The Henna Artist(92)

But...my house! I had dreamed it, worked hard for it, built it. I’d loved knowing that all the decisions were mine. Moving meant I would have to leave it behind.

Yet, what had the house brought me but debt, anxiety, sleepless nights? Did I need it to announce my arrival in the world of the successful, as I once had? Success was ephemeral—and fluid—as I’d found out the hard way. It came. It went. It changed you from the outside, but not from the inside. Inside, I was still the same girl who dreamed of a destiny greater than she was allowed. Did I really need the house to prove I had skill, talent, ambition, intelligence? What if—

All at once I felt lighter. It was the same weightlessness I had felt in Shimla. I breathed deeply. As if I could already smell the bracing air of the blue Himalayan mountains.

Before I lost my courage, I tore a fresh sheet from my notebook.

October 15, 1956

Samir,

It is with great regret that I must leave the city I have called my home for eleven years. Rest assured, I will not leave without settling my debts. In order to repay your loan, however, I must sell my house. Estate agents are loath to represent female owners, so I must ask you to do this for me. If you are amenable, I would appreciate your subtracting my loan from the sales price and forwarding the remainder to the address below.

Had circumstances been different, our association might have continued. But as they say: What is the use of crying when the birds have eaten the whole farm?

I leave for Shimla in a month. Please let me know your decision in the coming week.

Lakshmi Shastri

c/o Lady Bradley Hospital

Harrington Estate

Shimla, Himachal Pradesh

I read it over several times. Satisfied, I tore off another sheet and wrote to Jay Kumar. Then I blew out the lamp and slept for twelve straight hours.

Two days later, a messenger arrived at my door. I opened the lavender-scented envelope.

Lakshmi,

You asked Samir to sell your home. It’s not important how I found out; I just did. However, would it surprise you to learn that I’d rather keep your patterned floor than sell it? Enclosed is the money for your house, less your loan (yes, I know about that, too). I am not buying your favor (we are even on that score), merely acknowledging that we may never again have someone with your hand making our hands a wonder to hold.

Parvati

Not quite forgiveness. Nor an apology. But it unwound something in me: a coil of resentment, a long-held grudge. I sat with the note in my hand for a long time.





      TWENTY-ONE


    October 20, 1956


I had money now. There was no excuse to put off the inevitable.

I took a rickshaw to Kanta’s house.

I’d been avoiding Kanta, Radha and the baby since their return from Shimla a few weeks ago. I missed them. But I wanted them to have time as a family. And I didn’t want Radha to feel that I was underfoot, trying to manage her life.

“Lakshmi! What a nice surprise!” Kanta gathered me in a hug. She looked happy, refreshed. Gone were the hollows under her eyes. Her cheekbones had filled out.

“Radha’s in the nursery. Go on in. I must sit with Saasuji for her prayers and then I’ll join you.”

Kanta’s mother-in-law had accepted the baby as her grandson. If she guessed the truth about his birth or noted his resemblance to Radha, she said nothing; she had the grandchild she wanted.

I stopped just outside the nursery door, which was ajar. If the baby was sleeping, I didn’t want to wake him. I heard Radha’s voice from inside the room. “‘How dare you taunt me with your presence?’ roared the evil King Kansa. So many times he had tried to destroy Lord Krishna and so many times he had failed.’”

Quietly, I stepped inside. Her back to me, Radha was swaying to and fro in the rocking chair. The baby was cradled in her arms, and she was reading to him from her Tales of Krishna book, now so worn that the pages had been cellotaped to the spine.

Kanta and Manu had named the baby Nikhil. At the naming ceremony, Kanta purified the baby’s forehead with water before handing him to her saas for the ritual blessing. Given the date and time of his birth, the pandit had declared that the baby’s name should start with N. With his blue eyes, Neel would have been the natural choice for a name, but Manu whispered Nikhil four times in the baby’s ear, deciding the issue.

The baby gurgled.

Radha cooed, “Why, that’s exactly what Krishna said!” She bent her head to kiss his cheek. “Aren’t you clever?”

“He’s certainly as handsome as Krishna.”

The rocking chair jerked to a stop, and Radha turned to look at me. “Jiji! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” She was frowning.

In one hand she held the bottle that must have popped out of the baby’s mouth. He reached for it with his plump little fingers, wanting it back, but she dropped the almost empty bottle in her baby bag.

Was that guilt on her face or was I imagining things?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake him if he was sleeping.”

I took one of the baby’s chubby hands in mine and jiggled it. He stared at our joined fingers. He looked well-fed, happy. He wore a baby gown in cream linen.

“Auntie didn’t tell me you were coming.” There was accusation in her voice. As I feared, she thought I was checking up on her.