The Henna Artist(88)
His hands slid from his temples to his cheeks. He left them there, his skin stretched clownishly. Abruptly, he got up and went around the desk to check his office door, though I’d made sure to pull it closed behind me.
“You realize you’re asking me to do—”
“The proper thing.”
He took his seat again, behind his desk, and folded his hands together. He picked up the fountain pen and capped it, tapped it lightly on the piece of paper in front of him, smudging his hand and whatever he’d been writing.
“Radha has made this decision?”
“Yes.”
His gaze landed on the bookshelf behind me. “I told you something like this might happen. Before the baby arrived, we could have canceled the contract. It’s too late now.”
“Haven’t you discovered, Dr. Kumar, that the wrong course can, at times, turn out to be the right one? The baby is better off with a woman who loves him than with a palace full of strangers. The royal family can adopt another baby from the Kshatriya caste with the right bloodline.”
It was difficult to read Jay Kumar’s expression. His eyes were gray pearls, the outer rim luminescent. He chewed his lower lip, pushed his lanky frame out of the chair and started to pace, rubbing his jaw with his ink-stained hand.
“Dr. Kumar,” I said. “Please.”
He sat again, picked up the letter he was writing and noticed the smudge. He blew out a breath, tore the page in half. Then he searched through the stack of papers to his left and pulled out a sheet; I saw that it was a form, embossed with the royal seal. He uncapped the fountain pen, threw a hasty glance in my direction and carefully amended a number on the form.
“A newborn’s heartbeat generally ranges from a hundred to a hundred and twenty beats per minute,” he said. “However, when the heart is enlarged, the heart rate is much slower.”
He tore a clean sheet from his writing tablet. His pen glided across the paper and filled the page in less than two minutes. He lifted the finished letter in his hands, blew on it to dry the ink, then handed it to me.
September 3, 1956
My Dear Dr. Ram,
At 6:20 a.m., September 2, 1956, the patient you had entrusted in my care delivered a baby boy weighing six pounds, fifteen ounces. While there were no apparent physical defects, the vital statistics revealed a heartbeat of 84 bpm. As you are well aware, hypertrophic obstructive cardiomyopathy or asymmetric septal hypertrophy are indicated in cases such as these—if not now, then in the future when the myocardium has been compromised.
I attribute the complication to an early birth, as the baby was three weeks premature. I wish I had better news for you. Mrs. Shastri will be in touch regarding contract closure.
Please convey my sincerest condolences to the palace. A thousand thanks to you for entrusting me with such a privileged and providential task.
Respectfully,
Jay Kumar, M.D.
I read it twice. No one would lose face: the royal family, Dr. Kumar or the Singhs. But who would pay Radha’s medical bills now? Hastily, I pushed the thought aside. One thing at a time.
I read the letter a third time. Only then did it occur to me that Jay Kumar was passing up his opportunity for fame. He would have been the doctor who delivered the new Crown Prince of Jaipur.
I looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”
He returned my gaze.
“Mrs. Agarwal,” he said, “will make a fine mother. Very fine indeed.”
He pushed the letter and the form across the desk. All that was missing was my signature. He passed me the fountain pen.
TWENTY
Jaipur, State of Rajistan, India
October 15, 1956
I stayed two weeks in Shimla. On my return to Jaipur in late September, I felt happier, lighter, than I had in a long time. In Shimla, I had worked with people who needed me, who valued what I had to offer. The Himalayan people had welcomed my suggestions eagerly, the way parched soil welcomes rain. A few had arrived at Dr. Kumar’s clinic, bearing gifts of wildflowers and home-cooked treats, to thank me. Not since my time with my saas had I experienced such joy in healing others.
Seeing Kanta and Manu with Radha’s baby had lifted my spirits, too. They were doting parents, eager to take care of their first, and now only, child. I had watched Radha for signs of jealousy, but she seemed content to share her baby with her auntie and uncle. They would all be coming back to Jaipur in a week, and Radha would live with them.
It only took a few days back in Jaipur, however, to bring me back to the reality of my life. After thirteen years of hard work, I was right back where I started, as poor now as I had been at seventeen. We would no longer be getting thirty thousand rupees from the adoption agreement. I’d refused Parvati’s tainted marriage commission. I had no money to pay back Samir’s loan or the Lady Bradley medical bills. My saris had faded from too many washings; there was no money for new clothes. I walked to my few appointments (ladies like Mrs. Patel had remained steadfast) to save money on rickshaws.
I could have asked Kanta and Manu for money, but that would have been like requesting compensation for the baby my friends had adopted. The very thought of it repulsed me.
I had other debts. The neem oil vendor to whom I owed several hundred rupees came knocking at my door. Six months ago, I would have told him to go through Malik. Yesterday, I merely showed him my empty hands. He had a lean, hawkish face with eyes set too close together. He scanned my property, my tattered belongings, my threadbare blouse. I could tell he was surprised at how far I’d come down in the world.