“Lead on, MemSahib,” he says.
The corners of her mouth turn up, but only slightly. She executes a graceful turn and exits through the open door.
When I turn to leave, Samir takes hold of my right elbow. In a voice I have to strain to hear, he says, “As far as Sheela is concerned, Ravi’s always working late. Accha?”
I give him a cold stare. Like father, like son.
21
LAKSHMI
Jaipur
Back when I used to tend to the Maharani Latika’s depression, my appointments at the palace were set by the older maharani’s secretary. Malik and I would check in at the guard station at the entrance to the Maharanis’ Palace before we were allowed inside. It was Samir Singh who helped secure my first audience with the Dowager Maharani Indira; she found my subsequent visits to the younger queen to be critical to Latika’s recuperation.
But it’s no longer possible for me to ask Samir to help me gain admittance to the palace. We’ve neither seen each other nor spoken in twelve years. Not to mention that the thing I’ve come to talk about with the Maharani Latika involves his firm.
This morning, I’m dressed in an ivory silk sari edged in a wide emerald-green border and threaded with gold. My hair is perfumed with jasmine flowers and arranged in a low chignon at my neck. Other than my dark red lipstick, I have no makeup on. My jewelry is simple: a double-strand pearl necklace at my throat. My lobes are bare. I wear a watch with a black braided rope bracelet and no other jewelry on my arms or fingers. Long ago, I learned it’s better, when you’re sharing space with royalty, to affect a simple elegance, and never to upstage them.
The gray-mustachioed guard at the station might be the same one who was here a dozen years ago. It’s hard to tell. All the palace guards, and all of the attendants, look alike: they wear the same red turbans, their white jackets tied at the waist with red cummerbunds, and white leggings. The younger guards are clean-shaven. All the older, seasoned ones have beards and mustaches.
This guard recognizes me. “Good morning, Ji,” he says. “It has been a while. You are here to see the elder or younger maharani?”
I didn’t know the dowager queen was back in Jaipur. The last I heard, she had taken up residence in Paris once Maharani Latika was well again and able to resume her official duties. It’s not proper for me to ask the guard why the elder Maharani Indira has returned, so I hold my tongue. I’m sure to find out soon enough.
“Maharani Latika,” I say, speaking confidently, as if she is expecting me. With no invitation, I can only fool the guard this once; the next time I come without an appointment, the guard will recognize me and refuse me entry.
Through the high iron gates, I see the younger maharani’s Bentley. As usual for this time of day, it’s parked in the circular driveway, its polished body gleaming in the sun, ready to be taken out for the day.
The guard looks at my hands, then cocks his head to look behind me, probably expecting Malik to be carrying the tiffins that contained my supplies: my henna paste, treats for the maharani, and a variety of lotions meant to soothe and calm. Seeing none, he looks at me as if about to ask a question, then, instead, he waves his arm, and a young attendant steps forward to accompany me. I know my way around this palace from my frequent visits here twelve years ago. Even so, protocol dictates that an attendant lead me in and out of it.
This bearer takes me through the once familiar hallways decorated with mosaic floors, Victorian mirrors, and paintings of past and present maharajas and maharanis on tiger hunts, seated on their thrones or surrounded by their families. It feels like a lifetime ago that I used to attend to the maharani here. I was a different person then, more focused on what I could earn from my henna applications than on whether I was doing my life’s work—healing others—as my saas had taught me.
The black-and-white photographs on the walls show maharanis with dignitaries like Jacqueline Kennedy, Queen Elizabeth and Helen Keller. The most striking are moody compositions of the Maharani Latika, taken in her drawing room as she gazes out a window or on her terrace, the wind gracefully ruffling her georgette sari.
I would have thought that each successive maharani would leave her aesthetic fingerprints on the decor. Yet, along the hallways I see the same mahogany tables inlaid with ivory. Each table holds a cut glass vase with mounds of pink roses, blue hyacinths and purple foxglove, freshly cut from the palace garden. I wonder if the queens are allowed to put their touch only on their personal living quarters.
Finally, I see the tall brass doors of the drawing room where I used to meet the dowager Maharani Indira. The attendant politely asks me to wait on the chaise longue beside the door while he goes in and introduces me. I notice that the chaise has been reupholstered in crimson satin since I was last here. Maharani Latika’s choice, perhaps? The wait is longer than it used to be, and I fear the maharani has refused to see me, but eventually the bearer reappears and invites me to enter.
I drape my pallu over my hair, respectfully, before entering, smiling at how often Malik needed to remind me that this necessary courtesy was critical in the beginning of my service to the maharanis; I was usually so nervous I’d forget. Now I’m surprised that my heart no longer flutters with anticipation at the prospect of being in the presence of royalty.
I can see the three Victorian sofas in this elegant room have been reupholstered, too. The silk damask’s a different color—a rich, deep rose—but other than the couches, the room looks just the same. The sofas flank an enormous mahogany coffee table. The elaborately painted ceiling, high above us, depicts the courtship of Lord Ram and his consort Sita from the epic Ramayana.
In one corner of the room, Maharani Latika sits behind a desk of ebony with ivory and pearl inlay. She looks up and smiles when I come in. “Lakshmi!” she says. “How lovely to see you. I understand you’re living, now, in Shimla. Please.” She gestures to the sitting area. “I’m in the middle of a correspondence, so I’ll be just a minute.”
Aside from the trilling of the English clock on the marble mantel, the room’s so quiet I can hear Her Highness’s pen scratching the surface of the paper. I remember the first time I entered this room and met Madho Singh. He was shouting Namaste! Bonjour! Welcome! from the safety of his cage. His constant muttering and squawking made this room so lively when the dowager queen occupied it.
“There.” The maharani holds out her envelopes and an attendant suddenly appears, as if by magic. The bearers stand so still I never even notice that they’re in the room until they spring to action. This one will now be replaced by another; the maharani is never without service.
I stand up to touch her feet as she walks to me and settles on a sofa. “Now then,” she says. “Tea?”
She is as beautiful as I remembered. Older, yes. I think she must be in her late forties now. A little older than me. Her eyes are the color and size of areca nuts, long lashed. The wrinkles at the corners weren’t there the last time I saw her. There’s a shrewdness in those brown eyes now that seems to assess, calculate, evaluate. Her brows are tweezed into an arch that makes her appear more commanding than ever (she is!).