“What will you do when we’re back in Shimla, Malik?”
I’ve been giving this some thought. “Something Nimmi and I can do together.” I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, hands clasped. “Boss, I’d like to marry her. She’s exactly who she says she is. She has no pretensions.” Of course, I’m thinking of Sheela when I say this. As tempting as that attraction had been, I knew it wasn’t right for me. It would have made me miserable.
I turn my head sideways to look at my mentor. “I’m a nonpracticing Muslim with no caste status. I have no idea where my mother went after she abandoned me at Omi’s. And I never knew my father. Omi and her children were the closest I had to family, but her husband hasn’t allowed me to see any of them in years.” I look down at my hands. “Nimmi and I are alike. She’s Hindu but also has no caste. She’s no longer with her people, her tribe. The two of us—we understand what it is to be unmoored.”
“Unmoored? But, Malik, you’re a part of our family. Jay and Radha and me. And now Radha’s husband, Pierre, and their daughters—”
I put my hand on hers to calm her. “Nimmi and I don’t belong. Not truly. To one set of beliefs, one set of traditions. But we can create our own traditions. Observe those we like, abandon those we don’t.”
I can see from the tension around her eyes that she’s distressed. She’s still the handsome woman I started following around Jaipur when she was around Nimmi’s age. But now her temples are silver, and she has fine lines around her eyes and mouth.
“I don’t mean that I want to separate from you or Dr. Jay or Radha—not at all! I don’t know what I’d do without you. But I’m ready for my own family now, Auntie-Boss. I’m ready.”
She blinks. Looks out into the deepening night.
“I know you’d rather I married an educated woman. Someone posh. Grand. But that’s not who I am. Nimmi and I—we’re good together. We understand each other. And I love her children. And now that you’ve started her reading and writing in Hindi, who knows how far she can go?”
We sit through the pause, both of us thinking things we’re not saying.
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
It takes her a moment, but she returns my gaze. I turn my body so I’m facing her.
“What if we turned your Healing Garden into a teaching center for other herbalists? What if we created a greenhouse for propagating the plants you’ve already grown and sell them to other herbal practitioners in India? I know something about business and can figure out the rest as I go. And—” I stand and start to pace the veranda. “I’ve learned enough about building to manage the construction of a greenhouse. Radha’s husband could help us design it. The hospital has land that we could build on. Nimmi can continue to help you with the garden and the greenhouse.”
I’m walking faster now, trying to keep up with my thoughts. “Your name is already well-known in herbal medicine circles. Once we begin teaching other practitioners and selling our own products, we can use the money we make to help expand the Community Clinic.”
Lakshmi’s eyes have grown large. “That’s a tall order, Malik. Where would we get the money for building the greenhouse?”
“That’s the easy part.”
I think of Moti-Lal. I think of Maharani Indira and Maharani Latika. I think of Kanta Auntie. How hard would it be to raise the initial investment? The hospital must have a capital fund that may kick in the rest—I’ll have to talk to Dr. Jay. I know how to source the best materials. Where to find the engineers. And Pierre is an accomplished architect. It can be done.
I stop pacing and stand in front of her. I bend at the waist to look directly into her blue-green eyes. “Remember how much you wanted to set up a business selling your lavender creams and the bawchi hair oil and the vetiver cooling water when we still lived in Jaipur? Well, we can make it happen. I want to make it happen for you. For me. For Nimmi. And Jay will get to expand his clinic.”
The face I know so well is alight with possibilities. Those bright eyes of hers are jumping—right, left, up, down—in their sockets as she tries to focus on one thought before another presents itself. It takes her a while, but she parts her lips in that smile that says I’ve made her happy.
“Let’s talk to Jay the moment we get home to Shimla,” she says.
We hire a tonga to take us to the Maharanis’ Palace, the way we used to so the guards wouldn’t mistake us for ara-garra-nathu-karas who couldn’t afford a horse-drawn carriage. We’re stopping here on our way to the Jaipur railway station to take the train home. The Agarwals wanted to take us in their car, but Auntie-Boss and I decided we needed to do this alone. One thing is for sure: we won’t wait another twelve years to see Manu, Kanta and Niki again.
When the carriage arrives at the entrance to the Maharanis’ Palace, we ask the driver to wait with our luggage. I help Auntie-Boss off the tonga and we carry our package to the guard station. The guard greets Auntie-Boss warmly—she’s been here several times already in the last few days. But, as he used to in the old days, he casts a baleful eye at me—more out of habit than because I appear unpresentable (which I don’t). I offer him a nod.
“Well, well. I have the pleasure of seeing you three days in a row. That’s something!” says the dowager maharani when we reach her rooms. Even though she is nestled in bed, she appears alert and ready to receive visitors in a vermillion silk sari and layers of pearl necklaces.
“We came to say goodbye, Your Highness,” Auntie-Boss says as she reaches for the queen’s feet and pulls the energy upward. I follow suit.
“Jaipur doesn’t have enough charms to hold you two for another day or two? And who will do my henna now?” She holds up her decorated hands for us to admire.
“Shimla awaits. We must get back to work.”
The old queen focuses her shrewd gaze on us. “Let me see. Lakshmi will be tending to the sick and to her plants. And you, Malik, will go back to your beloved. She must be waiting.”
I wonder how the dowager knew. I glance at Auntie-Boss but she makes a face to show me she has no idea. She may be imprisoned by her illness, but the maharani keeps herself apprised of all goings-on.
“We have brought Your Highness something to remember us by.” I give the beautifully wrapped package to her closest lady-in-waiting, who hands it to the maharani.
An attendant comes forward, no doubt to check the contents, but the queen waves him away with a slight gesture. She tears open the wrapping with gusto, handing the scented gardenia at the top to one of her ladies.
When she sees the elegant wooden box, she cries out with delight. Her arthritic fingers cannot open the lid of the box easily so the lady-in-waiting does it for her.
“Beefeater Gin! My dears, this is marvelous! Although my doctors won’t agree.” She instructs her bearer to bring three glasses, Indian tonic water and ice.
While her lady-in-waiting mixes the cocktails, the Maharani Indira says, “Did you know they used to throw patients headfirst into juniper bushes, thinking that malaria would magically disappear the moment their bodies brushed against the branches? Those English! So eccentric! Much better to drink the stuff!”
Auntie-Boss and I trade a private smile as we clink our glasses in a toast.
Her Highness closes her eyes in appreciation of her first sip. “Aah. Samir Singh—how I adore that man! He has come to see Latika and me. I am sorry the outcome does not favor him.” She takes another drink. “And you, my dear, have you achieved the resolution you were hoping for with the Royal Jewel Cinema?”