The Henna Artist(30)
“Really?”
“Hahn-ji. The Mariwars. Lal Chandras.”
“Mathur Sahib and his wife.” The cook and I turned to look at her assistant, who had contributed this information without looking up from her task.
“Are you mashing the potatoes fine enough? I don’t want to see lumps in the samosas like last time!” The cook scowled at the other woman, and the assistant lowered her head closer to the bowl.
I hid a smile. “Did I hear a rumor about the Prashads, as well?”
“They are coming next week.” The cook wiped the glistening skin above her upper lip with the end of her sari. “After all, there is only one of me.” She jerked her head at her assistant. “That one over there, I have to watch every minute. How much time does that leave me to cook?” she asked as one of the lids began clattering on its pot, steam trying to muscle its way out. She turned to the other woman and shouted, “What? I have to watch all the pots, too? Can’t you see the kofta is done?”
Her assistant scrambled to her feet and wrapped the end of her sari around the handle of the pot to lift it off the burner. For good measure, the cook directed more insults her way.
As I’d suspected, the competition for Sheela Sharma was keen; the Sharmas were entertaining offers. Parvati would have to make a move soon. An offer from the Singhs, one of the most prominent and among the wealthiest families in Jaipur, would give the Sharmas what their humble background lacked—an official tie to the royal family. Parvati was smart to drive home the point by inviting Jaipur’s royal family, along with the Sharmas, to her holiday party.
The sooner the marriage was settled, the sooner I could clear my accounts. Until then, I would keep the arrangement to myself lest any other matchmakers picked up the scent.
I set my glass on the counter and left the two cooks to their work.
FIVE
November 18, 1955
I waited for Samir at my Rajnagar house, having finished another inspection with Naraya, the builder. (I’d had to request another coat of plaster on the walls to make sure it was skin-smooth.) I was sitting on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees, gazing at the patterned terrazzo.
It’s better to have a petticoat be too tight rather than too loose or your sari will sag and the pleats will come out.
Place a compress soaked in cold tea on each eye daily to diminish under-eye circles.
Never wear common rubber chappals, only sandals or shoes.
How foolish I’d been to think advice like this was enough to prepare Radha for city life! I couldn’t even say, with certainty, how I had learned to manage challenges like the Mrs. Iyengars and Parvatis and Sheelas of this world. Radha would have to learn not only patience, but also the necessity of moving indirectly toward her goal. Like I did. Like Malik did.
But how could I keep vigil over her and still meet with clients, negotiate with suppliers and solicit new commissions?
When I returned home exhausted from the Sharmas the evening before, I asked Radha if she made a habit of throwing stones at people.
Her face crumpled. “It’s the only way the gossip-eaters would stop taunting me, Jiji,” she said. “They always called me the Bad Luck Girl. Saali kutti. Ghasti ki behen. All kinds of curses. Little boys would trip me when I carried well water on my head. Everything was my fault. If the cow’s milk wasn’t sweet, the gossip-eaters said it was because I’d walked in front of it. If insects ate the grain, the farmers said it was because I’d called them in the night. When the headman’s son died of fever, they came looking for me, carrying sticks. Maa couldn’t stop them. I ran to the riverbank and climbed up a peepal tree. I stayed there for two days until the traveling doctor told them the baby had died of malaria.”
Radha wiped her wet eyes and nose on the sleeve of her kameez, a habit I was trying to break. “It’s been like that since I was born. The gossip-eaters have long memories.”
In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumormongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village. Today, when she saw how unfairly Malik was being cast off, she reacted as she always had—like a defenseless animal. She knew no better because no one had taught her any better.
She dropped to her knees in front of me. “Jiji. Please don’t send me back. I have no one else. I won’t do it again. I won’t. I promise.” Her thin body was shaking.
Embarrassed and ashamed, I helped her to standing and wiped her tears. I wanted to say, Why do you think I would send you back? You’re my sister. My responsibility. But all that came out was, “I promise I’ll do better, too.”
* * *
Someone was nudging my hand. “Beauty, wake up.”
My eyes fluttered open; I knew it was Samir’s voice, but in the dark, I couldn’t make out his face. I looked around to get my bearings. At some point, I’d stretched out on the terrazzo and fallen asleep.
“Joyce Harris is recovering.” His white shirt glowed in the dark above me. He smelled of cigarettes, English whiskey and sandalwood, scents I recognized from the houses of the courtesans. “Her husband has returned from Jodhpur. He thinks she miscarried naturally.”