The Henna Artist(76)

I took a handkerchief from my petticoat to dab the sweat on my forehead; I had practically run here from Mrs. Patel’s with my heart in my throat. Just as I was wishing for something cool to drink, the servant girl brought in a tray with two tall glasses of aam panna. She left the mango drinks on the tea table and closed the door behind her.

Mrs. Sharma joined me on the sofa and offered me a glass. “It’s one of our hottest summers yet, don’t you think?”

She tilted her head back and, in one long swallow, gulped the whole of her sweet and sour drink. She was wearing another khadi sari and she mopped perspiration from her upper lip with the stiff pallu. The overhead fan was pushing hot air down, carrying the aromas of her talcum powder and sweat toward me. How a builder-contractor like Mr. Sharma could neglect the comforts of his own family, when every other wealthy household had long installed air-conditioning, was a mystery.

As if she had read my mind, Mrs. Sharma smiled, showing me her large, crooked teeth. “It’s necessary for the body to perspire, Mr. Sharma always says. Helps rid the body of toxins.”

I smiled politely and sipped my drink, wondering how to begin the conversation, and frightened of doing so.

“Even so,” she said, mopping her neck, “I look forward to the monsoons.”

“Yes.” I realized she was giving me a way in. “Almost time for Teej.”

Mrs. Sharma smiled. She wiped her mouth with her fingers and looked at the three porcelain dogs, chained to one another with gold links, on the tea table. The largest, obviously the mother, with painted eyelashes and red lips, gazed coquettishly at Mrs. Sharma, while the pups looked at their mother.

Mrs. Sharma spoke, still regarding the tableau. “Teej is a good time for us. With all my nephews married. And Sheela’s marriage arranged, thanks to you.”

There was always a moment before I placed the final dot of henna on a woman’s skin that felt significant somehow. Never again would I repeat that particular design, and after a few weeks, it would disappear entirely. This moment with Mrs. Sharma felt final, and ephemeral, in the same way.

I shivered and set my drink on the table, afraid my teeth would chatter against the glass.

“What would you say,” Mrs. Sharma began, “if I told you that the mandala you created for Sheela’s sangeet party wasn’t up to snuff?”

It was hard to conceal my surprise. While I decorated the hands of Mrs. Sharma’s sisters-in-law, several of them told me they found the pattern both original and beautiful. “Might I ask what, specifically, was unsatisfactory?”

“It might not have been traditional enough. There should have been more colored powder used.” She shrugged her broad shoulders, as if the reasons were inconsequential.

Was she asking me to criticize my own work? “But, Mrs. Sharma, you asked for something similar to my henna designs. You said, very particularly, that you wanted a different kind of mandala.”

She puckered her lips and swiped her damp neck with the sari. “So I did. What if I told you that the henna was second-rate?”

I thought back to that evening. Had my paste been clumpy? No, I had used Radha’s batch, the one with a consistently silky texture. All the products I used were first-rate and blended by my own hand or Radha’s. Could Malik have said, or done, something to disturb the guests? (He’d never done anything untoward before.) But I remembered: he had barely begun working on the mandala before Sheela demanded that he leave. Someone must have seen Radha trying to throw rocks at Sheela. But that had happened almost eight months ago; I would have heard about it through the servant network long before this.

I began carefully. “As you know, I inspect my work carefully, Mrs. Sharma. I have exacting standards. Did—did one of the ladies complain?”

Mrs. Sharma sighed. She pressed her palms on her thighs, arms akimbo, as if she were about to get up. “You’ve said exactly what I thought you might say, Lakshmi. And why should you say anything else? You are not at fault here. And I’m no good at telling lies. If I tried to make something up you would see right through it.”

She hoisted herself off the sofa and walked purposefully to the writing table, where she unlocked a compartment with a key from her cord-cum-belt. She returned to stand in front of me, and held out an envelope that bulged at one end. I heard the tinkling of coins.

“Yours,” she said. “Please take it.” When I did, she lumbered back to her sofa and sat, heavily. “Parvati didn’t have time to give you this before she went abroad for the summer. I’ve been lax getting it to you.” No doubt Parvati had gone to England to keep Ravi from coming back to Jaipur.

The name and address of Singh Architects was printed on the upper left corner of the envelope. There was no addressee.

“She requested that I witness you opening it.” Mrs. Sharma now looked sheepish. She focused her attention on the porcelain dogs again. “It’s the marriage commission.”

I broke the seal. Inside were one-rupee coins. I counted them. Ten rupees? I had a wild urge to turn the envelope upside down, to shake it, make sure there was nothing else inside. I tore it open wider.

It was empty.

I lowered my chin to my chest and closed my eyes to stop the buzzing in my head. Parvati’s aim had been to disgrace me in front of Mrs. Sharma. She knew the insult would be a thousand times more shameful.

Mrs. Sharma said, “Parvati asked me for one other thing...” Her voice trailed off. She lifted her glass to take another sip before remembering it was empty. Reluctantly, she set it down and looked at me. Her gaze was not unkind.