The Henna Artist(33)
The other girls burst into giggles while Neeta’s cheeks turned pink.
“You idiot! You’re hurting me.”
With a start, I looked to my right. Sheela was glaring at Radha. Radha looked up briefly, mumbled an apology for pressing too hard on Sheela’s hand and dropped her eyes again. Sheela blinked, as if wondering where she had seen Radha before. My pulse quickened.
“Sheela.” I patted the armchair in front of my stool. “Come sit. You’re the star tonight so I have a special henna design planned for you.”
A chorus of “Lucky you, Sheela!” and “Waa! Waa!” went up.
Her attention diverted, Sheela hopped off the armchair with a smug smile, upsetting the bottle of clove oil Radha was capping. Did she do it on purpose? Radha managed to catch it in time, and looked at me, her eyes filled with fear. The velvet armchair could have been ruined!
I gave Radha a comforting smile and, with a tilt of my head, indicated that she had other girls to attend.
My sister had behaved admirably. In less than two months in Jaipur, she had learned a lot that was new to her. I felt the beginnings of a small hope: everything would be fine from here on out. Ravi Singh and Sheela Sharma would be married. Samir would make sure I was introduced to the palace. Hari would give me a divorce. I would pay off the builder and he would finish my house. We would move out of our rented room. And my life of true independence would begin.
Comforted by these thoughts, I finished Sheela’s hands with a design of large roses and perfumed them with pure rose oil to arouse feelings of the heart. I usually reserved the precious oil for wedding henna, but tonight I wanted Ravi to be drawn to Sheela as a bee to chameli.
After Radha and I finished with the girls, they joined their parents and other party guests on the lawn, while we gathered our tiffins. As we walked down the long hallway to the kitchen, we could see the back terrace, half a level below us, through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Torches glowed along the edges of the velvety lawn beyond. Bearers in red turbans and white coats offered drinks and hors d’oeuvres to guests on silver trays. Gold rings flashed on the gentlemen’s fingers as they raised glasses filled with ice and sharab. The women’s pallus, threaded with gold and silver, fell like shimmering streams from their shoulders.
Radha slowed to admire the glamour. While I had been to such occasions before, it occurred to me that this was the most elegant party she had ever attended. It wouldn’t hurt to let her enjoy it a little. I set down my tiffins, and motioned to her to do the same. Putting an arm around her shoulders, I led her closer to the windows and pointed my chin at the gentlemen directly below us.
“See that fellow with the glasses? Recognize him?”
“Yes! From the photo. Kanta Auntie’s husband?”
I nodded. Manu Agarwal, in a smart suit and tie, chatted with a gray-haired man in a Nehru cap and a wool vest over his kurta, common attire at this party. It was a mild night and the windows were open; we could hear their conversation.
The older man waved his glass of Scotch. “Only, you have to talk to my friend Mr. Ismail at the Transportation Ministry. He will give you all the permits and licenses for the bus routes you want. Without delay.”
Kanta’s husband adjusted his glasses. “The maharaja will be pleased.”
“Zaroor. I only have to ask and it will happen. That is...” Nehru Cap smoothed his mustache over his lip. “Perhaps the maharaja would consider extending his bus route to Udaipur? A beautiful city—if you’ve never been. An investment of, say, half a lakh would pave the way for your project, so to speak.” He took a sip from his crystal tumbler, observing Manu over the rim.
I murmured in my sister’s ear, “Bribes. This is how roads, petrol pumps, bridges—even cinema houses—get built. Before independence, that man was a cobbler. He’s illiterate, but he knows his numbers.”
She smiled. “Jiji, why isn’t Kanta Auntie here with her husband?”
I’d noticed, too, that Kanta wasn’t at the party. “Maybe she preferred her saas’s company tonight.”
Radha chuckled.
We moved to the next window. Two plump matrons in bright silks, both clients of mine, huddled with Parvati, whose pink satin sari must have cost more than I paid for my yearly lodging. The ladies talked excitedly, gesturing with their hands, their earrings dancing with every nod and shake of the head. Every now and then, they looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard.
“The maharaja’s driver went to your friend’s house and just left His Highness’s Rolls there?” Parvati was asking, incredulous.
The woman in the beaded shawl nodded. “But my friend didn’t ask to borrow the car. Didn’t need to. He owns four cinemas in Jodhpur—so much money he’s making!”
The third woman cut in. “That’s because His Highness wasn’t loaning the car. The palace was sending a message: pay up.”
“What did your friend do?” Parvati asked.
“He paid the Maharaja of Bikaner ten thousand rupees.”
“Hai Ram!” Parvati exclaimed.
“The maharajas are all broke, I tell you. All the money they spent on polo ponies, tiger hunts, fancy cars!”
Parvati, who came from tiger-shooting, polo-playing gentry, raised her chin.
“The Maharaja of Bharatpur is the only one who really went crazy. Buying twenty-two Rolls Royces. He uses most of them to haul municipal garbage. Which is a good thing, don’t you agree?” she said.