The Henna Artist(36)
Nudging my sister’s arm, I said quietly, “Go. Clean your face.”
Radha glared at me for an instant, then went out the door, slamming it behind her.
I swallowed, gave myself time to think. “Parvati-ji. Please. Sit down,” I said. “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. Radha is only thirteen. Much too young to...”
Parvati slowed her pacing.
“Your Ravi, such a mature boy—indeed, young man—can’t be interested in a girl like my sister. He is completely taken with Sheela. Did you see how perfect they looked together onstage? What a handsome couple they’ll make when they’re married.” I indicated the sofa. “Please, Ji.”
Abruptly, she sat down on the leather couch with a heavy sigh. “If my late father were with us today, he’d know what to do. Everyone listened to him. But I can’t get Samir to—” Her voice cracked. She looked at me with moist eyes. “What were you and Samir doing in the library earlier?”
Parvati had been at the library door.
I folded my hands together. “He was telling me how generous you had been in recommending me to the palace. I’m truly in your debt. If not for your relation to the royal family...” I let the implication hang.
She looked away. I was lying and she knew I was lying, but no matter. The truth was less important than saving face. If she’d kept her end of the bargain and spoken to the palace on my behalf, I wouldn’t have had to ask Samir to intervene. She could no more admit that she hadn’t fulfilled her promise of a palace introduction than I could admit that I had asked Samir for help.
She pouted, straightening a pillow on the sofa, smoothing the tiny beads embroidered on the silk. “I’ve seen you two talking, before—on the veranda. What could you and Samir have in common?” Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet mine. I saw something I’d never seen before: trepidation. As if she wondered what secrets her husband kept from her. And possibly, what secrets I kept from her. All she knew about me was that I had come highly recommended by the wives of Samir’s business associates in Agra.
I held my palms open, showing I had nothing to hide. “He likes to ask what I painted on you and where. I always tell him that’s for him to find out.”
She allowed herself a hint of a smile, perhaps recollecting a lusty afternoon with her husband. She touched the diamonds on her earlobe. “How did I not know you had a sister?” The same question Kanta and my seamstress had asked.
I sighed. “Parvati-ji, why would I bore my clients with the petty details of my life? But since you ask. Both my parents died recently, and I’ve taken Radha into my home. She’s working with me now, but she will attend the government school this coming term.”
Parvati picked at a loose thread on the pillow. If she kept pulling it, hundreds of beads no larger than poppy seeds would scatter across the floor.
I smiled with more confidence than I felt. “I’m certain nothing untoward has happened, but I’ll talk to Radha.” By degrees, I could see Parvati’s anger cooling, reluctantly, although she still looked peeved. It was time to press my credentials. “Have I ever let you down in the past ten years? And what about your miracle? Your Govind?”
Parvati’s face brightened at her son’s name.
“It’s important that I win back your trust, Ji. You’ve done so much for me over the years. Introduced me to the best of society.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against her lids. To save face, she needed to deliver the parting shot. “If I catch them together, ever again, it will be the last time you and I have anything to do with one another.” In her indirect way, I knew she was also warning me: stay away from my husband.
Blood pounded on my temples and my stomach felt queasy, but I tipped my chin serenely to indicate that there would never be a need for her to carry out her threat.
Regal once again, she rose, threw her pallu over her shoulder and walked out. Alone in the library, I let myself collapse onto the sofa. Perspiration had soaked my blouse. I used a corner of my sari to dab my forehead and neck. I had seen Parvati angry before, but never more so than today, and never had her anger been directed at me. I found it hard to believe that a simple village girl like Radha, not in the same league as Sheela Sharma, could have attracted Ravi’s attention. If, in fact, that was what had happened.
My reputation relied on Parvati Singh’s word. Without her approval, I would get no work for henna, mandala designs or marriage commissions; my income would come only from the contraceptive sachets I provided Samir—and even those had been jeopardized now.
My insides were in knots. I had to get out of here—now.
Radha and Malik were waiting for me on the front veranda. Malik looked troubled, Radha nervous. I rushed past them, gulping the cool night air, skipping down the front steps to the garden gates.
“Jiji,” Radha said behind me, running to keep up. “I did nothing. Malik and I were coming out of the kitchen when Ravi started talking to me. Ask Malik. He’ll tell you.”
I stopped so abruptly that Malik, who was behind me, tripped on my sari. “Is it true?”
He nodded. “Ravi Sahib saw us when went to the kitchen to put down our dinner plates. He asked if we enjoyed ourselves. We said his performance was first rate. Then Radha—” Malik stopped.
“I told him Othello was a general, not a king, and he’d do better to get rid of the crown.”