The Henna Artist(27)

I shrugged. “In real life, babies cry.”

There was mischief in Kanta’s eyes. “Only if they have my saas for a grandmother.”

Her gaze landed on Radha. “You are welcome to borrow my books anytime. You read beautifully. Be careful when my saas is around, though. Always leave Lady Chatterley’s Lover at the bottom of the pile and the Bahagvad Gita on top!”

Radha looked happier than I’d seen her since she arrived in Jaipur.

Kanta put a finger on her lip. “Lakshmi, have you ever taken Radha to the Minerva?”

I balked at telling her I had no idea if Radha had ever been to the cinema.

Misunderstanding my silence, Kanta laughed. “It’s all right, Lakshmi. My treat. There’s a Marilyn Monroe film that I’ve been dying to see. I can take Radha.”

The suggestion made my stomach flutter. My ladies fretted about the influence of these movies—and the behavior of men at the cinemas—on their impressionable daughters. Indians were crazy for films, and the sight of American stars like Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe in tight skirts drove the rickshaw drivers and charannas so wild they threw coins at the screen. (At some point, the manager would always come out to scold them.)

“Is it wise to expose her to—to—” I felt my face grow hot. I sounded just like my matronly clients!

“To Western women? Scary, aren’t they?” Kanta’s cackles made my words seem priggish. I was being too protective. If Radha was going to live in a big city, she needed to experience it. If wouldn’t do any good to shield her excessively. And who better than Kanta—so worldly and sophisticated—to guide her? Besides, it was only a film!

Clapping her hands, Kanta smiled at Radha, “Oh, we’ll have such fun!” She raised her brows at me. “It’s very naughty of you not to tell me you had a sister. Look at those eyes! Men will be falling all over her.”

I smiled, uneasy. It pleased me that my sister’s beauty had not gone unnoticed by one of my favorite customers. But I worried. Would her curiosity go unchecked? Her impulsiveness? I shook my head; I was being far too Victorian.



* * *



Outside Kanta’s house, I jotted a few lines in my notebook. Radha leaned against a pillar on the veranda. We were waiting for Malik to return with a rickshaw.

“Kanta Auntie is sad.”

“Hmm.”

“Why can’t she have babies?”

“I don’t know, Radha. Her bleeding has always been irregular. She may not be able to produce enough eggs. You know the burfi I fed her? I’m hoping the wild yam in them will help regulate her cycles.” I frowned, realizing how little I knew about my own sister. “Have you started your menses yet?”

Her cheeks colored and she lowered her chin. “Two months ago. Just before we came to Jaipur.”

“Well, it means you’re a woman now, you know. You can...have babies.” I stopped, not sure how to explain it to her. “You must be careful of men at the cinema. And on buses. And don’t walk on the street unless Malik or I are with you.”

Her eyes flickered, glazed with doubt.

There were probably a thousand other things I needed to warn her about, but this was new territory for me. When was the right time to tell her about what husbands do in bed? My reticence surprised me. Women told me intimacies all day long; why did it embarrass me to talk to my sister about sex?

But Radha’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. She asked, “What was Kanta Auntie so excited about when we first came to the house?”

I tucked the notebook into my petticoat. “Ah. The Maharaja of Jaipur is converting one of his palaces into a hotel. He wants Samir Singh to design the remodel. But Mr. Sharma, who is the official contractor for the palace, has another architect picked out. So Kanta’s husband wants to figure out a way to get Mr. Sharma to hire Samir.”

“Can’t the maharaja hire anyone he pleases?”

“Of course. But it’s not his way to order people around. He wants Mr. Sharma to think it was his idea.”

“How can you help?”

“You’ll see.” I smiled.

When Kanta first confided Manu’s problem to me, I knew the answer straightaway. The best way to seal the fate of the Sharmas and the Singhs was through an arranged marriage, which would make the business partnership an afterthought. I wanted to wait until both parties had agreed to the marriage before telling Kanta.

We turned at the sound of Malik’s high-pitched whistle. He stood off to the side of Kanta’s veranda, gesturing for us to step down. His clothes, which had been spotless when we left the house this morning, were splattered with mud. A trail of blood was on one shoulder, and his ear on that side of his head was red, oozing. I ran to him, removing a cloth from my carryall. Radha ran after me, the tiffins clanging in her hands.

“Malik! Kya ho gya?”

Before I could reach him, he turned away, walking quickly toward the front gate and leaving us to catch up.

When we were safely out of the chowkidar’s earshot, he said, “That maderchod builder! I paid him the two hundred rupees you gave me, and he threw it back at me! ‘You’re putting a cumin seed in a camel’s mouth,’ he said. He boxed my ear and told me not to return unless I had the entire amount we owed.” He pivoted to a stop. “Here.” Malik reached in his pocket. He handed me the two hundred rupees I’d given him.