The Henna Artist(32)
I fastened one hand on his chin and eased it downward toward the floor. “You haven’t admired my work yet.”
Samir groaned and pushed himself off the wall, then felt his pockets for his silver lighter. Using its flame, he looked more closely at the spot where we had lain.
He snapped his fingers. “You hid your name in this!”
I suppressed a smile. Of course he would know. He’d been around nautch girls who concealed their names within the henna design on their body. If a man found it, he won a free night in their bed. If he didn’t, the women were paid double rate.
“What if I find it?” he asked.
“You don’t have to do me the second favor.”
“Is there no end to your demands?”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
The cigarette glowed orange and red as he drew in the smoke, surveying the floor. “I give up.” He scratched behind his ear.
“Word has it the palace might need my services.”
“Whose word?” Smoke curled up from both sides of Samir’s mouth.
“Your wife’s. Something about the Maharani Latika not feeling well. Parvati thinks I could help her.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Could you whisper my name in the right ears there? Two echoes in a well are louder than one.”
He blinked, and I knew he wasn’t thinking whether he would do it but how and when. With his cigarette, he pointed at the floor. “This was worth whatever you paid for it.”
“Or haven’t yet paid.” I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders. “In return, I have something for you.”
One corner of his mouth lifted—a half smile.
“The Rambagh Palace remodel. Swallow your pride and meet with Mr. Sharma. Convince him you’re the architect for the project.”
He squinted. “Sharma already has architects.” He made a face. “Second-rate ones.”
“But the maharaja wants only you.”
He released a stream of smoke. “Really?”
I smiled and drew my shawl tighter around me. “You’ll make sure Parvati knows that information came from me?” I walked into the moonlit courtyard. “Come. I have to get a rickshaw.”
“That’s all the thanks I get?”
“You don’t need thanks. You’ve got a driver.”
SIX
December 20, 1955
My sister and I sat in the Singh drawing room, painting henna on the hands of girls from the finest Jaipur families, smart in their English dresses, chatting about the latest film they had seen and the clothes their favorite actresses were wearing. Some watched me work; others danced to Rock Around the Clock, next to the gramophone; several were glued to Parvati’s Life magazine, admiring the photos of the glamorous film star Madhubala.
Sheela Sharma had grown up with most of these girls, having attended the same schools, the same parties. She held court on Parvati’s sofa. Radiant in a champagne silk frock and matching heels, she was clearly the most beautiful girl at the holiday henna party. It was easy to imagine her as the future doyenne of Jaipur society. I allowed myself a private smile, knowing I’d proposed an excellent match.
Radha and I were seated next to one another on footstools, an armchair in front of each of us. One by one, the girls sat in front of Radha so she could prepare their hands, then moved to my station for their henna application.
“Has anyone seen Ravi?” Sheela asked the group. “He should at least come to his own party.”
Next to the gramophone where she was showing another girl how to do the swing, a girl said, “He’d better be here. I heard he’s performing tonight,” she said.
“Performing what?”
“Didn’t you know? Mrs. Singh hired the Shakespeare theater troupe and Ravi is playing Othello.”
“Sheela, you’re next,” I said, patting the chair in front of Radha’s stool.
Sheela moved to take her place in front of my sister. We had rehearsed this moment, Radha and I. I had dressed my sister differently so Sheela would not be able to recognize her from the mandala fiasco. Instead of a salwaar-kameez, Radha wore one of my saris, a fine cotton in pale blue with white embroidery. With her hair up—topped with a sprig of jasmine—she looked older, like a miniature version of me.
As I’d suggested, Radha avoided looking at Sheela’s face. She concentrated on oiling her hands.
Having taken no notice of Radha, Sheela was addressing the room. “I’m singing tonight, too.”
“Onstage?” a girl asked.
“I wanted to sing Na Bole Na Bole from Azaad—”
“I adored that movie!”
Sheela shrugged her graceful shoulders. “Yar. But Pandey Sahib is so old-fashioned. He tells me only a gazal will do for the maharaja.” As if she sang daily for His Highness.
I stole a sideways glance at Radha, who liked our neighbor Mr. Pandey and wouldn’t take kindly to criticism about him. The color rose in her face, but she kept her eyes focused on her task.
One of the girls at the gramophone, now playing an Elvis Presley hit, said, “Pandey Sahib is brilliant. He’s really improved my singing this past year.”
Sheela smirked. “Is that what you call it, Neeta? Singing?”