The Henna Artist(19)

I looked at her face—wet, blotched, streaked with pink. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot.

“He plays squash at the club with John—my husband. That’s where I met him. At the club. He’s married, too. The baby may be John’s but it could be...his.” She released my hand and removed a handkerchief from her belt to wipe her eyes. “He’s Indian.”

For the briefest of moments I wondered if her Indian lover was Samir. But Samir was far too cautious; he made sure to supply each of his mistresses with my tea sachets so he could move on to the next woman with a clear conscience. If Joyce Harris were one of his lovers, he would have told me. He’d never made a secret of the others. Besides, he favored widows, and Joyce Harris was clearly married.

“What would my husband say if I handed him an Indian baby? I don’t have to wonder what Mother Letty would say. I couldn’t bring a brown baby back home to Surrey. There’s no place in English society for such a child. There’s no p-place my baby would be safe.”

I waited until her sobs had subsided.

“Mrs. Harris, I’m sure you’re doing what’s best for your circumstances and for...those around you. But again, I must warn you not to delay. Boil one herb sachet for a half hour in one quart of water. Drink a cup of the liquid every hour until it’s finished. It will taste bitter. You can put honey in the mixture to make it more palatable. Repeat the process once more. Within a few hours, you will develop cramps. Be sure to put some cotton padding in your underwear to catch the flow of blood when it starts. At your stage of pregnancy, your body will expel large clots of tissue, as well. It will be painful, but do not panic. Let the herb do its work.”

Joyce Harris closed her eyes, letting more tears fall. I paused to let her absorb the instructions.

“I will leave three sachets with you, but you should not need more than two. To help with the pain, you can keep a hot water bottle on your belly or soak towels in warm water and apply them to your female parts. Only after it’s over should you call your doctor. He’ll think you’ve had a miscarriage. If you call him too soon, he’ll try to save the baby, which, I believe, is not what you want.”

I patted her pale arm. “It works most of the time, but there is no guarantee. If you’re losing too much blood, you must call the doctor immediately. Again, I need to warn you there will be a lot of pain.” I set a small vial on the tea table and told her to apply the lotion I’d prepared to soothe her female parts, which would feel raw after her body had expelled the fetus. “Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”

She nodded. We sat a little while longer in silence.

“Do you have any more questions?”

“Only the ones neither of us can answer,” she told me in a voice I had to strain to hear.



* * *



As soon as I entered my lodgings, Radha sprang up from the floor, where Malik was gathering pebbles from a game of fivestones. She ran to the cooking pots and came back with a steel plate of food, relieving me of my carryall. “For you, Jiji.”

Something was amiss. My eyes circled the room.

Malik stood and pocketed the pebbles. He stared at the floor sullenly, not meeting my eye. Radha ran to the water jug and returned with a full glass.

Now I was standing with a plate of fried dough and a glass of water, two anxious faces watching me.

“Dal batti? I thought I told you to make laddus.”

She offered a nervous smile. “Malik said dal batti is a Rajasthani specialty. I took off the burned pieces. Taste, Jiji.” She was anxious to please.

I ignored her. “Malik?”

Radha took a step forward, as if to shield him. “It’s not his fault, Jiji. He was only putting out the fire. Then Mrs. Iyengar started screaming—”

Fire? Mrs. Iyengar screaming? “Chup-chup!” Putting the plate and tumbler on my worktable, I took a deep breath. “Start from the beginning.”

She told me she was making dal baati when her chunni caught fire. Malik rushed down the stairs to help, and Mrs. Iyengar yelled at him for polluting her hearth.

Malik made circles on the floor with his big toe. “Sorry, Auntie-Boss.”

Radha frowned and looked from him to me. “Malik has nothing to be sorry for. He saved me from burning! That mean old crow—”

Had it not been for her insolence, I might have been more sympathetic. But her attitude must be curbed now or it would color my relationship with the landlady.

I held up a finger. “That old crow is our landlady.” I held up another finger. “This is her home, not ours. She has the right to tell us what to do.”

“That’s not fair! Why don’t we just move now to your new house? Get away from her?”

The vein on my temple throbbed. I pressed it gently with my fingers, resisted the urge to raise my voice. “I told you, Radha. We’ll move into our house when it’s ready. Not before.”

I looked at Malik. “Did it happen as she says?”

He nodded.

I placed my hand on his head. “Thank you for keeping Radha from burning the house down.”

He gave me a small smile.

“As for you, Radha, you must be more careful from now on—”

“But—”

“Especially when it comes to Mrs. Iyengar’s hearth.”