The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  * * *

  The following day, Her Highness was dressed in an eggplant silk sari. Her ladies had placed a matching purple bindi on her forehead. The borders of her blouse were hand-embroidered in gold and green flowers. Her hair gleamed with the bawchi-coconut oil I’d left with her dresser the day before. At the last minute, I’d added a drop of peppermint, which now perfumed the air along with the guru’s sandalwood incense.

  I exchanged smiles with the ladies.

  “Good morning.”

  We all turned to stare at Her Highness, who had uttered this greeting. It came out as a croak; she hadn’t spoken in a month. She cleared her throat, and one of her attendants rushed over with a glass of water.

  After taking a few sips, Maharani Latika tried again. “Good morning.”

  Her voice was scratchy. Her Highness put her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. I thought she was about to cry. Then a shy smile spread slowly across her face. She opened her eyes and patted her chest. She was attempting a laugh, as if the sound of her hoarse voice amused her.

  “Hai Bhagwan. It is a very good morning, Your Highness,” the guru said.

  * * *

  That evening, after using the privy in the Iyengar’s backyard, I was climbing the steps to our lodgings when I overheard Radha and Malik in our room. The door to the room was ajar. Since Radha rarely spoke to me at any length these days, conversations between the two of them were the only way I knew what was going on in her life. I stopped on the landing to listen.

  “Marilyn Monroe is so different from Indian women, Malik.” Radha sounded dreamy. “Her skin is white like the petals of the champa flower, and her hair is fluffy—like the cotton candy they sell at the theater.”

  “Gopal says her clothes are so tight he can’t help staring at her breasts. They look like mountains on the cinema screen,” Malik said.

  “Your friend is a cheeky boy.”

  The more time my sister spent with Kanta, the haughtier Radha sounded, as if she were trying on city sophistication for size. It was hard to believe she was the same girl with the dusty petticoat, dirty nails and unkempt hair I’d met just three months ago. It made me a little nervous, how quickly she was changing. Was she growing up too fast? On the other hand, when I caught sight of her in a smart salwar-kameez with her hair glistening in a neat bun, didn’t it make me glow with pride? My very own Pygmalion sculpture?

  “Was the movie funny?” Malik asked.

  “I guess so. Kanta Auntie explained to me the bits I didn’t understand. Miss Monroe has the best smile.” A pause. “Do you think Americans have more teeth than we do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they just smile more.”

  “Hmm. They certainly have better teeth than the Angreji.”

  “Everybody has better teeth than the English!”

  They laughed.

  After a pause, Radha said, “That’s the first film I’ve seen in color.”

  “I thought you told me it was your first film ever.”

  “Arré! You don’t have to remember everything I tell you.”

  Malik chuckled.

  “Although,” Radha mused, “maybe her teeth look whiter because her lips are so red.”

  For a moment I heard only the jangle of stainless steel plates. Then: “Radha, does lipstick have a taste?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I saw you. When I was doing errands. You were standing at the polo grounds of the Jaipur Club. You had lipstick on.”

  “You were spying on me?” Radha’s voice was sharp.

  “Ow!” She must have pinched his earlobe. “No! I’m too busy to spy on you!”

  After a pause, Radha said, “Kanta Auntie wanted me to try it on. She often has me try on her things.”

  I felt my chest tighten. Kanta was encouraging my thirteen-year-old sister to put on lipstick?

  “You know what Gopal says about lipstick, Radha? The girls in Bombay are born wearing it. Saves time when they become film stars.”

  I heard Malik’s throaty chuckle and Radha’s deep laugh. She sounded happy.

  The Jaipur Club was where the elite played polo and tennis and sipped cocktails on the veranda. It wasn’t the kind of place I had ever been invited. Kanta and Manu belonged to the club, but they hardly ever went there because Manu didn’t play tennis or polo. If Kanta had taken my sister, surely she would have mentioned it. I didn’t want to confront Kanta about indulging Radha too much; I would appear ungrateful and petty. It would seem as if I were jealous of the joy Kanta was bringing to my sister’s life.

  But I didn’t want Radha to become obsessed only with superficial things. I wanted her to have the higher education I never had. It was too much to hope she could study abroad like Kanta, but it was within my reach to hire tutors to supplement her studies at a government school and pass the difficult exams for a local college.

  I took a deep breath; school was starting in another week and Radha’s head would be filled with math equations and scientific theories instead of what brand of toothpaste Marilyn Monroe used.

  * * *

  After two weeks of treatment, Maharani Latika had begun to get the bloom back in her cheeks. Today, her dresser had chosen a red georgette sari shot with fine silver threads. The ruby shade of Her Highness’s lipstick complemented her black hair, which had been teased in the manner of a film star. A silver maang tikka in the center part of her hair ended in a teardrop ruby. The transformation was breathtaking. Bearing no resemblance to the queen in low spirits I had first encountered, this woman radiated good health and well-being. The treats I’d been feeding her, as well as the oils I massaged her with, had done wonders for her mood.

  It was time to put the finishing touch on my henna design. In the center of her left palm, I drew her name in Hindi: Latika. On the right palm, I wrote her son’s name in henna: Madhup. When I lifted her hands so she could see what I had done, she gasped.

  “When you think of your son, Your Highness, you need only bring your palms together to be close to him.” It was a risk, I knew. Reminding her of what she’d lost could backfire, trigger another depression. But as I’d tended her body these past few weeks, I’d sensed the steel of her muscles, the resolve in her tendons, the strength of the current in her veins. She was a woman who would always look forward despite setbacks, and I’d set in motion the healing she needed to guide her there.

  Her eyes filled and a tear trickled down her cheek. One of her ladies dabbed her face with an embroidered handkerchief.

  “Lakshmi,” she said. Since she had started talking again, her voice had become stronger.

  I wasn’t aware that she knew my name. “Your Highness?”

  “Thank you.”

  The heat I felt behind my eyes was relief—and pride—for summoning every skill I’d developed to soothe her ravaged soul. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I lowered my eyes and tipped my head slightly to acknowledge her gratitude.

  “Maharani Indira tells me you have a younger sister.”

  Surprised that the two queens talked, much less knew, about my private life, I nodded. “Yes. Radha. She’s thirteen.”

  “Does she go to school?”

  “In another week, she’ll start at the government school near our lodgings.”

  The maharani looked at me and cleared her throat. “Would you consider having her attend my school?”

  For a moment I forgot my manners and stared. The Maharani School for Girls was the most prestigious in the state of Rajasthan. Marahani Latika had founded it to train young ladies in the arts of grace and self-sufficiency. My clients could afford to send their daughters there, but even with the increase in my business, I could never have earned enough to pay the tuition.

  As if she had read my mind, Her Highness waved a hand and said, “No need to worry about the fees.”

  I continued to stare
at her. A place at the maharani’s school meant Radha would have a future far better than any I could have imagined for her. It meant she might be able to study abroad—just like Kanta—and see the larger world, something I’d only dreamed of doing. Yesterday, I hadn’t even thought it was possible!

  The queen looked down at her open palms, sighed and brought them together in a namaste, stopping just short of smudging the wet henna. “I’m grateful for what you have done for me.”

  I was overcome with emotion. And relief. What had seemed an overwhelming task had come, finally, to fruition. I lowered my head and returned her namaste.

  When I could control my voice, I said, “May you always wear red, Your Highness.”

  I did not complete the traditional blessing: And may your sons carry on your husband’s name. Her only son, Madhup, would never be crown prince, and at this point, it would have been kinder to wish that she would never be a widow.

  * * *

  I was summoned by the dowager queen for my daily status report. An assistant led me to the salon where she had first interviewed me, only this time she was sitting at a card table with three other elegant and bejeweled ladies. A bridge game was in progress. I brought my hands into a namaste for Her Highness first, then her companions.

  Madho Singh whistled and squawked, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!” He flew from his cage to the top of his mistress’s chair.

  Maharani Indira said to the woman across the table, “Nalani, you met Helen Keller in Bombay a few months ago, but the real miracle worker is standing to your right.”

  The woman called Nalani scrutinized me over her half-moon lenses. “Is that right?”

  Her Highness studied her cards. “Ladies, meet Lakshmi Shastri, who has brought our young maharani back from the depths of gloom.”

  I smiled. “I’m pleased to be of service, Your Highness.”

  “I believe, Gori, that you’re hosting the French Minister of Finance next month. What a treat it would be for his wife to have Lakshmi henna her hands! And, Anu, aren’t you welcoming your third grandchild soon? Lakshmi is just the woman to design your mandala. She’ll work her magic, and before you can blink, you’ll have a grandson.”

  “Now that would be a miracle,” said Anu, chuckling.

  The maharani smiled benevolently at me. I acknowledged her praise by touching a hand to my forehead.

  She returned her attention to her cards. “I’d like you to continue seeing Latika several times a week for the next month. She’s sure to relapse when the maharaja permits her to speak to her son again, and she’ll welcome your assistance.” Then Her Highness dismissed me with a nod.

  As I walked to the door, I heard her say, “Just my luck, ladies, I’m to open the ceremonies for the Desert Festival next week. Gori, you must accompany me this time. Why should I always be the one to judge the mustache competition?”

  “You know what they say—the longer the mustache, the longer the lingam.”

  Their laughter followed me out the door and down the corridor.

  * * *

  Malik and I were on a tonga, headed to our next appointment. I was telling him about the new work we’d be taking on for the Maharani Indira’s friends when the carriage lurched to a stop. The horse reared and whinnied. I grabbed Malik’s arm with one hand and the rickshaw awning with the other to keep us from falling out. What had we hit? Pothole? Rock? Stray dog? Then I saw Hari. Off to our right, gripping the wooden pole he had just jammed into the wheel of our carriage. The driver was gesturing wildly and shouting insults at him. The motorists behind us honked. People turned to stare. Even the white calf by the roadside stopped munching on discarded potato peels to look up.

  Malik tugged my arm. “Let’s get off.”

  He grabbed our tiffins and jumped off, but I couldn’t move. Malik tossed several rupees at the driver, dragged me off the carriage, gathered the tiffins and pulled me into an alley. My limbs felt heavy, as if I were swimming through oil. Would I truly be tied to Hari for seven lifetimes?

  When we were safely out of view, Malik turned and released the tiffins but still held on to my arm.

  Hari approached, dropping the pole on the bare dirt.

  Malik spat on the ground. “You can’t make an appointment like everyone else?”

  Ignoring him, Hari said to me, “You’re never home. I need you.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I thought you’d found someone else to help you with that.”

  He frowned, looking confused.

  “That nautch girl. Have you spent all her money, too?”

  He waved a hand. “Oh, her. She—” He stopped and shook his head. “Look. I need your help with this.” He stepped aside. Behind him was a girl, smaller and younger than Malik. She had on a ragged, unwashed frock. No shoes. Her nose was running. Hari turned her, gently. I saw a gash on her right calf, oozing yellow pus.

  “I put Maa’s poultice on it, but the infection only got worse,” he said.

  I looked at the wound more closely but didn’t move nearer. “Who is she?” Then I glanced at Hari, surprised. “And what do you know about poultices?”

  He sighed. “After you left, Maa needed help. At first, I didn’t want to help her, but when she got sick, she begged me to attend to the women who came to her. She taught me the same as she taught you.” He licked his cracked lips. “Here, in Jaipur, people also need help.” With care, he pulled the girl’s thumb out of her mouth. “She’s the daughter of one of the nautch girls.”

  Thirteen years ago, I’d known Hari to be a man who would do anything, say anything, to get what he wanted. There was a time, in the first year of our marriage, when I believed everything he told me. Hari would bring shepherd’s purse he’d gathered by the riverbank (“Look, Lakshmi. Heart-shaped, just for you.”). And one time, dried rudraksha seeds. (“What a fine necklace they’ll make!”). At times like those, my heart would soften. Later, I learned the shepherd’s purse had come from saas’s supplies (she used it to treat malaria), and the guru passing through our village had left his prayer beads (made from the coveted blue seeds) behind. I would not be made a fool of again.

  “How much this time, Hari?”

  “Can’t you see? She needs—”

  “How much?”

  “She’s a child, Lakshmi.”

  “I already gave you hundreds of rupees. Do you know how long I had to work for that? How much?”

  He moved his jaw from side to side. His grip on the girl’s shoulders tightened, and she turned her head to look up at him. He shook his head at me, as if I had disappointed him.

  I felt a pang of guilt then. If he was telling the truth, I was wrong not to help the girl. She looked like she needed it. Even if I found it hard to believe that Hari had changed enough to carry on Saasuji’s work, I owed it to the girl to do something. I knew my mother-in-law would have helped her.

  I looked at Malik, and he let go of my arm. I went to the girl and squatted down to inspect the wound. The gash was deep. The skin around the wound was mottled red and pink and purple. I’d watched Hari’s mother use a disinfected thread and a superfine needle to close the skin, but I’d never done it myself. I suppose I could have tried to do the same for this little girl, but I felt unsure. I didn’t want the wound to get worse; I worried she might lose her leg.

  “She needs stitches,” I said. “And disinfectant. And you must cover the wound after.”

  Hari chuckled, a sound without joy. “Now that you’re working for the palace, you’re too good to help her yourself?”

  I felt my face grow warm. For a decade, I had been healing the rich, only, for their minor, more emotional troubles. If I’d stayed with Hari, no doubt Saasuji would have gotten around to teaching me the more complex procedures only she practiced. I shivered as I imagined my mother-in-law regarding me with as much dismay as Hari
was now.

  He knew he’d touched a tender spot. “Even Radha travels in such fine circles now.” Before I could ask him what he meant, he said, “How much did the palace bursar give you?”

  I looked again at the poor girl. A blameless child. It wasn’t her fault she was poor. I took a thousand rupees from the bursar’s payment and held them out to Hari. “You need to take her to the hospital right away. And get medicine.”

  When he reached for the money, I drew my hand back. “A divorce, Hari. That’s my price.”

  He squinted his eyes, then shrugged, as if it were all the same to him. I let him take the money from my hand and watched him pocket it.

  “I’ll send Malik with the papers,” I said.

  We looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, he nodded.

  He took the girl’s hand and walked out of the alley. The girl turned her head around to stare at me as they turned the corner.

  “Hai Ram,” I said. I hadn’t even had the money long enough for it to feel real. Now I had even less to pay the builder.

  “Goonda!” Malik said.

  Maybe he was a bad man. Maybe not. I’d known the Hari of long ago. Was he different now? I was skeptical.

  I put my hands on Malik’s shoulders, forcing him to look at me. “Tell me you will never become a thug. Promise me.”

  Malik didn’t answer. He picked up the tiffins and walked away.

  * * *

  I arrived home earlier than usual. Seeing Hari had rattled me, but I was trying not to think about it. I focused instead on the news I wanted to share with Radha. The Maharani School for Girls. How excited she would be to read Shakespeare alongside the elite young ladies of Jaipur!

  From Mrs. Iyengar’s gate, I watched Radha at the outdoor hearth, pouring graham flour from a sack onto a steel plate. Her hands worked quickly, sifting through the powder, removing the pebbles. She was still brusque, dismissing me with a toss of her head. Or she ignored me completely and buried her head in one of Kanta’s novels. But things would be different now. Especially now that I could offer her what neither of us had anticipated—something even better than Kanta could offer.