The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  He spread his palms wide. “Because of the bab—” I could tell by the twist of his mouth that the very word was distasteful to him. “We’ll have to send Ravi to England sooner than we’d planned. The farther away he is from scandal, the better. It would be all too easy for this one mistake to taint the rest of his life.”

  “And Radha’s reputation?” I shot back. “Won’t this taint the rest of her life?” The blood in my veins boiled. I was disgusted with this Samir, the one who gave no regard to my sister’s future.

  He was immediately contrite. He wanted the women in his life to love him, adore him, look up to him. “Lakshmi, I—I’m sorry. This has come as such a shock. I had no idea they were... Of course, she’s young, your sister—”

  He put a hand on my arm—to console me? I flung it off, furious. His mouth hung open. The look on his face was one of surprise, as if I’d slapped him.

  I rose from the bench, consumed with loathing for him and for myself. What light work I had made of infidelity, for him and his friends to cheat on their wives for ten years! I’d helped them discard their mistresses’ pregnancies as easily as they discarded the lint in their trouser pockets. I had justified it by treating it as a business transaction. To me, each sale had been nothing more than another coat of plaster or another section of terrazzo for my house. At least when I made sachets for the courtesans, I had done so for women who had been raised to be prostitutes, who needed to make a living from their bodies without the interruption of pregnancies.

  My skin felt prickly. I remembered all the places Samir had touched me, kissed me, caressed me, and I shuddered. All at once, I wanted to get as far away from him as possible. I looked for my notebook and pouch and slipped them into my petticoat.

  “Look, I know I was wrong to—Lakshmi, please don’t leave like this...”

  I would never be able to look at Samir again without feeling disgust and shame. I could barely stand to be in my own skin. I walked to the door.

  He followed me. “What if—what if the baby is a girl?”

  I didn’t have an answer. I kept walking.

  I doubted he would agonize too much about what had happened. He would shake his head, and his life would go on, as before. On his next visit to the elder maharani, she would welcome him with a smile, and he would charm her with a joke and a gift of bwachi hair oil. His son, Ravi, who already showed signs of growing up to be just like him, would continue to bed young girls too innocent to know he did not care enough.

  * * *

  When I stepped out of the room, Geeta moved out of the shadows, startling me. I’d forgotten about her and about the sheets Samir and I had soiled in her house. She was standing so close I could see her eyelashes, wet and clumped.

  When she spoke, her voice trembled. “You will not come again.” It was not a request.

  “No,” I said. I went around her, down the hall and out into the night.

  FOURTEEN

  April 28, 1956

  I knew Kanta objected to my business with the cotton root bark and, in her heart, she wanted Radha to give birth. Moreover, she felt responsible for Radha’s predicament and wanted to help by taking her away from Jaipur to have the baby.

  So I didn’t protest when Kanta asked to take Radha with her to Shimla, where she went every summer to escape the Jaipur heat and dust. This year, she decided to leave at the beginning of May, a lot earlier than planned.

  Two letters arrived the following week.

  May 2, 1956

  Lakshmi,

  The Maharani Indira will meet with you. I have broached the possibility of a royal adoption with her, but I will leave the details to you. If she agrees to it, the palace will require a royal physician to monitor the progress of the pregnancy and to see to it that the mother’s health is not compromised in any way. You told me that Mrs. Kanta Agarwal is taking Radha to Shimla to have her baby, and I was thinking of asking Kumar to serve as proxy for the royal physician there. Would that be agreeable to you? The royal physician has drawn Ravi’s blood. The baby’s has to match.

  I made some calls on Ravi’s behalf. This week, he leaves for England. He’ll complete his studies at Eton.

  Samir

  The second letter was from Hari. It was the divorce decree I had sent to him. He had signed it. I showed it to Malik.

  “He’ll never bother you again, Auntie-Boss.” Malik grinned. “I’ve taken care of it.”

  He refused to tell me more.

  * * *

  At the doors of the Maharani Indira’s salon, Malik pointed to my sari to remind me to cover my head. Then he pinched my cheeks, startling me. “For color,” he said. He knew I was anxious about my meeting with Her Highness, and he was trying, in his way, to boost my courage. I knew my eyes were puffy, and there were gray half-moons underneath them. I’d spent a week of restless nights, sick with worry about what the maharani would decide about Radha’s baby. My hair had gone a week without being oiled and the flyaway strands would not be tamed.

  For the tenth time, I reached in my petticoat to check my pocket watch before remembering that I hadn’t been able to find it at home.

  The attendant beckoned me inside. The Maharani Indira was sitting on the same sofa, in the same position, as the first time I met her. The younger maharani had made a complete recovery and my services were no longer required at the palace. I had not seen either maharani for several weeks.

  Now, as then, Her Highness was playing patience, her cards arranged in rows on the low mahogany table. Today, she wore a sari in marigold yellow silk and a matching blouse patterned with taupe leaves, large and small. Her neck was adorned with five strands of pearls clasped in the middle with the largest amethyst I’d seen.

  Madho Singh was in his cage, making quiet noises that sounded very much like grumbling. His door was open.

  I greeted Her Highness with a namaste and reached for her feet. She gestured to the adjacent sofa. She was faring better with her cards today. Most lay faceup, in orderly rows, a good sign.

  “Madho Singh has been very naughty today,” she said. “He was stealing cards during our bridge game.” She turned to glare at him. “Badmash.”

  The parakeet paced nervously on his swing with his head down. “Naughty bird.” He sounded miserable, stretching out each syllable as if to emphasize the depth of his regret.

  The maharani looked at me but tilted her chin at the bird. “He’s as peculiar as his namesake. For King Edward’s coronation, my late husband insisted on taking water from the Ganga to avoid bathing in ‘filthy English water,’ as he put it.” She laid a ten of clubs on a jack. “To make matters worse, he carried the water in those preposterous silver urns. I knew the English would make fun of him, but did he listen?” She turned a baleful eye on the parakeet.

  “Naughty bird,” Madho Singh repeated, as if he had been responsible for that idiocy, as well.

  She turned her gaze to me. “You look unwell, my dear,” she said with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “You must take better care of yourself.”

  “I’m fine, Your Highness. Only a little tired.”

  There was a crystal bowl filled with salted pistachios on the table to the right of her card game. The maharani selected a few and rolled them in her palm. Throwing her head back, she tossed a nut in her mouth, expertly, and chewed, studying me. She, at least, looked rested and refreshed. I heard she had recently returned from Paris.

  “You’ve pulled off an amazing feat in a very short period of time, Mrs. Shastri. The maharaja is impressed. Latika has recovered, again, full of energy and purpose. Almost every day she leaves the palace to officiate at functions, or kiss babies, or cut ribbons. She’s been inaugurating government centers for the unfortunate. And I—” she tossed a second pistachio in her mouth and chewed “—am free as a oiseau.” She chuckled.

  “I’m pleased to be of service.”

&
nbsp; “Before Samir suggested your work with the maharani, His Highness was thinking of sending Latika to Austria to see a specialist. What an embarrassment that would have been! I believe you would agree that a family’s dirty laundry is best cleaned by its own?”

  Bilkul, I thought, but said nothing.

  An attendant brought the tea service and poured. During my previous visits, she had waited to drink until the tea had cooled, but today Her Highness took a sip right away. I had eaten nothing, and my body welcomed the chai, infused with hints of vanilla and saffron.

  “And so we come to another bit of dirty laundry. Samir Singh tells me there is a baby, due in October, out of wedlock. A baby of royal blood. Whom we might consider adopting as the crown prince.”

  She waited a few moments before resuming.

  “How could we be sure of his lineage? A blood test will prove it, he assures me. When I ask for more details, he says I must talk to you, my dear. Now why would Samir continue to intercede on behalf of a woman we know only as a henna artist?”

  I felt my neck flush with heat.

  The maharani continued. “I begin to think your talents may extend beyond your art.” Her gaze dropped, pointedly, to my stomach.

  I set my cup and saucer on the table. “The baby is not mine, Your Highness. It’s my younger sister’s, who is underage. I am her legal guardian. Because of my negligence, she spent unsupervised time with the Singhs’ elder son, Ravi.”

  “Ah.”

  “The baby will be of Rajput blood and fine features, Your Highness. All the guardians involved are in agreement.”

  From the recesses of her sari, the maharani produced a fine linen handkerchief, and brushed the pistachio salt off her fingers. That accomplished, the handkerchief disappeared once again in the folds of her sari.

  “I see,” she said. She picked up her teacup.

  “You know the Singhs well. You know their past, and pedigree, Your Highness,” I said. “The Shastris are Brahmin. My sister, Radha, attends the Maharani School for Girls thanks to a generous scholarship from Maharani Latika.”

  “And how is she doing?”

  “First in her class, Your Highness.”

  She sighed. “Pity.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. “Your Highness?”

  “I’d rather hoped it was yours.” She grinned, then shrugged charmingly. “Very well. I have already spoken to His Highness. As Samir is a favorite, the maharaja has consulted his advisers and has approved the agreement—pending this interview and paternity tests, of course.”

  I exhaled a long, slow breath.

  She pushed her saucer and cup to the side and beckoned the attendant who had been waiting discreetly. He laid a silver tray in front of her. In addition to a sheaf of papers and a fountain pen, the tray held a silver bowl filled with red-gold liquid, a small silver spoon and two cloth napkins.

  The maharani reached into her bosom for a pair of half-moon spectacles. She put them on, and instantly looked more severe, which, I think, was her intention. Before handing the papers to me, she scanned them briefly, although I knew she must have scrutinized them, line by line, earlier.

  I had never seen royal adoption papers, nor had I ever expected to. The contract contained phrases such as “the child’s legal relationships,” “permanent transfer of parental responsibility” and “forbidden access to birth family.” A clause on page three specified the required physical attributes: birth weight, height and length, pulse rate and, of course, the baby’s gender, which had to be male. Samir had asked, aloud, what would happen if Radha gave birth to a girl. I didn’t know that he had an answer to that question any more than I did, but I refused to think about it. This may have been shortsighted on my part, but I knew Samir didn’t want to consider the possibility, either, because he had let the matter drop.

  There was a long clause specifying the royal physician’s role. In particular, he needed to certify that the baby’s sexual organs were healthy, and that his genital identity was unambiguous. This last, I realized, was to prevent a future hijra or intersex child in the royal family.

  Page four made clear that if any of the aforementioned conditions were not met to the palace’s satisfaction, the contract would be declared null and void, and the Jaipur royal family would be held harmless, and released from any monetary obligations, which obligations were specified on page six.

  In addition to the cost of the labor and delivery, the birth mother or guardian was to receive thirty thousand rupees. The numbers swam before my eyes. Thirty thousand rupees. Not once had it occurred to me that compensation might be offered. Thirty thousand rupees was enough to pay for a university education for Radha; she could study abroad. I read further: if the contract were canceled, for any reason, I, as her legal guardian, would be responsible for the hospital bills. I bit my lip. I would not entertain that possibility either because I simply could not afford it.

  “I must ask, Mrs. Shastri.” Her Highness’s spectacles had slipped halfway down her nose. With her chin, she indicated the papers in my hand. “Do you not trust us to present a fair contract?”

  My forehead felt clammy but I resisted swiping it with my sari. I was doing what was best for Radha, but this formal document made the relinquishing of her baby much more real than just talking about it.

  “If it pleases Your Highness,” I said with all the humility I could muster, “I’ve never before been given the responsibility of signing such important papers. I hope it won’t offend you if I give the details their due.”

  “As you wish.”

  She began laying out a fresh hand of patience as I continued reading.

  * * *

  By the time I finished, the Maharani Indira had started on her third card game. I straightened the papers in a stack and set them on the coffee table, aligning them as perfectly as possible with the table’s edges. The tea things had long been cleared. The maharani gathered her cards onto a single deck.

  “Satisfied?” She smiled.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She adjusted her spectacles, uncapped the fountain pen and signed the papers quickly in the three places designated. Then she handed the pen to me. My first two signatures flowed with ease, as if I were doing nothing more than drawing with henna—nothing that would change, forever, who this child would become, what kind of life he would lead and how his destiny would be shaped.

  Above the last signature line, however, my hand, so used to skating over skin, hovered. Instead of the relief I’d thought I would feel, I was seized by anxiety: I was giving away a life—a living, breathing person—as randomly as I had given my old saris to the beggar women in Choti Chuppar.

  I was sending Radha’s baby away, forever. He would not know his mother. He would be raised in a royal household with no blood relatives. Radha’s son—my nephew—would be attended by two queens, each with her own reason to resent him. Maharani Latika would never forgive him for displacing her son, and Maharani Indira would be forced, once again, to accept a child into her family who was not her blood. When this baby awakened from a nightmare, his mother would not soothe him back to sleep with caresses, would not whisper sweetly in his ear, would not sing him lullabies as my father had done.

  When this baby tried to take his first steps and failed, his real mother would not smother him with a hundred kisses, or stroke his cheek. The only substitutes for a mother’s love would be devoted wet nurses, nannies and governesses. We could hope, but there were no guarantees.

  How could this have seemed so logical a solution only a week ago?

  The room was cool; I could hear the low hum of the air-conditioning. Yet, I was perspiring. The faint glimmer of a headache at my temples would soon explode into a throbbing pain. When I ran my tongue across my mouth, my lips were as rough as sand.

  “May I have some water, Your Highness?” It was impertinent to ask, but I couldn�
�t continue otherwise.

  Her Highness looked at me curiously but gave the order. The bearer poured water from a crystal pitcher and handed the glass to me. For whatever reason, as I drank, I thought of Samir the night I’d told him about Radha’s baby. The look of terror, anger and shame on his face. I thought of orphanages and boys and girls with lonely eyes and pinched mouths. A palace upbringing was surely preferable to that. There was no other choice available to me or Samir or Ravi or Radha. Before I could reconsider, I scrawled my name, and pushed the stack of papers far away from me.

  The maharani removed her glasses and patted the cushion next to her. “Come, now, Mrs. Shastri. We will seal the contract.” She turned her head slightly to include the parakeet. “You may join us.”

  Her tone signaled that Madho Singh had been forgiven. He flew out of his cage and landed on the tea table.

  Her Highness spooned the red-gold liquid into her right palm, lifted the hand to her lips and sucked, expertly. Madho Singh crooked his neck to watch. He was expectant, nervous, hopping from one foot to the other. I assumed he’d been present at many such ceremonies.

  The maharani wiped her hand on a clean napkin, poured another spoonful of liquid into her palm, and held it out to me. “Drink,” she commanded.

  I obeyed, slurping inelegantly from her hand. The liquid was odorless and slightly sweet. I raised my brows, not daring to ask.

  “Liquid opium.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “If it’s good enough for the maharajas to seal a treaty, it’s good enough for us.”

  Another, much smaller spoonful, she gave to Madho Singh, who licked with his black tongue until it was all gone. He fluttered his wings and squawked, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!”

  A strange calm descended over me. My headache began to recede.

  “One more matter,” Her Highness said, settling back against the cushions.