The Henna Artist(14)

I waited.

But his mouth clamped shut. His eyes shifted to Radha, who would not meet his eyes. He shook his head and walked out the door.

I stood, unsettled, without knowing why. For years, I had imagined what I would do if I saw Hari again. I would beat him with my fists. I would slap him with the flat of my hands. I would kick him with my feet. For all the times he had hurt me, made me feel small. Yet, when I faced him for the first time in thirteen years, I felt more pity than anger.

Radha’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Jiji, have you been in Jaipur the whole time? Your clothes—”

I silenced her with a motion of my hand. I ran to the window and watched Hari move down the street. When he was out of sight, I put my fingers to my mouth and whistled. Within seconds, Malik was at the window, two young men twice his height behind him, all there to protect me.

“Gone, Auntie-Boss. Rickshaw waiting for you around the corner.”

I counted out five rupees. Malik gave his pals one coin each, pocketing the other three. He was a born businessman.



* * *



On the rickshaw ride home, I felt Radha studying my clothes, my hair, my sandals. I imagined her questions, the ones I hadn’t allowed her to ask. Where have you been all these years? Why did you run away? How did you come to be in Jaipur? I was still trying to recover from the shock of seeing Hari, of learning that the three people who were once so dear to me were no more. And I was getting used to the idea of having a sister, who was sitting next to me, as solid as the headache at my temples.

Slowly, deliberately, I rearranged the sari over my shoulder and cleared my throat. “First thing—it is not polite to stare.”

She looked away, but, as if she couldn’t help herself, turned her head to me again. “Jiji—”

I held up a hand between us. “Second thing—we talk at home.” Like birds that sowed the land with the seeds they ate, rickshaw and tonga-wallas spread the gossip they consumed. I made it a point not to feed them.

I felt Radha’s gaze again, and I closed my eyes to shut her out. The pressure on my temples was worse now. Could this girl really be my sister? How filthy she was! As dirty as a Brahma bull that had been in the pasture for a week. At her age, I was fixing my own hair, wringing my wet petticoats clean by the river, washing my feet before lying down on my mat. Had Maa not taught her anything? She smelled like a hay bale, which meant Hari had roped passing farmers into giving them a ride to Jaipur. And pocketed the money I had sent home.

I glanced sideways at her clasped hands. Her blackened fingernails looked no cleaner than a beggar’s. How was I to explain a sister I never knew I had? It wasn’t as if my clients knew any details of my family life, but Mrs. Iyengar—what would I tell her? I added to the list in earnest. Third thing: never mention Hari to anyone. Judging by the looks of him, he still wasn’t able to rub more than a few rupees together. It was possible he intended to stay in Jaipur and live off my money for a while. Why, at a time when I was finally reaping the efforts of my labors, had I been given two more mouths to feed?

But how unfair I was being! I would happily have accepted responsibility for feeding the two people I had been expecting: my mother and father. Maybe Radha was my penance for the disgrace I had brought upon them. My parents, my mother-in-law and Hari—they would all have been ostracized and ignored after my desertion. Kept away from holy ceremonies, weddings, births, funerals, even spat upon. I felt my face grow warm with guilt.

Radha’s head nodded forward, and I realized she had fallen asleep to the rhythmic movement of the rickshaw. She was starting to lean toward me, and I found the closeness uncomfortable. I shifted on my side of the seat, and her body tilted to the other, her head resting against the battered canvas roof of the carriage.

Now I was free to study her face, which was the shape of Maa’s, more oval than mine. Mine was heart-shaped, the chin coming to a point, like Pitaji’s. If she’d been born the year I left, Radha must now be thirteen, but she looked older. For such a young girl, she already had a deep crease between her brows. And worry lines along the corners of her mouth.

I examined the dark, round indentations on her arms where I imagined Hari’s hands had been. Had I escaped Hari’s cruelty only to have him inflict it on Radha? The thought made me shudder.

As if in response, Radha shivered. I removed my woolen shawl and tucked it around her thin body. I doubted she owned a sweater. She must have frozen on the trip here!

The color of her skin was a shade darker than mine. No doubt she had spent more time in the sun, pulling water from the village well or collecting cow dung in the midday sun, as I had done all those years ago. The soles of her feet were cracked. A bath would have to wait till early morning. I couldn’t risk waking all of Mrs. Iyengar’s household as well as Mr. Pandey’s family.

If she was thirteen, she must be in sixth form now. I would need to look into a government school for her. I knew from the daughters of my ladies that the next school session would start in January. Until then, what? I couldn’t leave Radha home in our lodgings while I attended to my ladies. Mrs. Iyengar was nosy and would ask her a hundred questions. Could I take Radha with me to henna appointments? Clothes! She would need new clothes before I could present her to society.

My head felt too small to contain all the thoughts swirling around. I didn’t dare think beyond tonight. If I did, I might never sleep again.