The Henna Artist(44)
Word of my visits to the palace spread like ghee on a hot chapatti. All it took was for the mango vendor to spot us at the palace gates and tell his wife, who told her neighbor, who told his brother-in-law, who told his doctor, who told his washerwoman, who dropped off the ironing at the house of one of my ladies. Before long, my services were being requested by new clients for every celebration and ceremony: engagement, seventh month of pregnancy, baby’s birth, baby eats his first solid food, baby gets his first haircut, boy comes of age, first entry into a newly built house, birth of Hanuman, fire worship for Goddess Durga, the Great Night of Shiva, job promotion, acceptance to university, a safe journey ceremony, a safe arrival ceremony. In India, there was no shortage of rites and rituals, and the three of us were busy from morning to late evening. Radha prepared the henna paste and helped me cook the savories. I attended to the Maharani Latika in the mornings and to my ladies in the afternoons and evenings. Malik crisscrossed the city, delivering my creams, oils and lotions, sales of which had tripled. It was a good time for us; I should have enjoyed it more, but I couldn’t—not until the Maharani Latika could resume her royal duties.
Many of our new clients were eager for gossip.
Is the Maharani Latika as beautiful as one hears?
Tell us about the sofas that seat ten people!
Is it true that the silver urns at the palace are as tall as a man?
Do they serve meat in the dining room?
Even the ladies I had attended for years couldn’t help sneaking in a query or two: Are all the maharani’s saris from Paris? What does her georgette pattern look like?
My favorite ladies, like Mrs. Patel, who were not impressed by wealth or title, remained incurious. A sixtysomething matron, quiet and placid, who kept the books for her husband’s hotel, Mrs. Patel said, “I hope you are taking rest, Lakshmi. Times like these can be very disquieting,” before lapsing into companionable silence.
Malik remained discreet. I’d advised him how to answer questions from gatemen, servants and tonga-wallas. He could describe the paintings of maharanis on royal hunts to Rajput families but not to Brahmins (vegetarians). He could talk about the scented gardens, but not the details of European plumbing in the royal loo (too vulgar). He could say that the palace band employed forty musicians but not reveal that each of the three chefs—Bengali, Rajasthani and English—had a separate kitchen and his own assistants (too showy).
Radha went about her tasks with barely a word. Once she’d finished, she went to Kanta’s. Since the new school term hadn’t yet begun, Kanta had suggested that my sister read to her in the afternoons. I thought it a splendid idea. By the time I arrived at our lodgings late in the evenings, I assumed she’d be eager to share her day—in fact, I looked forward to it—but she would just lay on the cot, her back to me, reading a book Kanta had lent her.
I would ask what she was reading. Her answers were curt. “A book.” If I asked which book, she would say, “You wouldn’t know it.” I would reply, “Try me,” to which she might say, “A novel by one of the Bront?s.”
She knew perfectly well that I was familiar with all three. Hadn’t we been raised by the same father who taught us to read English aloud by the age of three? We may only have been able to sound out words without knowing their meaning, but his methods started us reading literature from an early age.
I couldn’t believe she was still mad at me about not being able to go to the palace. It was infuriating. I was the older sister, the provider. I set the rules, and she should obey them without question, like a good younger sister should. But I buried my anger. With time, she would get over it. With time, she would learn to accept what she couldn’t change.
Look at me: despite my repeated objections, I hadn’t been able to change my fate; I’d ended up married to Hari.
* * *
During my next appointment with Mrs. Sharma, she congratulated me on the palace commission. Emboldened, I said I wanted to discuss the marriage I had proposed between Sheela and Ravi. (Samir had already started discussing a joint bid arrangement for the Rambagh Palace contract with Mr. Sharma, so my bringing up the subject was only natural.) Mrs. Sharma met me halfway, unable to hide the smile that was pushing the mole up the side of her cheek, and played her own hand. In lieu of giving a dowry, the Sharma family wanted to build a house for Sheela and Ravi, provided the marriage went forward. Sheela preferred not to live with her future husband’s family, as per custom. Mrs. Sharma said, “One family opposed this request, and we had to reject their offer.”
I could see why Jaipur families found Sheela’s request untenable; joint family compounds were the norm. Even Kanta and Manu, who were modern and Westernized, lived with Manu’s widowed mother. Parvati would fight like a tiger to have her firstborn son live with her. She would argue that there was plenty of room in the Singh mansion; Ravi and Sheela could have their own wing.
If I wanted the marriage commission—and I did—it was up to me to find a solution to suit both parties. An irritant, to be sure, but I was close to sealing this agreement. I wasn’t about to give up now. With less wealthy families, the value of the dowry was usually the sticking point: how much money, how much gold, how many silk saris. But the Singhs and Sharmas weren’t going to haggle over money; satisfying their demands required finesse, creativity and more than a little luck.