In the seven months since Malik and I started sharing a bed, I have seen Lakshmi, his “Auntie-Boss,” only a few times. She has left the buying of her medicinal herbs to Malik, coming with him only to see if I’ve harvested any new flowers since her last visit or to ask if there is another variety of Indian snakeroot that might be more potent for lowering blood pressure than the last batch Malik bought.
A few months earlier, she had come with Malik to the stall, and I thought she must be looking for a special herb. I stood up to greet them both. But she seemed distracted, cursorily eyeing my flowers and plants while Malik gathered the supplies he needed from my stall. I felt her studying me when I wasn’t looking. My children cried out to play with Malik when he was finished. Rekha wanted him to engage in a hand-clapping game he had taught her, and Chullu wanted a ride on his back. Malik smiled at them but avoided me.
I glanced at Lakshmi, whose eyes were darting from Malik to me. I felt a flutter in my heart—the way I do when I’m troubled—and sensed the beginnings of an unease between us. I realized then that it embarrassed Malik to have Lakshmi know that we had more than a passing acquaintance.
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?”