The Henna Artist(29)

“Lakshmi?”

I looked up to see Mrs. Sharma standing in the front door, Sheela behind her. I poured the rice from my palm back into the sack and walked up the steps.

“My daughter is not comfortable with the boy here. Perhaps you have an errand for him?” Mrs. Sharma asked the question in a voice both commanding and apologetic. Her eyes skittered around the front garden, distressed. Over her shoulder, I saw the satisfied face of Sheela Sharma.

“Has he done something, Madam?”

“Sheela is...particular...about who works on our mandala.”

I glanced at Sheela. “Of course.”

I went back down the steps and made a show of looking through my cloth carrier. “Malik, I need you to grind more henna for tonight and bring it back. I don’t think we mixed this batch well enough.”

But Malik was looking at my lie: two large earthenware bowls of rich henna paste wrapped in damp cloth—enough for twenty hands—sitting inside a carryall. This morning, I had even praised the smooth texture of Radha’s paste within Malik’s hearing.

He gazed at the veranda, at Sheela, who was staring at him defiantly. I could see him rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, something he did when he was angry. I didn’t know if she was singling him out because he was male (the mandala was, after all, a woman’s chore) or because she didn’t like his appearance.

Malik dropped his sack on the ground.

I took two rupees from my waistband. “Hire a tonga.”

It was a small consolation. I forced the money into his shirt pocket and put my hands on his shoulders until he nodded.

As I was returning to the circle, I saw Radha plunge her hand into the sack of brick pebbles, then draw her arm behind her head. She was aiming for Sheela’s retreating back. Hai Ram!

“Radha!” I called, loudly, as I placed my body in front of her to hide her gesture from Sheela. I seized her arm, forcing her hand back into the sack, and held it there. She was stronger than I’d realized. I pinched the inside of her wrist, hard. She loosened her grip and released the pebbles.

I could feel Sheela’s eyes on my back. Making sure my voice carried to the veranda, I said, “Remember not to pour so much into each circle. The mandala will come out uneven, and we need it to be perfect for Sheela, don’t we?” My eyes pleaded with Radha to behave. “Let’s get started on the turquoise chalk.”

My sister blinked, stared into my eyes, blinked some more. She lowered her gaze, and I let go of her arm.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Sheela go back inside the house. My knees were shaking, and I squatted, sitting back on my heels to steady myself.

I licked the sweat off my upper lip. Had any of the household servants seen anything? Who knew what damage they could cause!

My hands trembled as I grabbed a fistful of turquoise powder to fill the interior. What could Radha have been thinking? We could so easily be replaced, but Sheela would always be the princess of this kingdom. I’d never had to teach Malik that; he understood the nuances of class and caste instinctively. He would never have compromised us.

For the rest of the afternoon, Radha and I worked in silence. I would point to a sack, and she would bring it to me. I was too upset by what she’d done to say anything.

The farther out I went from the center circle, the more detail I added to the lotus flower. Finally, I stood back to inspect my work. In the middle of each petal were the things associated with the goddess: a conch shell, an owl, an elephant, gold coins, pearl necklaces. My back would suffer tomorrow from hunching over the mandala, but Mrs. Sharma would be pleased with the result.

I handed Radha the empty sacks. “Go home. Have Malik help you with the ladies’ treats for tomorrow.”

She left without a word.

Dusting my palms, I made my way to the kitchen. I needed to make sure the servants weren’t aware of what happened this afternoon and to see if they had anything to tell me about Sheela Sharma’s marriage prospects.

Several burners were in use and the heady fragrance of fried cumin, garlic and onions filled the kitchen. Mrs. Sharma’s cook, a broad woman with coarse hands, was separating the atta into tiny balls that she would roll later into samosa pastry. A younger woman sat cross-legged on the floor. She cradled a stainless steel bowl in which she was mixing boiled potatoes with peas and masala for the mixture that would go inside the samosas. The back door had been propped open to let the cooking heat out.

I smiled at the cook and asked for water. She filled a glass for me and went back to her task. If anyone in the household had seen Radha throwing rocks at Sheela, the cook would have let me know as she saw me.

I lifted the glass and drank without touching my lips to the rim.

“Are you making your famous drumstick dal for tonight’s sangeet?” I asked. The Sharmas’ cook was from Bengal. She was famous for flavoring her lentils with the flowers and fruit of the sajna tree. She would chop the drumstick-like vegetable finely and sauté it with poppy and mustard seeds before adding it to the cooked lentils.

She lifted her arms in a shrug and opened her palms to the ceiling, a piece of dough resting in one hand. “When am I not making my dal, Ji? It’s these people I must make it for one day, those people the next.”

“It’s because your skills are so refined.”

“What can I do? I was born with this gift.” She sprinkled a little dry flour on a round wooden board and slapped the ball of dough onto it. “Lately, everyone wants to see the little miss. Last week, we had many Pukkah Sahibs here.” She flattened the ball with a rolling pin, pressing left, then right, back to the left, until she had created a perfect circle for the pastry.