The Henna Artist(65)

Kanta put a palm on Radha’s wet cheek. “Don’t make that face. You’re far too pretty. Lakshmi told me that she didn’t know you existed until six months ago. She was shocked when you showed up, but it never occurred to her to turn you away.

“Look at me, Radha. Your sister has a very strong sense of responsibility, which I admire. You may be upset with her, but she has taken you under her roof. She has put you in an excellent school. You’ve become so sophisticated it’s easy to forget you’re only thirteen.” Kanta tugged at Radha’s frock. “Lakshmi hasn’t had an easy life.” Kanta glanced in my direction. “I understand why she left her husband. I also want you to know I don’t judge you or your sister for what’s happened. She has tried to teach you how the world works. She’s tough—I’ve seen her with you. But that’s her duty as your older sister. Whereas—” and here, she sighed “—I have been a very naughty auntie.”

Radha sat up straighter and balled her fists. “But I’ve loved having you for an auntie! No one could have been better!”

“I’m very fond of you,” she said. “But I’m not a responsible jiji. I had you read those books to me when you weren’t ready for them.” She grimaced. “I still can’t believe how thoughtless that was. I was bored and I wanted company, and you were splendid company.”

“I love those books!” Radha protested. “Where else would I have had the chance to read them?” She cut her eyes at me. “She never spends time with me. All she does is work!”

Each of Radha’s accusations felt like a slap on my cheek.

“She has to support herself.” Kanta took Radha’s hand in hers. “And you. And Malik. She’s brave, and she’s very fierce. You two are a lot alike, you know.”

Alike? I’d never thought Radha and I shared anything but the watercolors of our eyes.

“I’m lucky, Radha,” Kanta continued. “I’ve never had to support myself. Never had to worry about money. Even now my father helps us out when Manu’s civil salary falls short of our expenses. My situation is very different from yours.” She sighed. “As much as I would like it to be different for you, it’s not. You must think about money—how to pay rent, how to afford a new pair of shoes, food. As your sister has always done. I accept responsibility for what I’ve done, Radha. Your sister’s not to blame. And neither are you.”

Radha let go of Kanta’s hand. “First Jiji arranges Ravi’s marriage to someone else! Then you tell me to kill my baby?”

Kanta sat back. “I want you to have a good life, Radha.” With a gentle motion, Kanta rubbed my sister’s back. “All of us are on your side. But you’re too young to be a mother. Your life has barely started, bheti. You can do so much more. More and more women—”

“Stop!” Radha sobbed. She squeezed her eyes, causing more tears to fall. Her cheeks turned pink.

Wearily, Kanta stood. “Let’s leave it for now, Lakshmi.”

The ceiling fan slowed, then stopped turning altogether.

Kanta grunted. “Baap re baap! Three times today already, the electricity has quit. Only April and it’s started to boil.” She wiped the perspiration on her neck with her sari. “We will think of something. But for now we must keep our own counsel—you, me, Radha and Manu.” She looked at me. “Radha can stay with us until we sort this out.” She didn’t look at either of us when she said this, probably to save us the embarrassment of acknowledging the wide breach between us.

Kanta pulled her pallu over her shoulders and tucked it into her petticoat. “Perhaps some tea will cool us all down?”

I thought back to the holiday party on the Singh estate where it had all started. Where Ravi and Radha had met. Where Samir had told me about the palace commission. At the beginning of that evening, I had felt hopeful; Radha and I would come to an understanding, as sisters. She was learning the ways of the city. I was helping her. But that night had ended altogether differently, in recriminations and hurt feelings.

I didn’t need tea. I needed to clear my head. I made my excuses and left, noticing the relief on Kanta’s face.





      THIRTEEN


I’d asked Malik to cancel our appointments for the day. I had nowhere I had to be. So after leaving Kanta’s house, I walked. For hours. Without a destination. I thought and thought. About my failures. I’d failed as a wife to Hari. Failed as a daughter to my parents. Failed as a sister to Radha. Failed, even, to finish my house. The courtyard was bare dirt; the back fence, incomplete. The fraying cot was still fraying. All I had ever wanted was work that sustained me. What would happen to that now?

I imagined the fallout from Radha’s pregnancy. The whispers behind my back. Rumors that started first with servants, then spread like wildfire to my ladies. The nervous glances, the barely disguised scorn, the outright scoldings. I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up anywhere. Even shopkeepers in the Refugee Market might refuse to cater to me. I grew more hopeless by the hour, wondering how I would pay Samir back for my loan if my ladies abandoned me.

By dinnertime, I found myself in GulabNagar, the Pleasure District. As in Agra, there was a house here to satisfy every taste, and every purse. First came the tumbledown shacks. Prostitutes with untidy hair and homemade petticoats leaned against the walls, or sat on chairs in open doorways: village girls of ten or twelve, runaways and orphans both, two to three rupees for the asking. Perhaps this was where Hari was spending his days. Helping these girls in a way I had failed to.