The Henna Artist(6)
When she turned to look at her sons again, Lala’s niece was gone. Parvati’s face relaxed. “When I ask him to, Ravi always comes down from school. What’s the good of sending him away, Samir says.” She laughed lightly. “But I miss him. Govind misses him, too. He was only three when Ravi went to boarding school.”
She lifted the teapot and poured herself another cup of chai. “Have you heard anything of Rai Singh’s daughter? They say she’s quite striking.”
“Pity. Only yesterday she was snatched up for Mrs. Rathore’s son.” I let out a sigh. It was delicate, this conversation we were having, one where neither Parvati nor I could tip our hand.
She searched my face with narrowed eyes. “Something tells me you have a girl in mind.”
“Oh, I fear you’ll think my choice unsuitable.”
“How so?”
“Well...unconventional, perhaps.”
“Unconventional? You know me better than that, Lakshmi. I went not once, but twice, to the Soviet Union last year. Nehru-ji insisted I go with the Indo-Soviet League. Come now, let’s hear it.”
“Well...” I pretended to tuck a strand of hair back into my bun. “The girl’s not Rajput.”
She raised one tweezed brow, but would not look away. I held her gaze. “She’s Brahmin.”
Parvati blinked. She may have thought herself a woman of the times, but the possibility of Ravi marrying outside his caste was something she hadn’t entertained. For centuries, each of the four Hindu castes—even the merchant and laborer castes—married largely within their own group.
I fed Parvati another snack.
“I can’t imagine a better match for the Singh family,” I continued. “The girl is beautiful. Fair. Well-educated. High-spirited. The sort Ravi would appreciate. And her family’s well connected. Oh, has your tea gone cold? I fear mine has.”
“Do we know the girl?”
“Since she was a child, in fact. Shall I call for more?” I set my cup down and reached for the silver bell, but Parvati caught me by the forearm.
“Forget the tea, Lakshmi! Tell me about the girl or I’ll wipe my feet on this towel and ruin the last hour’s work.”
Instead of meeting her eyes, I tapped the henna on her feet to test for dryness. “The girl’s name is Sheela Sharma. Mr. V. M. Sharma’s daughter.”
Parvati knew the Sharmas, of course. The two families often moved in the same business circles. Mr. Sharma’s construction company, the largest in Rajasthan, had just won the contract to remodel the maharaja’s Rambagh Palace. Parvati’s husband owned an architectural firm that designed many of the residential and commercial buildings in the city. It would be an unexpected union of two prominent families. If I could pull it off, Jaipur’s elite would be clamoring for my services as a matchmaker, a far more lucrative prospect than being a henna artist.
She cocked her head. “But...Sheela’s still a child.”
Over the past year, rice puddings and extra helpings of chapatti with ghee had added a layer of soft flesh to Sheela’s body. Now, she looked less like a girl and more like a young woman.
“Sheela’s fifteen,” I said. “And quite lovely. She attends the Maharani School for Girls. Just last week her music master told me her singing reminded him of Lata Mangeshkar.”
I picked up my teacup. I could imagine the list Parvati was making in her head, the same one I had made in mine the previous week. On the plus side: the two businesses—Sharma Construction and Singh Architects—once allied, would be more profitable than either were on their own; and Parvati would have an English-speaking daughter-in-law to entertain politicians and nawabs. The only minus: Sheela was of high caste—but the wrong one. There was more I wouldn’t disclose: the ugly twist of Sheela’s mouth before she yanked her cousin’s pigtails, the way she ordered her nanny about and the laziness her music tutor despaired of. I had spent years in the homes of my ladies, watching their progeny mature. I knew their children’s personalities, the tics that even a professional matchmaker wouldn’t catch. But these were flaws for a husband to discover, not for me to reveal.
Parvati was quiet. She toyed with the fringe on one of the small bolsters.
“Remember the Gupta wedding?”
I smiled in acknowledgment.
“The moment I saw your maiden-in-the-garden design for the bridal henna, I knew she would deliver a baby boy before the year was up. And so she did.”
The Gupta girl’s marriage had been a love match, but I didn’t share that with Parvati.
“Your work does perform miracles.” Her smile was coy. “I think you could help someone very dear to us.”
I tilted my head politely, not sure where she was headed.
“Last night, Samir and I were at the Rambagh Palace. A fundraising event for the final portion of the gymkhana,” she said pointedly. She wanted me to know she was progressive, after all. “The maharaja told us he was turning his palace into a hotel. Can you imagine? We fought for independence and threw the English out, only to have them move back into our palaces?” She shook her head, annoyed.
I understood: only wealthy Europeans, mostly Britishers, would be able to afford the rates.
“The maharani wasn’t at the function last night, which was highly unusual. Latika loves parties.” Parvati lowered her voice. “I heard she has been...out of sorts.”