The Henna Artist(39)
The guard asked us to wait. For the tenth time, I checked the pocket watch Samir had given me—I didn’t want to be late. After some minutes, another attendant appeared. He led us through an arched door and down a series of hallways lined with Persian carpets, tables made of silver and displays of Rajput spears, shields and swords. Our guide moved briskly, and we struggled to keep up with him, weighed down as we were with our supplies. I was out of breath, both from hurrying after our attendant and from the anxiety of meeting a maharani for the first time. We entered a colonnade flanked by lush gardens. Topiary elephants frolicked on the lawns. Live peacocks pranced around circular fountains. Stone urns sprouted honeysuckle, jasmine and sweet pea. We walked through a breezeway fronting a three-story building that, I assumed, was the ladies’ quarters. The younger queen, Maharani Latika, had attempted to abolish purdah, but the centuries-old tradition had proved hard to overturn, and the palace females continued to live separately from the males.
We passed under a scalloped arch painted in blue, green and red enamel and outlined in gold—a peacock in courtship display. How Radha would love all this! I felt a pang of guilt for making her stay home. I glanced at Malik, who I knew was also thinking of her. His eyes were darting left, right, up, down, like a badminton birdie. He was storing details to share with her later.
Now we entered what looked like a waiting room. I recognized the elegant lines of the French chaise-longue from my ladies’ homes. Opposite was a row of damask chairs, the arms of which ended in gold tassels. On the center table, which was almost as wide as my one-room house, were marigold roses in a cut-glass vase. Chandeliers glittered from the ceiling. And on the walls, Rajput history: portraits of former maharanis in ermine capes or in riding gear, ready for a hunt.
The attendant gestured for us to sit. He knocked on double doors three times his height, each door ornately carved with a scene from Rajasthani life: shepherding, farming, shoemaking.
Malik raised his eyebrows at me, mouthing, “Pallu.” Taking the hint, I draped the embroidered end of my best silk sari, the cream one I’d worn last night at the Singhs’ holiday party, over my hair.
Our guide disappeared briefly through the door, then returned and held the door open. Earlier, we had agreed that Malik would wait with our supplies in the waiting room while I met with the maharani privately. Now, he grinned and wagged his head from side to side in approval, giving me courage.
I walked through the door. It closed behind me with the barest of clicks.
I found myself in a beautifully appointed sitting room. The ceiling, high above us, depicted the courtship of Ram and Sita. Facing me were three damask sofas, the middle one occupied by a stout woman of about fifty in emerald green silk. Her blouse was stamped in a gold boteh motif. She was playing patience, the cards spread in front of her on a polished mahogany table. Dense salt-and-pepper hair, cut into a pageboy, grazed her shoulders and her diamond kundan necklace.
It was the first time I’d stood in front of royalty, and I felt a tickle in my throat. Was I going to cough in front of the maharani? I swallowed, fought the urge to clear my throat. With trembling hands, I adjusted my sari to cover more of my hair and walked toward her, my hands clasped in a namaste. When I reached the sofa, I bent to touch first her feet and then my own forehead. She waved me away with a flick of her bejeweled fingers.
She had just extracted a card from the deck and was looking for a place to put it, deciding finally to lay it facedown on the table.
“You see,” she said, “I’m always looking for the king, but he eludes me.” Her voice was deep and husky.
A high-pitched whistle made me stand straighter. From an elaborate silver cage behind the sofa, a bright green parakeet turned its head to fix, first, one eye on me, then the other. The door to the cage was open.
The maharani, who had yet to look directly at me, made a careless gesture at the cage. “Meet,” she said, “Madho Singh.”
The bird said, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!” and whistled again, rolling a black tongue in his red beak. His neck was ringed iridescent black and bright pink, as if he were wearing a necklace like the maharani. His top feathers were the color of a summer sky.
I had heard of talking Alexandrine parakeets but never seen one myself. He was beautiful. “Your Highness has named the parakeet after the late maharaja?”
She fixed her dark eyes on mine for the first time and arched an eyebrow. “Regrettably, the two never met. My husband died thirty-three years ago, and little Madho Singh is only fifteen.” She regarded me coolly, from head to toe. “Please sit.”
I did so on the adjacent sofa, smoothing my sari over my knees to calm myself.
Yet another attendant, who must have been standing just inside the door, came forward quietly.
“Tea,” the maharani said.
He bowed and left the room. She pulled another card from the deck. “You’ve been to the Elephant Festival?”
“I’ve not had the pleasure, Your Highness.”
“Great fun it used to be. Rajputs came from all over to play polo on their gorgeous elephants. Everything was painted: tusks, trunks, feet. They would even paint the nails.” She swept an arm around the room to indicate how vast the decorations had been. “Before Maharani Latika married my stepson, I used to give the prize for the best decorated elephant. One year, as a gesture of appreciation, they presented me with little Madho Singh.”