The Henna Artist(47)
But I didn’t want Radha to become obsessed only with superficial things. I wanted her to have the higher education I never had. It was too much to hope she could study abroad like Kanta, but it was within my reach to hire tutors to supplement her studies at a government school and pass the difficult exams for a local college.
I took a deep breath; school was starting in another week and Radha’s head would be filled with math equations and scientific theories instead of what brand of toothpaste Marilyn Monroe used.
* * *
After two weeks of treatment, Maharani Latika had begun to get the bloom back in her cheeks. Today, her dresser had chosen a red georgette sari shot with fine silver threads. The ruby shade of Her Highness’s lipstick complemented her black hair, which had been teased in the manner of a film star. A silver maang tikka in the center part of her hair ended in a teardrop ruby. The transformation was breathtaking. Bearing no resemblance to the queen in low spirits I had first encountered, this woman radiated good health and well-being. The treats I’d been feeding her, as well as the oils I massaged her with, had done wonders for her mood.
It was time to put the finishing touch on my henna design. In the center of her left palm, I drew her name in Hindi: Latika. On the right palm, I wrote her son’s name in henna: Madhup. When I lifted her hands so she could see what I had done, she gasped.
“When you think of your son, Your Highness, you need only bring your palms together to be close to him.” It was a risk, I knew. Reminding her of what she’d lost could backfire, trigger another depression. But as I’d tended her body these past few weeks, I’d sensed the steel of her muscles, the resolve in her tendons, the strength of the current in her veins. She was a woman who would always look forward despite setbacks, and I’d set in motion the healing she needed to guide her there.
Her eyes filled and a tear trickled down her cheek. One of her ladies dabbed her face with an embroidered handkerchief.
“Lakshmi,” she said. Since she had started talking again, her voice had become stronger.
I wasn’t aware that she knew my name. “Your Highness?”
“Thank you.”
The heat I felt behind my eyes was relief—and pride—for summoning every skill I’d developed to soothe her ravaged soul. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I lowered my eyes and tipped my head slightly to acknowledge her gratitude.
“Maharani Indira tells me you have a younger sister.”
Surprised that the two queens talked, much less knew, about my private life, I nodded. “Yes. Radha. She’s thirteen.”
“Does she go to school?”
“In another week, she’ll start at the government school near our lodgings.”
The maharani looked at me and cleared her throat. “Would you consider having her attend my school?”
For a moment I forgot my manners and stared. The Maharani School for Girls was the most prestigious in the state of Rajasthan. Marahani Latika had founded it to train young ladies in the arts of grace and self-sufficiency. My clients could afford to send their daughters there, but even with the increase in my business, I could never have earned enough to pay the tuition.
As if she had read my mind, Her Highness waved a hand and said, “No need to worry about the fees.”
I continued to stare at her. A place at the maharani’s school meant Radha would have a future far better than any I could have imagined for her. It meant she might be able to study abroad—just like Kanta—and see the larger world, something I’d only dreamed of doing. Yesterday, I hadn’t even thought it was possible!
The queen looked down at her open palms, sighed and brought them together in a namaste, stopping just short of smudging the wet henna. “I’m grateful for what you have done for me.”
I was overcome with emotion. And relief. What had seemed an overwhelming task had come, finally, to fruition. I lowered my head and returned her namaste.
When I could control my voice, I said, “May you always wear red, Your Highness.”
I did not complete the traditional blessing: And may your sons carry on your husband’s name. Her only son, Madhup, would never be crown prince, and at this point, it would have been kinder to wish that she would never be a widow.
* * *
I was summoned by the dowager queen for my daily status report. An assistant led me to the salon where she had first interviewed me, only this time she was sitting at a card table with three other elegant and bejeweled ladies. A bridge game was in progress. I brought my hands into a namaste for Her Highness first, then her companions.
Madho Singh whistled and squawked, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!” He flew from his cage to the top of his mistress’s chair.
Maharani Indira said to the woman across the table, “Nalani, you met Helen Keller in Bombay a few months ago, but the real miracle worker is standing to your right.”
The woman called Nalani scrutinized me over her half-moon lenses. “Is that right?”
Her Highness studied her cards. “Ladies, meet Lakshmi Shastri, who has brought our young maharani back from the depths of gloom.”
I smiled. “I’m pleased to be of service, Your Highness.”
“I believe, Gori, that you’re hosting the French Minister of Finance next month. What a treat it would be for his wife to have Lakshmi henna her hands! And, Anu, aren’t you welcoming your third grandchild soon? Lakshmi is just the woman to design your mandala. She’ll work her magic, and before you can blink, you’ll have a grandson.”