Societal Hierarchy vs. Unordered Intimacy Theme Analysis

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 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.

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.

“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.

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.

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—