The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  After a while, I felt the maharani’s bones begin to soften and heard her breath reach deeper into her lungs. I continued massaging up her arms and legs and back down to her hands and feet with my oils for the next hour. I stretched her tendons, loosened her limbs, opened her meridians. If her muscles resisted, I directed my attention on pressure points to release the tension. As I worked, I kept my mind focused on transferring my energy to her. Everything else fell away.

  When I felt her arms go limp, I hazarded a look at Her Highness. She had fallen asleep. It wouldn’t last, but, for the first visit, this was as much as she could handle.

  When I’d gathered my supplies, an attendant escorted me through another set of hallways to a room made of glass and filled entirely with orchids. The air was humid here, the temperature much warmer than the air-conditioned palace. I felt a fine layer of sweat gathering above my upper lip.

  With a tiny pair of silver scissors, the elder maharani was trimming dead leaves from a plant. Half-moons of sweat stained the underarms of her silk blouse.

  Without turning, the Maharani Indira said, “The sooner Latika recovers, the sooner I can get back to my babies.” From a nearby table, she picked up a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid and jiggled it. “Gin and tonic. Care for one, Mrs. Shastri?”

  I was tempted, but had never taken alcohol before. “Thank you. No.”

  She looked at me, smiling. “Are you sure? The British left us some lovely things, and this one is, by far, the loveliest.” She took a sip. “More so because it keeps malaria at bay.”

  She moved to the next plant, and began turning over the leaves to inspect them. Satisfied, she took a large swallow of her cocktail. “Come meet my darlings.”

  I moved closer.

  She pointed to a yellow flower with green stripes and an outstretched wing on either side of its body. The wings were dotted in black. “That is a lost lady’s slipper. But I call her titli because she looks like a butterfly. And this blue vanda over here, I’ve named Sita.” She tenderly caressed a petal with her finger. The hothouse appeared to be the maharani’s nursery in more ways than one. “Rumor has it that Lady Sita used to twist blue orchids into her hair during her exile. A rare species she is.”

  Maharani Indira crossed the room and brushed her fingers against tiny pink flowers—about twenty in all—emerging from a single stalk. “Now this was a gift from the Princess of Thailand. I’d wanted to name him after my late husband until the princess told me she hadn’t been able to get the stalk to grow, and I thought, that hardly sounded like my husband!” Delighted with her bawdy joke, she delivered a deep and throaty laugh. The dowager maharani seemed to have found a sanctuary within her narrow confines. The poor weren’t the only ones imprisoned by their caste.

  “I have a secret to make anything grow.” She poured a few drops of her drink around the base of a plant. Her lips curved in a conspiratorial smile as she glanced sideways at me. “Chup-chup.”

  I laughed, unable to help myself.

  She sipped from her glass. “So, Mrs. Shastri, tell me when can I return full-time to my orchids?”

  I’d thought about this while attending to the younger queen. “Your Highness, if you please. Before my work can truly help her, the Maharani Latika needs to trust me. Were I to work with her every day at the same time for two, three weeks, I believe we would make progress.”

  “And did you make any progress today?”

  “I believe so. I’ve started preparations for a henna pattern that I’ll add to every day. By the time it’s complete, I believe Her Highness will be feeling much better.”

  She nodded, pursing her lips. “What’s the cost of this resuscitation?”

  I clasped my hands in front of my sari. “Whatever you deem appropriate, Your Highness.”

  The older maharani looked me over. “Every morning, when you finish with Her Highness, I’d like you to give me a report. If you see progress, we’ll continue. If not, we’ll try something else. On your way out today, give the bursar this.” She passed me a slip of paper. “He is to pay you five hundred rupees every day you come.”

  I felt as if I might faint. In one hour I had earned the amount I made during a busy week of henna appointments. Two weeks would amount to seven thousand rupees! The humidity was stifling and my forehead was slick with perspiration. I needed to get out of there.

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  She dismissed me with a nod, and turned to inspect the plant in front of her. As I left the room, I heard her say, “Drooping again, Winston? Am I not giving you enough attention, pet?”

  * * *

  Malik was waiting for me at the palace gates. He rushed forward to relieve me of my tiffins.

  “You’re smiling, Auntie-Boss. Success?”

  “You could say that.” I smiled. “And the palace chef? Did you enjoy your time with him?”

  “To tell the truth, Auntie-Boss, except for tamarind candy, I’m not much for sweets. But Madho Singh is. That bird ate most of my rabri. He might be sick tonight.” He swung the tiffins by their handles as we walked to the next street to flag an ordinary rickshaw. I shook my head. What good would it do to admonish him?

  “So what did you do while you were with the chef?”

  “I didn’t stick around. I ran my errands, took orders, made deliveries.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Malik! You deliberately disobeyed Her Highness’s orders?”

  Malik turned to face me. He was grinning. “No bother, Auntie-Boss. When the attendant told him to make rabri for me, Chef looked like he wanted to slice me in two with his knife.” He whistled for a rickshaw. “So I thought, how can I make him as happy as I make Auntie-Boss every day?” He laughed when he saw me raise my eyebrows. “I asked him how much the palace paid for cooking oil. When he told me, I said, ‘Baap re baap! You’re being robbed.’”

  I closed my eyes. What was Malik up to now?

  “Auntie-Boss, relax.” He gestured with his hand as if he were screwing in a lightbulb. No harm done. “I’ll get him oil for a lot less than the buggers overcharging the palace and Chef will pocket the difference.” He pointed to one of the carriers in his hand. “He’s so pleased he promised to make me a special treat every day whether I ask for it or not. Today it was puris and choles. Tomorrow, bhaji! You and Radha won’t ever have to cook again.”

  He ran ahead to put our belongings in the waiting rickshaw and I followed, amazed and a bit in awe of my little friend.

  * * *

  Word of my visits to the palace spread like ghee on a hot chapatti. All it took was for the mango vendor to spot us at the palace gates and tell his wife, who told her neighbor, who told his brother-in-law, who told his doctor, who told his washerwoman, who dropped off the ironing at the house of one of my ladies. Before long, my services were being requested by new clients for every celebration and ceremony: engagement, seventh month of pregnancy, baby’s birth, baby eats his first solid food, baby gets his first haircut, boy comes of age, first entry into a newly built house, birth of Hanuman, fire worship for Goddess Durga, the Great Night of Shiva, job promotion, acceptance to university, a safe journey ceremony, a safe arrival ceremony. In India, there was no shortage of rites and rituals, and the three of us were busy from morning to late evening. Radha prepared the henna paste and helped me cook the savories. I attended to the Maharani Latika in the mornings and to my ladies in the afternoons and evenings. Malik crisscrossed the city, delivering my creams, oils and lotions, sales of which had tripled. It was a good time for us; I should have enjoyed it more, but I couldn’t—not until the Maharani Latika could resume her royal duties.

  Many of our new clients were eager for gossip.

  Is the Maharani Latika as beautiful as one hears?

  Tell us about the sofas that seat ten people!

  Is it true that the silver urns at the palace are as tall as a man?r />
  Do they serve meat in the dining room?

  Even the ladies I had attended for years couldn’t help sneaking in a query or two: Are all the maharani’s saris from Paris? What does her georgette pattern look like?

  My favorite ladies, like Mrs. Patel, who were not impressed by wealth or title, remained incurious. A sixtysomething matron, quiet and placid, who kept the books for her husband’s hotel, Mrs. Patel said, “I hope you are taking rest, Lakshmi. Times like these can be very disquieting,” before lapsing into companionable silence.

  Malik remained discreet. I’d advised him how to answer questions from gatemen, servants and tonga-wallas. He could describe the paintings of maharanis on royal hunts to Rajput families but not to Brahmins (vegetarians). He could talk about the scented gardens, but not the details of European plumbing in the royal loo (too vulgar). He could say that the palace band employed forty musicians but not reveal that each of the three chefs—Bengali, Rajasthani and English—had a separate kitchen and his own assistants (too showy).

  Radha went about her tasks with barely a word. Once she’d finished, she went to Kanta’s. Since the new school term hadn’t yet begun, Kanta had suggested that my sister read to her in the afternoons. I thought it a splendid idea. By the time I arrived at our lodgings late in the evenings, I assumed she’d be eager to share her day—in fact, I looked forward to it—but she would just lay on the cot, her back to me, reading a book Kanta had lent her.

  I would ask what she was reading. Her answers were curt. “A book.” If I asked which book, she would say, “You wouldn’t know it.” I would reply, “Try me,” to which she might say, “A novel by one of the Brontës.”

  She knew perfectly well that I was familiar with all three. Hadn’t we been raised by the same father who taught us to read English aloud by the age of three? We may only have been able to sound out words without knowing their meaning, but his methods started us reading literature from an early age.

  I couldn’t believe she was still mad at me about not being able to go to the palace. It was infuriating. I was the older sister, the provider. I set the rules, and she should obey them without question, like a good younger sister should. But I buried my anger. With time, she would get over it. With time, she would learn to accept what she couldn’t change.

  Look at me: despite my repeated objections, I hadn’t been able to change my fate; I’d ended up married to Hari.

  * * *

  During my next appointment with Mrs. Sharma, she congratulated me on the palace commission. Emboldened, I said I wanted to discuss the marriage I had proposed between Sheela and Ravi. (Samir had already started discussing a joint bid arrangement for the Rambagh Palace contract with Mr. Sharma, so my bringing up the subject was only natural.) Mrs. Sharma met me halfway, unable to hide the smile that was pushing the mole up the side of her cheek, and played her own hand. In lieu of giving a dowry, the Sharma family wanted to build a house for Sheela and Ravi, provided the marriage went forward. Sheela preferred not to live with her future husband’s family, as per custom. Mrs. Sharma said, “One family opposed this request, and we had to reject their offer.”

  I could see why Jaipur families found Sheela’s request untenable; joint family compounds were the norm. Even Kanta and Manu, who were modern and Westernized, lived with Manu’s widowed mother. Parvati would fight like a tiger to have her firstborn son live with her. She would argue that there was plenty of room in the Singh mansion; Ravi and Sheela could have their own wing.

  If I wanted the marriage commission—and I did—it was up to me to find a solution to suit both parties. An irritant, to be sure, but I was close to sealing this agreement. I wasn’t about to give up now. With less wealthy families, the value of the dowry was usually the sticking point: how much money, how much gold, how many silk saris. But the Singhs and Sharmas weren’t going to haggle over money; satisfying their demands required finesse, creativity and more than a little luck.

  * * *

  A week after I’d begun my daily visits to the palace, I went to Kanta’s for our regular appointment. Radha was already there, seated in an armchair, her finger marking the page in the book they must have been reading together.

  Kanta jumped up from the sofa, breathless with her news. “Lakshmi, I’ve been dying to tell you!” Her eyes flickered with joy. “I’m pregnant!” She wrapped her arms around me. “And it’s all thanks to you and your magic henna and your keen designs and I’m sure you must be slipping something naughty in those sweets of yours.”

  I smiled. “Kanta, that’s wonderful!” I turned to Radha, “Did you hear?”

  Radha raised her eyebrows. She said with a superior air, “Auntie already told me.”

  “Saasuji knew before I did,” Kanta said. “I started getting nauseous whenever I opened a book. She said it was like that when she was carrying Manu. Imagine! My mother-in-law and I finally have something in common besides my husband!” She chuckled.

  Her happiness was infectious; I found myself laughing, too.

  Kanta put an arm around Radha’s shoulders. “That’s why it’s been so wonderful having Radha read to me. I can’t do it for myself anymore!” she cackled.

  We walked to Kanta’s bedroom where she took off her sari. “Saasuji thinks the baby can see what I wear. If it makes her happy to see me in saris, fine.” She lay down on her divan. “Let’s do another baby mandala on my tummy to ensure a good-looking boy like Manu.”

  My sister had followed us into the bedroom and sat on the bed, as if she lived there.

  “Radha, please keep reading while Lakshmi works her magic.”

  Happier to do Kanta’s bidding than mine, Radha smiled smugly and opened the book she’d been carrying to the page where they had left off. I looked at the cover. Daisy Miller. I hadn’t read it, but my ladies had talked about it. The novel was about a teenage American girl on a European tour. How generous of Kanta to help Radha improve her English—and her knowledge of the world. I was grateful that she had time for my sister when I didn’t. My days were so busy that it was a relief to have Radha taken off my hands.

  “Oh, Lakshmi! Tomorrow I’m taking Radha to that American film I told you about. Some Like It Hot. Starring Miss Marilyn Monroe!” Kanta rattled on cheerfully like a purple-rumped sunbird. “And next month, Mr. and Mrs. 55 is coming back for another run—it was so popular the first time! We’ll go see that, too. You don’t mind, do you, Lakshmi?”

  How could I deny her when she was so generously chaperoning my sister? I glanced at Radha, who I knew was eagerly waiting for my answer even as she feigned indifference. I felt a vague sense of unease, but said, “Of course not. It’s very good of you, Kanta.”

  Radha offered me a small smile.

  My sister needed a friend, and so did Kanta. Allowing them to spend more time together was my way of asking Radha to forgive me for spending so little time with her. Or so I told myself.

  EIGHT

  January 5, 1956

  During my second week of daily visits with the Maharani Latika, I sensed a shift. When I arrived, the young queen looked directly in my eyes. The dark color around her lids had lightened and she looked alert. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot. I touched her feet, inquired after her health. She didn’t respond but continued to study me with her large eyes.

  “Her Highness slept a full six hours last night!” said the noblewoman who read aloud to the young queen.

  I couldn’t conceal my excitement. I opened a tiffin with the lemon slices I had candied the night before. “Perhaps a celebration is in order?” I asked. My saas had taught me that women who had suffered a deep loss needed remedies rich in fruit and essences of flowers. Lemon promoted energy and gastric fire; the candied fruit would increase Her Highness’s appetite. “If you will permit me, Your Highness?”

  Maharani Latika raised her eyebrows and looked to her ladies for guidance.

  The
first lady-in-waiting instructed one of the bearers to take the tiffin down to the kitchen. Food prepared outside the palace was suspect and one of the cook’s assistants would have to sample it before the maharani did. If all went well today, in a few days I could serve her creamy rasmalai, homemade curds with sugar, cardamom and rose petals. The maharani’s cheeks had become hollow; for weeks, she had refused everything but a dal as thin as drinking water. By feeding her foods that stimulated hunger in her belly, I was hoping to correct the vata imbalance in her body. When we could switch to heavier textures like curds and spices like cardamom, her depression would lift more quickly.

  Today, Her Highness took an interest in the henna and watched while I drew. Each day I added to the pattern from the day before. First, I had painted her nails, the tips of her fingers and her wrists with solid henna paste. I did the same thing to her toes and the soles of her feet. Another day, I drew intertwining branches down each finger, thumb and toe. The day after: a complex pattern of leaves on the backs of both hands and the tops of her feet. Now, I surrounded each leaf with tiny dots around the edges. My goal was to cover every inch of the skin on her hands and feet with henna; the more henna I applied, the more the calming properties of the paste would relax her mind and body, and allow Her Highness to rest.

  When the bearer returned with the candied lemons, now arranged on an imperial blue china plate, the lady-in-waiting took it from him. She offered the plate to the young queen. Her Highness hesitated before taking a lemon slice. All eyes were on her. Even the guru looked up from his prayer with pursed lips as if he were about to suck the candy.

  The maharani took a tiny bite, chewed and swallowed. She closed her eyes and took another bite. The tension in the room eased; shoulders were lowered as everyone breathed a collective sigh.

  The lady-in-waiting resumed her reading. “‘When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down, the moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes amongst the bamboos. The crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.’”