The Henna Artist(8)
He shook his head and frowned; he hated disappointing me.
I sighed. “Please get the tonga.”
He ran off in the direction of the front gate. Today, he was wearing the yellow cotton shirt I’d given him to replace the bush-shirt he used to wear. His navy blue knickers were new, too. He refused to wear shoes, however, preferring cheap rubber sandals, which were often stolen by the other children in his neighborhood. The sandals were easier to replace; he could always steal someone else’s. Today’s pair, I noticed, were a size too big.
Malik would have to get to a busy street to hail a rickshaw, so I sat on the veranda wall to wait, soothed by the fragrance of frangipani. I plucked two blossoms from the vine and tucked them behind my ear. Tonight, I would put them in a glass of water and wash my blouse with the scented water in the morning.
I removed a tiny notebook from a pouch I’d sewn inside my petticoat. My father, the village schoolteacher, would rap his students’ knuckles with a ruler if they failed to provide the correct answers. To avoid such a punishment, I’d started keeping notebooks, in which I diligently recorded (and memorized) multiplication tables, names of British viceroys and Hindi verbs. It became a habit, and later, I used notebooks for appointment dates and times, summaries of conversations, supplies I needed to purchase.
On the page labeled Parvati Singh, I wrote November 15: 40 rupees for hands/feet. Next, I wrote the date for the henna party at Parvati’s house and noted the nine thousand rupees I would receive for the marriage commission. I knew that Mrs. Sharma, another client of mine, was clever enough to grasp the benefits of a Singh-Sharma union. She was blind to her daughter’s petulant nature, but I had no doubts that Ravi Singh’s charms could overcome it.
I turned to a blank page. With a shaking hand I wrote Maharaja Sawai Mohinder Singh and Maharani Latika—palace commission? My mind was full of possibilities. Such an engagement would have every woman in Jaipur demanding my services. I might, perhaps, retire that henna reed sooner than I’d planned. Just then, my mother’s words echoed in my head: stretch your legs only as far as your bed. I was getting too far ahead of myself.
I closed the notebook and shut my eyes. Thirteen years ago, my only desire was to get as far as possible from the husband my parents had relinquished me to. I would never have imagined that I would, one day, be free to come and go as I pleased, to negotiate the terms of my life. How would my parents react when they saw all that I’d accomplished? How often had I thought about the day I would take them to my house, show them the beautiful terrazzo floor I had designed, the electric ceiling fan, the courtyard where I would grow my herbs, the Western privy no one in their village could afford? I’d hoped the builder would have finished everything by the time they arrived, but I kept adding little luxuries. And once my parents saw what I had designed, surely they wouldn’t mind sleeping at my lodgings until the house was complete?
I pictured the astonishment on my parents’ faces when they took it all in. I could hear my father saying, Bheti, all this is yours? How proud they would be at the life I had made for myself. I would feed them rich kheers and subji and tandoori rotis till their stomachs were full to bursting. I would buy them sleeping cots so new the jute strings would squeak under their weight. I would hire a malish to massage Pitaji’s tired feet. I could see Maa, now, lounging on a rosewood settee like Parvati’s! And—why not—silk cushions! Stuffed with feathers! I was getting so carried away—of course, I couldn’t afford all this just yet—that I couldn’t help laughing at myself.
“Am I that funny looking, Lakshmi?”
When I opened my eyes, I saw Samir Singh coming up the steps, and my world suddenly felt lighter. Where Parvati was round, her husband was angular: sharp nose, bony chin, jutting cheekbones. It was his eyes I found the most appealing: a rich brown with the striations of a glass marble, alive with curiosity, ready to be amused. Even when his face was still, his eyes could flirt, coax, tease. In the ten years I’d known him, the hollows underneath his eyelids had deepened and his hairline had receded, but he’d never lost his restless energy.
“The one-eyed man is king among the blind,” I replied, smiling.
He laughed as he stepped out of his shoes. Samir was that curious blend of the new India and the old; he wore tailored English suits but followed Indian customs. “Arré! What does a silly monkey know of the taste of ginger?”
“One who cannot dance blames the floor.”
This was a game we often played, trading proverbs. I’d learned mine from my mother’s prudent tongue; his had come from years at boarding school and Oxford.
I stood, tucked the pencil in my bun and slipped the notebook in the pocket of my petticoat.
He arched one eyebrow as he walked toward me. “Are you hiding the Singh silver in there?”
I smiled coyly. “Among other things.”
“I see you’ve already helped yourself to my flora?” His eyes were on the frangipani tucked behind my ear. He leaned in, close, and inhaled. “Bilkul intoxicating,” he whispered, his breath warm on my earlobe, shaking something loose inside of me, just below my belly.
Thirteen years had passed since I’d last felt the heat of a man against my skin, the weight against my breasts. If I turned my head just slightly, my lips might have grazed Samir’s; I could have let my own breath warm the hollow space between his neck and collar. But Samir was a natural flirt. And I was still a married woman. One wrong move and I could lose my livelihood, my independence, my plans for the future. I was alert to the sound of servants approaching—the swish of a broom, the slap of bare feet on stone. Reluctantly, I took a step back.