The Henna Artist(84)

“Jiji, they’re blue! His eyes are blue! Like yours. Like Maa’s. He has us in him!”

I turned my head and cleared my throat. “You’re sure about the kajal?”

It was the only concession I had made: we could apply the black eye paste to ward off the evil eye. It was an old superstition, but Radha firmly believed it, and I suppose I had, too, at one time.

“Of course! He needs protection from burri nazar.”

I opened the tiffin I’d brought with me and reached for the tin of kajal. I had mixed soot with sandalwood and castor oils to make the smooth paste that many women wore as eyeliner. I dipped my little finger in the paste. While she held the baby steady, I gently pulled his bottom eyelids away from the sockets and drew a thin black line across the rims. Then I placed three tiny dots at both his temples and another three dots on the sole of each foot.

“It will come off when the nurses bathe him,” I said, screwing the lid on the tin.

“But the gods have seen us do it. Which means he’ll be safe.” Her baby’s fat fingers were curled around her thumb. “Would you like to hold him?”

I was wiping my hands on a towel, pretending I hadn’t heard. Through the window of the hospital room, I saw the sky: its silver cast, the clouds hovering above, a smoky green horizon of cedars, pines, rhododendrons.

“Jiji?”

“He’s healthy. His new family will be pleased.”

Her mouth became a thin line; my answer had irritated her.

The baby made sucking motions against her finger.

“You’ve barely looked at him.”

She wanted me to admit I loved him, too. That I saw us in him. If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to ask her to give him up. “I see him.”

“Then look at him with me.”

“No.” I set my jaw.

We stared at one another in silence.

“I’m not giving him up, you know.”

What?

“I only said I would because I thought you’d change your mind once he was born—”

“Change my mind? We can’t—”

“I’ve changed mine,” she said. “He’s my baby.”

My heart was beating so rapidly I thought it would burst out of my ribs. We’d sorted this ages ago! Kanta had assured me that Radha was willing to let the baby be adopted.

“Radha, he belongs to someone else—legally. That was the agreement.”

“He’s my son. He’s one of us. Could you really give up your own family?”

I already had. “He’s a baby someone else is expecting to raise!”

The baby yawned, exposing soft pink gums. She moved him to her other arm. Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you admit you hate babies?”

I blinked. “What?”

“I’ve seen you with little children—at your ladies’. You’re always polite and full of compliments. ‘What a pretty child, Mrs. Seth; she looks just like you. You’ve got a real Einstein on your hands, Mrs. Khanna.’ But then you turn to your work without another glance. You never look at the mothers pushing prams around the bazaar—I do. I want to see if it’s a girl or a boy. If the hair is straight or curly. You walk right past them.

“And the beggar children along the road. You hand them coins without a glance, as if they’re ghosts. I see them. I talk to them. They’re people, Jiji. This baby is a person. He’s our people. Look at his eyes. They’re Maa’s. Those ears are Pitaji’s. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

The baby fussed.

“Hai Ram! And family means so much to you that you’d destroy the only family you have left?” I said. The vein on my temple flared. “I’m family, Radha. I’m blood, too. What about me? I took care of you. Made it possible for you to go to the best school. And you repaid me by getting pregnant!”

“I didn’t do it to hurt you!”

“I spent thirteen years building a life. Now my appointment book is empty. Page after page—nothing.”

The baby was squirming now and clenching and unclenching his fists.

“But I loved him—I love Ravi,” she said, as if that made it all right.

My voice rose. “Love? This isn’t one of your American films where the heroine does as she pleases. And you’re not Marilyn Monroe.” I couldn’t stop. “How many times do I have to tell you that we don’t have the means to give this baby what he deserves? We’re not part of the polo set or the ladies’ auxiliary, no matter how much you wish it. We can’t afford to take a day off work while they book European tours for a month. Tailors, vegetable-wallas, cobblers—they go to their houses, not to ours. I wish it were different. But it’s not. It never will be.” I was in too deep. “You say you don’t want to be the Bad Luck Girl? Well, parade this baby around the city and you will be the Bad Luck Girl forever! No one will want to come near you or him.”

Radha’s eyes glittered, like the marbles Malik shot across the dirt. “I hate you! Get away from me!” she screamed.

The baby let out a loud wail. Radha rocked him from side to side, but her arms were shaking, which only frightened him more. His face had turned red.

The door opened. Dr. Kumar entered, followed by the sour-faced nurse with the brooch watch.