The Henna Artist(52)

Mr. Naraya laughed so hard his belly rippled under the kurta. “Am I crazy?”

I backed away.

“You don’t look well, Mrs. Shastri. Why don’t I drive you to wherever it is you keep your money?”

I clutched my handbag tightly, as if the money were in there. “No. I’ll meet you at 3:00 p.m. Just outside the Jhori Bazaar gate. With your money.”

He pointed his toothpick at me. “See how easy that was?”



* * *



I had no choice but to ask Samir. He had offered me a loan before, and I knew he could spare it, but I hated to ask. As fiercely committed as I was to having a house of my own—my dream of an independent life—debts were abhorrent to me, more so if they came from friends. Especially if they came from Samir. Our arrangement was based strictly on the sachets; after Parvati’s holiday party, I wanted to avoid any other personal entanglements with him.

I checked my pocket watch: 1:30 p.m. At this time of day, unless he was taking a client to lunch, Samir would most likely be at his office.

I hailed a rickshaw.

When I arrived at the office building with the tall white colonnades, I almost lost my nerve. My hands felt clammy. I wanted to turn around. But where else would I get the money? Banks? When had they ever loaned money to a woman without a husband?

Then, a chilling thought: How was I different from Hari, begging for money, begging for time?

I stepped out of the rickshaw before I changed my mind.



* * *



“Well, this is a surprise,” Samir said. He indicated the chair in front of his desk. His office, enclosed in glass, was on one side of a large open space where five draftsmen were busy at their desks. “Tea?”

I shook my head. “It’s urgent. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.” I wet my lips. “The builder’s invoice. I’ve passed the deadline.”

He didn’t hesitate. “How much?”

I handed him the receipt. “I’ll pay you back with interest.”

Samir whistled when he read the receipt, then looked at me. He walked to the office safe behind him, opened it with the combination and took out a bundle of bills. He inserted them in an envelope, handed the envelope to me and sat down again.

I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry, Samir. I thought I could do it on my own. I sat in my chair a moment longer. “Do you want a...receipt?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners and he fought back a smile. He stood.

Time for me to go, I thought. I nodded my thanks, then hurried through the office doors, the fat envelope in my hand. I allowed myself a sigh of relief. Samir had made the asking so easy.

Coming out of the building, I almost crashed into Parvati.

I froze. For once I couldn’t come up with any small talk. Couldn’t think of a lie to explain what I was doing here.

Last December, at the holiday party, she had all but warned me to stay away from her husband. Yet here I was, at his office door. I felt my cheeks redden. It’s not what you think, I wanted to say. It’s not how it looks. Isn’t that what Radha had said when Parvati found blue greasepaint on her skin?

Parvati’s gaze landed on the envelope in my hand. Her eyebrows shot up.

I put my hands together, one still holding the envelope, to greet her. I sputtered, “Samir Sahib...ordered—I delivered...they’re for his clients.”

It was partially true. He did buy my hair tonic for the Maharani Indira once a month. Just not today. In my harried state, I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I had to meet my builder in half an hour. I couldn’t afford to lose my house! Flustered, I rushed past her to flag down a rickshaw.



* * *



The day after, Parvati sent a note canceling her next appointment.





      PART THREE





      TEN


    Jaipur, State of Rajasthan, India

March 15, 1956


By March, our henna business had grown so much that I had to put new clients on a waiting list. The three of us were busy around the clock. Radha mixed henna paste before she left for the Maharani School. Malik and I packed the tiffins and traveled across Jaipur to our appointments. After school, Radha went to Kanta’s. When she returned to Mrs. Iyengar’s in the evening, she helped me cook delicacies for the ladies. All of us were so exhausted by day’s end that we only spoke when necessary.

Did you get the limes we needed for the hair tonic?

How is your math homework coming?

Did we get reimbursed for the stale bawchi oil?

I was also finishing up the Rajnagar house. Using Samir’s loan, I had paid off Narayan and hired another builder to complete the privy. There was still no electricity, but we could manage with lanterns. We were almost ready to move in.

One fine morning, when the temperature had not yet begun to rise, I was bringing a few tiffins down the stairs for our first appointment of the day. Radha and Malik had gone down before me. When I got to the courtyard doors, I heard them talking outside.

“No, it was you. I saw you as clearly as I see you now in front of me.” Malik sounded as if he were talking to someone much younger, who needed explaining.

“What if it were me? I don’t owe you any explanations, Malik.”