The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  With the festival only three weeks away, I’d been surprised, but not too concerned, that Mrs. Sharma hadn’t made her usual appointment. Knowing she had a large household to manage and had been busy with Sheela’s engagement celebration, I had penciled it in. Now, after what Mrs. Patel told me, I wondered if there was another reason for her delay.

  As I mounted the steps of the veranda, goose bumps rose on my arms even though the summer sun was unbearable. My scalp felt as if it were on fire.

  At the front door, the servant girl, who usually greeted me with a smile, raised her brows up to her hairline. It was clear that she, too, had heard the gossip. She asked me to wait—unusual in itself—and scuttled down the hall. I heard their murmurs—hers and Mrs. Sharma’s—before the girl emerged and indicated the drawing room with a tilt of her head.

  Mrs. Sharma was seated at her writing table, a sturdy lowboy with built-in drawers and brass pulls. She glanced at me when she heard me enter. Her gold-framed spectacles flashed, reflecting sunlight from the window.

  “Ah, Lakshmi. I’m glad you’ve come. I just need a moment to finish this letter to my son.” She turned back to her writing. “He says London is expensive and he needs more funds. Who knows where he spends it all?” She folded the thin blue aerogram. “Unless I reply urgently, he will fret that he is missing out on Coca-Colas with his friends.”

  She flicked her tongue on the edge of the aerogram to seal it. Then she removed her glasses, draping them on the silver belt around her waist, which also held keys to almirahs, jewelry boxes, the pantry and the exterior doors.

  I took a handkerchief from my petticoat to dab the sweat on my forehead; I had practically run here from Mrs. Patel’s with my heart in my throat. Just as I was wishing for something cool to drink, the servant girl brought in a tray with two tall glasses of aam panna. She left the mango drinks on the tea table and closed the door behind her.

  Mrs. Sharma joined me on the sofa and offered me a glass. “It’s one of our hottest summers yet, don’t you think?”

  She tilted her head back and, in one long swallow, gulped the whole of her sweet and sour drink. She was wearing another khadi sari and she mopped perspiration from her upper lip with the stiff pallu. The overhead fan was pushing hot air down, carrying the aromas of her talcum powder and sweat toward me. How a builder-contractor like Mr. Sharma could neglect the comforts of his own family, when every other wealthy household had long installed air-conditioning, was a mystery.

  As if she had read my mind, Mrs. Sharma smiled, showing me her large, crooked teeth. “It’s necessary for the body to perspire, Mr. Sharma always says. Helps rid the body of toxins.”

  I smiled politely and sipped my drink, wondering how to begin the conversation, and frightened of doing so.

  “Even so,” she said, mopping her neck, “I look forward to the monsoons.”

  “Yes.” I realized she was giving me a way in. “Almost time for Teej.”

  Mrs. Sharma smiled. She wiped her mouth with her fingers and looked at the three porcelain dogs, chained to one another with gold links, on the tea table. The largest, obviously the mother, with painted eyelashes and red lips, gazed coquettishly at Mrs. Sharma, while the pups looked at their mother.

  Mrs. Sharma spoke, still regarding the tableau. “Teej is a good time for us. With all my nephews married. And Sheela’s marriage arranged, thanks to you.”

  There was always a moment before I placed the final dot of henna on a woman’s skin that felt significant somehow. Never again would I repeat that particular design, and after a few weeks, it would disappear entirely. This moment with Mrs. Sharma felt final, and ephemeral, in the same way.

  I shivered and set my drink on the table, afraid my teeth would chatter against the glass.

  “What would you say,” Mrs. Sharma began, “if I told you that the mandala you created for Sheela’s sangeet party wasn’t up to snuff?”

  It was hard to conceal my surprise. While I decorated the hands of Mrs. Sharma’s sisters-in-law, several of them told me they found the pattern both original and beautiful. “Might I ask what, specifically, was unsatisfactory?”

  “It might not have been traditional enough. There should have been more colored powder used.” She shrugged her broad shoulders, as if the reasons were inconsequential.

  Was she asking me to criticize my own work? “But, Mrs. Sharma, you asked for something similar to my henna designs. You said, very particularly, that you wanted a different kind of mandala.”

  She puckered her lips and swiped her damp neck with the sari. “So I did. What if I told you that the henna was second-rate?”

  I thought back to that evening. Had my paste been clumpy? No, I had used Radha’s batch, the one with a consistently silky texture. All the products I used were first-rate and blended by my own hand or Radha’s. Could Malik have said, or done, something to disturb the guests? (He’d never done anything untoward before.) But I remembered: he had barely begun working on the mandala before Sheela demanded that he leave. Someone must have seen Radha trying to throw rocks at Sheela. But that had happened almost eight months ago; I would have heard about it through the servant network long before this.

  I began carefully. “As you know, I inspect my work carefully, Mrs. Sharma. I have exacting standards. Did—did one of the ladies complain?”

  Mrs. Sharma sighed. She pressed her palms on her thighs, arms akimbo, as if she were about to get up. “You’ve said exactly what I thought you might say, Lakshmi. And why should you say anything else? You are not at fault here. And I’m no good at telling lies. If I tried to make something up you would see right through it.”

  She hoisted herself off the sofa and walked purposefully to the writing table, where she unlocked a compartment with a key from her cord-cum-belt. She returned to stand in front of me, and held out an envelope that bulged at one end. I heard the tinkling of coins.

  “Yours,” she said. “Please take it.” When I did, she lumbered back to her sofa and sat, heavily. “Parvati didn’t have time to give you this before she went abroad for the summer. I’ve been lax getting it to you.” No doubt Parvati had gone to England to keep Ravi from coming back to Jaipur.

  The name and address of Singh Architects was printed on the upper left corner of the envelope. There was no addressee.

  “She requested that I witness you opening it.” Mrs. Sharma now looked sheepish. She focused her attention on the porcelain dogs again. “It’s the marriage commission.”

  I broke the seal. Inside were one-rupee coins. I counted them. Ten rupees? I had a wild urge to turn the envelope upside down, to shake it, make sure there was nothing else inside. I tore it open wider.

  It was empty.

  I lowered my chin to my chest and closed my eyes to stop the buzzing in my head. Parvati’s aim had been to disgrace me in front of Mrs. Sharma. She knew the insult would be a thousand times more shameful.

  Mrs. Sharma said, “Parvati asked me for one other thing...” Her voice trailed off. She lifted her glass to take another sip before remembering it was empty. Reluctantly, she set it down and looked at me. Her gaze was not unkind.

  “I’m sorry to lose you, Lakshmi. Artists like you are hard to come by and you have served my family well.”

  She wanted to offer comfort; I heard it in her voice. Even the mole on her cheek climbed higher, as if trying to give me strength. “But Parvati claims you’ve been stealing. And while I do not believe her—would never consider such a thing—I must stand by her. You understand, I’m sure. When Sheela and Ravi are married, the Singhs will become part of our family. And whether I agree with Parvati or not, my hands are now tied to hers.”

  Parvati! I’d served her. Pampered her. Fawned over her. I’d handled Radha’s pregnancy as delicately as possible for the benefit of her family and mine. I hadn’t created a scene. I hadn’t demanded money. After all that, she was telling lies ab
out me? In retaliation for my sister’s—and Ravi’s, don’t forget!—folly! Her son was as much to blame—more, since he was older. But Parvati was taking it out on me.

  It was so unfair! I tried to hold back my tears, but I failed. I’ve worked so hard, I wanted to tell Mrs. Sharma. I followed their rules. Swallowed their insults. Ignored their slights. Dodged their husbands’ wandering hands. Haven’t I been punished enough? At this moment, sitting in front of this good, sensible woman, I wanted the thing I hated most in this world: sympathy. Even more, I hated that I wanted it. Hated myself for my weakness, as distasteful to me as Joyce Harris’s self-pity the day I’d given her the sachets.

  Oh, if not for Radha! Nothing in my life had been the same since her arrival. She had been my personal monsoon, wrecking years of trust the ladies had invested in me, destroying a reputation it had taken so long to build. If not for Radha, I would never have had to grovel, in silence, in front of Mrs. Sharma. But I deserved it. I had committed the first sin, deserting the husband I should have stayed with for seven lifetimes.

  Mrs. Sharma was eyeing me with concern. I needed to leave before I stained her sofa with my tears.

  I cleared my throat and pressed my fingertips against my eyelids. As I stood to take my leave, I managed to say only, “Well.”

  Her last words to me were, “Go with luck, bheti.”

  SEVENTEEN

  August 31, 1956

  The month of August—scorching, blistering, unrelenting—dragged on. I opened my appointment book and flipped through the empty pages. August 15, the day of our nation’s independence, had come and gone without a single booking.

  With each passing week, I received more cancellations than appointments. Where I used to serve six or seven ladies a day, I now served one (and was lucky to do so). These days, the few clients I still had paid me less, without asking, and I took their reduced fees without complaint.

  I had tucked Dr. Kumar’s last letter in the notebook. I pulled it out and, for the third time, tried to finish reading it.

  August 17, 1956

  My Dear Mrs. Shastri,

  I respect your wishes vis-à-vis Radha; I have not let her know the palace is adopting her baby, but I would like to discuss the matter with you further, realizing that the opportunity may not present itself until the baby’s birth.

  Radha will be kept under observation at the hospital for a week after the delivery. However, keeping her from the baby for that period of time may prove difficult. She’s grown very attached to the life within her and talks about the baby constantly. I’m not sure she’s fully reconciled to the idea that the baby is to be adopted. She understands the situation intellectually, but emotionally I feel she hasn’t accepted it.

  Your friend Mrs. Agarwal has assured me that Radha does understand the situation, and she believes it’s only hormones that account for Radha’s strong attachment to the baby. I have no better explanation, so for the moment I will rely on hers...

  At this point in the letter, I always stopped reading. Radha had agreed to the adoption; I would not permit myself to think otherwise. The palace would raise her baby. We would be paid thirty thousand rupees, which would save us and pay for Radha’s education. The baby would be healthy; it would be a boy. It would, because I did not want to talk to Dr. Kumar about any other possibility.

  * * *

  The monsoon rains, which came in early September, usually brought with them a feeling of relief. Wash away the old; welcome the new. This year, when the rains came, I felt only dread. With nowhere to go, my house became my prison, and all around me, I saw evidence of my failures. Water pooled on the bare dirt of the courtyard where I had planned to grow my herb garden. It bounced off the dried thatch that was to have sheltered my young plants. It dripped off the stacks of bricks I’d bought to build my back fence. I no longer cared to chase away the neighbor’s pigs that rooted in my yard.

  More often than not, I stood at my countertop for hours, mixing oils and lotions no one was going to use. The rhythm of the pestle was hypnotic and, like the constant rains, it soothed me. I stirred and thought about what I should have done differently. I should have kept a closer eye on Radha, whom I was supposed to protect. I should have refrained from sleeping with a man like Samir, who used women as callously as his son did. I should have demanded Parvati pay me up front for a marriage arrangement far more brilliant than the average matchmaker could have devised.

  After leaving Mrs. Sharma’s house, I had briefly considered confronting Parvati. For a decade I’d been in her thrall, circumnavigating her moods, inferior to her superior. The thought of challenging her face-to-face seemed a herculean task. I had a glimpse then of my father, how demoralized and inadequate he had felt when forced to confront the British Raj. The British always had the upper hand, and at some point Pitaji hadn’t the energy to fight back anymore. He had chosen the coward’s way out: a bottle of sharab every night, then eventually two or three per day.

  I was taking the coward’s way out, too: instead of confronting her in person, I talked to Parvati in my head. It’s your responsibility—not mine—to control your son! Look at the brilliant match I arranged for your family! And you repaid me by destroying everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve!

  My only other option was to retaliate by telling all of Jaipur that her son seduced my thirteen-year-old sister, but it wouldn’t have helped. I would have come out worse, like a petty, vindictive crook. Even if the ladies believed me, they would be compelled to side with Parvati, one of their own. If their sons found themselves in similar straits (not that unlikely), they would need her support.

  Malik visited me daily, even if we didn’t have appointments, to make sure I was eating. Today, he wafted a tiffin full of curried dumplings under my nose.

  “Won’t you even try the kofta? Chef seasoned it with extra jeera.” His lucrative side business, selling supplies to the palace kitchen at cut rates, still earned him five-star meals from the palace chef.

  I said nothing. I wiped perspiration from my neck with my old sari and kept grinding.

  “Auntie-Boss, please.”

  I told Malik I had no appetite.

  He shook my shoulder. I shrugged it off.

  “I told you! I don’t feel like eating.”

  “Auntie-Boss?”

  I turned to him, annoyed.

  He tilted his chin at the door.

  I followed his gaze.

  Parvati Singh was standing at my threshold, a handbag slung over one arm, a dripping umbrella at her side. I had never, even in my dreams, expected to see her in my home. I released the pestle. It revolved around the inside of the bowl until it came to rest.

  “May I come in?” she asked, her voice cool.

  I watched Malik walk to the door and stand in front of Parvati, as if he meant to knock her down. She was forced to step back, in the corridor, to make room for him.

  “Your shoes,” he said.

  I thought she was going to argue, but she bent to remove her wet sandals.

  Just outside the door, he stepped into his chappals and, with his head held high, walked out into the street. He had no umbrella; the warm rains never bothered him.

  Parvati took a moment. Then she walked through the entry, majestic once more, as if it were her house and not mine. She closed the door, and stood. I watched as she inspected the room: the scarred table where I mixed the lotions, my sagging cot, the battered carriers, the folded, fading blankets, the almirah with the uneven doors I had bought from a neighbor. I cringed, seeing my possessions through her eyes.

  “Hmm,” she said, “I’d expected...” She let the sentence hang.

  She took a step toward me.

  Instinctively, I took a step back.

  She stopped.

  Parvati set her handbag on the countertop and picked up a box of matches next to my lantern. “I had expected
you to come to me,” she said as she lit the lantern and turned up the flame.

  Until then, I hadn’t realized how dark it had grown inside. I stood still, unsure of myself.

  “Always before you relied on me. Remember?” She blew the match out. “When you first came to Jaipur and you wanted to be introduced to society. Then to the palace. You’re an ambitious woman. I don’t hold that against you, you know.”

  I looked at her. It was hard to tell whether she was smiling or frowning.

  “Now that your business is failing, I thought at least you’d ask me to—”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! My hands curled into fists, and anger flared in my breast. “My business is failing because of you. And you want me to beg you to stop spreading lies about me?”

  Her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted, much as Sheela Sharma’s did, in displeasure. “Did you for one moment consider,” she said, “that those rumors didn’t start with me?”

  My surprise must have shown in my face.

  “Not that I wasn’t happy to fan the flames,” she continued. “I had thought at least a portion of your clientele would think the accusations too ridiculous to believe. I was wrong. People are more gullible, and less compassionate, than any of us want to believe, don’t you agree?”

  She reached into her handbag. When she pulled out her hand, her fingers were curled around an object. She slid her hand on the countertop toward me until her arm was stretched flat. Then she removed her hand.

  The pocket watch Samir had given me lay between us.

  Reflexively, I felt in my petticoat. It wasn’t there, of course. I hadn’t seen it for ages—hadn’t needed to be anywhere on time. Images came unbidden to my mind—Samir’s lips, his hands, our bare chests—from that night at Geeta’s. I hadn’t remembered picking up the watch when I left.