The Henna Artist(86)

“She can try again, can’t she?”

Someone had to tell her. “Dr. Kumar doesn’t think it likely.”

“Oh.”

We watched as the female warbler turned toward us. She was either gazing at us or admiring her reflection in the window.

“I wanted Auntie to replace you as my jiji, you know.”

It hurt to hear her say it, but it didn’t surprise me.

“But the day I sent the telegram I’d never been more glad that you were my sister.”

I met her eyes. She didn’t look away.

“I knew you’d make everything all right.”

Something hard inside me yielded. She depended on me to be there for her, even when she was angry and told me she hated me. I smoothed her coverlet, scratchy from too many washings and ironings. Her hand lay on her lap, and I clasped it. She let me.

“How’s Malik?” she asked.

“Busy. Delivers a few orders—hair tonic, that sort of thing. He’s always coming around. Thinks I need the company.”

“Do you?”

I shrugged. I replaced the warm compresses on her breasts with cooler ones. I could tell by her exhalations that the ache had lessened, and, with it, the urge to breastfeed.

“You said the ladies aren’t coming to you for henna anymore?”

I thought Kanta had told her. “They don’t trust me. They think I steal.”

She raised her brows. “That’s ridiculous! Why would they think such a thing?”

“Gossip-eaters.” Crocodile lies.

I removed the cool compresses. Radha buttoned her gown, lost in thought.

I looked past the bed, out the window. Dark clouds breezed past the sun, blotting out the light. I could see my reflection. There were purple bruises under my eyes and lines at the corners of my mouth. The fluorescent lights overhead caught a few strands of silver in my hair and the groove of a wrinkle on my forehead. There was a slight stoop to my spine. I was getting older. I looked at my hands. No longer smooth, the skin was like a rutted path, grooved and bumpy with veins.

Dr. Kumar walked in. He stood, uncertain, as if he might have intruded on a private moment.

“All is well?” He looked at my sister. “Radha, how are you feeling?”

“Better.” She told him about my herb compresses.

“You’re a woman of many talents, Mrs. Shastri,” he said.

When he realized he was staring at me, he turned his attention to Radha, to Kanta’s empty bed, then to the stack of paper in his hands. “I need your signature.”

Ah. The official forms, certifying the birth of the new crown prince. I stood to take them, but my legs felt unsteady, and I sat down again.

“If you’ll just give us a moment, Doctor.”

He nodded and left the room.

Radha smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“He is.” She lifted her chin to indicate Dr. Kumar. “He was always saying my baby would be an all-rounder, and he does have sturdy little legs.”

Of course Radha had given thought to her baby’s future. He would be a cricketeer. A star bowler. Would he ask for kicheri or aloo tikki at breakfast? His hair might grow straight, like hers, or curly like his father’s.

“Jiji?” she asked shyly. “Could we see the baby again? I promise not to make another scene.”

I started to rise from the bed, but Radha grabbed my hand with a strength that surprised me. She squeezed my fingers. Her hand was warm and slightly damp. I sat back down.

“Jiji, I know I took you by surprise. I must have been four or five—I was stirring the boiling milk for yogurt when the postman delivered one of your letters. Maa took one look at the envelope and threw it in the cooking fire. I asked why she didn’t open it, and she just shrugged and said, ‘Someone who died in my heart a long time ago.’

“I wondered who she was talking about. After that, I started listening, more closely, to the gossip-eaters, and realized Maa was taking about you. I thought how brave you must be—how very strong—to leave everything behind. And then I met you. You were everything I’d imagined. Smart. Beautiful. Funny. I was proud. You could do so much. I loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. See, I’d had time to get used to the idea of you.”

My eyes filled. No one had ever said they loved me. Oh, I knew Maa and Pitaji loved me, but it wasn’t something they said aloud. In his own way, Hari had loved me, or thought he had, but his hadn’t been a selfless love. He’d wanted to own me, make me a part of him. And Samir didn’t love me; he wanted me in bed.

“I want children. I want to be tired at the end of the day because I’ve had to boil milk for their kheer and play hopscotch with them and put turmeric on their hurts and listen to the stories they make up and teach them how to read Ramayana and catch fireflies. And it makes me sadder than you can imagine to think I’ll never be able to do that with this baby.”

Her persistence was wearing me down. Was I being too narrow-minded? Maybe she and I could raise that beautiful baby together. Radha could go to school while I took care of the boy. No, I couldn’t. I’d have to keep working to pay off Samir’s debt. And now that I thought about it, no school in Jaipur would take a girl who’d had a baby. She wouldn’t be able to complete her education. With an illegitimate baby in tow, we’d be pariahs, shunned from society, any and all celebrations, weddings and funerals, even a way to make a living. No one would want me to do their henna or their mandala or arrange their marriage. We wouldn’t be able to feed ourselves! No matter how I looked at it, it just wasn’t possible for us to take Radha’s baby home.