The Henna Artist(38)
“But, Jiji, Malik gets to go—”
“He’s been with me a long time, Radha.” I rubbed her slender arm, and trailed my fingers through her thick hair. “Tomorrow, you’ll go to Kanta’s house and tell her why we have to reschedule. She’ll understand. After that, you’ll come straight home, accha? I’ll have a list of chores for you.”
“Nooo!” She turned away from me, sobbing. I knew what it was to be young and powerless. At fifteen, when Maa told me I had to marry Hari, she had been sure—just as I was now—that she was doing the right thing. She had wanted to wait until I was eighteen, the age when she’d been married, but Hari’s offer of marriage had come at the right time: there was no money to feed two, much less three people at Pitaji’s house. I’d cried and cried, begged her to let me stay. I promised to eat less, to work as a servant in someone’s home. She’d cried, too. She said there was no choice; it was more honorable to marry than to be a servant. So I did as my parents instructed, and look how miserable it had made me. Was I making Radha that miserable?
I rubbed my forehead, which felt as if it were in a vise. “In a few weeks you’ll start school and you’ll forget all this. You’ll be too busy with your studies. You’ll see.”
She moved her arm out of my reach.
PART TWO
SEVEN
Jaipur, State of Rajasthan, India
December 21, 1955
The next morning, we set out for the palace. It was a crisp December day, and Radha, Malik and I, huddled in woolen shawls, sat in a tonga loaded with our supplies. As much as I had wanted to be rested and refreshed for my first meeting with a royal personage, I hadn’t slept a wink, getting up every few minutes to add yet another item to our carriers. I hadn’t a clue about what was ailing the younger queen, so I had packed almost every lotion and precious item in my repertoire, including the Kaffir lime leaves I’d ordered from Thailand. So much depended on making a good impression on the elder maharani, the gatekeeper for the ladies of the palace.
The Pink City of Jaipur was a beehive this morning. Our carriage trotted past a basket weaver braiding flattened grass. A turbaned cobbler, who was shaping crude iron into a hammer, looked up as we passed. I watched a woman on the side of the road as she expertly threaded marigolds into cheerful malas.
A woman in a gaudy lime green sari caught my eye. Her color was off, an unhealthy yellow. Her head was uncovered, her hair oily. I had seen enough poor prostitutes in Agra to recognize them by sight. This woman’s cheap sari was a giveaway. The man next to her had his arm around her shoulders. He seemed to be guiding her—or was he forcing her?—along the road.
My heart skipped a beat.
It was Hari.
His clothes were cleaner than the night he’d delivered Radha to me, but there was no mistaking him.
Was the prostitute Hari’s new meal ticket? Was he now managing pleasure girls to pay for his food and lodging? Disgusted, I turned away and willed myself to focus on my task at the palace. Nothing else mattered.
When we arrived at the palace gates, I instructed the tonga-walla to take Radha to Kanta’s address. My sister looked small and frightened in the carriage. Her eyes were swollen—whether from crying or from rising at dawn to help me with our preparations for this morning, or both, I wasn’t sure. Last night, I’d listened to her sniffles and to her attempts to stifle them. She was still angry with me, but she had let me hold her. I’d rubbed her back, and eventually she had fallen asleep.
When the tonga left, Malik and I stood for a moment to take in the maharanis’ palace. Compared to the maharaja’s palace, with its long, winding entrance lined with peepal trees and giant hibiscus, the maharanis’ residence, adjacent to the Pink City, was surprisingly modest. The tall iron gates were flanked by stone elephants, their trunks raised. Behind the gates was a circular driveway, barely large enough for three cars. Today, only one flag was displayed at the guard station, which meant the maharaja was away from the city. When His Highness was in Jaipur, an additional quarter-size flag hung at each of the palaces; he alone was considered to be a man and a quarter.
Clutching our heavy tiffins, we proceeded to the guard station. Malik winked at me—Enjoy this, Auntie-Boss! I smiled nervously at him while going through a mental checklist of my supplies yet again: jasmine and clove oil, the bawchi-coconut hair tonic, neem and geranium lotions, mustard oil, henna paste with extra lemon juice, a khus-khus fan, which I’d soaked overnight (to dry the henna quickly and perfume the air), a tea made from tulsi leaves, white paste from ground sandalwood (to apply to her forehead in case she had a headache), fresh reeds, cool water perfumed with jasmine and a number of sweet and salty edibles designed to elevate the maharani’s mood or increase her desire.
A guard in a red turban and pristine white waistcoat clasped with gold buttons sat behind a barred window. His long gray mustache danced from side to side as he asked me what my business with the palace was. When I told him we had an appointment with the maharani, he frowned and gazed past me, sizing up Malik. “Elder or younger?”
I took a deep breath. “Elder. Maharani Indira.” My voice shook. If she approved of me, I’d be hired to take care of the maharaja’s wife. If I did not please the elder Highness, we could take our supplies home without having opened one tiffin.