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My Dear Dr. Ram,

At 6:20 a.m., September 2, 1956, the patient you had entrusted in my care delivered a baby boy weighing six pounds, fifteen ounces. While there were no apparent physical defects, the vital statistics revealed a heartbeat of 84 bpm. As you are well aware, hypertrophic obstructive cardiomyopathy or asymmetric septal hypertrophy are indicated in cases such as these—if not now, then in the future when the myocardium has been compromised.

I attribute the complication to an early birth, as the baby was three weeks premature. I wish I had better news for you. Mrs. Shastri will be in touch regarding contract closure.

Please convey my sincerest condolences to the palace. A thousand thanks to you for entrusting me with such a privileged and providential task.

Respectfully,

Jay Kumar, M.D.

I read it twice. No one would lose face: the royal family, Dr. Kumar or the Singhs. But who would pay Radha’s medical bills now? Hastily, I pushed the thought aside. One thing at a time.

I read the letter a third time. Only then did it occur to me that Jay Kumar was passing up his opportunity for fame. He would have been the doctor who delivered the new Crown Prince of Jaipur.

I looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

He returned my gaze.

“Mrs. Agarwal,” he said, “will make a fine mother. Very fine indeed.”

He pushed the letter and the form across the desk. All that was missing was my signature. He passed me the fountain pen.

TWENTY

Jaipur, State of Rajistan, India

October 15, 1956

I stayed two weeks in Shimla. On my return to Jaipur in late September, I felt happier, lighter, than I had in a long time. In Shimla, I had worked with people who needed me, who valued what I had to offer. The Himalayan people had welcomed my suggestions eagerly, the way parched soil welcomes rain. A few had arrived at Dr. Kumar’s clinic, bearing gifts of wildflowers and home-cooked treats, to thank me. Not since my time with mysaashad I experienced such joy in healing others.

Seeing Kanta and Manu with Radha’s baby had lifted my spirits, too. They were doting parents, eager to take care of their first, and now only, child. I had watched Radha for signs of jealousy, but she seemed content to share her baby with her auntie and uncle. They would all be coming back to Jaipur in a week, and Radha would live with them.

It only took a few days back in Jaipur, however, to bring me back to the reality of my life. After thirteen years of hard work, I was right back where I started, as poor now as I had been at seventeen. We would no longer be getting thirty thousand rupees from the adoption agreement. I’d refused Parvati’s tainted marriage commission. I had no money to pay back Samir’s loan or the Lady Bradley medical bills. My saris had faded from too many washings; there was no money for new clothes. I walked to my few appointments (ladies like Mrs. Patel had remained steadfast) to save money on rickshaws.

I could have asked Kanta and Manu for money, but that would have been like requesting compensation for the baby my friends had adopted. The very thought of it repulsed me.

I had other debts. Theneemoil vendor to whom I owed several hundred rupees came knocking at my door. Six months ago, I would have told him to go through Malik. Yesterday, I merely showed him my empty hands. He had a lean, hawkish face with eyes set too close together. He scanned my property, my tattered belongings, my threadbare blouse. I could tell he was surprised at how far I’d come down in the world.

His small eyes studied me, lingering on my chest, until I felt the need to cross my arms over my breasts.

He snorted and swallowed phlegm. “You henna women, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“You can henna my wife in exchange for what you owe.”

When I arrived at his house, the vendor said his wife was waiting in the bedroom. As I walked toward it, he grabbed my arm.

I stiffened.

“I want you to henna her breasts.”

I stared at him. Not since my time in Agra with the courtesans had I been asked to henna anything other than hands or feet, with the exception of Kanta’s stomach, which had been my idea.

I could hardly refuse him. I had no other way to repay what I owed. I stepped inside the bedroom, closing the door behind me. The vendor’s wife, a thin woman as dark as a coconut husk, waited for me on the floor, her hair covered with herpallu. Since we were alone, I suggested she might be more comfortable uncovering her head; she smiled shyly and refused, hiding even more of her face with her sari.

She surprised me by saying, “You’re thinner.” She had seen me in better days, when I had shopped at her husband’s store with Malik.