The Henna Artist(72)
Her Highness looked at me curiously but gave the order. The bearer poured water from a crystal pitcher and handed the glass to me. For whatever reason, as I drank, I thought of Samir the night I’d told him about Radha’s baby. The look of terror, anger and shame on his face. I thought of orphanages and boys and girls with lonely eyes and pinched mouths. A palace upbringing was surely preferable to that. There was no other choice available to me or Samir or Ravi or Radha. Before I could reconsider, I scrawled my name, and pushed the stack of papers far away from me.
The maharani removed her glasses and patted the cushion next to her. “Come, now, Mrs. Shastri. We will seal the contract.” She turned her head slightly to include the parakeet. “You may join us.”
Her tone signaled that Madho Singh had been forgiven. He flew out of his cage and landed on the tea table.
Her Highness spooned the red-gold liquid into her right palm, lifted the hand to her lips and sucked, expertly. Madho Singh crooked his neck to watch. He was expectant, nervous, hopping from one foot to the other. I assumed he’d been present at many such ceremonies.
The maharani wiped her hand on a clean napkin, poured another spoonful of liquid into her palm, and held it out to me. “Drink,” she commanded.
I obeyed, slurping inelegantly from her hand. The liquid was odorless and slightly sweet. I raised my brows, not daring to ask.
“Liquid opium.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “If it’s good enough for the maharajas to seal a treaty, it’s good enough for us.”
Another, much smaller spoonful, she gave to Madho Singh, who licked with his black tongue until it was all gone. He fluttered his wings and squawked, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!”
A strange calm descended over me. My headache began to recede.
“One more matter,” Her Highness said, settling back against the cushions.
“Yes?”
“A man called Hari Shastri.”
My heart sped up, and not, I was sure, because of the opium.
“Chef told me about a cousin-brother of his—named Shastri—a do-gooder, I gather. He’s been helping the women of GulabNagar—a relief since we can’t find doctors to attend to them. At Chef’s request—pleading, really—I have agreed to finance Mr. Shastri’s efforts. Everyone has a right to make a living, n’est-ce pas?” She grinned. “And Chef learned—almost overnight—to season my food just the way I like it. A jolly trade!”
So this was what Malik had been so cagey about. He’d bribed the palace chef (with promises of cheap cooking supplies, I supposed) into persuading the maharani to help Hari so he would stop asking me for money.
The maharani puckered her lips. “Shastri is not a name you come across often in Rajasthan. He wouldn’t, by any chance, be a relation of yours?”
When I looked her in the eye, I didn’t blink. “No, Your Highness.”
She considered me a long moment before speaking. “As I thought.”
FIFTEEN
May 6, 1956
We decided Kanta would be the one to tell Radha that we had an adoption contract. I’d been relieved to learn that Radha had been agreeable when Kanta brought it up. If I had brought it up with my sister, I doubt she would have listened to what I had to say. Kanta and I also agreed not to tell Radha that the Jaipur Palace was adopting her child. If she knew, I worried that upon her return to Jaipur, she might take to loitering outside the palace gates for a glimpse of her baby. (Samir had told me that before Radha left for Shimla, she had often been spotted outside the Singh compound, hoping to speak to Ravi.)
May 6, 1956
Dear Dr. Kumar,
Once again, we seem to be cooperating under difficult circumstances. Perhaps you’ll recall our conversation from last December—in another strained situation—when you questioned whether my herbs had any medicinal benefit. Now it appears that my sister is more in need of your sort of medicine than mine.
Mr. Singh tells me you’ll be acting as the proxy physician in Shimla on behalf of the Jaipur Palace, monitoring Radha’s pregnancy and dispatching regular progress reports to the royal family. I only wish I could talk to you in person instead of by letter, but I hope to be present for the birth. I know you can appreciate how delicate her situation is and the need for secrecy—even, or especially, from Radha. I prefer not to tell her who is adopting the baby until—or unless—it’s absolutely necessary.
Radha is thirteen years old. She has never had smallpox, measles or mumps. She is not allergic to any medicines or herbs, but she is partial to fried foods (perhaps you can persuade her that the baby may not be partial to them). She’s a dedicated sleeper, and you can be assured she’ll get adequate rest during her pregnancy. Her personality is generally cheerful, and she has a restless and curious mind. She loves to read, a habit that has both developed her imagination and given her some (very) worldly ideas.
You’ll be in receipt of this letter by the time Radha arrives in Shimla. She is accompanied by my dear friend Kanta Agarwal, who is looking forward to meeting you and also being treated under your excellent care. Kanta’s baby is due a month before my sister’s, a happy circumstance, and the two of them are very close, which is a comfort to me. Kanta is familiar with the Himalaya foothills and with Shimla—her family has vacationed in the cooler mountain air before, when the summer dust of Jaipur triggers her asthma. Manu Agarwal, Kanta’s husband, will be coming up for a visit every few weeks.