The Henna Artist Quotes

Independence changed everything. Independence changed nothing. Eight years after the British left, we now had free government schools, running water and paved roads. But Jaipur still felt the same to me as it had ten years ago, the first time I stepped foot on its dusty soil.

Malik lived somewhere inside one of the many buildings that made up the Pink City. I had never asked whether he had a sibling, a mother or a father. It was enough that he and I were together ten hours a day and that he hauled my tiffins, flagged down rickshaws and tongas, haggled with suppliers. We shared confidences, of course, like the look of impatience he'd given me today when our last client kept us waiting an hour.

I placed three rupee coins in his palm, after making him promise he would buy real food for his dinner instead of greasy snacks. “You’re a growing boy,” I reminded him, as if he weren't aware of it. He grinned and took off like a top, whining his way between shoppers toward the bright lights.

So when it came time to design the floor of my house, I created a pattern as complex as the henna I had painted on those women's bodies, delighting in the knowledge that its meaning was known only to me.

The saffron flowers represent its sterility. Incapable of producing seed as I had proved incapable of producing children. The Ashoka lion, like the icon of our new Republic, a symbol of my ambition. I wanted more, always, for what my hands could accomplish, what my wits could achieve—more than my parents had thought possible. The fine work beneath my feet required the skill of artisans who worked exclusively for the palace. All financed by the painstaking preparations of my charmed oils, lotions, henna paste and, most importantly, the herb sachets I supplied Samir.

Our father was fervent in his beliefs; I admired him for that. He was committed to his ideals. Unfortunately, high ideals came with a price.

Once he had depleted his savings, he sold the remainder of Maa’s only possessions, the gold that could have saved us from poverty, that was supposed to keep Maa secure in widowhood, that might have kept me from having to marry at fifteen. In a country where a woman's gold was her security against the unforeseen, Maa’s naked earlobes and bare wrists were a constant reminder that my father had put politics before his family.

And so, we were forced to move to Ajar, where my mother buried her disappointment and my father buried his pride. Independence wouldn’t come for another twelve years, but by then, he was already broken.

“The morphine shouldn’t interfere with what you gave her. But we'll need antibiotics to fight the infection.” Dr. Kumar's cautious eyes explored my hands, my face, my hair. I noticed threads of silver in his dark curls, a freckle above his upper lip. “Do you really think, Mrs. Shastri, that you can cure a woman's…problems…with herbs?”

“When a woman has no other options, yes.”

“This woman would have had options.”

“She didn't think so.”

“How was that possible? She's English. She has all the options in the world. A hospital for whites, for one.”

“And if the baby's father is Indian?”

I licked the sweat off my upper lip. Had any of the household servants seen anything? Who knew what damage they could cause! My hands trembled as I grabbed a fistful of turquoise powder to fill the interior.

What could Radha have been thinking? We could so easily be replaced, but Sheela would always be the princess of this kingdom. I'd never had to teach Malik that; he understood the nuances of class and caste instinctively. He would never have compromised us.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumor mongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village. Today, when she saw how unfairly Malik was being cast off, she reacted as she always had—like a defenseless animal. She knew no better because no one had taught her any better.

She dropped to her knees in front of me. “Jiji. Please don't send me back. I have no one else. I won't do it again. I won't. I promise.” Her thin body was shaking.

Embarrassed and ashamed, I helped her to standing and wiped her tears. I wanted to say, Why do you think I would send you back? You're my sister. My responsibility. But all that came out was, “I promise I'll do better, too.”

“You're my sister, Radha, but I don't know you that well—”

“Ask me anything! I'll tell you. Anything! You've never asked me the month I was born. October. What's my favorite food? Gajar ka halwa. I love sari that have mirrors sewn into them. And I love kajal on babies. My favorite color is the green of mango leaves. And I like the taste of guavas just before they're ripe, when the flesh is hard enough to make my mouth water.”

She was right, and it stung. I hadn't tried to get to know her. Not really. To be close to her made me feel my guilt more acutely, and I hadn't wanted that. I didn't want to be reminded of the terror she must have felt with a father who was defeated—or worse, a drunk—and a mother who seemed either resentful or indifferent. My sister had grown up alone in Ajar because of my transgression. Since her arrival in Jaipur, I'd buried myself in work, my steadfast companion. I was good at my work; it welcomed me, and I shined in its embrace. Radha, who was smart but naive, courageous but foolhardy, helpful but thoughtless, was far less manageable.

I understood the trauma mothers suffered when they lost their children to fever or malnutrition. I'd seen it often enough working with my saas. But to have a child taken away without your knowledge must have been another kind of torture.

Maharani Indira had reached the bottom of her deck. “The citizens of Jaipur may think we maharanis have power, but that couldn't be farther from the truth.” She picked up the pile of rejected cards and began to turn them over one by one.

Hari chuckled, a sound without joy. “Now that you’re working for the palace, you're too good to help her yourself?”

I felt my face grow warm. For a decade, I had been healing the rich, only, for their minor, more emotional troubles. If I'd stayed with Hari, no doubt Saasuji would have gotten around to teaching me the more complex procedures only she practiced. I shivered as I imagined my mother-in-law regarding me with as much dismay as Hari was now.

He knew he'd touched a tender spot. “Even Radha travels in such fine circles now.” Before I could ask him what he meant, he said, “How much did the palace bursar give you?”

Day after day, I worked alongside her to heal women—most were children still, twenty years old or younger, bodies weak from too many births, too many of them rough. Their days were filled with worry about how to feed their brood; at night they prayed their husbands would come home from labor too tired to add to their troubles. One day Saasuji taught me to prepare the contraceptive tea. And I realized that cotton root bark could change a woman's life: she could choose for herself.

That was what I wanted: a life that could fulfill me in a way that children wouldn't. From that day, I hoarded all the knowledge my mother-in-law could give me. Let her be the rolling pin that shapes a ball of chappati. Almost overnight, my world grew large with possibility.

I shook my head. “You think it's that easy? This house took thirteen years of hard work and Yes, Ji and No, Ji and Whatever you say, Ji. You'll never have to do that if you go to that school. You have many years in which to have a child, after you finish school. […] You can be something better than a henna artist. Better than me. You can have a meaningful life.” The water was almost boiling. “Just—please help me find the cotton root bark.”

Her voice trembled. “He said I was just another cheap pair of hands to you. Your business only took off after I arrived. You told me yourself you booked more appointments now because of my henna. If that's true, then why can't you trust me to think for myself? […] It doesn't matter how hard I work, how much I do. You'll never have faith in me!”

“You're just saying things to hurt me. You always do. Just like you never wanted me to find you. Never wanted me to live with you.” [Radha] turned her red rimmed eyes toward Kanta. “That's why I want a family, Auntie! She's not my family. Not really. Not in the way that counts! You and uncle are more of a family to me than she is!”

Her words felt like a hammer blow. Kanta looked at me sympathetically.

No one said anything for a while. Finally, Kanta released a long sigh and stood. She went to sit on the arm of Radha’s chair and lifted her chin with two fingers. “Listen to Lakshmi. She is your jiji. She has done everything she can to make sure you have a good future—the best. You cannot talk to her like that. Not in my house.”

“She never spends time with me. All she does is work!”

Each of Radha 's accusations felt like a slap on my cheek.

“She has to support herself.” Kanta took Radha’s hand in hers. “And you. And Malik. She's brave, and she's very fierce. You two are a lot alike, you know.”

Alike? I never thought Radha and I shared anything but the watercolors of our eyes.

“I'm lucky, Radha,” Kanta continued, “I've never had to support myself. Never had to worry about money. Even now my father helps us out when Manu’s civil salary falls short of our expenses. My situation is very different from yours.” She sighed. “As much as I would like it to be different for you, it's not. You must think about money—how to pay rent, how to afford a new pair of shoes, food. As your sister has always done. I accept responsibility for what I've done, Radha. Your sister's not to blame. And neither are you.”

“You’re the one who let it happen.” He frowned. “She’s your sister.”

“And your son? Who’s responsible for him?”

He turned away, studied the carpet, smoked. “Can’t you get rid of it? I mean, isn’t that what we pay you for? To take care of this kind of thing?”

[…] Of course, I’d already suggested terminating the pregnancy. But coming from Samir, it sounded heartless. Is this how I’d sounded to my sister?

I looked down at my hands, rubbed them together. “I offered her my sachets, but she said no. She thinks Ravi is going to marry her.

“Rubbish! He knows better than that.”

“Does he?” I frowned at him. “As is the king so are his subjects.” As soon as I said the proverb, I knew it was true. There had been servant girls in Samir’s past, too.

I rose from the bench, consumed with loathing for him and for myself. What light work I had made of infidelity, for him and his friends to cheat on their wives for ten years! I'd helped them discard their mistresses’ pregnancies as easily as they discarded the lint in their trouser pockets. I had justified it by treating it as a business transaction. To me each sale had been nothing more than another coat of plaster or another section of terrazzo for my house. At least when I made sachets for the courtesans, I had done so for women who had been raised to be prostitutes, who needed to make a living from their bodies without the interruption of pregnancies.

“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 Himalayas 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…

I look forward to your next letter and your suggestions for bridging the gap between old world and new world medicine.”

There was always a moment before I placed the final dot of henna on a woman's skin that felt significant somehow. Never again would I repeat that particular design, and after a few weeks, it would disappear entirely. This moment with Mrs. Sharma felt final, and ephemeral, in the same way.

Parvati! I'd served her. Pampered her. Fawned over her. I had handled Radha’s pregnancy as delicately as possible for the benefit of her family and mine. I hadn't created a scene. I hadn't demanded money. After all that, she was telling lies about me? In retaliation for my sister’s—and Ravi’s, don't forget!—folly! Her son was as much to blame—more, since he was older. But Parvati was taking it out on me.

It was so unfair! I tried to hold back my tears, but I failed. I've worked so hard, I wanted to tell Mrs. Sharma. I followed their rules. Swallowed their insults. Ignored their slights. Dodged their husbands’ wandering hands. Haven't I been punished enough?

When I didn't reach for the money, she said, “Ten thousand rupees. More than we agreed on.” She smiled at me, and for the briefest of moments, I imagined she was offering me something more: apology, forgiveness, understanding, respect. I was surprised, and confused, by how much I wanted to be in her good graces again. I thought of Pitaji and of my fellow Indians, how they felt about the British after independence. Accustomed to subservience, they were more comfortable reverting to that role, however humiliating, as I seemed to be now.

Dr. Kumar introduced me as his herbal consultant and asked his patient questions in a mix of Hindi and the local dialect. He shared his diagnosis of her case with me, and when I didn't understand the medical terminology, he explained it in layman's terms. I had questions of my own, which he translated. We did this through five more appointments. In four out of five cases, I was able to recommend an herbal substitute for Western medicine.

How could I not manage one sentence that would help my sister understand that everything I did was for her own good? She exasperated me and sometimes intimidated me, but I would do anything to make her life better, easier[…]

I'd seen what Radha hadn’t: desperate women begging my saas to rid them of their burdens. Where she saw joy, I saw hardship. Where she saw love, I saw responsibility, obligation. Could they be two sides of the same coin? Had I experienced both love and duty, delight and exasperation, since she entered my life?

Jay Kumar was offering me a chance to heal, to work with people who wanted what I had to offer. Who believed my knowledge was sacred. It was a chance to do the work my saas taught me. She lived in me, still. I could make her proud once more. Be proud of myself again.

But…my house! I had dreamed it, worked hard for it, built it. I'd love knowing that all the decisions were mine. Moving meant I would have to leave it behind.

Yet, what had the house brought me but debt, anxiety, sleepless nights? Did I need it to announce my arrival in the world of the successful, as I once had? Success was ephemeral—and fluid—as I had found out the hard way. It came. It went. It changed you from the outside, but not from the inside. Inside, I was still the same girl who dreamed of a destiny greater than she was allowed. Did I really need the house to prove I had skill, talent, ambition, intelligence? What if—

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.

“The gossip-eaters were right. I'll always be the Bad Luck Girl.”

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?”[…]

“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?”