The Henna Artist(74)

As I slipped the letter back inside the envelope, I said a prayer for the safe arrival of both babies—Kanta’s and Radha’s. Despite my skepticism, I had gained a little confidence in the gods, after all.

Outside, I heard the ring of a bicycle bell. At the front gate, the Singhs’ messenger boy handed me a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

The package was from Samir. My heart sank. Samir had tried several times to see me. He sent me notes. He even came to my house. I wouldn’t let him in, so he talked to me from the other side of the door, apologizing for his words that night at Geeta’s. He wanted everything to go back to the way it was. Maybe he wanted me in his bed again. Or he wanted to trade proverbs and hear me laugh again. Or maybe he simply wanted more sachets. I no longer cared to find out.

I untied the string on the package. It was a pen case, identical to the one I’d given Radha on her first week of school. Inside was the same orange marbled fountain pen I’d gifted her. Wilson 1st Quality Fine.

How had Samir ended up with Radha’s pen?

I looked through the package, but found no note.

Radha’s tepid response to my gift had hurt. If I lose it, you’ll be angry. Had she lost it, after all? And, somehow, Samir had found it?

Then I knew.

She must have given the pen to Ravi, as a gift, when they were still meeting in secret. If so, why had he returned it? Or had Parvati made him do so?

Or maybe after she found out she was pregnant, Radha asked the Singh chowkidar to give it to Ravi, hoping he would meet with her. And Samir had returned it without showing it to Ravi.

Either way, Ravi’s rejection must have seared my sister’s tender feelings. The ache in my heart grew. “Oh, Radha,” I whispered.



* * *



The following week, I erased Mrs. Gupta’s name from my notebook.

Malik was standing in front of my herb table, in my Rajnagar house, rolling a marble in his palm. “She said she’s become allergic to henna,” he said.

I stared at him in disbelief. “What? Mrs. Gupta has been a loyal client for six years! I did the bridal henna for her daughter—and she delivered a baby boy!” I frowned. “No one has ever become allergic to my henna.”

Malik shrugged. He had grown six inches in the past six months, and the top of his head was level with my chin. He no longer looked to be eight, as he had told the Maharani Indira. I would have guessed ten. Since he didn’t know, either, we pretended he was now nine. In any case, I needed to get him a haircut and new clothes.

“What about Mrs. Abdul? Her daughter has a birthday coming up.”

“She sent regrets.” He sent the marble shooting across the floor and ran to pick it up.

“Why?”

“She didn’t say.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Oh, and Mrs. Chandralal is going to Europe for the whole summer, so no appointments for her.”

“The whole summer?” I sighed. “That makes five cancellations this week.”

Henna appointments usually fell off in June and July, when many of my ladies fled the scorching desert for the mountains up north or to relatives abroad. But we were coming up on August. Where were the appointments for the Rakhi ceremonies when women wanted their hands to be decorated as they tied shiny bracelets on their brothers’ wrists? In the fall I was usually busy with Dhussera and Bagapanchaka festivals for mandalas, but so far only two ladies had made an appointment. And there were no takers for Diwali, the festival of a thousand lights, when I was usually booked for two weeks solid.

Losing Parvati’s business had come as no surprise. I hadn’t heard from her since the day I ran into her outside Samir’s office. Now that Samir had told her about Radha and Ravi, I knew I would never see her name again in my appointment book. Still, I could trust her to be discreet; with her political connections, she stood to lose a lot more than me if word got out.

But why were clients of long standing, who competed for the few empty spots in my notebook, canceling, or failing to book, their usual appointments? The curiosity-seekers, who wanted news of the Maharani Latika, didn’t count. I’d always known they would stop asking for me when the novelty wore off; I was an expensive luxury.

I looked at Malik, bewildered.

He threw the marble in the air and caught it. “I’ll see what I can find out.”



* * *



Mrs. Patel remained loyal. She kept all her appointments. Arthritis had disfigured her hands, and she relied on me to disguise them with my henna. It was her only vanity. She also loved the moong bean laddus and cabbage pakoras I fed her to ease the pain in her joints.

Today, I was drawing a lotus flower in the center of her palm when she cleared her throat. “Is everything quite all right, Lakshmi?”

“Yes, Ji. Thank you for asking.”

“There’s no...money trouble?”

Aside from my dwindling income? Clients canceling daily with flimsy excuses? The fact that I now owed Samir ten thousand rupees—twice what I originally owed? And Parvati had yet to pay me the marriage commission? I almost laughed, but held back, realizing I might sound insane.

“Why do you ask?”

“One—well, one hears things.” She sounded embarrassed and looked at the Alsatian who lay at her feet, the dog I had wanted to tell Radha about.

My heart picked up its pace. I drew tulsi leaves around her fingers. “Things?”