“He sounds like an honorable man,” she says. Her voice is fainter now. She is beginning to sound drowsy.
I finish the palm of one hand and nod to the lady-in-waiting to hold it open so the damp henna paste will not smear before it has a chance to dry.
I keep talking. I believe it’s the rhythm of my voice along with my continual, consistent touch that is lulling her to sleep. I tell her about Malik and his schooling. No use conning her into believing he did well there, when he didn’t. But he did graduate with a degree and his natural intelligence. She has a soft spot for Malik, whom she found immensely charming as a boy. I think I see the ghost of a smile on her lips, but perhaps I’m imagining things.
“He’s now, what? Twenty?”
Once again, she’s surprised me with her memory. “Hahn-ji.”
“And what of his love life? Surely he has one?”
She lifts her lids, glancing at me slyly from the corners of her eyes.
I’m making a design on her palm when she asks this. My hand stops moving.
She moves her head slightly so she can look directly at me. “You don’t approve?”
Despite her illness, her intuition is as sharp as ever. Nimmi had also accused me of not approving of her.
I resume painting the henna on her fragile skin.
“It’s not that. I want Malik to see more of the world before he settles down. The young woman he is fond of has two children from her first marriage. She’s a widow. It’s a lot for a twenty-year-old to handle when he hasn’t a proper way to earn a living.”
She is thoughtful. “Yes...I imagine. Though he is a resourceful young man.” She grins. “I have the feeling that he could’ve taken on the whole Indian army even at the age of eight.” She chuckles.
She holds her palms up to inspect them. The skin on her forearms is loose on her bones. “Saffron flowers? Lions? Whatever have you painted, Lakshmi?”
“I seek your forgiveness if I’ve been too bold. However, I know you to be a woman who has far more ambition than it was seemly for you to display. The lion is a symbol of that ambition. A long time ago, you told me your late husband prevented you from experiencing motherhood. I drew the saffron plant because it’s unable to reproduce without human assistance.”
What I’d actually painted on the Maharani Indira’s palms is a copy of the terrazzo mandala I’d designed for my Jaipur house. Until I started drawing on her hands, I hadn’t realized how much she and I actually had in common. “And here, Your Highness—” I point with my henna reed to a spot on her upper palm “—is your name hidden in the design.”
“Too clever.” Her voice is full of wonder. “Thank you, Lakshmi. They must give me a shot now and heaven knows what else to make me more comfortable. Will you please join me in my greenhouse in a half hour?”
I walk around the hothouse where Her Highness tends to her orchids. It’s off the terrace, a few doors down from her bedroom. Fortunately, the attendant who brought me to this nursery with its glass roof and glass walls also supplied me with a tall aam panna to cool me down. Still, tiny beads of perspiration line my brow and dampen my underarms.
The room is cheerful. Full of light and packed with well-tended plants. Some of the names I forget since I’m not an expert on these varieties, but I recognize a few of her favorites: the lost lady’s slipper with an unusual yellow flower that resembles a butterfly, and clusters of blue vanda, which strike me as more purple than blue. I remember this nursery to be Maharani Indira’s shelter, the place where she loves and nurtures freely. It smells of life and rich soil and damp and heat.
I’ve almost finished my cool mango drink when one of her attendants wheels the dowager maharani into the hothouse and stops in the center of the room where there is a metal settee. Her Highness is holding her hands aloft, careful not to smear the henna paste. I sit on the settee and test the henna paste; it’s mostly dry. I warm my hands with geranium oil from my carrier before I rub her hands, until the dried paste has completely flaked off onto the towel I placed on my lap.
She praises the finished design, admiring the renewed silkiness of her skin.
With the barest turn of her wrist, the Maharani Indira instructs the attendant to leave us alone. He exits and stands just outside the closed hothouse door as he awaits her next command.
She curls her index finger, now bright red with henna, and flicks it behind her. I suppose this is my signal to wheel her around. I station myself behind her chair and we begin moving. She inspects a few plants, exclaiming satisfaction or disapproval at the state of their health.
“Now, what’s this I hear about the Royal Jewel Cinema, hmm?”
I’ve been wondering how to bring up the subject, so I’m a little taken aback by her forthrightness.
“Some sort of shenanigans about building materials and whatnot?” She’s making it sound as if she’s only slightly familiar with the cinema fiasco, but I get the feeling that she’s well-informed.
“Your Highness, I’m sure you’ll recall Mr. Agarwal, the palace’s director of facilities. He is being accused of having authorized poor quality construction materials that may have caused the accident at the cinema house.”
“But you think otherwise, I take it?”
“The Maharani Latika has talked to you?”
“We keep a joint counsel.”
We come to the end of one row of plants. There is a low cabinet in front of us.
“Open that cabinet if you would,” she says.
I do. It’s an icebox. Inside is a covered glass pitcher of clear liquid and two glasses.
“Pour us each a glass, my dear.”
Now I remember. The gin and tonic the maharani is so fond of—and which she firmly believes is the secret to orchid health. After I hand her a glass, she toasts mine. “To everlasting health.” She laughs at her own joke and takes a sip. “Aah. So cool and crisp. Let’s keep moving, shall we?”
I wheel her down another row.
“I believe the reason for the cheap materials has nothing to do with Mr. Agarwal,” I say.
“I understand Manu Agarwal lives beyond his means,” she says. “The palace does not pay him enough for that expensive sedan and the silks his wife wears.”
I try not to show my surprise at how much she knows. “His wife comes from money, Your Highness. Kanta Agarwal is related to the writer-poet Rabindranath Tagore. She’s originally from Calcutta.”
“Ah. Well, that does explain things.” She dribbles a little of her drink on the base of a droopy orchid. She looks at my glass, which I’ve barely touched. “Drink up, my dear.”
I take a sip. It’s refreshing. Lighter and sweeter than the Laphroaig that Jay and I drink in the evenings.
Her smile is ironic. “You never used to touch the stuff.”
“Times change, Your Highness. My husband favors scotch and I find I like the smoky flavor.”
“Next time we’ll be sure to accommodate you.”
She’s speaking as if she’ll live forever, and what good would it do to refuse her? I smile back.
“Your Highness, Mr. Agarwal’s integrity has never been in question.”
“So let’s hear your theory.”
I hesitate, look into my glass. “You won’t like it.”
I’ve irritated her. “Do not presume to know what I think, my dear.”
“Gold is being concealed within building materials and couriered to construction sites here in Jaipur, specifically in bricks designed for that purpose. The gold is then sold to jewelers and the bricks are used in construction. Only problem is that those bricks aren’t strong enough for load impact—forgive me for the technical explanation. Malik has been teaching me a lot of engineering terms over the last few days.”
At the mention of Malik’s name, the Maharani Indira breaks into a smile. “Malik is an engineer now?”