The Henna Artist(42)

Now, as I was led to the rooms of the young maharani, I busied my mind studying the enameled patterns around the doorways, the latticework framing the windows, the mosaics decorating the marble floors and walls, the stories woven into the silk carpets. Centuries ago, the princes of Jaipur had invited the best stone carvers, dyers, jewelers, painters and weavers from foreign lands—Persia, Egypt, Africa, Turkey—to showcase their talents. By the time I arrived at Her Highness Latika’s bedroom, my anxieties had lessened; my mind was calmer.

To the left of the door, a guru sat cross-legged on a padded mat, rocking back and forth, rolling a strand of beads through his fingers. An orange bindi made from turmeric powder ran from his brow to his hairline. The folds of his white tunic pooled around his substantial stomach. In front of him, smoke from an incense cone curled lazily toward the ceiling.

The Maharani Latika rested against cream satin pillows on a four-poster bed. She was not a widow, yet she wore a white sari of fine muslin and a white blouse. Three court ladies, dressed in silk saris, attended to her. The one combing the queen’s hair was obviously her dresser. Another lady fanned her, while the third read aloud from a poetry book. I recognized the poem as Tagore’s. Dark? However dark she be, I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes. The court women looked up when I entered the room but continued with their tasks. I folded my hands in namaste and walked up to the bed, touching the air above the maharani’s feet and pulling any jealous energy up to my forehead. But her listless eyes stared straight ahead, as if she hadn’t seen me. I greeted the ladies with my hands, and they cocked their heads in acknowledgment.

Whether by design or purpose, the room was dark, so I asked the bearer to set my carriers near the window where I could see more clearly. I looked around for a low stool and the bearer brought me an upholstered one. I unpacked the items I would need, then rinsed my hands in the cool jasmine water from one of my containers. After that, I oiled them. Carefully, I lifted the queen’s hand. Her skin was dry and cool. She stirred. From the corner of my eye, I saw her head turn toward me, and although I had avoided looking her in the eye, I did so now. I’d heard about her beauty, which had captivated the maharaja at first sight. Her eyes, round and luminous, with mahogany centers, appeared naked, unable to hide her immense sadness. The tender skin around the lids was darker than the rest of her complexion, as if it had been seared. Her Highness wore no jewelry. The red vermillion powder snaking through the part in her hair was her only ornament. One of her attendants must have put it there.

Her gaze dropped to her hand, the one I was holding. She fanned her fingers and examined them as if she’d never seen them before. The tips of her nails were well cared for, having been trimmed into a rounded shape, the cuticles pushed back. She released a long sigh and retreated, again, into her personal reverie. I could go to work now.

One morning after I had gone to live with Hari and his mother, I saw three purple-pink eggs near where I was washing clothes along the riverbank. I heard a shrill, Kink-a-joo! Kink-a-joo! and saw, under a bush, a red-whiskered bulbul watching me, tilting her head—first this way, then that. She was leaning to one side, dragging a wing on the ground. I ran back home to get my saas, who said the bird must have been hurt before she could fly up to her nest to lay her eggs. At home, my mother-in-law made a poultice to immobilize the wing. Two weeks went by before the wing healed, after which saas told me to let the bird go where I’d found her. When I did, the bulbul looked in vain for her eggs, which had long since disappeared. I hadn’t been able to save her eggs; neither could I bring Maharani Latika’s son home, but, with time, I could help heal her wound.

I started by gently massaging her hands and feet so she could get used to my touch. I had worked with my ladies a long time, and they trusted me, but the Maharani Latika didn’t know me, hadn’t even acknowledged me, so it was difficult for her to relax the way she could relax in the hands of her dresser. With the mixture I’d created this morning—sesame and coconut oils and extracts from brahmi and thyme leaves—I stroked the area between her thumb and forefinger. I rubbed the pulse point of her wrist. Likewise, I worked on the arch of her feet, pressing the crevice between her middle and big toes to release tension. The noblewoman who was reading from the book of poetry set the pace with her hypnotic rhythm.

After a while, I felt the maharani’s bones begin to soften and heard her breath reach deeper into her lungs. I continued massaging up her arms and legs and back down to her hands and feet with my oils for the next hour. I stretched her tendons, loosened her limbs, opened her meridians. If her muscles resisted, I directed my attention on pressure points to release the tension. As I worked, I kept my mind focused on transferring my energy to her. Everything else fell away.

When I felt her arms go limp, I hazarded a look at Her Highness. She had fallen asleep. It wouldn’t last, but, for the first visit, this was as much as she could handle.

When I’d gathered my supplies, an attendant escorted me through another set of hallways to a room made of glass and filled entirely with orchids. The air was humid here, the temperature much warmer than the air-conditioned palace. I felt a fine layer of sweat gathering above my upper lip.

With a tiny pair of silver scissors, the elder maharani was trimming dead leaves from a plant. Half-moons of sweat stained the underarms of her silk blouse.

Without turning, the Maharani Indira said, “The sooner Latika recovers, the sooner I can get back to my babies.” From a nearby table, she picked up a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid and jiggled it. “Gin and tonic. Care for one, Mrs. Shastri?”