The Henna Artist(96)
I called Malik to the window and pointed at the platform with my chin.
Malik craned his neck to look out the window. He grinned and waved. “Chef!”
The palace chef turned toward Malik’s voice. His face relaxed into a warm smile. Malik ran to the door of our car to greet him. I watched them exchange greetings, a salaam from Malik and a namaste from Chef. The big man handed Malik the parcels and an envelope from his jacket pocket. They talked for a few more minutes before Chef waved goodbye.
Laden with his packages, Malik came down the passageway of our carriage, beaming. He gave me a heavy cream envelope with my name on it. I broke the palace seal, unfolded the stationery and read aloud.
“My Dear Mrs. Shastri,
“Your young friend has stolen Madho Singh’s heart. All that bird can talk about is rabri and Malik, Malik and rabri. He has started asking for Red and Whites, which leads me to believe that he has also taken up smoking. This I cannot abide. Furthermore, he refuses to learn any more French (bonjour and bon voyage are the extent of his repertoire), and as I’m spending all my time in Paris now, this presents a problem. So I must bid adieu to my lovely bird and ask if you will be so kind as to present him to Malik. I’m sure Madho Singh will be happier with him than in the tomb that is my sitting room at the palace.
“The two of them are quite a pair, don’t you agree?
“Your friend and admirer,
“Maharani Indira Man Singh
“P.S. The carpet is a favorite of Madho Singh’s. He would be homesick without it.”
Inside our compartment, Malik lifted the satin cover of the cage. Madho Singh hopped from side to side on his perch. He said, “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!” and whistled. Malik whistled back. Radha, who was meeting Madho Singh for the first time, let out a delighted chuckle.
I smiled at my family.
The shrill whistle of the train pierced my ears, announcing our departure. I took one last look out the window. In the middle of the platform where people scurried about like ants, one man stood as still as a statue.
His eyes were on me. He wore a spotless white shirt and dhoti. He had shaven his face. He had cut his hair. He looked...handsome.
I had lived with Hari for only two years, but he had lived in my mind for half my life. By turns, I had feared him, been indifferent, felt contemptuous, full of hate or pity. Not once had I believed him capable of change. But if I could change, why couldn’t he?
Slowly, the engine began to pull its heavy load. Its wheels chugged and heaved, heaved and chugged. Last-minute passengers threw themselves and their cargo onto the cars. Chai-wallas collected empty glasses from passengers.
Hari put his hands together in a namaste and raised them in front of his face. His smile was without reproach or anger. For the first time since I’d known him, he appeared content.
I returned his namaste.
The train picked up speed. He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but I could hear nothing over the screech of the wheels.
EPILOGUE
Shimla, Himalaya Foothills, India
November 5, 1956
“That was the last tunnel, Auntie-Boss!”
Malik had been poring over a railway map and he was counting every one of the hundred tunnels our toy train entered. We had taken the regular train from Jaipur to Kalka and then the toy train to Shimla.
He pointed at our location on the map. “Just a few more minutes and we’ll be at the Shimla railway station!” He grinned. “Did you hear that, Madho Singh?” On the seat next to him, the parakeet was grumbling under the satin cover of his cage.
Radha had fallen asleep with her head in my lap, but now she sat up and rubbed her eyes. She looked out the window of the train, where deodar cedars and Himalayan pines dotted the rocky mountains across the valley. The first snows had fallen, leaving the treetops decorated with bluish-white icing.
“Is there always snow here, Radha?” Malik asked. He had only ever lived in the Rajasthani desert.
She smiled. “Only in the winter. But wait another month. The ground will be completely covered in snow. Then we will build a snow-woman who looks like Mrs. Iyengar!”
They laughed. Even I found the image of a stout snowman in a sari amusing. I hid my smile behind the letter I was rereading.
Dr. Kumar had been sending me letters every few days since I accepted his offer to come work with him. This one had arrived just before we left for Shimla.
November 1, 1956
Dear Lakshmi,
I have found a three-bedroom house in Shimla for your family. Radha and Malik will each have their own room! It is close to Lady Bradley, so you can walk. Or, if you prefer, I can arrange a car and driver.
I’ve also taken the liberty of arranging a few appointments for you when you first arrive. Already I feel I must apologize for putting you to work so quickly. You’ll be sprinting the moment you step off the train!
Mrs. Sethi, the headmistress of the Auckland House School, looks forward to meeting with you regarding Radha’s enrollment. I would be happy to accompany you and Malik to Bishop Cotton, my alma mater, for his first day. Unless, of course, you’d rather reserve that pleasure for yourself. (My old headmaster is still there, but don’t believe any of the stories he tells about me!)
Samir Singh had offered to pay for Radha’s education. His note to me had come as a surprise. He said he hoped my sister would continue studying Shakespeare. I accepted that for the meager apology it was, though Radha deserved better. I had asked that he pay her fees anonymously; I wanted no further contact with him. Nor did I want Radha to have any reason to communicate with the Singhs.