The Henna Artist(75)

“Gossip is easy to spread.”

My senses were on alert now. “What is it you’ve heard, Ji?” I asked as I drew third eyes for safety on the backs of her hands.

Her voice dropped to a whisper so the servants couldn’t hear. “You have been accused of stealing.”

I straightened my back, gazing at her with more calm than I felt. “By whom?”

“I’ve heard it from my cook, so the information may not be reliable. People say gold bangles have gone missing from Mrs. Prasad’s. So has an embroidered sari—with silver work.”

Who would spread such rumors? None of it was true, but that hardly mattered where rumormongers were concerned.

“A necklace vanished after you had been to Mrs. Chandralal’s. That’s what my chowkidar heard.”

I frowned. “I’ve served those women for a decade. Why, suddenly, would I start robbing them? I don’t need to steal—I have my own house.”

She dropped her chin, looked at her hands. “Well...”

“Please.”

“There’s talk... How could you afford a house unless you were taking from others?” She put her hand, the one I hadn’t started on yet, over mine. Her touch was cool. Either that, or my skin was on fire. I pulled away. “Lakshmi, I want you to know I don’t believe a word of it. But I thought you should know what’s being said.”

If Mrs. Patel had heard these rumors from her servants, my other ladies had heard them, too. How long had they been circulating?

Deep in my gut, I felt fear. The Alsatian sensed it, and turned his head to look at me. “Why? Why’re they telling lies?”

“Mrs. Sharma knows more than I, I’m sure. She always does. I’m not at the club as often as she is.” Her eyes were full of compassion.

I reached for her hand, the one I had almost finished painting. I tried, but failed, to hold the reed steady.

“That’s enough for today,” Mrs. Patel said quietly. “Go see Mrs. Sharma.” She withdrew fifty rupees from the knot in her sari and held them out to me.

“But we’re not done.”

“There’s always next time. Call it an advance payment.”

She meant it kindly, but the charity angered me, nonetheless. I quickly packed my supplies. The dog got up off the floor.

“Next time,” I said, avoiding her eyes, “will be my treat for not finishing the job today.”

I didn’t take the money. I wasn’t even sure I said goodbye before leaving.

The Alsatian barked, once, as if in farewell.



* * *



The Sharmas’ chowkidar was an ex-army man, smart in a khaki blazer and white dhoti. He greeted me politely at the gate. When I told him I’d to come discuss arrangements for the Teej Festival with Mrs. Sharma, he brushed both sides of his mustache with his forefinger, as if he were deciding whether to let me in. In the end, he nodded.

Mrs. Sharma had many daughters-in-law and nieces who looked forward to the Teej festival every August. It was a women’s celebration, commemorating the reunion of Shiva and his wife after a hundred years apart. Teej was supposed to ensure wedded bliss. Given my experience, I remained skeptical of that promise, but I did enjoy the festival because it came at the start of the monsoon season, when the plants I depended on gorged themselves and gathered enough strength to produce the healing properties for my lotions and creams. And Mrs. Sharma’s annual Teej party—a high-spirited affair where all the women in the family told stories, laughed, teased, sang and danced, while I applied henna to their hands—was always a joyous affair. Mrs. Sharma gifted each woman a silk sari and matching glass bangles. Every year, her cook outdid herself, creating more exotic and demanding delicacies than the year before.

With the festival only three weeks away, I’d been surprised, but not too concerned, that Mrs. Sharma hadn’t made her usual appointment. Knowing she had a large household to manage and had been busy with Sheela’s engagement celebration, I had penciled it in. Now, after what Mrs. Patel told me, I wondered if there was another reason for her delay.

As I mounted the steps of the veranda, goose bumps rose on my arms even though the summer sun was unbearable. My scalp felt as if it were on fire.

At the front door, the servant girl, who usually greeted me with a smile, raised her brows up to her hairline. It was clear that she, too, had heard the gossip. She asked me to wait—unusual in itself—and scuttled down the hall. I heard their murmurs—hers and Mrs. Sharma’s—before the girl emerged and indicated the drawing room with a tilt of her head.

Mrs. Sharma was seated at her writing table, a sturdy lowboy with built-in drawers and brass pulls. She glanced at me when she heard me enter. Her gold-framed spectacles flashed, reflecting sunlight from the window.

“Ah, Lakshmi. I’m glad you’ve come. I just need a moment to finish this letter to my son.” She turned back to her writing. “He says London is expensive and he needs more funds. Who knows where he spends it all?” She folded the thin blue aerogram. “Unless I reply urgently, he will fret that he is missing out on Coca-Colas with his friends.”

She flicked her tongue on the edge of the aerogram to seal it. Then she removed her glasses, draping them on the silver belt around her waist, which also held keys to almirahs, jewelry boxes, the pantry and the exterior doors.