The Henna Artist(59)

My breathing had become shallow. I could see the scene that Hari described so clearly before me. I’d seen similar ones while working with his mother. The urgency. The plaintive cries of the women. Their brutal wounds.

Hari rubbed his hands together. “She revived. But then came the infection. I did everything as Maa instructed. But the woman died, anyway.” He swallowed. “She was only sixteen, Lakshmi. I thought of you then. I didn’t want to, but I thought of how I had hurt you. How many times... And I was...ashamed. Little by little, I began helping Maa. The women. The children. I saw so much—pain, misery, hunger.” He ran his hand through his hair.

I leaned my head against the wall. I didn’t want to believe him. I closed my eyes so I could hear the truth in his words.

“When I first came here, I did go to the Pleasure District. I was lonely. Especially after I realized Radha had lied to me about what was in your letter.”

I opened my eyes, puzzled.

“When I refused to help Radha get to Jaipur, she showed me your letter, saying you had written that you wanted to see me again. It made me so happy.”

My eyebrows shot up, both at the absurdity of the claim and at Radha’s impudence. She must have tricked Hari into a scheme to find me. She gambled on the odds that Hari was illiterate.

“She finally found an angle that got me to do her bidding.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe he’d been duped by a young girl. “In any event, once I got to know the Pleasure District here, I found women who needed help—Maa’s kind of help. My kind of help now. I’ve used your money to do what I can. But I need more—real medicine. For injuries that herbs can no longer heal.” He sounded earnest now. “Some have been hurt by the men they...service. Broken bones. Some have recurring infections in their...private regions.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I tried. But you wouldn’t believe me, and...” He looked down at the floor. “I didn’t blame you. I—” He rubbed his hands together. “I understand many things now I didn’t before.”

My chest felt tight. Hari was trying. He was righting his wrongs. He was carrying on his mother’s work in a way I had failed to. She would have approved. I could not forgive the younger Hari, the one who had felt he owned me, who left me with lasting scars. I had changed, grown stronger. Was it so hard to believe Hari had changed, too, and grown softer? Couldn’t I could begin to make peace with this Hari, the one his mother would have blessed? I thought of the little girl with the gash in her leg and how I’d wanted Hari to make her go away. Saasuji would have been far less proud of me for that.

“The little girl—how is her leg?” I asked him now.

“Good. They stitched her at the hospital.”

I nodded.

I put my palms against the wall to brace myself and stood. My bones felt tender, as if I’d been walking for days or even weeks.

Hari watched as I tucked my hair behind my ears. He smiled.

“I had my eye on you long before we were married.”

I stared at him.

“I’d walk miles to the river from my village to watch the women washing clothes, listening to their gossip. My father was long dead and my Maa was busy tending to her women. I’d see you sometimes, on the opposite bank, headed to the village oven to roast peas. You always looked as if you’d been entrusted with an important mission. So young. So serious.” He smiled. “I told my mother, when it was time, I would have only you. She went with me to the river once. We watched you from a distance. Eventually, she took my hand and patted it. ‘Yes, bheta, yes,’ she said.”

Too little, I thought, shaking my head. Too late.

“I mean to keep my promise, Lakshmi. The one I made to Maa. I’m doing good here. If only...” He started to pace. “We need medicine for the children’s fevers. And several of the younger nautch women will deliver soon.”

What he was telling me was true—I’d seen it with my own eyes. But my purse was not bottomless. I, too, had debts to pay.

The door opened. Malik came into the room. His ear was red from being pressed against the door.

“Auntie-Boss,” he said, “I know a way to help him.”



* * *



The streetlight was shining inside my Rajnagar house. I saw Radha’s body curled on the cot, our metal trunks, a jumble of carriers, filled with odds and ends. I fumbled in the dark, not caring how much noise I made, rummaging through our belongings, wishing I’d had the money to put in electricity.

“Jiji?”

“Matches. Where did you put them?”

I upended a sack, spilling its contents. Herbs wrapped in newspaper packets, spoons, toothpicks. The Tales of Krishna that Radha had brought with her.

Radha raised her body on one elbow. “What time is it?”

“Matches! Did I forget to put them on Malik’s list last week?”

She pushed herself off the cot and reached inside the vinyl bag by the door. “Here.” She yawned.

I grabbed the matchbox from her hand. My fingers were shaking as I lit a match. I emptied the contents of another carrier on the ground, examining the labels on the bottles and packets.

“Now what are you looking for?” She rubbed her eyes.

I broke off my search to glare at her.