The Henna Artist

by Alka Joshi

  I took one last round of the room. Touched the walls. Trailed my fingers across the mosaic.

  My life as a henna artist was over. I would never again paint the hands of the ladies of Jaipur.

  I pulled the pocket watch from my petticoat, ran my thumb over the smooth white pearls that made up the initial L.

  I set the watch on the countertop, stepped outside and closed the door behind me.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jaipur Railway Station

  November 4, 1956

  The platforms of the Jaipur railway station were teeming with passengers, spiced peanut vendors, shoe shiners, toothless beggars and stray dogs sniffing for discarded morsels. Even after a train started moving, people continued to board, asking for a hand up, their luggage loaded by helpful passengers who themselves were hanging by handrails on both sides of the cars. It was a wonder any trains managed to take off at all.

  Our train was scheduled to depart in ten minutes. With the money from the sale of my house, I had splurged on a first-class private cabin for all of us. Inside the cabin, Malik and Radha chatted excitedly.

  I stood in the passageway just outside our compartment, along the row of windows facing the platform, where porters swathed in mufflers were hauling bags on and off the trains. Important-looking husbands in wool vests, trailed by wives and children, shouted at the baggage handlers to be careful. Families with first-class tickets walked to our part of the train. Most headed to second-class seats. Those who couldn’t afford porters were stuffing their mismatched carriers into the third-class cars, yelling at everyone to make room. The chai-wallas strolled up and down the platform, selling glasses of tea through the car windows. Keeping one eye on the departure schedules, men hurriedly consumed chappati and curried subjis in tiffins prepared by their wives, mothers, sisters, aunts and friends.

  I thought back to the first time I laid eyes on Jaipur at the age of twenty—my first ride on a train. How exciting it had all been! The promise of a new life. The worry about whether it would all work out. And it had. I had come to this city with nothing but a skill for drawing and the lessons my mother-in-law had taught me. I had helped women fulfill their desires—whether in the pursuit of something or in the pursuit of its absence—so they could move on with their lives. Now, Jay Kumar was giving me a chance to reinvent myself, to use my knowledge to heal the old and young, sick and infirm, poor and in need of solace.

  So many people had helped me in my journey. My saas. Hazi and Nasreen. Samir. Kanta. The Maharanis Indira and Latika. Mrs. Sharma. And even Parvati.

  I wouldn’t miss Jaipur—every city had its charm—but would I miss Samir?

  To be honest, I thought about him still.

  How companionably we had managed our business, the times we had laughed together, moments when our bond had felt true, strong, that one night of lust.

  There were things I no longer admired about him, as I once had, but he had been a part of my life for so long. To quash those memories would have been like pretending that a third of my life didn’t exist.

  If I hadn’t met him, I might still be in Agra, working with the courtesans, hidden away in their pleasure houses. Without his connections, who knows if I could have created a business as a henna artist? If he hadn’t introduced me to Parvati, I might never have been invited to the maharanis’ palace. Been served tea by Her Highness.

  My attention was diverted by a commotion on the platform as the sea of travelers parted for a substantial man in a palace uniform. He wore the red cummerbund and headdress of the maharanis’ attendants. He was carrying a large container draped in satin. A thin roll of carpet was wedged under his left arm. Oblivious to the stares and hushed voices of people on the platform, the man was consulting a piece of paper and looking up at each car he passed.

  I called Malik to the window and pointed at the platform with my chin.

  Malik craned his neck to look out the window. He grinned and waved. “Chef!”

  The palace chef turned toward Malik’s voice. His face relaxed into a warm smile. Malik ran to the door of our car to greet him. I watched them exchange greetings, a salaam from Malik and a namaste from Chef. The big man handed Malik the parcels and an envelope from his jacket pocket. They talked for a few more minutes before Chef waved goodbye.

  Laden with his packages, Malik came down the passageway of our carriage, beaming. He gave me a heavy cream envelope with my name on it. I broke the palace seal, unfolded the stationery and read aloud.

  “My Dear Mrs. Shastri,

  “Your young friend has stolen Madho Singh’s heart. All that bird can talk about is rabri and Malik, Malik and rabri. He has started asking for Red and Whites, which leads me to believe that he has also taken up smoking. This I cannot abide. Furthermore, he refuses to learn any more French (bonjour and bon voyage are the extent of his repertoire), and as I’m spending all my time in Paris now, this presents a problem. So I must bid adieu to my lovely bird and ask if you will be so kind as to present him to Malik. I’m sure Madho Singh will be happier with him than in the tomb that is my sitting room at the palace.

  “The two of them are quite a pair, don’t you agree?

  “Your friend and admirer,

  “Maharani Indira Man Singh

  “P.S. The carpet is a favorite of Madho Singh’s. He would be homesick without it.”

  Inside our compartment, Malik lifted the satin cover of the cage. Madho Singh hopped from side to side on his perch. He said, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!” and whistled. Malik whistled back. Radha, who was meeting Madho Singh for the first time, let out a delighted chuckle.

  I smiled at my family.

  The shrill whistle of the train pierced my ears, announcing our departure. I took one last look out the window. In the middle of the platform where people scurried about like ants, one man stood as still as a statue.

  His eyes were on me. He wore a spotless white shirt and dhoti. He had shaven his face. He had cut his hair. He looked...handsome.

  I had lived with Hari for only two years, but he had lived in my mind for half my life. By turns, I had feared him, been indifferent, felt contemptuous, full of hate or pity. Not once had I believed him capable of change. But if I could change, why couldn’t he?

  Slowly, the engine began to pull its heavy load. Its wheels chugged and heaved, heaved and chugged. Last-minute passengers threw themselves and their cargo onto the cars. Chai-wallas collected empty glasses from passengers.

  Hari put his hands together in a namaste and raised them in front of his face. His smile was without reproach or anger. For the first time since I’d known him, he appeared content.

  I returned his namaste.

  The train picked up speed. He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but I could hear nothing over the screech of the wheels.

  EPILOGUE

  Shimla, Himalaya Foothills, India

  November 5, 1956

  “That was the last tunnel, Auntie-Boss!”

  Malik had been poring over a railway map and he was counting every one of the hundred tunnels our toy train entered. We had taken the regular train from Jaipur to Kalka and then the toy train to Shimla.

  He pointed at our location on the map. “Just a few more minutes and we’ll be at the Shimla railway station!” He grinned. “Did you hear that, Madho Singh?” On the seat next to him, the parakeet was grumbling under the satin cover of his cage.

  Radha had fallen asleep with her head in my lap, but now she sat up and rubbed her eyes. She looked out the window of the train, where deodar cedars and Himalayan pines dotted the rocky mountains across the valley. The first snows had fallen, leaving the treetops decorated with bluish-white icing.

  “Is there always snow here, Radha?” Malik asked. He had only ever lived in the Rajasthani desert.

  She smiled. “Only in the winter. But wait another month. The ground will be c
ompletely covered in snow. Then we will build a snow-woman who looks like Mrs. Iyengar!”

  They laughed. Even I found the image of a stout snowman in a sari amusing. I hid my smile behind the letter I was rereading.

  Dr. Kumar had been sending me letters every few days since I accepted his offer to come work with him. This one had arrived just before we left for Shimla.

  November 1, 1956

  Dear Lakshmi,

  I have found a three-bedroom house in Shimla for your family. Radha and Malik will each have their own room! It is close to Lady Bradley, so you can walk. Or, if you prefer, I can arrange a car and driver.

  I’ve also taken the liberty of arranging a few appointments for you when you first arrive. Already I feel I must apologize for putting you to work so quickly. You’ll be sprinting the moment you step off the train!

  Mrs. Sethi, the headmistress of the Auckland House School, looks forward to meeting with you regarding Radha’s enrollment. I would be happy to accompany you and Malik to Bishop Cotton, my alma mater, for his first day. Unless, of course, you’d rather reserve that pleasure for yourself. (My old headmaster is still there, but don’t believe any of the stories he tells about me!)

  Samir Singh had offered to pay for Radha’s education. His note to me had come as a surprise. He said he hoped my sister would continue studying Shakespeare. I accepted that for the meager apology it was, though Radha deserved better. I had asked that he pay her fees anonymously; I wanted no further contact with him. Nor did I want Radha to have any reason to communicate with the Singhs.

  Jay Kumar knew about this financial arrangement but not the history, and when I explained it to him, he had not asked any questions. He seemed focused only on our shared future. In his letters (which came frequently), he told me what he was learning about the hill people and their age-old medicinal cures.

  A part of the rhododendron bush, they tell me, is used as a cure for swollen ankles. Have you heard of this? Yesterday, an old Gaddi woman brought a bowl of sik (made from the dried fruit of the neem tree) for one of our cleaners who is pregnant. She says it ensures a healthy body before and after delivery. Out of curiosity, I tasted it—much to the delight of both women!

  The thought of Jay Kumar eating a bowl of porridge meant for a pregnant woman made me smile.

  Every day the people ask me when you’re arriving. Many remember you from the clinic. You left an impression on them—a good one—judging from the way they talk about you. They, and I, look forward to welcoming you back.

  Till we meet,

  Jay

  The train’s whistle brought me back to my present surroundings.

  “We’re here!” Malik was out of his seat before the train had even stopped.

  I returned the letter to my handbag. Radha and Malik gathered our things. The train slowed, and as we came around the curve of the mountain, I saw the Shimla railway station.

  Jay Kumar was the tallest man on the platform. He was wearing his white coat over a green turtleneck sweater; he’d probably come directly from the hospital. The Himalayan wind was blowing his curls about. Funny how I’d forgotten the streaks of gray in his hair. Or the way he stood with his head tilted to one side, as if he were listening for something important.

  When he spotted me at the window, his eyes locked on mine, and his expression changed—a slow smile of recognition. I noticed, too, the gray of his eyes, and, for once, he did not look away.

  I felt myself blushing, the heat on my neck like fire.

  Radha tapped my arm. “Jiji, look!”

  Now I noticed the crowd of people assembled beside him, their bright wool skirts, embroidered topas, colorful blouses. There was the woman to whom I had recommended bitter melon and garlic when her pregnancy had given her severe indigestion. She was holding her new baby, proudly, in the crook of her arm.

  To her right was the grandmother who suffered from arthritis, smiling with her toothless gums, holding the reins of her mule.

  And over there—the sheepherder! Jay had written me that the diet I’d suggested had saved the shepherd from having his goiter removed. He held up a hand in greeting, his eyes crinkling in pleasure.

  A thousand miles from the tiny village where I’d started, I was finally home.

  Behind us, from his cage, Madho Singh called out again: “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!”

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wrote this novel for my mother.

  Sudha Latika Joshi had an arranged marriage at eighteen and three children by the age of twenty-two. She never had the opportunity to choose whom to marry, when to marry, whether to have children, whether or not to continue her studies or what she would do with her life. But she made sure that I could make all those choices for myself.

  In the novel, I reimagine her existence—as Lakshmi, the henna artist who creates a life of her own. Every day, I thank my remarkable mother for her fierce love, her tenacity and her utter devotion to my brothers and me. Without her, this book could never have been written.

  My father, Ramesh Chandra Joshi, whose remarkable journey from humble villager to globe-trotting engineer never ceases to amaze me, was enthusiastic about this novel from the start. He shared with me the India of his youth following the British Raj and the part he played in rebuilding the new India. His memories helped me better understand the post-independence enthusiasm I wove into the story. Dad read early versions of the novel and sought out Indian friends to review the drafts and share their own experiences. Any mistakes in the telling are mine.

  I owe a thousand thanks also to Emma Sweeney of Emma Sweeney Literary Agency, who fell in love with this book so many years ago and stayed with it until it was ready to be brought out into the world. And another thousand thanks go to MIRA Books senior acquisitions editor Kathy Sagan, and to the extraordinary HarperCollins team: Loriana Sacilotto, Nicole Brebner, Leo MacDonald, Heather Connor, Heather Foy, Margaret Marbury, Amy Jones, Randy Chan, Ashley MacDonald, Erin Craig, Karen Ma, Irina Pintea, Kaitlyn Vincent, Roxanne Jones and Laura Gianino. You guys rock!

  To Anita Amirrezvani, the mentor whose novels inspired me to write a story set in another time, place and culture, I extend heartfelt gratitude.

  Early readers who helped make this book sing are Tom Barbash, Janis Cooke Newman, Aimee Phan, Lanny Udell, Sandra Scofield, Robert Friedman, Samm Owens, Bonnie Ayers Namkung, Ritika Kumar, Shail Kumar, Grant Dukeshire, AJ Bunuan, Mary Severance and my fellow CCA MFA workshop participants.

  My brothers, Madhup Joshi and Piyush Joshi, read drafts of the novel and cheered me on. My mother and I traveled several times to Jaipur after 2008, where we stayed in Piyush’s condo. While in Jaipur, I interviewed Rajput families, shopkeepers in the Pink City, women my age and their daughters, teachers at the Maharani Gayatri Devi Girls’ School, Ayurvedic doctors and, of course, henna artists. I spoke at schools and colleges, danced at glorious weddings and drank copious cups of chai.

  I also researched India’s medicinal plants, Ayurvedic and aromatherapy remedies and the history of henna—how it’s made and why it’s so important in Indian culture. I pored over the history of the British in Rajasthan, the education of girls in that era, the caste system and how it affected the lives of those defined by it.

  For inspiration, I read authors whose works recall an India of times past and present: Kamala Markandaya, Ruth Prawer Jhabwala, R. K. Narayan, Anita Desai, V. S. Naipaul, Rohintin Mistry, Amitav Ghosh, Manil Suri, Chitra Banerjee Divakurani, Thrity Umrigar, Shobha Rao, Akhil Sharma and Madhuri Vijay. I also read brilliant postcolonial works by authors such as Jamaica Kincaid, Chinua Achebe, Khaled Hosseini, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Edwidge Danticat.

  Finally—and always—I thank my husband, Bradley Jay Owens, who told me I married a writer because I secretly wanted to be one. If he hadn’t given me that encouragement in 1997, I might never have taken a writing worksho
p, never earned my MFA, never had the chance to immortalize my mother in the way she deserved. You have my heart, love.

  I love hearing from readers, so if you’d like to get in touch, you’ll find me at www.thehennaartist.com or visit me on Facebook (alkajoshi2019) and Instagram (@thealkajoshi).

  GLOSSARY OF TERMS

  Aam panna: a refreshing mango drink

  Accha: all right; very well

  Almirah: a wooden cupboard for clothes

  Aloo: potato

  Aloo tikki: spicy potato pancake

  Angrej: an English person, meaning a white person

  Angreji: the English language

  Anna: small coin equivalent to 1⁄16 of a rupee; no longer used

  Arré or Arré Baap or Baap re Baap: For goodness’ sake!

  Atta: flour dough

  Auntie: respectful, affectionate address for an elder female

  acquaintance

  Baap re Baap: For goodness’ sake!

  Badmash: no-good person, scoundrel

  Bahu: daughter-in-law

  Bawchi: seed that is cold-pressed to produce an ayurvedic oil for use on skin and hair

  Beedi: an Indian cigarette, brown and cone-shaped, much cheaper than white English brands

  Besan: chickpea or garbanzo bean flour

  Betel nut: same as areca nut, a mild stimulant, from the areca palm

  Bhagwan: God

  Bhaji: a vegetable dipped in flour paste and fried; like a fritter

  Bheta: son; also affectionate address to a young boy or younger man

  Bheti: daughter; also affectionate address to a young girl or younger woman

  Bilkul: extremely or absolutely

  Bindi: a small round dot placed on the forehead using vermillion powder, signifying marital status

  Bonjour: French for “hello”