The Henna Artist(94)

I glanced at my sister. She was chewing on her lower lip. With Radha I could only guide and suggest. She was strong-willed and preferred her own counsel. I had learned that much.

I reached for another diaper. “I know of a wonderful ayah who needs a job. She used to be with another family, but they don’t need her anymore. Lala is kind. She loves children. She would love Niki as if he were her own.” I paused. “That is, of course, if you decide to come with us to Shimla.” I touched her shoulder. “It’s up to you.”

She glanced at me and something flickered in her eyes.

I kept talking. “Malik would be over the moon, of course. He’s going to need help with his homework. If you were going to school there, you could help him. And, of course, Dr. Kumar would love it, too.” I laughed. “He misses chatting with you about poetry.”

Radha was quiet. But I could tell by the way she pursed her mouth that she was thinking about it.



* * *



Two weeks later, the Rajnagar house was empty. The movers had taken our heavy trunks for transport to Shimla. Malik had given my sagging cot to one of his friends whose father worked with jute. We were left with only the three vinyl carriers we would take on the train.

Tomorrow morning, Malik would pick me up in a tonga to take us to the station. But tonight, I wanted to say goodbye to my house. I lit lamps along the edges of the walls so I could admire the mosaic on my floor one last time. I circled the room, thought of the hours I spent planning the design. The saffron flowers, for my childlessness. The Ashoka lion: the mark of India’s ambition and my own. My name, in script, hidden in a basket of herbs. And my saas’s name, for everything she had taught me.

I felt my spirits lift. I would leave the map of my life here, in Jaipur. I would leave behind a hundred thousand henna strokes. I would no longer call myself a henna artist but tell anyone who asked: I healed, I soothed. I made whole. I would leave behind the useless apologies for my disobedience. I would leave behind the yearning to rewrite my past.

My skills, my eagerness to learn, my desire for a life I could call my own—these were things I would take with me. They were a part of me the way my blood, my breath, my bones were.

I took a second, then a third round of the room, moving faster. I heard the kathak beat in my head, Dha-dhin—Dha-dha-dhin, the ancient rhythms of a dance that celebrated the slaying of the demon Tripuraasur.

Dha-dha-dhin—Ta-tin—Dha-dha-dhin.

I danced, cupping my hands in the shape of a lotus flower and waving my arms like floating fishes, as I’d seen Hazi and Nasreen do in Agra. What would they say if they could see me now? I pictured them, one clapping her hands with gusto, rolling her plump hips, the other chuckling. “Better leave the dancing to us nautch girls, Lakshmi!”

I laughed.

Dha-dhin—Dha-dha-dhin.

My feet slapped the terrazzo floor, dancing to the tabla drums only I could hear. If not for my saas, I would not have been able to fend for myself, would never have chanced the move to Agra, would never have built my house.

Dha-dhin—Dha-dha-dhin.

A feeling of floating on air, of watching clouds race against the endless Jaipur sky, filled me. I twirled faster. My heart raced.

Dha-dhin—Dha-dha-dhin.

A hundred times I spun—toward an ending and a rebirth.

Dha-dhin—Dha-dha-dhin.

My door flung open and gust of cool air rushed in.

I stopped, out of breath, chest heaving, sweat pooling in the hollow of my throat.

My sister stood in the doorway, cradling a bundle in her arms. It was the quilt I had made for Nikhil.

“Radha?”

She lifted the bundle to her shoulder. Her mouth quivered. “I know Auntie loves Niki. I know she does.” She patted the quilt. Her breath was ragged. “But I don’t want her to. I know she’s good to him, but every time she gets close to him, I want to push her away. I want to tell her, ‘He’s mine!’” She gasped for air—she’d been speaking too fast.

“Radha—”

“I’m grateful to her for keeping me near my baby. But... I want to stop him from loving her. I know that sounds horrible. But it’s true. Why should she be allowed to raise my baby when I’m forbidden to?”

Blood pounded at my temples. “What have you done?”

She was rocking back and forth now, squeezing the quilt—too tightly. “I hate her for it. I don’t want to, but I do.” She let out a painful groan. “And I want Niki to hate her, too. I know how awful that sounds. I know I’m selfish. But I can’t help it!”

Her arms went slack. The bundle slipped from her hands, dropping to the floor.

“No!” I cried. I lunged forward to catch it.

The quilt unfurled. A pair of yellow booties landed at my feet.

Nikhil’s silver rattle skidded across the marble and bounced off the wall.

The book Radha had brought with her from Ajar, The Tales of Krishna, split in two as it hit the terrazzo.

Nothing else.

Radha squeezed her eyes shut. “Jiji.” It was difficult for her to get the words out. “I have to leave my baby.” Her mouth gaped. She released the sobs she’d been holding back.

I ran to her. My sister clung to me, and I felt the full force of her heartbreak. I rocked her, as she had rocked her baby.

“I’ve been so ungrateful. All I’ve done is cause trouble.” She hiccupped. “The gossip-eaters were right. I’ll always be the Bad Luck Girl.”