by Alka Joshi
“Yes?”
“A man called Hari Shastri.”
My heart sped up, and not, I was sure, because of the opium.
“Chef told me about a cousin-brother of his—named Shastri—a do-gooder, I gather. He’s been helping the women of GulabNagar—a relief since we can’t find doctors to attend to them. At Chef’s request—pleading, really—I have agreed to finance Mr. Shastri’s efforts. Everyone has a right to make a living, n’est-ce pas?” She grinned. “And Chef learned—almost overnight—to season my food just the way I like it. A jolly trade!”
So this was what Malik had been so cagey about. He’d bribed the palace chef (with promises of cheap cooking supplies, I supposed) into persuading the maharani to help Hari so he would stop asking me for money.
The maharani puckered her lips. “Shastri is not a name you come across often in Rajasthan. He wouldn’t, by any chance, be a relation of yours?”
When I looked her in the eye, I didn’t blink. “No, Your Highness.”
She considered me a long moment before speaking. “As I thought.”
FIFTEEN
May 6, 1956
We decided Kanta would be the one to tell Radha that we had an adoption contract. I’d been relieved to learn that Radha had been agreeable when Kanta brought it up. If I had brought it up with my sister, I doubt she would have listened to what I had to say. Kanta and I also agreed not to tell Radha that the Jaipur Palace was adopting her child. If she knew, I worried that upon her return to Jaipur, she might take to loitering outside the palace gates for a glimpse of her baby. (Samir had told me that before Radha left for Shimla, she had often been spotted outside the Singh compound, hoping to speak to Ravi.)
May 6, 1956
Dear Dr. Kumar,
Once again, we seem to be cooperating under difficult circumstances. Perhaps you’ll recall our conversation from last December—in another strained situation—when you questioned whether my herbs had any medicinal benefit. Now it appears that my sister is more in need of your sort of medicine than mine.
Mr. Singh tells me you’ll be acting as the proxy physician in Shimla on behalf of the Jaipur Palace, monitoring Radha’s pregnancy and dispatching regular progress reports to the royal family. I only wish I could talk to you in person instead of by letter, but I hope to be present for the birth. I know you can appreciate how delicate her situation is and the need for secrecy—even, or especially, from Radha. I prefer not to tell her who is adopting the baby until—or unless—it’s absolutely necessary.
Radha is thirteen years old. She has never had smallpox, measles or mumps. She is not allergic to any medicines or herbs, but she is partial to fried foods (perhaps you can persuade her that the baby may not be partial to them). She’s a dedicated sleeper, and you can be assured she’ll get adequate rest during her pregnancy. Her personality is generally cheerful, and she has a restless and curious mind. She loves to read, a habit that has both developed her imagination and given her some (very) worldly ideas.
You’ll be in receipt of this letter by the time Radha arrives in Shimla. She is accompanied by my dear friend Kanta Agarwal, who is looking forward to meeting you and also being treated under your excellent care. Kanta’s baby is due a month before my sister’s, a happy circumstance, and the two of them are very close, which is a comfort to me. Kanta is familiar with the Himalaya foothills and with Shimla—her family has vacationed in the cooler mountain air before, when the summer dust of Jaipur triggers her asthma. Manu Agarwal, Kanta’s husband, will be coming up for a visit every few weeks.
I shall be grateful to you, Dr. Kumar, for treating Radha as if she were your own sister. I place myself in your debt.
Until we meet again, please feel free to ask me any questions via post or through Mr. Singh by telephone.
Respectfully yours,
Lakshmi Shastri
SIXTEEN
July 23, 1956
I sifted through the mail. Another letter from Kanta. One from Dr. Kumar, whose letters were getting longer and arriving more frequently. Still nothing from Radha—although I never gave up hope. To my surprise, I missed her. Missed seeing her, sitting on the cot, cross-legged, frowning in concentration, absorbed in Jane Eyre. Or cooking laddus at the hearth, chatting happily with Malik. I wanted to tell her things. Mrs. Patel has a new Alsatian puppy. Mrs. Pandey found a job selling sewing machines.
The irony was that Radha penned Kanta’s weekly letters; words on a page still made Kanta’s head spin. So when I read Kanta’s letters, I could imagine my friend dictating rapid-fire from a divan, chuckling, while Radha’s pen raced to keep up. Then I could almost make myself believe the letter was from Radha.
July 18, 1956
Dear Lakshmi,
I would take Radha down to the Shimla Mall more often but she would just spend my money! I want her to appreciate the beautiful Tudor architecture around us, but she’s drawn to baby trinkets like a rabbit to grass. Yesterday she brought home Himachali topas—the size is so big the cap will be wearing the baby instead of the other way around. (She’s laughing!)
Thank Bhagwan my dust allergy has calmed down, as it always does when I come to Shimla. If I’d stayed in Jaipur for the summer, I wouldn’t have been able to breathe. The doctor at Lady Bradley Hospital, Dr. Kumar (splendid fellow—just as you’d promised), says I must take it easy because I’m still spotting. So while Radha is climbing hills like a mountain goat, I must stay put on the sofa like a Himalayan bear. (I’m beginning to look like one, too, with all the rose milk I’ve had to consume!)
You’d be happy to see the pink in your sister’s cheeks (she’s blushing as I dictate this). Even her complexion is lighter. Last week, Dr. Kumar said her baby is an all-rounder—he’ll be good at batting and bowling on the cricket field. Radha thought that explained what he’s doing in her tummy all night, not letting her sleep. (I hope I did right by bringing Gray’s Anatomy with me so she could see how the babies are developing inside us. If you disagree, I’ll put it away.) Every few days, Radha brings back an armload of books from the Shimla library—most are books the British left behind. By now her English is quite good, and I think your prediction that Radha may become a writer or a teacher someday seems more likely than ever (she’s shaking her head).
Well, Uma has just brought us our rose milk (don’t tell my saas that I’ve actually grown fond of the stuff) so it’s off to bed for me. Radha says goodbye, too.
Affectionately,
Kanta
P.S. Baju went to a letter writer and dictated a note, begging me to send him a passage to Shimla. He’s threatening to quit because Saasuji is making him raving mad. See? I’m not the only one who wants to escape her clutches!
I passed the letter to Malik and opened the other envelope.
July 17, 1956
My Dear Mrs. Shastri,
In your letters you’ve mentioned how much Radha likes to read. You did not exaggerate! Last Tuesday, I ran into her as she was leaving the Shimla library—lugging half its contents in her carrier, which she was eager to share with me. If I remember correctly, there was a book of poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, The Canterbury Tales, Shelley’s Frankenstein and Thurber’s Fables. I marvel at her eclectic tastes! I realize that I’m merely a doctor-for-hire, a temporary caretaker for your sister, not qualified to offer recommendations outside the medical realm, but I hope you will permit me one suggestion: private tutoring. Radha shows an unusual ability to grasp literary concepts and she can discuss Elizabethan poets with the best of them. It would be a travesty to let her fall behind in her studies because of her unfortunate situation.
As I’ve repeatedly stated in my letters, I’m most interested in learning about the herbal therapies with which you’ve had so much experience. (Perhaps a belated apology is not entirely out of order—I refer to the cotton root bark.) It’s worrisome that the hill people of the Hima
layas rely solely on folk remedies when they could come to Lady Bradley for medical treatment. Yesterday, I saw a little Gaddi boy along the Mall with severe dermatitis, which his mother told me she’d been treating with tulsi powder. Obviously, it wasn’t helping. She refused to try the antiseptic ointment I suggested, even after I volunteered to bring it for her the next day. Perhaps you have an herbal recommendation that might prove useful? Your thoughts on the matter would be most welcome.
Rest assured that your sister’s pregnancy is progressing nicely. She’s extremely healthy, enjoys robust exercise and eats well. It’s a pleasure looking after her. I look forward to your next letter and your suggestions for bridging the gap between old world and new world medicine.
Your friend,
Jay Kumar, M.D.
P.S. Thank you for sending the mustard poultice. My cough is greatly reduced. However, my chest looked as if it had been dipped in batter and was ready for the fryer!
I made a note to tell him in my next letter to mix neem powder with rose water, resulting in a sweet-smelling antiseptic, a cure the Himalayan women would prefer to an ointment with a medicinal odor.
As I slipped the letter back inside the envelope, I said a prayer for the safe arrival of both babies—Kanta’s and Radha’s. Despite my skepticism, I had gained a little confidence in the gods, after all.
Outside, I heard the ring of a bicycle bell. At the front gate, the Singhs’ messenger boy handed me a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
The package was from Samir. My heart sank. Samir had tried several times to see me. He sent me notes. He even came to my house. I wouldn’t let him in, so he talked to me from the other side of the door, apologizing for his words that night at Geeta’s. He wanted everything to go back to the way it was. Maybe he wanted me in his bed again. Or he wanted to trade proverbs and hear me laugh again. Or maybe he simply wanted more sachets. I no longer cared to find out.
I untied the string on the package. It was a pen case, identical to the one I’d given Radha on her first week of school. Inside was the same orange marbled fountain pen I’d gifted her. Wilson 1st Quality Fine.
How had Samir ended up with Radha’s pen?
I looked through the package, but found no note.
Radha’s tepid response to my gift had hurt. If I lose it, you’ll be angry. Had she lost it, after all? And, somehow, Samir had found it?
Then I knew.
She must have given the pen to Ravi, as a gift, when they were still meeting in secret. If so, why had he returned it? Or had Parvati made him do so?
Or maybe after she found out she was pregnant, Radha asked the Singh chowkidar to give it to Ravi, hoping he would meet with her. And Samir had returned it without showing it to Ravi.
Either way, Ravi’s rejection must have seared my sister’s tender feelings. The ache in my heart grew. “Oh, Radha,” I whispered.
* * *
The following week, I erased Mrs. Gupta’s name from my notebook.
Malik was standing in front of my herb table, in my Rajnagar house, rolling a marble in his palm. “She said she’s become allergic to henna,” he said.
I stared at him in disbelief. “What? Mrs. Gupta has been a loyal client for six years! I did the bridal henna for her daughter—and she delivered a baby boy!” I frowned. “No one has ever become allergic to my henna.”
Malik shrugged. He had grown six inches in the past six months, and the top of his head was level with my chin. He no longer looked to be eight, as he had told the Maharani Indira. I would have guessed ten. Since he didn’t know, either, we pretended he was now nine. In any case, I needed to get him a haircut and new clothes.
“What about Mrs. Abdul? Her daughter has a birthday coming up.”
“She sent regrets.” He sent the marble shooting across the floor and ran to pick it up.
“Why?”
“She didn’t say.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Oh, and Mrs. Chandralal is going to Europe for the whole summer, so no appointments for her.”
“The whole summer?” I sighed. “That makes five cancellations this week.”
Henna appointments usually fell off in June and July, when many of my ladies fled the scorching desert for the mountains up north or to relatives abroad. But we were coming up on August. Where were the appointments for the Rakhi ceremonies when women wanted their hands to be decorated as they tied shiny bracelets on their brothers’ wrists? In the fall I was usually busy with Dhussera and Bagapanchaka festivals for mandalas, but so far only two ladies had made an appointment. And there were no takers for Diwali, the festival of a thousand lights, when I was usually booked for two weeks solid.
Losing Parvati’s business had come as no surprise. I hadn’t heard from her since the day I ran into her outside Samir’s office. Now that Samir had told her about Radha and Ravi, I knew I would never see her name again in my appointment book. Still, I could trust her to be discreet; with her political connections, she stood to lose a lot more than me if word got out.
But why were clients of long standing, who competed for the few empty spots in my notebook, canceling, or failing to book, their usual appointments? The curiosity-seekers, who wanted news of the Maharani Latika, didn’t count. I’d always known they would stop asking for me when the novelty wore off; I was an expensive luxury.
I looked at Malik, bewildered.
He threw the marble in the air and caught it. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
* * *
Mrs. Patel remained loyal. She kept all her appointments. Arthritis had disfigured her hands, and she relied on me to disguise them with my henna. It was her only vanity. She also loved the moong bean laddus and cabbage pakoras I fed her to ease the pain in her joints.
Today, I was drawing a lotus flower in the center of her palm when she cleared her throat. “Is everything quite all right, Lakshmi?”
“Yes, Ji. Thank you for asking.”
“There’s no...money trouble?”
Aside from my dwindling income? Clients canceling daily with flimsy excuses? The fact that I now owed Samir ten thousand rupees—twice what I originally owed? And Parvati had yet to pay me the marriage commission? I almost laughed, but held back, realizing I might sound insane.
“Why do you ask?”
“One—well, one hears things.” She sounded embarrassed and looked at the Alsatian who lay at her feet, the dog I had wanted to tell Radha about.
My heart picked up its pace. I drew tulsi leaves around her fingers. “Things?”
“Gossip is easy to spread.”
My senses were on alert now. “What is it you’ve heard, Ji?” I asked as I drew third eyes for safety on the backs of her hands.
Her voice dropped to a whisper so the servants couldn’t hear. “You have been accused of stealing.”
I straightened my back, gazing at her with more calm than I felt. “By whom?”
“I’ve heard it from my cook, so the information may not be reliable. People say gold bangles have gone missing from Mrs. Prasad’s. So has an embroidered sari—with silver work.”
Who would spread such rumors? None of it was true, but that hardly mattered where rumormongers were concerned.
“A necklace vanished after you had been to Mrs. Chandralal’s. That’s what my chowkidar heard.”
I frowned. “I’ve served those women for a decade. Why, suddenly, would I start robbing them? I don’t need to steal—I have my own house.”
She dropped her chin, looked at her hands. “Well...”
“Please.”
“There’s talk... How could you afford a house unless you were taking from others?” She put her hand, the one I hadn’t started on yet, over mine. Her touch was cool. Either that, or my skin was on fire. I pulled away. “Lakshmi, I want you to know I don’t believe a word of it. But I thought you should know what’s being said.”
If Mrs. Patel had heard these rumors from her servants, my other ladies had heard them, too. How long had they been circulating?
Deep in my gut, I felt fear. The Alsatian sensed it, and turned his head to look at me. “Why? Why’re they telling lies?”
“Mrs. Sharma knows more than I, I’m sure. She always does. I’m not at the club as often as she is.” Her eyes were full of compassion.
I reached for her hand, the one I had almost finished painting. I tried, but failed, to hold the reed steady.
“That’s enough for today,” Mrs. Patel said quietly. “Go see Mrs. Sharma.” She withdrew fifty rupees from the knot in her sari and held them out to me.
“But we’re not done.”
“There’s always next time. Call it an advance payment.”
She meant it kindly, but the charity angered me, nonetheless. I quickly packed my supplies. The dog got up off the floor.
“Next time,” I said, avoiding her eyes, “will be my treat for not finishing the job today.”
I didn’t take the money. I wasn’t even sure I said goodbye before leaving.
The Alsatian barked, once, as if in farewell.
* * *
The Sharmas’ chowkidar was an ex-army man, smart in a khaki blazer and white dhoti. He greeted me politely at the gate. When I told him I’d to come discuss arrangements for the Teej Festival with Mrs. Sharma, he brushed both sides of his mustache with his forefinger, as if he were deciding whether to let me in. In the end, he nodded.
Mrs. Sharma had many daughters-in-law and nieces who looked forward to the Teej festival every August. It was a women’s celebration, commemorating the reunion of Shiva and his wife after a hundred years apart. Teej was supposed to ensure wedded bliss. Given my experience, I remained skeptical of that promise, but I did enjoy the festival because it came at the start of the monsoon season, when the plants I depended on gorged themselves and gathered enough strength to produce the healing properties for my lotions and creams. And Mrs. Sharma’s annual Teej party—a high-spirited affair where all the women in the family told stories, laughed, teased, sang and danced, while I applied henna to their hands—was always a joyous affair. Mrs. Sharma gifted each woman a silk sari and matching glass bangles. Every year, her cook outdid herself, creating more exotic and demanding delicacies than the year before.
