The Henna Artist(77)

“I’m sorry to lose you, Lakshmi. Artists like you are hard to come by and you have served my family well.”

She wanted to offer comfort; I heard it in her voice. Even the mole on her cheek climbed higher, as if trying to give me strength. “But Parvati claims you’ve been stealing. And while I do not believe her—would never consider such a thing—I must stand by her. You understand, I’m sure. When Sheela and Ravi are married, the Singhs will become part of our family. And whether I agree with Parvati or not, my hands are now tied to hers.”

Parvati! I’d served her. Pampered her. Fawned over her. I’d handled Radha’s pregnancy as delicately as possible for the benefit of her family and mine. I hadn’t created a scene. I hadn’t demanded money. After all that, she was telling lies about me? In retaliation for my sister’s—and Ravi’s, don’t forget!—folly! Her son was as much to blame—more, since he was older. But Parvati was taking it out on me.

It was so unfair! I tried to hold back my tears, but I failed. I’ve worked so hard, I wanted to tell Mrs. Sharma. I followed their rules. Swallowed their insults. Ignored their slights. Dodged their husbands’ wandering hands. Haven’t I been punished enough? At this moment, sitting in front of this good, sensible woman, I wanted the thing I hated most in this world: sympathy. Even more, I hated that I wanted it. Hated myself for my weakness, as distasteful to me as Joyce Harris’s self-pity the day I’d given her the sachets.

Oh, if not for Radha! Nothing in my life had been the same since her arrival. She had been my personal monsoon, wrecking years of trust the ladies had invested in me, destroying a reputation it had taken so long to build. If not for Radha, I would never have had to grovel, in silence, in front of Mrs. Sharma. But I deserved it. I had committed the first sin, deserting the husband I should have stayed with for seven lifetimes.

Mrs. Sharma was eyeing me with concern. I needed to leave before I stained her sofa with my tears.

I cleared my throat and pressed my fingertips against my eyelids. As I stood to take my leave, I managed to say only, “Well.”

Her last words to me were, “Go with luck, bheti.”





      SEVENTEEN


    August 31, 1956


The month of August—scorching, blistering, unrelenting—dragged on. I opened my appointment book and flipped through the empty pages. August 15, the day of our nation’s independence, had come and gone without a single booking.

With each passing week, I received more cancellations than appointments. Where I used to serve six or seven ladies a day, I now served one (and was lucky to do so). These days, the few clients I still had paid me less, without asking, and I took their reduced fees without complaint.

I had tucked Dr. Kumar’s last letter in the notebook. I pulled it out and, for the third time, tried to finish reading it.

August 17, 1956

My Dear Mrs. Shastri,

I respect your wishes vis-à-vis Radha; I have not let her know the palace is adopting her baby, but I would like to discuss the matter with you further, realizing that the opportunity may not present itself until the baby’s birth.

Radha will be kept under observation at the hospital for a week after the delivery. However, keeping her from the baby for that period of time may prove difficult. She’s grown very attached to the life within her and talks about the baby constantly. I’m not sure she’s fully reconciled to the idea that the baby is to be adopted. She understands the situation intellectually, but emotionally I feel she hasn’t accepted it.

Your friend Mrs. Agarwal has assured me that Radha does understand the situation, and she believes it’s only hormones that account for Radha’s strong attachment to the baby. I have no better explanation, so for the moment I will rely on hers...

At this point in the letter, I always stopped reading. Radha had agreed to the adoption; I would not permit myself to think otherwise. The palace would raise her baby. We would be paid thirty thousand rupees, which would save us and pay for Radha’s education. The baby would be healthy; it would be a boy. It would, because I did not want to talk to Dr. Kumar about any other possibility.



* * *



The monsoon rains, which came in early September, usually brought with them a feeling of relief. Wash away the old; welcome the new. This year, when the rains came, I felt only dread. With nowhere to go, my house became my prison, and all around me, I saw evidence of my failures. Water pooled on the bare dirt of the courtyard where I had planned to grow my herb garden. It bounced off the dried thatch that was to have sheltered my young plants. It dripped off the stacks of bricks I’d bought to build my back fence. I no longer cared to chase away the neighbor’s pigs that rooted in my yard.

More often than not, I stood at my countertop for hours, mixing oils and lotions no one was going to use. The rhythm of the pestle was hypnotic and, like the constant rains, it soothed me. I stirred and thought about what I should have done differently. I should have kept a closer eye on Radha, whom I was supposed to protect. I should have refrained from sleeping with a man like Samir, who used women as callously as his son did. I should have demanded Parvati pay me up front for a marriage arrangement far more brilliant than the average matchmaker could have devised.

After leaving Mrs. Sharma’s house, I had briefly considered confronting Parvati. For a decade I’d been in her thrall, circumnavigating her moods, inferior to her superior. The thought of challenging her face-to-face seemed a herculean task. I had a glimpse then of my father, how demoralized and inadequate he had felt when forced to confront the British Raj. The British always had the upper hand, and at some point Pitaji hadn’t the energy to fight back anymore. He had chosen the coward’s way out: a bottle of sharab every night, then eventually two or three per day.