The Henna Artist(71)
I exhaled a long, slow breath.
She pushed her saucer and cup to the side and beckoned the attendant who had been waiting discreetly. He laid a silver tray in front of her. In addition to a sheaf of papers and a fountain pen, the tray held a silver bowl filled with red-gold liquid, a small silver spoon and two cloth napkins.
The maharani reached into her bosom for a pair of half-moon spectacles. She put them on, and instantly looked more severe, which, I think, was her intention. Before handing the papers to me, she scanned them briefly, although I knew she must have scrutinized them, line by line, earlier.
I had never seen royal adoption papers, nor had I ever expected to. The contract contained phrases such as “the child’s legal relationships,” “permanent transfer of parental responsibility” and “forbidden access to birth family.” A clause on page three specified the required physical attributes: birth weight, height and length, pulse rate and, of course, the baby’s gender, which had to be male. Samir had asked, aloud, what would happen if Radha gave birth to a girl. I didn’t know that he had an answer to that question any more than I did, but I refused to think about it. This may have been shortsighted on my part, but I knew Samir didn’t want to consider the possibility, either, because he had let the matter drop.
There was a long clause specifying the royal physician’s role. In particular, he needed to certify that the baby’s sexual organs were healthy, and that his genital identity was unambiguous. This last, I realized, was to prevent a future hijra or intersex child in the royal family.
Page four made clear that if any of the aforementioned conditions were not met to the palace’s satisfaction, the contract would be declared null and void, and the Jaipur royal family would be held harmless, and released from any monetary obligations, which obligations were specified on page six.
In addition to the cost of the labor and delivery, the birth mother or guardian was to receive thirty thousand rupees. The numbers swam before my eyes. Thirty thousand rupees. Not once had it occurred to me that compensation might be offered. Thirty thousand rupees was enough to pay for a university education for Radha; she could study abroad. I read further: if the contract were canceled, for any reason, I, as her legal guardian, would be responsible for the hospital bills. I bit my lip. I would not entertain that possibility either because I simply could not afford it.
“I must ask, Mrs. Shastri.” Her Highness’s spectacles had slipped halfway down her nose. With her chin, she indicated the papers in my hand. “Do you not trust us to present a fair contract?”
My forehead felt clammy but I resisted swiping it with my sari. I was doing what was best for Radha, but this formal document made the relinquishing of her baby much more real than just talking about it.
“If it pleases Your Highness,” I said with all the humility I could muster, “I’ve never before been given the responsibility of signing such important papers. I hope it won’t offend you if I give the details their due.”
“As you wish.”
She began laying out a fresh hand of patience as I continued reading.
* * *
By the time I finished, the Maharani Indira had started on her third card game. I straightened the papers in a stack and set them on the coffee table, aligning them as perfectly as possible with the table’s edges. The tea things had long been cleared. The maharani gathered her cards onto a single deck.
“Satisfied?” She smiled.
“Yes, thank you.”
She adjusted her spectacles, uncapped the fountain pen and signed the papers quickly in the three places designated. Then she handed the pen to me. My first two signatures flowed with ease, as if I were doing nothing more than drawing with henna—nothing that would change, forever, who this child would become, what kind of life he would lead and how his destiny would be shaped.
Above the last signature line, however, my hand, so used to skating over skin, hovered. Instead of the relief I’d thought I would feel, I was seized by anxiety: I was giving away a life—a living, breathing person—as randomly as I had given my old saris to the beggar women in Choti Chuppar.
I was sending Radha’s baby away, forever. He would not know his mother. He would be raised in a royal household with no blood relatives. Radha’s son—my nephew—would be attended by two queens, each with her own reason to resent him. Maharani Latika would never forgive him for displacing her son, and Maharani Indira would be forced, once again, to accept a child into her family who was not her blood. When this baby awakened from a nightmare, his mother would not soothe him back to sleep with caresses, would not whisper sweetly in his ear, would not sing him lullabies as my father had done.
When this baby tried to take his first steps and failed, his real mother would not smother him with a hundred kisses, or stroke his cheek. The only substitutes for a mother’s love would be devoted wet nurses, nannies and governesses. We could hope, but there were no guarantees.
How could this have seemed so logical a solution only a week ago?
The room was cool; I could hear the low hum of the air-conditioning. Yet, I was perspiring. The faint glimmer of a headache at my temples would soon explode into a throbbing pain. When I ran my tongue across my mouth, my lips were as rough as sand.
“May I have some water, Your Highness?” It was impertinent to ask, but I couldn’t continue otherwise.