The Henna Artist(97)

Jay Kumar knew about this financial arrangement but not the history, and when I explained it to him, he had not asked any questions. He seemed focused only on our shared future. In his letters (which came frequently), he told me what he was learning about the hill people and their age-old medicinal cures.

A part of the rhododendron bush, they tell me, is used as a cure for swollen ankles. Have you heard of this? Yesterday, an old Gaddi woman brought a bowl of sik (made from the dried fruit of the neem tree) for one of our cleaners who is pregnant. She says it ensures a healthy body before and after delivery. Out of curiosity, I tasted it—much to the delight of both women!

The thought of Jay Kumar eating a bowl of porridge meant for a pregnant woman made me smile.

Every day the people ask me when you’re arriving. Many remember you from the clinic. You left an impression on them—a good one—judging from the way they talk about you. They, and I, look forward to welcoming you back.

Till we meet,

Jay

The train’s whistle brought me back to my present surroundings.

“We’re here!” Malik was out of his seat before the train had even stopped.

I returned the letter to my handbag. Radha and Malik gathered our things. The train slowed, and as we came around the curve of the mountain, I saw the Shimla railway station.

Jay Kumar was the tallest man on the platform. He was wearing his white coat over a green turtleneck sweater; he’d probably come directly from the hospital. The Himalayan wind was blowing his curls about. Funny how I’d forgotten the streaks of gray in his hair. Or the way he stood with his head tilted to one side, as if he were listening for something important.

When he spotted me at the window, his eyes locked on mine, and his expression changed—a slow smile of recognition. I noticed, too, the gray of his eyes, and, for once, he did not look away.

I felt myself blushing, the heat on my neck like fire.

Radha tapped my arm. “Jiji, look!”

Now I noticed the crowd of people assembled beside him, their bright wool skirts, embroidered topas, colorful blouses. There was the woman to whom I had recommended bitter melon and garlic when her pregnancy had given her severe indigestion. She was holding her new baby, proudly, in the crook of her arm.

To her right was the grandmother who suffered from arthritis, smiling with her toothless gums, holding the reins of her mule.

And over there—the sheepherder! Jay had written me that the diet I’d suggested had saved the shepherd from having his goiter removed. He held up a hand in greeting, his eyes crinkling in pleasure.

A thousand miles from the tiny village where I’d started, I was finally home.

Behind us, from his cage, Madho Singh called out again: “Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!”



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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I wrote this novel for my mother.

Sudha Latika Joshi had an arranged marriage at eighteen and three children by the age of twenty-two. She never had the opportunity to choose whom to marry, when to marry, whether to have children, whether or not to continue her studies or what she would do with her life. But she made sure that I could make all those choices for myself.

In the novel, I reimagine her existence—as Lakshmi, the henna artist who creates a life of her own. Every day, I thank my remarkable mother for her fierce love, her tenacity and her utter devotion to my brothers and me. Without her, this book could never have been written.

My father, Ramesh Chandra Joshi, whose remarkable journey from humble villager to globe-trotting engineer never ceases to amaze me, was enthusiastic about this novel from the start. He shared with me the India of his youth following the British Raj and the part he played in rebuilding the new India. His memories helped me better understand the post-independence enthusiasm I wove into the story. Dad read early versions of the novel and sought out Indian friends to review the drafts and share their own experiences. Any mistakes in the telling are mine.

I owe a thousand thanks also to Emma Sweeney of Emma Sweeney Literary Agency, who fell in love with this book so many years ago and stayed with it until it was ready to be brought out into the world. And another thousand thanks go to MIRA Books senior acquisitions editor Kathy Sagan, and to the extraordinary HarperCollins team: Loriana Sacilotto, Nicole Brebner, Leo MacDonald, Heather Connor, Heather Foy, Margaret Marbury, Amy Jones, Randy Chan, Ashley MacDonald, Erin Craig, Karen Ma, Irina Pintea, Kaitlyn Vincent, Roxanne Jones and Laura Gianino. You guys rock!

To Anita Amirrezvani, the mentor whose novels inspired me to write a story set in another time, place and culture, I extend heartfelt gratitude.

Early readers who helped make this book sing are Tom Barbash, Janis Cooke Newman, Aimee Phan, Lanny Udell, Sandra Scofield, Robert Friedman, Samm Owens, Bonnie Ayers Namkung, Ritika Kumar, Shail Kumar, Grant Dukeshire, AJ Bunuan, Mary Severance and my fellow CCA MFA workshop participants.

My brothers, Madhup Joshi and Piyush Joshi, read drafts of the novel and cheered me on. My mother and I traveled several times to Jaipur after 2008, where we stayed in Piyush’s condo. While in Jaipur, I interviewed Rajput families, shopkeepers in the Pink City, women my age and their daughters, teachers at the Maharani Gayatri Devi Girls’ School, Ayurvedic doctors and, of course, henna artists. I spoke at schools and colleges, danced at glorious weddings and drank copious cups of chai.

I also researched India’s medicinal plants, Ayurvedic and aromatherapy remedies and the history of henna—how it’s made and why it’s so important in Indian culture. I pored over the history of the British in Rajasthan, the education of girls in that era, the caste system and how it affected the lives of those defined by it.