For Lakshmi Shastri, her beautiful terrazzo floor symbolizes the importance of separating art from ownership. For years, Lakshmi has aspired to one thing: to design and build her own beautiful Jaipur residence, complete with a detailed terrazzo (Italian marble) floor. By the time the novel begins, Lakshmi is close to completing this dream; after having saved up her profits from her henna and sachet businesses, the house is nearly built. At first, then, the terrazzo floor symbolizes Lakshmi’s artistic success. Moreover, Lakshmi has filled the design itself with testaments to her success, from the Ashoka lion (which Lakshmi thinks signals her “ambition”) to the saffron flowers, which represent her “sterility” (and therefore her independence from the needs of others).
But as Lakshmi sinks further and further into debt on the house, bending over backward to meet her wealthy clients’ whims, it becomes clear that the house—and the terrazzo floor at the center—is causing her more harm than good. As her beloved servant Malik points out, Lakshmi is too tired to even appreciate (much less maintain) the house she is working so hard to build. Lakshmi’s eventual decision to sell the house thus shows that art is best when it is enjoyed rather than commodified, admired instead of owned. Ultimately, The Henna Artist implies that pricey Italian marble is less artistically worthy than henna itself—inexpensive, embodied, and ephemeral.
Lakshmi’s Terrazzo Floor Quotes in The Henna Artist
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.
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.
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—