The Henna Artist(46)
When the bearer returned with the candied lemons, now arranged on an imperial blue china plate, the lady-in-waiting took it from him. She offered the plate to the young queen. Her Highness hesitated before taking a lemon slice. All eyes were on her. Even the guru looked up from his prayer with pursed lips as if he were about to suck the candy.
The maharani took a tiny bite, chewed and swallowed. She closed her eyes and took another bite. The tension in the room eased; shoulders were lowered as everyone breathed a collective sigh.
The lady-in-waiting resumed her reading. “‘When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down, the moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes amongst the bamboos. The crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.’”
* * *
The following day, Her Highness was dressed in an eggplant silk sari. Her ladies had placed a matching purple bindi on her forehead. The borders of her blouse were hand-embroidered in gold and green flowers. Her hair gleamed with the bawchi-coconut oil I’d left with her dresser the day before. At the last minute, I’d added a drop of peppermint, which now perfumed the air along with the guru’s sandalwood incense.
I exchanged smiles with the ladies.
“Good morning.”
We all turned to stare at Her Highness, who had uttered this greeting. It came out as a croak; she hadn’t spoken in a month. She cleared her throat, and one of her attendants rushed over with a glass of water.
After taking a few sips, Maharani Latika tried again. “Good morning.”
Her voice was scratchy. Her Highness put her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. I thought she was about to cry. Then a shy smile spread slowly across her face. She opened her eyes and patted her chest. She was attempting a laugh, as if the sound of her hoarse voice amused her.
“Hai Bhagwan. It is a very good morning, Your Highness,” the guru said.
* * *
That evening, after using the privy in the Iyengar’s backyard, I was climbing the steps to our lodgings when I overheard Radha and Malik in our room. The door to the room was ajar. Since Radha rarely spoke to me at any length these days, conversations between the two of them were the only way I knew what was going on in her life. I stopped on the landing to listen.
“Marilyn Monroe is so different from Indian women, Malik.” Radha sounded dreamy. “Her skin is white like the petals of the champa flower, and her hair is fluffy—like the cotton candy they sell at the theater.”
“Gopal says her clothes are so tight he can’t help staring at her breasts. They look like mountains on the cinema screen,” Malik said.
“Your friend is a cheeky boy.”
The more time my sister spent with Kanta, the haughtier Radha sounded, as if she were trying on city sophistication for size. It was hard to believe she was the same girl with the dusty petticoat, dirty nails and unkempt hair I’d met just three months ago. It made me a little nervous, how quickly she was changing. Was she growing up too fast? On the other hand, when I caught sight of her in a smart salwar-kameez with her hair glistening in a neat bun, didn’t it make me glow with pride? My very own Pygmalion sculpture?
“Was the movie funny?” Malik asked.
“I guess so. Kanta Auntie explained to me the bits I didn’t understand. Miss Monroe has the best smile.” A pause. “Do you think Americans have more teeth than we do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they just smile more.”
“Hmm. They certainly have better teeth than the Angreji.”
“Everybody has better teeth than the English!”
They laughed.
After a pause, Radha said, “That’s the first film I’ve seen in color.”
“I thought you told me it was your first film ever.”
“Arré! You don’t have to remember everything I tell you.”
Malik chuckled.
“Although,” Radha mused, “maybe her teeth look whiter because her lips are so red.”
For a moment I heard only the jangle of stainless steel plates. Then: “Radha, does lipstick have a taste?”
“How should I know?”
“I saw you. When I was doing errands. You were standing at the polo grounds of the Jaipur Club. You had lipstick on.”
“You were spying on me?” Radha’s voice was sharp.
“Ow!” She must have pinched his earlobe. “No! I’m too busy to spy on you!”
After a pause, Radha said, “Kanta Auntie wanted me to try it on. She often has me try on her things.”
I felt my chest tighten. Kanta was encouraging my thirteen-year-old sister to put on lipstick?
“You know what Gopal says about lipstick, Radha? The girls in Bombay are born wearing it. Saves time when they become film stars.”
I heard Malik’s throaty chuckle and Radha’s deep laugh. She sounded happy.
The Jaipur Club was where the elite played polo and tennis and sipped cocktails on the veranda. It wasn’t the kind of place I had ever been invited. Kanta and Manu belonged to the club, but they hardly ever went there because Manu didn’t play tennis or polo. If Kanta had taken my sister, surely she would have mentioned it. I didn’t want to confront Kanta about indulging Radha too much; I would appear ungrateful and petty. It would seem as if I were jealous of the joy Kanta was bringing to my sister’s life.