“We were so lucky that a benefactor from Jaipur financed Malik’s education at the Bishop Cotton School for Boys. It was such a relief, Nimmi. I knew it would open doors for him anywhere he chose to go—”
“Could you please just read me the letter?” She’s squeezing her hands so tightly that her knuckles have turned pale.
I reach for her hands. She seems surprised, but she lets me. They are a laborer’s hands for one so young. Rough, scarred. I rub my thumbs over the evidence of her short, but hardworking, life: hoeing, planting, shearing, herding, milking. I turn her hands over, feeling for her pulse points between thumb and index finger, gently pressing them to relax her. I give her time to study the henna on my hands; I’ve noticed her curiosity about it. To me, henna is a way for a woman to find a piece of herself she might have mislaid.
When I used to apply henna for a living in Jaipur, it was so satisfying to watch the change in women after their skin had been oiled and massaged and decorated with a cooling henna paste, after they had whiled away a half hour telling me stories about their lives, after they’d seen the reddish glow of a custom imprint as the henna dried and flaked off. They emerged calmer, happier, more content.
I miss those intimate moments with my clients as much as I miss the joy of their transformations. I think that’s why I paint henna on my own hands now. (In Jaipur, I would never have allowed my hands to upstage the work I did on my ladies; I merely oiled my hands smooth and kept my fingernails neat and trimmed.) But that precious feeling of serenity is missing from Nimmi’s watchful countenance—I want to offer her that.
“Other than the time of your marriage, has anyone ever painted your hands with henna?”
She shakes her head, interested now.
“Would you like me to do it?” I turn my wrist to consult my watch. I have work to do, but this is more important. “I have two hours before I must start at the clinic. We have plenty of time.”
She looks again, with wonder, at my hands, then at her own undecorated ones.
“Perhaps I can draw the wildflowers you harvest? Or something your children particularly love? How about that cricket Malik found for them?”
At the mention of Malik’s name, Nimmi snatches her hands back. She rubs them together, as if I’ve scalded her.
She’s not ready for this kind of comfort.
I pick up the envelope, remove the folded onionskin pages and smooth them out with the flat of one hand on my lap. I want so much to reach her. I know she’s had a difficult life. I know how hard she’s working, still, to put food in the mouths of her children. But I’d been thinking about Malik’s future long before she arrived on the scene. I press my lips together, almost as if I’m trying to keep any harsh words from leaving my lips.
“I did not send Malik to Jaipur to keep him away from you, Nimmi. I merely wanted to keep him from getting into trouble here,” I say. I’m searching for the right words. I don’t want her to resent me; that would create a gulf between Malik and me, and I couldn’t bear that. “He is an enterprising young man, and I’m sure he sees the money to be made across the Nepalese border. Surely your tribe has seen some of that activity in your treks up and down the mountains. The unrest along India’s northern borders seems to have created many illegal businesses—gunrunning and drug trafficking among them.” I watch Nimmi for signs that she’s understanding what I’m saying. I think I see her nod slightly as she picks up another candied lemon. “Of course, I’m not suggesting Malik is actually doing any such thing. I sent him to Jaipur to work with our family friend Manu Agarwal because that seemed the best way to keep him safe and expose him to the professional world there. Manu is the director of facilities at the Jaipur Palace. He can introduce Malik to many people, people who can help shape his future.”
To my own ears, I sound like an overinvolved mother. Is that how Nimmi sees me? I reach for my cup and drain my chai. Malik is twenty, a grown man. But in him I still see the eager, enterprising boy he used to be. He hasn’t lost his taste for risk.
I know Nimmi is upset with me for sending him away, but I need to do what’s in Malik’s best interest. I gather the tea tray with the teapot and unused cups from the table and take it to the kitchen. Having been at the service of so many of the elite in Jaipur, I prefer to do my own tidying up rather than hiring a servant. Once a week, a local woman—Moni—comes to clean the house. Moni’s husband clears our walkways in the winter.
When I reenter the room, Nimmi is gazing into the fire. Her hands are clasped under her chin, under her tribal tattoo, her elbows resting on her thighs. I sit down again.
“If Malik does not take to the work of construction and building, he will come back, Nimmi. But I want him to try it. Here in Shimla, he is at loose ends. And I fear he stays because of me.” This draws a sharp look from her. What about me, I hear her thinking. I know he is fond of me, as well.
She says, “My children have grown used to him. They never stop asking about him.”
I hear the sadness in her voice and want to press more candied fruit on her. There is no denying Malik’s attachment to Nimmi and her children. I’ve seen the way his eyes caress her face and light up when he sees Rekha and Chullu. She’s a strong woman, and he has always been drawn to strong women. I take a deep breath, remind myself what I need to accomplish.
I pull out the drawer on the side table next to me. Inside are my eyeglasses and a notebook. With my glasses on, I know I appear sterner, but I can’t help it. I flip through the book, stopping at a page. “March 8, 140 rupees, Nimmi. February 24, 80 rupees, Nimmi.” I turn back a few more pages. “January 14, 90 rupees, Nimmi. December 1, 75 rupees.” I look at her.
Her eyes are blazing now. “What is that?” She points to the notebook in my hand.
“His bankbook. I opened an account for him when he started school here. It’s part of what all smart young men must learn to do.” I put the book back in the drawer.
Her nostrils flare. Her jaw tenses. “Malik offered to help me through the winter months, when there were not enough flowers to sell and not enough tourists to sell them to.” She closes her eyes and clasps her hands together. “Would you just read the letter, Mrs. Kumar?”
I swallow my sigh. I pick up the onionskin pages and begin reading.
My Dear Nimmi,
Jaipur is lonely without you. Manu Uncle and Kanta Auntie have been extremely gracious in welcoming me to Jaipur. Their son, Nikhil, is only twelve years old and almost as tall as I am! They must be feeding him a lot of extra ghee!
Manu Uncle is keeping me busy. The civil engineers on his staff are teaching me about things like impact load and shear stress and beam-column joints till my head spins. Manu-ji takes me to important meetings with building-wallas and to construction sites (the palace has so many building projects going on!). I’m learning about stone and marble, when to use steel and when to use wood, and a lot of complicated formulas about the pressure a column and post can take. Most recently, he told me I would eventually be assisting the palace accountant, Hakeem Sahib. So I will be adding up a lot of figures. Soon I will be bringing back knowledge that will prove how much smarter a man can be than a woman! (That was for you, Auntie-Boss, since I know you’re reading this to Nimmi.)