their side again! You think I’m the Bad Luck Girl just like—”
“No, I don’t. I believe you. I don’t think you did anything wrong. That’s not the point.” I wiped her cheeks with my thumbs and smoothed her brows. “But I can’t let you go to the palace with us tomorrow. I can’t take a chance that something like what happened tonight won’t happen there.” As I said this, I felt relief wash over me. Ever since that first episode at the Sharmas’, I’d been tense at every client appointment for fear that Radha might say or do something inappropriate. If she stopped coming with me, I could stop being so anxious.
“But, Jiji, Malik gets to go—”
“He’s been with me a long time, Radha.” I rubbed her slender arm, and trailed my fingers through her thick hair. “Tomorrow, you’ll go to Kanta’s house and tell her why we have to reschedule. She’ll understand. After that, you’ll come straight home, accha? I’ll have a list of chores for you.”
“Nooo!” She turned away from me, sobbing. I knew what it was to be young and powerless. At fifteen, when Maa told me I had to marry Hari, she had been sure—just as I was now—that she was doing the right thing. She had wanted to wait until I was eighteen, the age when she’d been married, but Hari’s offer of marriage had come at the right time: there was no money to feed two, much less three people at Pitaji’s house. I’d cried and cried, begged her to let me stay. I promised to eat less, to work as a servant in someone’s home. She’d cried, too. She said there was no choice; it was more honorable to marry than to be a servant. So I did as my parents instructed, and look how miserable it had made me. Was I making Radha that miserable?
I rubbed my forehead, which felt as if it were in a vise. “In a few weeks you’ll start school and you’ll forget all this. You’ll be too busy with your studies. You’ll see.”
She moved her arm out of my reach.
PART TWO
SEVEN
Jaipur, State of Rajasthan, India
December 21, 1955
The next morning, we set out for the palace. It was a crisp December day, and Radha, Malik and I, huddled in woolen shawls, sat in a tonga loaded with our supplies. As much as I had wanted to be rested and refreshed for my first meeting with a royal personage, I hadn’t slept a wink, getting up every few minutes to add yet another item to our carriers. I hadn’t a clue about what was ailing the younger queen, so I had packed almost every lotion and precious item in my repertoire, including the Kaffir lime leaves I’d ordered from Thailand. So much depended on making a good impression on the elder maharani, the gatekeeper for the ladies of the palace.
The Pink City of Jaipur was a beehive this morning. Our carriage trotted past a basket weaver braiding flattened grass. A turbaned cobbler, who was shaping crude iron into a hammer, looked up as we passed. I watched a woman on the side of the road as she expertly threaded marigolds into cheerful malas.
A woman in a gaudy lime green sari caught my eye. Her color was off, an unhealthy yellow. Her head was uncovered, her hair oily. I had seen enough poor prostitutes in Agra to recognize them by sight. This woman’s cheap sari was a giveaway. The man next to her had his arm around her shoulders. He seemed to be guiding her—or was he forcing her?—along the road.
My heart skipped a beat.
It was Hari.
His clothes were cleaner than the night he’d delivered Radha to me, but there was no mistaking him.
Was the prostitute Hari’s new meal ticket? Was he now managing pleasure girls to pay for his food and lodging? Disgusted, I turned away and willed myself to focus on my task at the palace. Nothing else mattered.
When we arrived at the palace gates, I instructed the tonga-walla to take Radha to Kanta’s address. My sister looked small and frightened in the carriage. Her eyes were swollen—whether from crying or from rising at dawn to help me with our preparations for this morning, or both, I wasn’t sure. Last night, I’d listened to her sniffles and to her attempts to stifle them. She was still angry with me, but she had let me hold her. I’d rubbed her back, and eventually she had fallen asleep.
When the tonga left, Malik and I stood for a moment to take in the maharanis’ palace. Compared to the maharaja’s palace, with its long, winding entrance lined with peepal trees and giant hibiscus, the maharanis’ residence, adjacent to the Pink City, was surprisingly modest. The tall iron gates were flanked by stone elephants, their trunks raised. Behind the gates was a circular driveway, barely large enough for three cars. Today, only one flag was displayed at the guard station, which meant the maharaja was away from the city. When His Highness was in Jaipur, an additional quarter-size flag hung at each of the palaces; he alone was considered to be a man and a quarter.
Clutching our heavy tiffins, we proceeded to the guard station. Malik winked at me—Enjoy this, Auntie-Boss! I smiled nervously at him while going through a mental checklist of my supplies yet again: jasmine and clove oil, the bawchi-coconut hair tonic, neem and geranium lotions, mustard oil, henna paste with extra lemon juice, a khus-khus fan, which I’d soaked overnight (to dry the henna quickly and perfume the air), a tea made from tulsi leaves, white paste from ground sandalwood (to apply to her forehead in case she had a headache), fresh reeds, cool water perfumed with jasmine and a number of sweet and salty edibles designed to elevate the maharani’s mood or increase her desire.
A guard in a red turban and pristine white waistcoat clasped with gold buttons sat behind a barred window. His long gray mustache danced from side to side as he asked me what my business with the palace was. When I told him we had an appointment with the maharani, he frowned and gazed past me, sizing up Malik. “Elder or younger?”
I took a deep breath. “Elder. Maharani Indira.” My voice shook. If she approved of me, I’d be hired to take care of the maharaja’s wife. If I did not please the elder Highness, we could take our supplies home without having opened one tiffin.
The guard asked us to wait. For the tenth time, I checked the pocket watch Samir had given me—I didn’t want to be late. After some minutes, another attendant appeared. He led us through an arched door and down a series of hallways lined with Persian carpets, tables made of silver and displays of Rajput spears, shields and swords. Our guide moved briskly, and we struggled to keep up with him, weighed down as we were with our supplies. I was out of breath, both from hurrying after our attendant and from the anxiety of meeting a maharani for the first time. We entered a colonnade flanked by lush gardens. Topiary elephants frolicked on the lawns. Live peacocks pranced around circular fountains. Stone urns sprouted honeysuckle, jasmine and sweet pea. We walked through a breezeway fronting a three-story building that, I assumed, was the ladies’ quarters. The younger queen, Maharani Latika, had attempted to abolish purdah, but the centuries-old tradition had proved hard to overturn, and the palace females continued to live separately from the males.
We passed under a scalloped arch painted in blue, green and red enamel and outlined in gold—a peacock in courtship display. How Radha would love all this! I felt a pang of guilt for making her stay home. I glanced at Malik, who I knew was also thinking of her. His eyes were darting left, right, up,
down, like a badminton birdie. He was storing details to share with her later.
Now we entered what looked like a waiting room. I recognized the elegant lines of the French chaise-longue from my ladies’ homes. Opposite was a row of damask chairs, the arms of which ended in gold tassels. On the center table, which was almost as wide as my one-room house, were marigold roses in a cut-glass vase. Chandeliers glittered from the ceiling. And on the walls, Rajput history: portraits of former maharanis in ermine capes or in riding gear, ready for a hunt.
The attendant gestured for us to sit. He knocked on double doors three times his height, each door ornately carved with a scene from Rajasthani life: shepherding, farming, shoemaking.
Malik raised his eyebrows at me, mouthing, “Pallu.” Taking the hint, I draped the embroidered end of my best silk sari, the cream one I’d worn last night at the Singhs’ holiday party, over my hair.
Our guide disappeared briefly through the door, then returned and held the door open. Earlier, we had agreed that Malik would wait with our supplies in the waiting room while I met with the maharani privately. Now, he grinned and wagged his head from side to side in approval, giving me courage.
I walked through the door. It closed behind me with the barest of clicks.
I found myself in a beautifully appointed sitting room. The ceiling, high above us, depicted the courtship of Ram and Sita. Facing me were three damask sofas, the middle one occupied by a stout woman of about fifty in emerald green silk. Her blouse was stamped in a gold boteh motif. She was playing patience, the cards spread in front of her on a polished mahogany table. Dense salt-and-pepper hair, cut into a pageboy, grazed her shoulders and her diamond kundan necklace.
It was the first time I’d stood in front of royalty, and I felt a tickle in my throat. Was I going to cough in front of the maharani? I swallowed, fought the urge to clear my throat. With trembling hands, I adjusted my sari to cover more of my hair and walked toward her, my hands clasped in a namaste. When I reached the sofa, I bent to touch first her feet and then my own forehead. She waved me away with a flick of her bejeweled fingers.