The Henna Artist(48)
“Now that would be a miracle,” said Anu, chuckling.
The maharani smiled benevolently at me. I acknowledged her praise by touching a hand to my forehead.
She returned her attention to her cards. “I’d like you to continue seeing Latika several times a week for the next month. She’s sure to relapse when the maharaja permits her to speak to her son again, and she’ll welcome your assistance.” Then Her Highness dismissed me with a nod.
As I walked to the door, I heard her say, “Just my luck, ladies, I’m to open the ceremonies for the Desert Festival next week. Gori, you must accompany me this time. Why should I always be the one to judge the mustache competition?”
“You know what they say—the longer the mustache, the longer the lingam.”
Their laughter followed me out the door and down the corridor.
* * *
Malik and I were on a tonga, headed to our next appointment. I was telling him about the new work we’d be taking on for the Maharani Indira’s friends when the carriage lurched to a stop. The horse reared and whinnied. I grabbed Malik’s arm with one hand and the rickshaw awning with the other to keep us from falling out. What had we hit? Pothole? Rock? Stray dog? Then I saw Hari. Off to our right, gripping the wooden pole he had just jammed into the wheel of our carriage. The driver was gesturing wildly and shouting insults at him. The motorists behind us honked. People turned to stare. Even the white calf by the roadside stopped munching on discarded potato peels to look up.
Malik tugged my arm. “Let’s get off.”
He grabbed our tiffins and jumped off, but I couldn’t move. Malik tossed several rupees at the driver, dragged me off the carriage, gathered the tiffins and pulled me into an alley. My limbs felt heavy, as if I were swimming through oil. Would I truly be tied to Hari for seven lifetimes?
When we were safely out of view, Malik turned and released the tiffins but still held on to my arm.
Hari approached, dropping the pole on the bare dirt.
Malik spat on the ground. “You can’t make an appointment like everyone else?”
Ignoring him, Hari said to me, “You’re never home. I need you.”
“Money?”
“Yes, but—”
“I thought you’d found someone else to help you with that.”
He frowned, looking confused.
“That nautch girl. Have you spent all her money, too?”
He waved a hand. “Oh, her. She—” He stopped and shook his head. “Look. I need your help with this.” He stepped aside. Behind him was a girl, smaller and younger than Malik. She had on a ragged, unwashed frock. No shoes. Her nose was running. Hari turned her, gently. I saw a gash on her right calf, oozing yellow pus.
“I put Maa’s poultice on it, but the infection only got worse,” he said.
I looked at the wound more closely but didn’t move nearer. “Who is she?” Then I glanced at Hari, surprised. “And what do you know about poultices?”
He sighed. “After you left, Maa needed help. At first, I didn’t want to help her, but when she got sick, she begged me to attend to the women who came to her. She taught me the same as she taught you.” He licked his cracked lips. “Here, in Jaipur, people also need help.” With care, he pulled the girl’s thumb out of her mouth. “She’s the daughter of one of the nautch girls.”
Thirteen years ago, I’d known Hari to be a man who would do anything, say anything, to get what he wanted. There was a time, in the first year of our marriage, when I believed everything he told me. Hari would bring shepherd’s purse he’d gathered by the riverbank (“Look, Lakshmi. Heart-shaped, just for you.”). And one time, dried rudraksha seeds. (“What a fine necklace they’ll make!”). At times like those, my heart would soften. Later, I learned the shepherd’s purse had come from saas’s supplies (she used it to treat malaria), and the guru passing through our village had left his prayer beads (made from the coveted blue seeds) behind. I would not be made a fool of again.
“How much this time, Hari?”
“Can’t you see? She needs—”
“How much?”
“She’s a child, Lakshmi.”
“I already gave you hundreds of rupees. Do you know how long I had to work for that? How much?”
He moved his jaw from side to side. His grip on the girl’s shoulders tightened, and she turned her head to look up at him. He shook his head at me, as if I had disappointed him.
I felt a pang of guilt then. If he was telling the truth, I was wrong not to help the girl. She looked like she needed it. Even if I found it hard to believe that Hari had changed enough to carry on Saasuji’s work, I owed it to the girl to do something. I knew my mother-in-law would have helped her.
I looked at Malik, and he let go of my arm. I went to the girl and squatted down to inspect the wound. The gash was deep. The skin around the wound was mottled red and pink and purple. I’d watched Hari’s mother use a disinfected thread and a superfine needle to close the skin, but I’d never done it myself. I suppose I could have tried to do the same for this little girl, but I felt unsure. I didn’t want the wound to get worse; I worried she might lose her leg.
“She needs stitches,” I said. “And disinfectant. And you must cover the wound after.”