The Henna Artist(53)



“Who said you did? Just be careful, accha?”

Lately, they had been bickering like tetchy siblings. I put it down to too much work and not enough sleep.

I stepped through the gates. “Careful about what?”

Radha shot a hot glance at Malik before she walked away, headed for school.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he said, “Be right back. I forgot the khus-khus fans.”



* * *



I attended to Maharani Latika once a week now, more as a way for her to relax than recuperate. The young queen’s mourning period was all but over. She was becoming more involved in the day-to-day workings of her school.

One day as Malik and I arrived at the palace, a sleek black Bentley was just coming out of the gates.

Maharani Latika leaned out of the driver’s window. She was wearing dark sunglasses and a white chiffon scarf. Her lady-in-waiting sat in the passenger seat.

“I was hoping to catch you!” Her lips widened in a brilliant smile. “I regret I must cancel today, but the bursar will pay you. I’ve decided to teach the young ladies the fox trot. Why not come along and watch your sister?”

I was torn. I would love to see Radha dance like a fine lady, but would Radha want me to see her? Or would she think I was spying on her?

I politely declined. I decided to go see Kanta instead. I wanted to see how her pregnancy was progressing, and to be honest, I wanted to talk to her about Radha. As much as I told myself my sister would outgrow her sullenness with me, I wasn’t convinced. Kanta, who was closer in age to Radha, would know better how I should deal with it.



* * *



I found Kanta relaxing on her living room couch, listening to the radio. She was happy to see me and called for tea. She told me she’d been spotting blood, and her doctor had advised her to lie prone for the remainder of her pregnancy. She pulled her sari off her shoulder, revealing her belly, proudly displaying the small swelling there.

“Don’t laugh at me, Lakshmi, but I’ve taken to doing puja with Saasuji!” Kanta chuckled when she saw the look on my face. “I’ll do anything to bring good luck on my baby.”

I smiled and held up my hands in surrender.

Her servant, Baju, entered with the tray, his mustache twitching. Manu’s mother, Kanta’s mother-in-law, was right behind him, complaining that he had made her lassi too thick. Baju handed me a cup of tea and Kanta a glass of rose milk and a plate of black-eyed peas.

“For luck,” her saas said, nodding at the plate.

Grumbling under his breath, Baju left the room.

Kanta’s mother-in-law settled in for a visit, telling me that, without her help, Kanta wouldn’t know how to raise a baby. “She didn’t even know that rose milk gives babies pink cheeks!”

Kanta hid a smile behind her glass.

Finally, her saas left, saying she didn’t want Baju making the subji too spicy. “Too much heat and the baby comes out angry,” she said.

When she was out of earshot, I set my cup down. I felt awkward talking to my friend about Radha, embarrassed that I wasn’t able to understand or handle my own sister.

“Kanta...you and Radha—you’re so close. I was hoping you could help me figure out—”

Before I could finish my sentence, Radha burst into the room, followed by Malik, Kanta’s saas and Baju. Still in her school uniform, my sister was holding her hand over her left eye. She looked glum.

I rose from the sofa. “What happened? Why aren’t you at school?”

Radha froze. She hadn’t expected to see me. She lowered her hand. Her left eye was swollen and surrounded by a deepening purple hue.

I gasped and ran to my sister.

“Hai Ram!” Kanta cried from the sofa.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I put my hands on Radha’s shoulders, scanning her for other injuries. “Baju, bring me ice.”

Kanta’s saas asked, “Should we call the police?”

“No!” Radha said, too loudly, curling her fists.

“Radha!” I scolded her for speaking harshly to an elder.

Baju brought the ice bag. I pressed it to Radha’s swollen eye until she yanked it from my hand and took over. She walked farther into the room and flopped down in an armchair, still holding the ice bag against her eye. “That stupid Sheela Sharma!”

My heart did a somersault. What now?

“Sheela Sharma robbed you?” This was from Saasuji, who directed her next comment to Kanta: “I told you that the Sharma girl was ill-mannered. And to find out she’s a goonda!”

Kanta said nothing. Her eyes were round with shock.

Radha said impatiently, “She didn’t rob me. She hit me with her elbow when we were dancing the fox trot.”

“Fox trot?” Saasuji said in heavily accented English. Her tone implied that Western dance was a worse offense, to her, than robbery. “You see what kind of thing that school is teaching? These foreign customs—not at all suitable for Rajasthani girls.” She sniffed.

“Baap re baap, Saasuji!” Kanta turned to Radha. “This happened at school? It was an accident?” Kanta asked.

“Yes. No.” Radha looked down at the carpet. “I know she meant to do it.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t like me.” My sister hesitated. “The maharani paired us up for the dance—Sheela and me. Sheela kept telling me I would never learn how to dance—my feet were too big. Then she hit me in the eye with her elbow and said, ‘Kala kaloota baingan loota.’” You’re as dark as an eggplant.

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