The Henna Artist(50)

I blinked. My sister, who had looked up to me, called me “Jiji” for the first time just three months ago, acted as if she no longer cared what I said or did for her. Should I have been glad she was detaching herself from me, becoming independent, making her own decisions? But I wasn’t. I missed the other Radha, the one who had clung to me on our cot, cried helplessly and told me about Maa and Pitaji and her life in Ajar.

I rose carefully to standing and smoothed my sari. I watched her add ground cloves to the mixture. When I could speak without a tremor in my voice, I said, “If you change your mind about coming to the palace—”

“I won’t. Leave the tiffins. I’ll wash them before coming up,” she said, reaching for the cardamom, the clipped edges of her words cutting off any further discussion.





      NINE


    February 12, 1956


The Maharani School for Girls consisted of three horizontal buildings, each two stories tall. I stood across the street from the school, watching a line of cars go through the gates, down a paved driveway, around the circular courtyard and back out into the street. Drivers in khaki shirts and pleated knickers held back doors open for young MemSahibs who were going home for lunch. A few day scholars were walking to local food stalls for their meal. The boarders ate at the school cafeteria.

The younger girls, eight to twelve years old, wore light blue skirts and half-sleeve shirts with a red sash. Students Radha’s age and older wore a blue kameez, white salwaar and a maroon chunni. Every girl had a maroon cardigan on—Jaipur in February was chilly. I’d heard that the maharani had been involved in every detail of her school—from the uniform, the selection of Miss Genevieve as principal (she’d been Her Highness’s tutor at her Swiss boarding school) to the lunch menu (no fried foods, plenty of vegetables and fruits, no sugar).

It was Radha’s first week at the Maharani School, and I wanted to take her to lunch. With everything going on, I’d barely seen her to ask how she liked it and what her classes were like. My heart grew full as I watched her skip down the front steps of the main building. Her complexion was rosy. Her uniform smart and neat. (This morning when I offered her a lift in the rickshaw with Malik and me, she’d wrinkled her nose. She said she didn’t want to smell the sweat of the rickshaw-walla or wrinkle her clothes.)

As Radha came down the last step, Sheela Sharma cut in front of her, bringing my sister to an abrupt halt. Without apologizing, Sheela dove into the back seat of her family’s sedan. Radha’s mouth tightened.

I held my breath.

To my relief, Radha resumed her walk to the guard’s station to check herself out for lunch. The gateman took his time looking for Radha’s name on his clipboard. She seemed nervous, glancing up the street, chewing on her lip.

I called to her. She turned, startled. She didn’t look pleased to see me, which, by now, I was learning to take in stride. I was carrying no tiffins, no carriers—only a handbag.

She took another look up the street. Her shoulders slumped.

“How smart you look in your uniform!” I said brightly.

She looked down at her clothes, self-conscious, as if I’d spotted a stain on it.

Hooking one of her slim arms in mine, I guided her to the chaat shops at the other end of the street. “I thought I’d take you to lunch.” I stopped to rearrange the long chunni so it fell evenly across her shoulders. “How are you enjoying school?”

“Fine.”

“Come now.” I took her arm again and resumed strolling. “This is your first big-city school—not like Pitaji’s little shack. There must be some surprises? Have you met anyone you’d like to have as a friend?”

She wagged her head from side to side and shrugged. Yes. No. Perhaps.

Two girls in uniforms identical to Radha’s overtook us and turned to smile at my sister, but she was too distracted to return the greeting.

I squeezed her arm. “It must be wonderful. So many new experiences.” With a practiced eye, I judged the wares of each chaat vendor we passed: samosas, choles, pakoras, dal batti.

“How about some sev puri? Puris take so long to make at home, and here we can order them fresh off the stove.” I looked to her for confirmation.

She raised her brows. “You don’t approve of street food.”

She was right, but I said I wanted to make an exception. She managed a slight nod. We sat at a small table in front of the food stand.

“Tell me about your teachers.”

Tracing a finger along a groove in the wooden table, she sighed. “The Hindi teacher is small and thin and has dandruff in her hair. You would not like the way she cleans her neck.”

“Radha! Is that any way to speak about those who teach you reading-writing?”

She met my eye as if to ask, Have you come all this way to scold me?

I put my hand over hers. “Pitaji would be so proud of you.”

“He would have been happy with the government school.”

It was true that our father had supported free education for all castes. But a chance at the Maharani School—the girls she would get to know, the opportunities! Even he would have been excited.

Our tea arrived in small glass tumblers, the potato-and-chutney puri wrapped in newspaper. She must have been hungry because she took a large bite. Automatically, I laid a hand on her forearm to remind her to eat like a lady. She checked to see if any girls from her class had seen me correcting her, making me wish I hadn’t.