The Henna Artist(91)
Malik picked up a stone and threw it, casting a sideways glance at me. “You can’t go on like this.”
Something in the way he spoke ripped apart whatever was holding me together. I stopped and covered my mouth with my sari, let out a sob.
Malik put an arm around my shoulders. I allowed it.
“Auntie-Boss, I know you’ve worked hard. But weren’t you happier before you built that house? Your business was good. You had money in the bank. You were free to do as you pleased.”
“I was never free, Malik. No more than I am now.”
“Move away.”
“Where? To do what?”
“Same thing you were doing here. Maybe in Delhi or Bombay. I’ll go with you.”
“You’re doing fine here.”
“Didn’t I just say I don’t like working for fools, Madam?”
Dear Malik. How much I had missed him.
I let out a long sigh. “Starting over isn’t easy.”
Malik looked as if he’d been as patient with me as he could; it was time for tougher medicine.
“When have you let that stop you, Auntie-Boss? You must move from Jaipur—there is no other way. Unless you’ve thought of something better.”
* * *
My belly and breasts were raw from scrubbing. Shreds of coconut husks and slivers of charcoal pricked my underarms, the insides of my thighs and my scalp. I sloughed the debris off my skin with my palms, wincing from the pain, praying the punishment would make me feel less polluted. But no matter how hard I rubbed, I could still feel the neem oil vendor’s hand on my arm this afternoon, his breath on my back. And I would start the cleansing all over again.
When I was too tired to go on, I rubbed lavender oil into my raw skin. I put on a clean sari, the hem of which was frayed. As I combed through my tangles, my eyes landed on the hole in my cot I’d meant to fix—a year ago already?—when the jute had started to fray. Now it had completely come apart. As I slept, sometimes my foot went right through the hole.
A sadhu called from the street to beg for food. I put the comb down and wrapped newspaper around the chapattis Malik had brought yesterday. I ran out the door to give him the food. The holy man, covered in a faded saffron cloth, was waiting, leaning on a cane. He had renounced his home and material comforts, and freed himself of ego, something I didn’t have the courage to do.
When I held out my offering, he said a blessing for me in a dialect I didn’t understand. But he didn’t take my gift. He stood looking at me.
In the pupils of his eyes, I saw what he saw: a sapling of a woman, wet strands of hair dangling like snakes around her shoulders, the thin sari. Neck and arms scratched and bleeding. I realized that I seemed so pitiful to him that he, who had so little, was refusing the food I offered.
I thrust the chapattis in his hand, roughly, and ran back inside, slamming the door. I leaned against it and closed my eyes, my heart hopping wildly in my chest.
When my breathing returned to normal I moved to the worktable.
With shaking hands, I unfolded the letter that had arrived yesterday.
October 10, 1956
My Dear Mrs. Shastri,
Our current situation is best described by Mr. Dickens: it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness. Alas, the migration of the hill tribes and their herds to southern climes has brought our local clinic to an abrupt halt—and, with it, our consultation agreement (at least until the season changes). There is, however, light in the darkness: the opportunity to begin planning the herb garden.
Were you to commit to an extended stay in Shimla, you could study our climate, soil conditions and the indigenous herbs here, talk to the city’s residents (you’ll even find herbal enthusiasts among our staff) and draw up a plan for developing the Lady Bradley Healing Garden.
Say you will consider my proposal and help me minister to the people of Shimla. Of course, I intend to do everything in my power to persuade you to settle in our fair city once you’re here. Are our environs not beautiful enough? Our people not adequately hospitable?
Undeniably, you have a valuable service to provide the ladies of Jaipur, but if I am to believe Mrs. Agarwal, some untoward and unjust accusations have been leveled at you. Let me speak plainly here. Pride should not get in the way of sharing your gift with a larger public. (Mrs. Agarwal should be held blameless for sharing your plight with me; when she paid your sister’s medical bill, I was compelled to ask her how you were. If she hadn’t told me, I might have lacked the courage to write to you with this request.)
You have much to teach us. Your work could help—and has helped—save more than a few lives and given our patients comfort. The hill people have not forgotten you. (Our pregnant patient from the Gaddi tribe whom you helped can’t stop raving about your bitter melon recipe. Her baby is due any day now!)
I, for one, hope you will consider, and accept, this invitation. I eagerly await your arrival, both as a keen and willing student and as your devoted friend.
With great respect and anticipation,
Jay Kumar
Kanta’s generosity brought tears to my eyes. She’d known that if she had told me what she was going to do, I would have stopped her. Radha’s medical bills were one less worry now.
I thought about what Malik had said. Not for the first time, he suggested I move away from Jaipur.
Jay Kumar was offering me a chance to heal, to work with people who wanted what I had to offer. Who believed my knowledge was sacred. It was a chance to do the work my saas taught me. She lived in me, still. I could make her proud once more. Be proud of myself again.