The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  My courage evaporated—poof!—and my face flushed with heat.

  Parvati shook her head in disappointment. “Geeta came to see me several months ago. Samir’s latest.” Her smile turned into a grimace. “Just how humiliating would it be for you to have your husband’s mistress come to you for comfort, to complain he’d been unfaithful, not to you, but to her?”

  I shut my eyes. I wanted to forget that night ever happened.

  She began pacing the room, restlessly, the way she had paced in front of her hearth at the holiday party. She was rubbing the knuckles of one hand against the other. She stopped suddenly to study the terrazzo floor, tilting her head. “Hmm.” She turned to me, nodded her head once, as if acknowledging my design.

  She resumed pacing. “Samir needs to be loved. To be worshipped. Men of his type do. I understand. I accommodate him.”

  Was she trying to convince me, or herself?

  “What does matter is that you betrayed me, Lakshmi. I trusted you. In my home. And with my husband. You assured me there was nothing between you.”

  It was only one night. I held out for ten years. I have no intention of repeating it. Nothing I said would have made any difference.

  Parvati came to a stop in front of her handbag. She took out a heavy pouch and set it on the countertop. It tinkled, a sound that confirmed it was filled with coins.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” she said, looking at the pouch. “I will give you the marriage commission. In silver, no less.” She hesitated. “You earned it.” She wasn’t about to thank me.

  When I didn’t reach for the money, she said, “Ten thousand rupees. More than we agreed on.” She smiled at me, and for the briefest of moments, I imagined she was offering me something more: apology, forgiveness, understanding, respect. I was surprised, and confused, by how much I wanted to be in her good graces again. I thought of Pitaji and of my fellow Indians, how they felt about the British after independence. Accustomed to subservience, they were more comfortable reverting to that role, however humiliating, as I seemed to be now.

  “And?” My voice was faint.

  “And I will tell everyone that the rumors were a mistake. I’ll even hire you back for regular engagements. I’ll help you arrange more marriage commissions. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  I coughed; it was too good to be true. “What’s the price?”

  “You will stay away from Samir. Geeta told me about the business you roped him into—those sachets. Really, Lakshmi.” She shuddered.

  I tasted bile, bitter and hot, in my mouth. She thought I’d talked Samir into selling those sachets. She had no idea he’d lured me to Jaipur to sell them.

  I kept my voice soft. “You talked to Samir, then?”

  She cleared her throat, as if it hurt her to do so. She hadn’t.

  I looked at the pouch—enough money to pay back Samir’s loan. I could agree to her conditions, and soon enough my notebook would be filled with the names of former clients. The privileged and the powerful would welcome me, once again, into their grand homes, invite me to sit on their divans and drink their creamy tea.

  I heard my mother’s voice: a reputation once lost is seldom retrieved. She was right. After his British employers labeled him as a troublemaker for his part in the independence movement, my father never recovered his reputation. He was branded for life.

  My standing as a popular henna artist was soiled forever, too. Even if Parvati made good on her promise, the thieving scandal would follow me like a bad odor. When I came to their homes, the ladies would watch my every move, quick to blame me the moment a bracelet had been mislaid or money was missing from MemSahib’s purse. And then what would I do? Go begging to Parvati—every time it happened—to convince them otherwise.

  I realized, now, that as long as I remained in her debt, Parvati owned me, which was exactly where she wanted me to be.

  I could say yes and keep my business intact—tarnished, but intact. Just like Pitaji, whose job as a schoolteacher had remained intact—albeit in the tiny, forgotten village of Ajar.

  How demeaned he must have felt every second of every day, making do with outdated textbooks, no school supplies and no chance of escape.

  I straightened my shoulders and slid the pouch back in her direction. “Keep your money. In return, I won’t tell the ladies of Jaipur how many of your husband’s bastards I’ve kept from this world.”

  Her face contorted. In a flash, she raised her arm and flattened her hand. Before she could slap my face, I seized her forearm. Our eyes locked. I saw her then, all of her, red-faced, eyes wet and frenzied. It must have taken every fiber of her being to stay in control this last half hour.

  “You might want to save a few sachets for your sons,” I said. “My sister wasn’t the first, and I doubt she’ll be the last.” I thrust her forearm away from me.

  She struggled to stay upright. Her eyes blazed with hate—and shame. Black eyeliner streaked down her cheeks along with her tears. Her nose was running. There was a pink lipstick smudge on one side of her mouth. She rubbed her arm where my hand had left an imprint.

  I thought she had more to say, but she was quiet. We listened to the rain pounding the roof. I watched her pick up the pouch of silver coins and drop it in her handbag. For the briefest of seconds—and absurdly—I thought about grabbing it from her (it was ten thousand rupees!).

  Then Parvati did something I’d never seen her do; she wiped her face with her pallu, not caring that she was smearing her makeup or ruining her fine sari. Her face was stained black, red and pink. Her gaze fell on the pocket watch, still on the counter. She turned away.

  At the door, she steadied herself against the frame as she slipped into her sandals. Before she left, she looked out at the rain and said, “He does tire of all of you, eventually.”

  I waited, every muscle in my body tense. After a moment, I walked to the window. She was standing in the middle of the street, drenched. She’d forgotten her umbrella. Her sari, completely soaked, clung to her curvy frame, revealing every bulge, every bump. Her bun had collapsed into a mass of wet coils down her back. She didn’t notice. Neither did she hear the tonga-walla, who stopped to offer her a ride. The part of me that was used to serving, to pleasing and appeasing, wanted to run after her with the umbrella. I held myself back. Watched as she staggered and slipped her way down the street, until she disappeared from view.

  I stood at the window for a long time. Thought about what I had just given up for a few minutes of righteous anger. I’d slept with her husband. I’d made contraceptive sachets for him. I had no right to the high moral ground.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a postman walking to my house from the other end of the street. He was coming for me, like a homing pigeon.

  I ran to my front gate, heedless of the rain. Before he could tell me I had a telegram, I snatched it from him and tore it open.

  It was from Radha.

  All it said was, Come. Now. Auntie needs you.

  PART FOUR

  EIGHTEEN

  Shimla, Himalaya Foothills, India

  September 2, 1956

  “When I close my eyes, all I see is Auntie’s sari dripping blood.” Radha sobbed into my neck. “Dr. Kumar said her baby had stopped breathing. Days ago. Her body was trying to get rid of it, but she tried to stop it from happening.”

  I stroked my sister’s arm as we sat on a hospital bed opposite Kanta’s. Radha had filled out, and not just around her middle. Her arms were plumper. Her face was heavier. How different she looked from the girl who had showed up in Jaipur last November!

  “You did the right thing to call Dr. Kumar right away. She might have died of blood poisoning,” I whispered into her hair.

  Tubes ran from Kanta’s arm to bottles hanging upside down above her bed. The bulging belly I’d expected to see—she’d been in her ninth month—was g
one. Huddled under the blankets, Kanta looked small and frail. Manu was sleeping in another room, on an empty bed. He had driven all night to get us to Shimla.

  Radha hiccupped. I handed her my handkerchief and she blew her nose.

  When I first arrived, she’d cried out, like a child. “Jiji!”

  Without hesitating, I’d wrapped my arms around her, as tightly as her pregnant belly would allow. She was shaking. “It’s all right. It’s going to be fine,” I’d said. Dr. Kumar, who had led me to my sister, told me he had given her something for the shock when she had brought Kanta in the night before.

  “This place frightens me,” my sister was saying. “All these nurses with serious faces and starched caps who call each other ‘Sister,’ even though they’re not. My baby must think the whole world smells like the bottom of a medicine bottle.” She sniffed. “I prayed to Krishna every day at Jakhu Temple, Jiji. Prayed that our babies would have their naming ceremonies together. Eat their first cooked rice at the same party. Share their toys. I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t help imagining the babies growing up together.” Radha nestled into my neck, her tears wetting my sari.

  This was what Dr. Kumar had been talking about in his letters. Radha’s baby had become real to her; their separation would be unbearable. But I held my tongue. I couldn’t remember the last time Radha had needed me like this. I didn’t want her to let go.

  She made a choking sound, and I pulled away to see what was wrong. She was staring at me in astonishment. Her mouth opened but no words came out. She clutched her belly and let out a deafening scream.

  * * *

  As he had the first time I’d met him, Dr. Kumar’s eyes studied several objects in the waiting room—the metal table, the leather chairs, the faded photograph of Lady Bradley—before coming to rest on me. “Seven pounds, give or take an ounce. He’s small but perfectly healthy. A boy. Radha is doing fine. She’ll need time to recover from the stitches.”

  I covered my mouth with cupped hands, sighing in relief. She was fine! My little sister was fine! I fought the urge to hug Dr. Kumar. To my surprise, I felt a burst of pride and wonder: Radha has a son! No sooner had I thought it than I tamped it down, deep. What was I thinking? That baby was now the property of the palace!

  I dropped my hands. “Where is he now?”

  “The nurses are cleaning him. After that, as you instructed, they will put him in the nursery.”

  I nodded. “And Kanta? How is she?”

  His eyes shifted to the batik print of an elephant and rider on the wall behind me. “Her organs weren’t compromised. And we’re taking care of the infection. There’s a—I didn’t want to tell her, but Mrs. Agarwal insisted.” Dr. Kumar looked at his hands. “She will not be able to have children. Her body has undergone a major trauma.”

  Oh, Kanta. I put a hand on my chest to steady my heartbeat. “Perhaps your medicine is better, after all, Dr. Kumar. None of my herbs helped her keep the baby.”

  “I doubt she could have conceived without your help.”

  A nurse entered the room and handed the doctor a cup of tea. He offered it to me and asked the nurse for another. “Take it, Mrs. Shastri. Please. You look as if you haven’t slept.”

  I took the cup gratefully. “The altitude doesn’t agree with me. And that winding road up the Himalayas. Now I know why people take the train.”

  “I’m glad you made it,” he said, looking at his shoes. “Safely.”

  The nurse brought another steaming cup, which he accepted. The skin under his eyes was puffy; he’d been up all night, too.

  “I want to show you something,” Dr. Kumar said. He led me down the hall and out the double doors to a garden. We were closer to the sun here, in the Himalayas; the light was so bright it hurt my eyes. I had to wait a moment for them to adjust, and then I managed, just, to squint, taking in the pink roses, blue hibiscus and orange bougainvillea surrounding us.

  On this early September morning, several patients, wrapped tightly in shawls, were strolling along the paths, aided by family members or nurses.

  He gestured with his teacup. “What do you think?”

  After the events of the past twenty-four hours, I could barely stand straight. But the sight of the flourishing garden revived me a little. “It’s lovely.”

  “It does the patients good, but I think it can do much, much more.”

  A cool breeze blew over us, chilling my arms and legs. I sipped the tea for warmth. Dr. Kumar set his cup down on a bench, removed his white coat and draped it over my shoulders. It was still warm from his body, and smelled of spearmint, antiseptic and limes.

  “As I’ve been saying in my letters to you... I’ve begun to see that the herbal remedies of the Himalayan people have a place in modern medicine. If their homemade poultices and potions didn’t work...well, they wouldn’t still be using them.” He spoke as if thoughts came to him in short, staccato bursts. “I’m convinced that we must learn from their methods. And practice our medicine. Both. I’ve... I’d like to test my theory.” He ducked his chin. “I was hoping you could help.”

  “Me?”

  “You could tell us what to plant, what herbs and shrubs—here, in this garden. That neem powder. It worked so well on my young patient. Absolutely cleared his skin... Why couldn’t we grow plants like those here?” Excitement flashed in his gray eyes like lightning.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Frightfully so.”

  The teacup rattled in my hand, though I didn’t know if it was because of nerves, fatigue or excitement. For ages, I had dreamed of growing a large-scale herb garden where I could plant tulsi and neem and almond trees and geranium and bitter melon and crocus. It wasn’t long ago that the means to make it happen had been within my grasp, in my own courtyard, and then—suddenly—had vanished.

  “Surely you’ve noticed I live in Jaipur,” I said with a smile.

  “We’ll consult by correspondence, as we’re doing now. Look, I saw the way you...helped Mrs. Harris. She received more benefit from your herbal compress than she did from my injection. I simply haven’t been able to get that out of my mind. And the mustard poultice that eased my cough...amazing!”

  He shifted his feet on the cobblestones. “I’m thinking that the new India, well, she may not be quite ready to give up her old ways. And that might be for the best.” He looked at my shoulder. “Think about it, anyway.” He glanced at his teacup. “I confess I’ll be very disappointed if you...if you say no.”

  A tight-lipped nurse in a white wimple called his name. She was at the double doors, pointing at the watch pinned to her habit.

  “Patients.” He grinned shyly. “Perhaps we could continue after my rounds—”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “I could have a cot set up for you in Radha’s room. You must be tired.”

  I thanked him.

  He nodded and walked to the waiting nurse, then swiveled on his heel. He pointed to his coat. He was blushing.

  “Um, could I?” he said. “Unless, that is, you’re planning to do surgery.”

  I laughed and handed his coat back to him. The scent of him was on my sari now, and as I resumed my walk, I imagined him by my side, explaining his plans for the garden.

  * * *

  Radha was asleep in her hospital bed. I wondered at the miracle of this girl, at once familiar and alien, who had come to me less than a year ago. I felt as if I’d known her all my life, and yet, as if I didn’t know her at all.

  As before, Kanta lay in the bed opposite Radha’s. She was awake now, staring dully at the ceiling.

  I looked for the bottle of lavender-peppermint oil in my carrier and took it to Kanta’s bed. I lifted her free hand (the other had an IV tube attached to it), kissed the back of it and hugged it to my chest. She had aged years in five short months. Her skin was gray and the lines around her mouth were m
ore prominent. Her hair lacked luster, as if it, too, had been sapped of life.

  I put my forehead to hers, and left it there.

  Her hollowed eyes filled. “I took such care,” she said, struggling to get the words out.

  I placed a drop of lavender-peppermint oil on my forefinger and traced the skin above her brows and down her temples to calm her. “I know you did,” I said.

  There was nothing else to say. There would be no more chances for Kanta.

  “I would have welcomed a girl. Why couldn’t it have been a girl? Maybe, then, it would have lived.”

  I wasn’t sure why she thought this, if she really did, but she was grieving. She would have loved to rewrite the story of the last two days, toward a different ending. All of us would have liked that.

  “I know,” I said. “Look how good you’ve been with Radha.”

  She allowed herself a small smile. “My record there is not exactly perfect. She strayed on my watch.”

  “And mine. But she loves you as much as ever.”

  “She loves you, too, you know.”

  I cocked my head. “Not a single letter in five months. Not one.”

  “You never came to see her.”

  “She’s too stubborn.”

  “So are you, my friend,” she said.

  I straightened my spine. She was right; I could have made the first move.

  I looked out the window. “I saw Manu out in the garden earlier.”

  “I sent him there. No good both of us being sad together.” Her eyes sought mine. “He was so looking forward to meeting his child.”

  “Shh.” I massaged the space between her brows.

  “Manu told me Radha had a boy.”

  We regarded each other in silence.