The Henna Artist(45)
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A week after I’d begun my daily visits to the palace, I went to Kanta’s for our regular appointment. Radha was already there, seated in an armchair, her finger marking the page in the book they must have been reading together.
Kanta jumped up from the sofa, breathless with her news. “Lakshmi, I’ve been dying to tell you!” Her eyes flickered with joy. “I’m pregnant!” She wrapped her arms around me. “And it’s all thanks to you and your magic henna and your keen designs and I’m sure you must be slipping something naughty in those sweets of yours.”
I smiled. “Kanta, that’s wonderful!” I turned to Radha, “Did you hear?”
Radha raised her eyebrows. She said with a superior air, “Auntie already told me.”
“Saasuji knew before I did,” Kanta said. “I started getting nauseous whenever I opened a book. She said it was like that when she was carrying Manu. Imagine! My mother-in-law and I finally have something in common besides my husband!” She chuckled.
Her happiness was infectious; I found myself laughing, too.
Kanta put an arm around Radha’s shoulders. “That’s why it’s been so wonderful having Radha read to me. I can’t do it for myself anymore!” she cackled.
We walked to Kanta’s bedroom where she took off her sari. “Saasuji thinks the baby can see what I wear. If it makes her happy to see me in saris, fine.” She lay down on her divan. “Let’s do another baby mandala on my tummy to ensure a good-looking boy like Manu.”
My sister had followed us into the bedroom and sat on the bed, as if she lived there.
“Radha, please keep reading while Lakshmi works her magic.”
Happier to do Kanta’s bidding than mine, Radha smiled smugly and opened the book she’d been carrying to the page where they had left off. I looked at the cover. Daisy Miller. I hadn’t read it, but my ladies had talked about it. The novel was about a teenage American girl on a European tour. How generous of Kanta to help Radha improve her English—and her knowledge of the world. I was grateful that she had time for my sister when I didn’t. My days were so busy that it was a relief to have Radha taken off my hands.
“Oh, Lakshmi! Tomorrow I’m taking Radha to that American film I told you about. Some Like It Hot. Starring Miss Marilyn Monroe!” Kanta rattled on cheerfully like a purple-rumped sunbird. “And next month, Mr. and Mrs. 55 is coming back for another run—it was so popular the first time! We’ll go see that, too. You don’t mind, do you, Lakshmi?”
How could I deny her when she was so generously chaperoning my sister? I glanced at Radha, who I knew was eagerly waiting for my answer even as she feigned indifference. I felt a vague sense of unease, but said, “Of course not. It’s very good of you, Kanta.”
Radha offered me a small smile.
My sister needed a friend, and so did Kanta. Allowing them to spend more time together was my way of asking Radha to forgive me for spending so little time with her. Or so I told myself.
EIGHT
January 5, 1956
During my second week of daily visits with the Maharani Latika, I sensed a shift. When I arrived, the young queen looked directly in my eyes. The dark color around her lids had lightened and she looked alert. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot. I touched her feet, inquired after her health. She didn’t respond but continued to study me with her large eyes.
“Her Highness slept a full six hours last night!” said the noblewoman who read aloud to the young queen.
I couldn’t conceal my excitement. I opened a tiffin with the lemon slices I had candied the night before. “Perhaps a celebration is in order?” I asked. My saas had taught me that women who had suffered a deep loss needed remedies rich in fruit and essences of flowers. Lemon promoted energy and gastric fire; the candied fruit would increase Her Highness’s appetite. “If you will permit me, Your Highness?”
Maharani Latika raised her eyebrows and looked to her ladies for guidance.
The first lady-in-waiting instructed one of the bearers to take the tiffin down to the kitchen. Food prepared outside the palace was suspect and one of the cook’s assistants would have to sample it before the maharani did. If all went well today, in a few days I could serve her creamy rasmalai, homemade curds with sugar, cardamom and rose petals. The maharani’s cheeks had become hollow; for weeks, she had refused everything but a dal as thin as drinking water. By feeding her foods that stimulated hunger in her belly, I was hoping to correct the vata imbalance in her body. When we could switch to heavier textures like curds and spices like cardamom, her depression would lift more quickly.
Today, Her Highness took an interest in the henna and watched while I drew. Each day I added to the pattern from the day before. First, I had painted her nails, the tips of her fingers and her wrists with solid henna paste. I did the same thing to her toes and the soles of her feet. Another day, I drew intertwining branches down each finger, thumb and toe. The day after: a complex pattern of leaves on the backs of both hands and the tops of her feet. Now, I surrounded each leaf with tiny dots around the edges. My goal was to cover every inch of the skin on her hands and feet with henna; the more henna I applied, the more the calming properties of the paste would relax her mind and body, and allow Her Highness to rest.