The Henna Artist(28)

I pressed the cloth to Malik’s bleeding ear. He yelped and then took over, flattening the fabric against his head. Instantly, the cloth turned pink. I stared at it.

I didn’t want Malik paying for my mistakes. But how could I pay the builder the thousands of rupees I owed him? I hadn’t heard from Parvati yet about an audience with the palace. I would have to go around her.

“Malik, you need to get word to Samir that I must see him. But first, Radha, let me have the lavender oil for Malik’s ear.”

After attending to Malik, I told Radha to go home and launder his clothes. When Malik was presentable again, they were to join me for our afternoon appointment at Mrs. Sharma’s house.



* * *



In the front courtyard of the Sharma residence, Radha, Malik and I set down our bags. Malik had changed into a clean shirt and the swelling on his ear had gone down.

We had come to create a courtyard mandala, which was usually designed by the women of the family using colored chalk and rice. But Sheela, Mrs. Sharma’s youngest and only girl child, was singing tonight at a big family gathering, and Mrs. Sharma wanted something far more elaborate. She’d commissioned a design similar to my henna work. In addition to white rice, we had brought bags of turquoise and coral chalk we’d ground to a fine powder, red brick we’d crushed into the size of tiny pebbles, mustard seeds and dried marigold petals.

We were waiting for the grocery-walla to clear out of the courtyard. His camel chewed placidly on dry grass as the storekeeper pulled tins of sugar biscuits and sesame oil from his cart. Mrs. Sharma was checking the delivery before signing off on the receipt. When she noticed us, she plodded down the veranda steps, her homespun cotton sari rustling in her wake. Where Parvati was vain, Mrs. Sharma was practical. She saw no reason to fuss with her appearance when she had a large household to manage—her own three children and Mr. Sharma’s five younger brothers. Even though she could afford better, her habitual garb was a khadi sari, an ode to Gandhi-ji, and a simple ruby and diamond nose stud.

“Lakshmi, if you’ll be patient, we’ll have these folks out of your way shortly. I want to make sure you have enough time to create your magic before the musicians start arriving.” She smiled broadly, the large mole on her right cheek lifting. “Everything must be perfect for Sheela’s performance at the sangeet tonight.”

“I’m sure Sheela will be wonderful, Mrs. Sharma.”

The matron laughed. A mandala welcomed the bounties of Goddess Lakshmi. “With a mandala created by you,” she said, “we can welcome the entire pantheon!” She extended her arms wide, the wedding bangles on each pudgy arm tinkling, the soft gold misshapen and dented after thirty years of wear.

At last the area was cleared, and Radha and Malik began sweeping a ten-foot square area with long-whiskered jharus.

I took a handful of rice from one of the sacks and released a steady stream of grains from my palm to create the inner circle. A small fire would be lit here in the evening. Around this circle, I drew a lotus flower with eight enormous petals. Radha followed me with the tiny red pebbles, filling in the outlines.

Suddenly, she cried out. “Waa!”

I looked at her. Radha was staring at the veranda, where Sheela Sharma stood in a satin frock the color of a sunset after rain. The half-sleeves were puffy—the current rage—and the empire waist sat just under her growing bosom. She looked like the princess of a miniature kingdom. All she lacked was a tiara to crown her blue-black hair, curled at the ends, Madhubala-style. She was striking.

I smiled at her. “I hear you’re the star of tonight’s show.”

She flipped her hair over one shoulder. “It’s only family. I’ll perform for a real audience at Mrs. Singh’s party next month. The maharaja will be there, you know.”

So Parvati was taking my proposal seriously. She knew that any daughter-in-law of hers would have to entertain heads of state, and she’d decided to test Sheela’s poise in front of royalty. I would need to do my part to ensure that Sheela caught Ravi Singh’s eye. It was clever of Parvati to let her son fall for Sheela on his own; she wanted to choose his mate, but she didn’t want him to know it.

I looked to my left to indicate Radha, who stood agog. “Sheela, this is my sister, Radha.” I tilted my head toward Malik, who was sweeping at the edge of the courtyard. “I believe you’ve seen Malik before?”

He nodded at Sheela.

I turned to look at Sheela, whose gaze flitted from Radha to Malik. Radha also looked at Malik. Sheela pursed her lips and lifted her chin, scanning him from head to toe—his rough hair, his pink ear, his soiled feet, his too-small chappals. He, too, looked down at himself to see what she found offensive.

“Lakshmi, I only want you to work on the mandala,” Sheela said. She was used to getting her way.

I allowed her an indulgent smile. “Without help, Sheela, the design will take twice as long, and I still have all the ladies inside to henna. We want your party to be a big success, don’t we?”

But Sheela didn’t smile back. Pivoting smartly on her black patent heels, she marched inside the house. Malik shrugged at Radha.

I decided to ignore Sheela’s mood. She was a spoiled child, but she ruled her mother’s heart. It didn’t do any good to make an enemy of her. “Radha, the brick pebbles, please.”