The Henna Artist(63)

She wound her arms around my neck, wetting my chest with her hot tears, but my body felt limp, wrung out. I couldn’t comfort her.





      TWELVE


    April 21, 1956


Kanta and I sat side by side on her drawing room sofa. Radha stood in front of us as if she were facing a British inquisition. She wore a frock borrowed from Kanta; the Madhubala dress was ruined.

My sister glanced nervously at the carpet, then at us, then at the photos of Gandhi-ji and Kanta’s newfound goddess, Swaraswati, on the wall.

“Go on, bheti,” Kanta said encouragingly.

Radha licked the cut on her lip, the wound I’d given her last night. “I used to pass by the Jaipur Club every day on my way to Auntie’s house from school. You know, the polo grounds, at the edge of the road?”

I started to speak, but Kanta put a hand on my arm to stop me.

Radha bit her cheek. “I would see him playing polo during the holidays, and one day, he saw me. He was walking his horse to the stables. He stopped and we started talking. He told me that he was working on a Shakespeare play at his school. And asked could I rehearse it with him? So that’s what we would do. Sometimes for a half hour, sometimes an hour.”

I clawed the piping on the sofa, trying to rein in my impatience.

“And one day he told me that I looked just like Madhubala.” She blushed and looked away. “He said he had never met a prettier girl and he wished he could spend all his time with me. He thought about nothing but me all day.” My sister flicked a glance at me, then back at the floor. “It was just like the movies.”

Kanta groaned. My heart pounded.

Radha folded her hands in front of her. “I liked him. He apologized for the holiday party. The way his mother had talked to me. I told him I had gotten into so much trouble with you about it, Jiji.”

The room was closing in. My vision narrowed.

“He said you were jealous of me.” She eyed me from lowered lids. “Because you had no one in your life, and I did.”

A cold sensation spread throughout my body. Radha’s voice sounded faint, faraway.

She was talking about Ravi Singh.



* * *



When I come to, my head was in Kanta’s lap and she was pressing the end of my sari to my forehead. It felt cold. I realized why: she had wrapped ice in it. Radha sat in the armchair opposite, rubbing her hands nervously on the upholstery.

I tried to sit up, but my head spun. Kanta guided my shoulder back down. I watched the slow tak-tak-tak of the ceiling fan. My brain was still reeling from the news that Ravi Singh was the father of my sister’s baby.

“Of all the people in the world... Parvati’s son?”

Radha looked frightened yet defiant. She looked to Kanta for support. “This is why I needed you here, Auntie. I knew she wouldn’t understand, but you do, don’t you?”

Kanta’s forehead creased with worry. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. She looked away.

My sister pleaded. “Make her understand, Auntie. He loves me. He cares for me. He wants this baby as much as I do—”

Hai Ram! Until now, I’d been hoping we could keep the pregnancy a secret if I could just convince her to use my sachets. “He knows about the baby? Already?”

As if she were talking to a child, Radha explained, “He doesn’t know...yet. But when I tell him, he will be so excited. He told me I’m the only girl he’s ever cared for.”

“That’s ridiculous! He’s seventeen! You’re thirteen!” I said.

Radha narrowed her eyes. “You told me that when I started my menses I became a woman.”

“I didn’t mean you were ready to have children!”

“Girls in our village have children at thirteen. Why can’t I? They have whole families before they’re twenty. I never had a family. Not really. With Maa sad all day. Pitaji drunk. And you—you ran away from Hari and only God knew where you were until I found you!”

At the mention of Hari’s name, I looked helplessly at Kanta. When Kanta came to me this morning, I had told her about my past—Hari, the beatings, all of it. I told her more than I’d ever told anyone in my life. Although it had unsettled her, she had accepted it without judgment.

Radha hiccupped. “Ravi and I will be married as soon as he learns about his child. This is his baby!”

“Lakshmi,” Kanta whispered, bringing a hand to her mouth. “What will happen when Parvati finds out?”

It was exactly what I’d been wondering.

Radha looked from me to Kanta. “Why would you be worried about his mother? Ravi is the father. He’s the only one who matters!”

I had not fully grasped how naive Radha was, how much of a secret fantasy life she had. How little I understood her feelings. How little I wanted to understand them.

I didn’t want to have to talk to her about the things she must have wondered about. Like love. How did you know when you were in love? What did it feel like? What did I know of love? I’d never experienced it. I hated to admit that I couldn’t have answered her questions. I’d hoped Kanta was doing that.

Carefully, I sat up on the sofa. Pain shot up my temples. “Radha, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should have talked to you more... But listen to me now. You cannot marry Ravi Singh.”