The Henna Artist(69)

He cleared his throat. “If she won’t agree to an abortion, what makes you think she’ll agree to an adoption?”

“She may not.” I shrugged. “But as her legal guardian, I can force the issue.” I met his eyes in the mirror. “And I will.”

I wound my hair into a bun on top of my head and began inserting the pins to hold it in place.

He smoked. “They’re very careful with these royal adoptions. All legal guardians are required to sign the contract. I’ll have to tell Parvati.”

At the mention of her name, the hairpin I was holding slipped and scratched my scalp. I cleared my throat. “Do what you must.”

He spread his palms wide. “Because of the bab—” I could tell by the twist of his mouth that the very word was distasteful to him. “We’ll have to send Ravi to England sooner than we’d planned. The farther away he is from scandal, the better. It would be all too easy for this one mistake to taint the rest of his life.”

“And Radha’s reputation?” I shot back. “Won’t this taint the rest of her life?” The blood in my veins boiled. I was disgusted with this Samir, the one who gave no regard to my sister’s future.

He was immediately contrite. He wanted the women in his life to love him, adore him, look up to him. “Lakshmi, I—I’m sorry. This has come as such a shock. I had no idea they were... Of course, she’s young, your sister—”

He put a hand on my arm—to console me? I flung it off, furious. His mouth hung open. The look on his face was one of surprise, as if I’d slapped him.

I rose from the bench, consumed with loathing for him and for myself. What light work I had made of infidelity, for him and his friends to cheat on their wives for ten years! I’d helped them discard their mistresses’ pregnancies as easily as they discarded the lint in their trouser pockets. I had justified it by treating it as a business transaction. To me, each sale had been nothing more than another coat of plaster or another section of terrazzo for my house. At least when I made sachets for the courtesans, I had done so for women who had been raised to be prostitutes, who needed to make a living from their bodies without the interruption of pregnancies.

My skin felt prickly. I remembered all the places Samir had touched me, kissed me, caressed me, and I shuddered. All at once, I wanted to get as far away from him as possible. I looked for my notebook and pouch and slipped them into my petticoat.

“Look, I know I was wrong to—Lakshmi, please don’t leave like this...”

I would never be able to look at Samir again without feeling disgust and shame. I could barely stand to be in my own skin. I walked to the door.

He followed me. “What if—what if the baby is a girl?”

I didn’t have an answer. I kept walking.

I doubted he would agonize too much about what had happened. He would shake his head, and his life would go on, as before. On his next visit to the elder maharani, she would welcome him with a smile, and he would charm her with a joke and a gift of bwachi hair oil. His son, Ravi, who already showed signs of growing up to be just like him, would continue to bed young girls too innocent to know he did not care enough.



* * *



When I stepped out of the room, Geeta moved out of the shadows, startling me. I’d forgotten about her and about the sheets Samir and I had soiled in her house. She was standing so close I could see her eyelashes, wet and clumped.

When she spoke, her voice trembled. “You will not come again.” It was not a request.

“No,” I said. I went around her, down the hall and out into the night.





      FOURTEEN


    April 28, 1956


I knew Kanta objected to my business with the cotton root bark and, in her heart, she wanted Radha to give birth. Moreover, she felt responsible for Radha’s predicament and wanted to help by taking her away from Jaipur to have the baby.

So I didn’t protest when Kanta asked to take Radha with her to Shimla, where she went every summer to escape the Jaipur heat and dust. This year, she decided to leave at the beginning of May, a lot earlier than planned.

Two letters arrived the following week.

May 2, 1956

Lakshmi,

The Maharani Indira will meet with you. I have broached the possibility of a royal adoption with her, but I will leave the details to you. If she agrees to it, the palace will require a royal physician to monitor the progress of the pregnancy and to see to it that the mother’s health is not compromised in any way. You told me that Mrs. Kanta Agarwal is taking Radha to Shimla to have her baby, and I was thinking of asking Kumar to serve as proxy for the royal physician there. Would that be agreeable to you? The royal physician has drawn Ravi’s blood. The baby’s has to match.

I made some calls on Ravi’s behalf. This week, he leaves for England. He’ll complete his studies at Eton.

Samir

The second letter was from Hari. It was the divorce decree I had sent to him. He had signed it. I showed it to Malik.

“He’ll never bother you again, Auntie-Boss.” Malik grinned. “I’ve taken care of it.”

He refused to tell me more.



* * *



At the doors of the Maharani Indira’s salon, Malik pointed to my sari to remind me to cover my head. Then he pinched my cheeks, startling me. “For color,” he said. He knew I was anxious about my meeting with Her Highness, and he was trying, in his way, to boost my courage. I knew my eyes were puffy, and there were gray half-moons underneath them. I’d spent a week of restless nights, sick with worry about what the maharani would decide about Radha’s baby. My hair had gone a week without being oiled and the flyaway strands would not be tamed.