The Henna Artist(79)

She resumed pacing. “Samir needs to be loved. To be worshipped. Men of his type do. I understand. I accommodate him.”

Was she trying to convince me, or herself?

“What does matter is that you betrayed me, Lakshmi. I trusted you. In my home. And with my husband. You assured me there was nothing between you.”

It was only one night. I held out for ten years. I have no intention of repeating it. Nothing I said would have made any difference.

Parvati came to a stop in front of her handbag. She took out a heavy pouch and set it on the countertop. It tinkled, a sound that confirmed it was filled with coins.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” she said, looking at the pouch. “I will give you the marriage commission. In silver, no less.” She hesitated. “You earned it.” She wasn’t about to thank me.

When I didn’t reach for the money, she said, “Ten thousand rupees. More than we agreed on.” She smiled at me, and for the briefest of moments, I imagined she was offering me something more: apology, forgiveness, understanding, respect. I was surprised, and confused, by how much I wanted to be in her good graces again. I thought of Pitaji and of my fellow Indians, how they felt about the British after independence. Accustomed to subservience, they were more comfortable reverting to that role, however humiliating, as I seemed to be now.

“And?” My voice was faint.

“And I will tell everyone that the rumors were a mistake. I’ll even hire you back for regular engagements. I’ll help you arrange more marriage commissions. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I coughed; it was too good to be true. “What’s the price?”

“You will stay away from Samir. Geeta told me about the business you roped him into—those sachets. Really, Lakshmi.” She shuddered.

I tasted bile, bitter and hot, in my mouth. She thought I’d talked Samir into selling those sachets. She had no idea he’d lured me to Jaipur to sell them.

I kept my voice soft. “You talked to Samir, then?”

She cleared her throat, as if it hurt her to do so. She hadn’t.

I looked at the pouch—enough money to pay back Samir’s loan. I could agree to her conditions, and soon enough my notebook would be filled with the names of former clients. The privileged and the powerful would welcome me, once again, into their grand homes, invite me to sit on their divans and drink their creamy tea.

I heard my mother’s voice: a reputation once lost is seldom retrieved. She was right. After his British employers labeled him as a troublemaker for his part in the independence movement, my father never recovered his reputation. He was branded for life.

My standing as a popular henna artist was soiled forever, too. Even if Parvati made good on her promise, the thieving scandal would follow me like a bad odor. When I came to their homes, the ladies would watch my every move, quick to blame me the moment a bracelet had been mislaid or money was missing from MemSahib’s purse. And then what would I do? Go begging to Parvati—every time it happened—to convince them otherwise.

I realized, now, that as long as I remained in her debt, Parvati owned me, which was exactly where she wanted me to be.

I could say yes and keep my business intact—tarnished, but intact. Just like Pitaji, whose job as a schoolteacher had remained intact—albeit in the tiny, forgotten village of Ajar.

How demeaned he must have felt every second of every day, making do with outdated textbooks, no school supplies and no chance of escape.

I straightened my shoulders and slid the pouch back in her direction. “Keep your money. In return, I won’t tell the ladies of Jaipur how many of your husband’s bastards I’ve kept from this world.”

Her face contorted. In a flash, she raised her arm and flattened her hand. Before she could slap my face, I seized her forearm. Our eyes locked. I saw her then, all of her, red-faced, eyes wet and frenzied. It must have taken every fiber of her being to stay in control this last half hour.

“You might want to save a few sachets for your sons,” I said. “My sister wasn’t the first, and I doubt she’ll be the last.” I thrust her forearm away from me.

She struggled to stay upright. Her eyes blazed with hate—and shame. Black eyeliner streaked down her cheeks along with her tears. Her nose was running. There was a pink lipstick smudge on one side of her mouth. She rubbed her arm where my hand had left an imprint.

I thought she had more to say, but she was quiet. We listened to the rain pounding the roof. I watched her pick up the pouch of silver coins and drop it in her handbag. For the briefest of seconds—and absurdly—I thought about grabbing it from her (it was ten thousand rupees!).

Then Parvati did something I’d never seen her do; she wiped her face with her pallu, not caring that she was smearing her makeup or ruining her fine sari. Her face was stained black, red and pink. Her gaze fell on the pocket watch, still on the counter. She turned away.

At the door, she steadied herself against the frame as she slipped into her sandals. Before she left, she looked out at the rain and said, “He does tire of all of you, eventually.”

I waited, every muscle in my body tense. After a moment, I walked to the window. She was standing in the middle of the street, drenched. She’d forgotten her umbrella. Her sari, completely soaked, clung to her curvy frame, revealing every bulge, every bump. Her bun had collapsed into a mass of wet coils down her back. She didn’t notice. Neither did she hear the tonga-walla, who stopped to offer her a ride. The part of me that was used to serving, to pleasing and appeasing, wanted to run after her with the umbrella. I held myself back. Watched as she staggered and slipped her way down the street, until she disappeared from view.