The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi
2
LAKSHMI
Shimla
I love this season, the sharp air in my nostrils, the crunch of snow crystals beneath my boots and the anticipation of a new season ahead. Having lived the majority of my life in the dry heat of Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh, I never thought I’d come to love the cooler weather of the Himalayan foothills.
As I round the last hill on my morning walk, I spot the roof and gables of my Victorian bungalow topped with the last of the snow, like an elaborate pastry decorated with cream. Off to one side of the house is a Himalayan cedar, its branches weighted with white powder. The scene always fills me with joy, and I wonder—as I often do—how I could capture its delicate beauty with a henna design.
Then I spot Nimmi waiting on my doorstep.
On the path, I hesitate.
In full tribal regalia, her slim figure is striking. Her skin is the color of wet bark, so dark that her eyes—small, deep set—shine like those of an energetic black-eyed bulbul. These and her hawkish nose make her seem severe. I chide myself for judging her. Haven’t I taught myself to appear pleasant even when the situation doesn’t call for it? It’s a skill I mastered during a decade of tending to the whims of the ladies of Jaipur as I painted their hands with henna. Perhaps the women of Nimmi’s tribe are raised not to temper their true emotions?
I find myself frowning. Does Nimmi make me uncomfortable because she holds me responsible for taking Malik away from her? Possibly. Maybe that’s why I go out of my way to be polite, pleasant to her. I probably buy the majority of her flowers on the Shimla Mall. I have told Malik to pay more than she asks because I know she’s a young widow struggling to make ends meet and care for her children. And yet, I sense hostility in her attitude toward me. Or is it wariness? As if she’s waiting for me to disapprove or chasten or reprimand her? Am I? I have to admit she does remind me of those early years with my younger sister, Radha, who was so quick to discount anything I might say to her.
I force myself to smile as I mount the veranda steps. Nimmi takes an anxious step forward. That hungry look in her eyes is asking, Is there a letter from Malik today?
Her hair is covered with a chunni, and she is wearing the silver medallion over her hair that marks her as a nomad. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold that I, wrapped in a light wool shawl over a cashmere sweater and a heavy sari, do. Malik tells me the weave and weft of Nimmi’s homespun wool clothes keep her and her hill people warmer and drier than the yarn with which I knit sweaters for Jay and me.
I nod and murmur a welcome. I turn the key in the front door and hold it open for her. She takes a few steps inside and stops. The room glows orange and yellow from the fire Jay laid before he went to work this morning. Its flames make shadow puppets on the gleaming wood floor. Opposite the fireplace are a sofa and two armchairs covered in cream cotton.
I try to see the room as Nimmi sees it; she seems so uncomfortable. To her, a hill woman accustomed to sleeping in the open air on bedding quilts padded with scraps of old blankets, these two-story Shimla houses, built by the British, must seem obscenely luxurious.
“Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome!” squawks Madho Singh. Nimmi reacts, looking for the source of the sound—much as Malik had done all those years ago when he first saw the talking bird at the Maharanis’ Palace in Jaipur. Madho Singh’s cage stands by the fireplace (he likes to be warm; he’s a tropical bird, after all, and Shimla is a little breezy for him). Malik had to leave him behind when he left for Jaipur (he somehow managed to keep the bird in his rooms at Bishop Cotton when he boarded there). I have to admit that I’ve grown used to the Alexandrine parakeet—would miss him, almost, if he weren’t grumbling at me all day long, as he used to do to the Maharani Indira. So charmed was the dowager maharani by Malik and his fascination of Madho Singh that she gifted him her parakeet when we left Jaipur (although I also wonder if this wasn’t just her way of getting rid of an old annoyance).
Now there’s a ghost of a smile on Nimmi’s lips; the bird amuses her.
I hang my cloak on a hook by the door. Jay’s green wool cardigan, the one he wears at home, hangs there, as do our hats, umbrellas and coats. I see Nimmi’s eyes go to the drawing room table where we take our morning tea. Beside the empty cups and saucers is an envelope, slit cleanly, with a silver letter opener beside it. Her eyes fasten on the envelope as if it were a precious jewel.
“Would you like some tea?” I ask her.
She shakes her head no, politely but impatiently. She can barely keep from commanding me to read the letter. It’s the only reason she is here. Her tribe moves with the seasons, up and down the Himalayas, so most of its members have never attended school or learned to read. Malik made me promise that I would read aloud the letters he wrote to her.
“I made something special just for you. Let me get it.” Before she can object, I walk into the kitchen and start the tea. She may not be feeling the cold, but my body is. As the milk and water come to a boil, I drop in cardamom seeds, a cinnamon stick and a few peppercorns before spooning in the tea leaves. The candied lemon slices and sugared rose petals I’d prepared earlier are sitting on a stainless steel plate. Nimmi has been grieving since Malik left a month ago, and I know the essences of fruits and flowers are a natural balm for sadness. My old saas had taught me that, and I’ve used the recipe to treat many a downhearted soul.
With the tray of tea and the candied fruit, I return to the drawing room to find Nimmi warming her hands at the fireplace. I indicate the armchairs opposite the hearth, and Nimmi lowers herself onto one, pushing her heavy skirt aside and perching on the edge, a skittish bird ready to fly the nest. I settle in the other. Between us is the drawing room table. I push the plate of sweet treats toward her and pour the chai into our porcelain cups. “How are your children?”
She picks up a lemon slice and examines it; perhaps her people don’t eat candied fruit. “They are healthy,” she replies in Hindi. Her native language is Pahari and her dialect is so different from what I know that I barely understand a word of it.
“That’s wonderful to hear.”
My husband, who is a doctor at the Community Clinic, told me both her son and daughter had been suffering from ear infections the last time he attended to them.
Nimmi nods, absentmindedly, and takes a bite of the candied fruit. Her eyes widen. The sweet-and-sour taste takes her by surprise. She hides a small smile behind her teacup as she takes a sip.
I lower my eyes and drink my tea. “Before I read Malik’s letter, there are some things I would like to say.”
With an effort, she lifts her eyes. It’s hard to tell what’s in those deep orbs. Her features are sharp, lean, but there is beauty there. Her brows are prominent, as are her cheekbones. Years in the high sun, crisscrossing the Himalayan mountains with her family’s tribe on their annual migrations, have toughened her skin. I’m not a tall woman, yet she stands a few inches shorter than me.
“Nimmi, I know Malik cares for you and is fond of you. I wish you no ill will. I only want what is best for him.”
The words fly out of her mouth in anger. “You aren’t his mother.”
I take a breath before answering. “No,” I say. “We may never know who his real mother was, but I’ve been looking out for him since he was a boy. And I was his legal guardian once we moved here until he came of age.”
She may have heard this much from Malik, but I want her to hear it from me. And so I tell her how Malik, a shoeless, bedraggled child, had followed me around Jaipur and attached himself to me when I worked there as a henna artist. He had a pride in his bearing, but also hunger in his eyes. So I’d let him run small errands for a few paise. He’d done everything I asked of him so quickly and so well that, over time, I’d given him more responsibility—until he was purchasing supplies and delivering my aromatic oils and creams all over the city. He’d quickly become a part of my small family, as necessary to my life as the hands with which I painted henna on the bodies of my clients. Together with my younger sister, Radha—who was nearing fourteen at the time and like a sister to him as well—the three of us had all come to Shimla twelve years ago so they could attend the excellent schools here while I worked at the hospital.
“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.)
March is starting to heat up. My shirt is sticking to my back as I write this. I have only been in Jaipur a month, and I have already forgotten how cool Shimla was when I left. Has the snow melted, or did you get one last storm?
Please give the little barrettes to Rekha. I thought they would look pretty in her hair. For Chullu, I have found the most beautiful marbles (which I’ll hold on to for the time being, since he’s liable to eat them). I will teach him how to become a sure shot when I see him next. Just think! By the time he’s two, he’ll be able to run his own marble gambling operation (joke, Auntie-Boss!).
I must get ready for my dinner at Samir Singh’s house. (Did I tell you, Boss, that he has invited me? Not to worry; no one will remember me as the eight-year-old ruffian I once was, scurrying around after you in Jaipur.) Manu-ji has told Samir Sahib to make sure he refers to me as Abbas Malik. Besides, I’m fooling everyone with my English-gentleman act!
Nimmi, you would love the room I’m writing this letter in. It’s the small Palace Guest House, which Manu Uncle was kind enough to arrange for me. I love this tiny bungalow because it comes with a tiny library. (Actually a set of bookshelves, but a man can dream. Auntie-Boss, why don’t we have a library at our house in Shimla?)
Say hello to Madho Singh when you’re at Auntie-Boss’s house. And bring the children to meet him. Madho is pretty contrary, but he loves company even though he pretends not to.
I miss you, Nimmi. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you or Rekha or Chullu. I imagine us hiking up at Jakhu Hill and watching Chullu trying to catch the monkeys or walking along the Mall eating hot chili peanuts.
Now I really must go. Uncle and my stomach are both calling.
Yours,
Malik
At the sound of his own name, Madho Singh starts pacing back and forth on his perch. “Drums sound better at a distance! Squawk!” That clever bird has picked up proverbs that my husband, Jay, and I trade when we’re teasing each other.
I set the letter down on the table and take off my glasses.
Nimmi frowns, as if there might be more that I have kept from her.
Gently, I say, “As you know, my husband is a doctor at the Lady Bradley Hospital here in Shimla. I’m sure Malik has told you that, long before we married, Jay—Dr. Kumar—asked me to establish an herb garden on the hospital grounds so the clinic could offer natural treatments for the local residents who don’t trust manufactured medicine. Since we’ve been purchasing the flowers you harvest, I’ve been telling Dr. Kumar about you, how much you know about the mountain flora and fauna.”
I glance at her to see if she’s listening. She meets my gaze, looking puzzled.
“He thinks it would be a good idea if you could work with me on the Healing Garden. To see if there are more plants you know about that we should grow. Nimmi, you could have work all year around. Not just in the summer months.”
Her eyebrows gather in a frown. “But...what about my stall on the Shimla Mall?”
“You can still run that in the summer months, as you do now. We could also hire a local woman to run the stall while you work in the garden. Spring will be our busiest time for planting in the Healing Garden.”
“You would be my boss?”
I clear my throat. “You’ll be working for the hospital, Nimmi. It’s a way to feed your children, to provide for them, since you are no longer with your tribe.”
She draws a sharp breath, and I regret reminding her of how alone she is. I want to tell her how I made an independent living from my henna designs back in Jaipur—that it was hard work, but it made me realize I could rely on myself, that I was strong enough, clever enough. And how good it felt to know that. But she might think I was bragging, so I merely say, “A job will let you stand on your own feet.”
“You mean so Malik doesn’t have to spend any more money on me?”
The words boil over, like hot milk spilling out of a pan before it can be removed from the flame.
I know she’s frustrated, but I persist. “So you can be independent. Forever, Nimmi.”
I stop short of telling her that her children are growing; they will need new boots, new clothes and new books for school. She knows these things—she’s their mother, after all. Malik has described Nimmi’s simple lodgings to me. Last winter must have been brutal on the earthen floor; those flimsy walls couldn’t have kept them warm enough. If Nimmi could afford more comfortable lodgings, the children wouldn’t suffer so many ear infections or runny noses.
“Please think it over,” I say quietly.
Before she leaves, I hand her the barrettes that Malik sent for Rekha and bundle the candied lemons and rose petals along with some walnuts from my pantry in a cloth bag. She tries to resist taking it, but I fold her hand around the bag, keeping my hand on hers until she nods.