The Henna Artist(95)

I pulled my head back to look at her. I lifted her chin. “No, Radha, you won’t. You never were. You never will be. I’m sorry I ever said that of you. You’ve brought so much good luck into my life, into our lives. If it hadn’t been for you, do you think I’d be going to Shimla? Building my own healing garden? Working with Dr. Kumar? How would I have done any of that without you?”

She blinked her wet lashes.

“For years, I’ve been serving women who only needed me to make them feel better. In Shimla, I’ll be serving people who want me to make them better. Because they’re truly suffering. Those are the people saas trained me to work with. They need me. And I want to be with them.”

I smoothed her hair.

“And look how you’ve helped me create a family. Malik. Kanta and Manu. And Nikhil. And, of course, you. You, Radha, Krishna’s wise gopi.”

What a miracle that she had found me, and I, her.

“So, Rundo Rani, burri sayani...are you coming to Shimla with us?”

Radha looked up at me. After a while, she nodded.

In the pause that followed, I heard a dog yelp, a tonga clop, crows flutter in the trees.

When, at last, she relaxed her hold on me, I kissed the top of her head.

“We’ll get your things in the morning from Kanta’s.” I wiped her face with my sari. “Come. I have aloo gobi subji waiting. I don’t know why it always tastes much better at night.”



* * *



The next morning, while I swept the Rajnagar house, Malik and Radha loaded our carriers onto the waiting tonga. We would stop at Kanta’s and say our goodbyes en route to the railway.

I took one last round of the room. Touched the walls. Trailed my fingers across the mosaic.

My life as a henna artist was over. I would never again paint the hands of the ladies of Jaipur.

I pulled the pocket watch from my petticoat, ran my thumb over the smooth white pearls that made up the initial L.

I set the watch on the countertop, stepped outside and closed the door behind me.





      TWENTY-TWO


    Jaipur Railway Station November 4, 1956


The platforms of the Jaipur railway station were teeming with passengers, spiced peanut vendors, shoe shiners, toothless beggars and stray dogs sniffing for discarded morsels. Even after a train started moving, people continued to board, asking for a hand up, their luggage loaded by helpful passengers who themselves were hanging by handrails on both sides of the cars. It was a wonder any trains managed to take off at all.

Our train was scheduled to depart in ten minutes. With the money from the sale of my house, I had splurged on a first-class private cabin for all of us. Inside the cabin, Malik and Radha chatted excitedly.

I stood in the passageway just outside our compartment, along the row of windows facing the platform, where porters swathed in mufflers were hauling bags on and off the trains. Important-looking husbands in wool vests, trailed by wives and children, shouted at the baggage handlers to be careful. Families with first-class tickets walked to our part of the train. Most headed to second-class seats. Those who couldn’t afford porters were stuffing their mismatched carriers into the third-class cars, yelling at everyone to make room. The chai-wallas strolled up and down the platform, selling glasses of tea through the car windows. Keeping one eye on the departure schedules, men hurriedly consumed chappati and curried subjis in tiffins prepared by their wives, mothers, sisters, aunts and friends.

I thought back to the first time I laid eyes on Jaipur at the age of twenty—my first ride on a train. How exciting it had all been! The promise of a new life. The worry about whether it would all work out. And it had. I had come to this city with nothing but a skill for drawing and the lessons my mother-in-law had taught me. I had helped women fulfill their desires—whether in the pursuit of something or in the pursuit of its absence—so they could move on with their lives. Now, Jay Kumar was giving me a chance to reinvent myself, to use my knowledge to heal the old and young, sick and infirm, poor and in need of solace.

So many people had helped me in my journey. My saas. Hazi and Nasreen. Samir. Kanta. The Maharanis Indira and Latika. Mrs. Sharma. And even Parvati.

I wouldn’t miss Jaipur—every city had its charm—but would I miss Samir?

To be honest, I thought about him still.

How companionably we had managed our business, the times we had laughed together, moments when our bond had felt true, strong, that one night of lust.

There were things I no longer admired about him, as I once had, but he had been a part of my life for so long. To quash those memories would have been like pretending that a third of my life didn’t exist.

If I hadn’t met him, I might still be in Agra, working with the courtesans, hidden away in their pleasure houses. Without his connections, who knows if I could have created a business as a henna artist? If he hadn’t introduced me to Parvati, I might never have been invited to the maharanis’ palace. Been served tea by Her Highness.

My attention was diverted by a commotion on the platform as the sea of travelers parted for a substantial man in a palace uniform. He wore the red cummerbund and headdress of the maharanis’ attendants. He was carrying a large container draped in satin. A thin roll of carpet was wedged under his left arm. Oblivious to the stares and hushed voices of people on the platform, the man was consulting a piece of paper and looking up at each car he passed.