The Henna Artist(10)

I placed three rupee coins in his palm, after making him promise he would buy real food for his dinner instead of greasy snacks. “You’re a growing boy,” I reminded him, as if he weren’t aware of it.

He grinned and took off like a top, winding his way between shoppers toward the bright lights.

I called out after him, “Chapatti and subji, agreed?”

He turned around, waving his free hand in the air. “And chaat. You can’t expect a growing boy to starve,” he said quickly, and disappeared into the thick crowd.

As I climbed into a waiting rickshaw, I thought about visiting my house—so close to being finished—to check the progress. If I failed to inspect it every other day, the builder, Naraya, was quick to cut corners, which meant I would then have to quarrel with him, insist that he tear things apart and start over (I’d had to do this more than once). But it was late, and I was too tired to bicker. I told the rickshaw-walla to take me to my lodgings.

By the time I locked the gate behind me and hurried across Mrs. Iyengar’s interior courtyard, it was eight o’clock. My stomach rumbled with hunger. I set my empty tiffins next to the waterspout. I would scrub them tonight as soon as Mrs. Iyengar’s servant had finished washing her dishes. I was about to head up the stairs to my rented room when my landlady called to me from an open doorway.

“Good evening, Ji.” I brought my hands together in a namaste.

“Good evening, Mrs. Shastri.”

Mrs. Iyengar wiped her hands on a small towel. Hot mirch threatened to make me sneeze. The Iyengars were from the South, and they liked their food so spicy it burned my throat just to smell it.

A short, squat woman, Mrs. Iyengar gazed up at me. Her eyes were stern. “You had a visitor today.”

No one visited me here except Malik, whom Mrs. Iyengar referred to as “that ruffian.”

Her gold bracelets tinkled as she rubbed dried atta off her fingers. “He asked to wait in your room. But you know I don’t allow that sort of thing here.” She shot a warning glance at me.

In a soothing voice, I assured her, “You did quite right, Mrs. Iyengar. Did he say what he wanted?”

“He asked if you were the lady from Ajar village. I told him I didn’t know.” She searched my face to see if I would add to the sparse details of my past. “He had a big-big scar.” She ran a finger from the corner of her mouth to her chin. “From here to here.” Wagging that same finger at me, she frowned. “Not a sign of good character, in my opinion.”

My heart thumped against my ribs as I reached for her hand—as much to calm myself as to placate her. “Cooking can make the hands so dry, don’t you think? If you’d like, I can rub some geranium oil on them tomorrow.”

A crease formed between her brows, and she looked down at her hands, as if she had never seen them before. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no bother. And the next time your husband reaches for you, he will remember you as his young bride.” I laughed airily, turning to go. Keeping my tone light, I said, “I don’t suppose this visitor said when he’d be back?”

Mrs. Iyengar was busy clearing sticky batter from under her fingernails. “He didn’t say,” she said.

Her servant, who had started cleaning pots in the courtyard, said, “I just saw him across the street when I went to throw the vegetable scraps out for the cows.”

As Mrs. Iyengar scolded her servant for not minding her own business, I made my escape to the second-floor landing and into my room, bolting the door behind me. My heart was beating wildly, and I tried to calm my breathing. Hadn’t I expected Hari to turn up one day? Always, I had kept an eye out for the heavy eyebrows and that awful scar. Then, as the years passed without incident, I fooled myself into thinking my husband would never find me.

How had he tracked me here? In my letters to Maa and Pitaji, begging their forgiveness for my desertion, I had been careful never to reveal my address. Even when I’d sent them money for the train tickets to Jaipur, I had instructed them to ask for Malik at the train station, and he would lead them to me. But so far, Malik had reported that no one had asked for him at the station. Had my parents sent Hari to fetch me back home instead? Did they resent me so much, still? Would they never forgive me?

Without turning on the overhead light, I walked to my window and looked out. There, almost hidden by the mango tree across the street, was the bottom half of a white dhoti, glowing in the darkness. Then the red arc of a beedi. No one loitered in this residential neighborhood this late at night. Mrs. Iyengar’s servant said she’d seen him a few minutes ago. It had to be Hari. I had to think—to figure out a way to meet him away from here.

I heard the soft footfalls of Mrs. Iyengar’s other tenant, Mr. Pandey, on the stairs, and opened my door. He was lost in his own thoughts, and looked up, startled.

“Mrs. Shastri, good evening.” His full lips parted in a slow smile that built up gradually. His eyes drooped at the ends, making him seem kind and patient, a desirable trait for a music master. He kept his hair long; the ends curled neatly around his shoulders. Sometimes I pictured him in bed with his wife, his hair intertwined with hers on the pillows.

“Namaste, Sahib.” I clasped my hands together in greeting, to keep them from trembling. “How goes the teaching?”

“Only as well as the student.” He smiled.