The Henna Artist(7)

I waited.

She rubbed her palms together and inhaled the fragrance of the henna. “Might your talents put her right?”

I had waited so long for Parvati to make an introduction to the palace! At the thought of it, I set my cup down, afraid my hand might shake. A commission with the maharani would inevitably lead to others. I would have my house paid off before I knew it! Already I was doing the calculations in my head, barely listening to what Parvati was saying.

She leaned forward for another savory, and I placed one on her tongue, careful not to meet her eyes. I was afraid she would see the eagerness in mine. She might already have seen my fingers tremble.

“I told His Highness how your henna helped me conceive my Govind. Discreetly, of course. If I were to recommend you to the palace...”

I could see where she was going now. Parvati wanted me to make the match for Ravi, but she didn’t want to pay for it. What cheek! A marriage arrangement took both skill and effort. She would easily have paid a man of high caste and a title two or three times what she might pay me. Even if I had agreed to take a mere ten thousand rupees, my services would still be a bargain. I could expect to put in weeks, even months, of work before all parties were satisfied. And it was not unheard of for a match to be rejected—for all that work to come to nothing.

Here was Parvati, hoping I would make the match in exchange for an introduction to the palace. Before I countered, I needed to think. Her blood relation to the royal family (her father was a cousin of one of the maharanis) would guarantee me, at the very least, an appointment with the palace. But what Indian woman, no matter how wealthy, wouldn’t try to bargain? If she didn’t, she’d come off as a fool, easy prey. So if I accepted, outright, what Parvati was offering, I would seal my reputation as a woman who could be easily outmaneuvered. The risk to me was that I might—or might not—end up working for the palace at all. An appointment didn’t guarantee me anything.

Sensing my hesitation, Parvati leaned forward and looked at me until I was forced to meet her gaze. “If I had the talent for drawing you have, Lakshmi, I might have gone into your profession.” To my ladies, the word profession was a slander, not a compliment.

I swallowed. “Oh, Ji, your life was meant for grander things. Who else could throw such lavish parties for politicians? Someone has to do the work of making them feel welcome.”

She chuckled in appreciation of my retort. And now we settled back into a comfortable footing: me, the underling; she, the MemSahib.

But I meant to play my final hand. “Your confidence is well-placed, but I must warn you: Her Highness will probably expect the very best supplies.”

Parvati pursed her lips. She looked thoughtful. “Would six thousand rupees cover it?”

I straightened the velvet cloth under Parvati’s feet and tested the paste, then reached for the clove oil to remove the dried henna. “Some of the products may have to come from far away. The Kaffir lime leaves, for example. The most potent ones come from Thailand.”

She was quiet. Had I overplayed my hand? I could feel the pulse at my temples as I massaged her feet.

She squinted at the Pan Am calendar on the far wall. “Our holiday party is coming up,” she said finally. “December 20. That same afternoon I could give a special henna party for the girls in Ravi’s circle.” Parvati tapped her rosy cheek. “I’m thinking I might get that Shakespeareana Group to come. The kids are mad for their performances.” This would be her opportunity to scrutinize the girls who would be suitable for Ravi. Sheela Sharma was sure to be among them.

She stretched her feet and turned them one way and then the other as she examined my work. “But perhaps your calendar is already full? Would you check?”

A henna party would be a lot of work, but it would be well worth the promise of an introduction to the palace.

I gave her my most gracious smile. “For you, MemSahib, my calendar is always open.”

She grinned, showing her small, even teeth, her bright eyes. “It’s settled, then. Nine thousand for the Maharani Latika’s supplies?”

I released the breath I’d been holding. I had secured my first marriage commission, and while it wasn’t as lucrative as I’d hoped, it would help me take another step toward finishing, and paying for, the house I would share with my parents—my apology for all I had put them through. Now all I had to do was make the match happen.

As I replaced her heavy gold anklets, I said, “And you must let the henna party be my gift to you.”



* * *



On the Singh veranda, I slipped into my sandals. I spotted Malik laughing with the head gardener on the front lawn, under the enormous apple tree, its bare branches spiky against the cloudless sky.

I called out to him.

He ran to me on his stick legs. He could have been six or ten. How many meals had he missed before I’d finally noticed him, a half-naked street urchin in dirty shorts, following me around the city? I’d handed him a few tiffins to carry, and he’d smiled, a gap where his front two teeth would have been. Since that day three years ago, we’d worked together, mostly in silence. I’d never asked where he lived or whether he slept on hard ground.

“Any news?” I asked. While I worked on my ladies, Malik often ran errands. Every day for the past few months, he had checked the train station to see if my parents had arrived. By now they would have received the money for the train tickets I’d sent them in my last letter. But so far, there had been no word.