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?”
Auntie-Boss looks off to the side, as if she’s composing her thoughts. Then she says, “The ideal outcome is always the preservation of integrity. It’s painful when the consequence of the outcome is so severe. I understand that the Royal Jewel Cinema will have to be completely rebuilt. But it will stand as a reminder to thousands of people who cross its threshold that the right thing is worth doing.”
The old maharani grins, and a hundred wrinkles form at the corners of her lipsticked mouth as her hollowed cheeks lift, making her almost beautiful.
“A born politician. That’s what you are, Mrs. Kumar. If you’d been born into our family, you’d be in Parliament by now, my dear!”
Today, the dowager queen’s laugh is rich and strong. It fills up the room, floats through the door to the outside terrace and the maharanis’ garden below, forcing the tiny monkeys to look up from their half-eaten guavas and the sunbirds to scatter into the cloudless sky above.
EPILOGUE
LAKSHMI
July 1969
Shimla
I’m at my kitchen window, admiring the charming tableau on the back lawn. It’s dusk. Earlier today, Radha helped Jay and me light hundreds of diyas around our back garden for the wedding ceremony. The tiny flames flicker, making sequins and gold threads sparkle on the elegant clothes of the wedding guests.
It’s not every day that a Hindu and a Muslim get married; Malik and Nimmi decided to have a civil ceremony much as Jay and I did six years ago. The magistrate who officiated has already come and gone, and now the family and guests are celebrating and waiting for the feast.
Nimmi chose to wear her tribal finery as a way of honoring her heritage. The gold necklace Malik bought from Moti-Lal in Jaipur is around her neck. When I was preparing to apply her henna yesterday, Nimmi showed me that she’d added the amulet of Shiva to the chain. “It was Dev’s,” she told me, smiling, as if the memory now brings her joy instead of sorrow. I knew then that I would paint the image of the blue god—both a creator and a destroyer—on her left palm and, on the other, the word om, similar to the one on Shiva’s right hand.