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India
 Photo: Mihir Panchal
India
 Photo: Zoubin Zarin

India: Mehndi Girls (cont.)

We mehndi girls mill about the apartment with outstretched hands, resembling nothing more than well-dressed zombies chattering and laughing. We sit down on the couch, swing on the sofa, and get up again. We can't go outside because we can't put on our shoes, much less work the elevator gate, so we look out the window. Nee’s cousin Namita, who is too young for mehndi, watches us with amused, curious eyes. Every now and then Nee’s aunts tend to us, gently dabbing the drying henna with sugar water laced with lemon. They also bring us cool water, raising the glasses to our lips so we can drink. We’ve all tried to avoid that particular request, though. None of us has needed the bathroom, and that’s a good thing because the logistics of that are beyond us.

Bored and restless, Alka, Indu, Nima, and I wander back into the bedroom. Nee has finally returned from her shopping and has been rushed into the studio. All of the artists have converged upon her; as they hold her arms and legs out to the side to paint them, they almost look as though they're trying to tear her limb from limb.  From far away the henna looks like blood, which doesn’t help. Nee looks wildly uncomfortable, so we settle down on the floor nearby, legs crossed and arms held carefully in front of us, and start talking to her.

“Get out,” one of the artists says calmly. Even though the words are spoken in Gujarati, I get the gist. She does not even look up from the thin lines of henna she’s applying, but we know she’s addressing all of us. We ruefully rise from the floor. Nee frowns as we file out of the room, but we do not even look back. It’s unwise to annoy the people wielding the henna, especially when the wedding’s in two days.

We're waiting and waiting, and the heat is seeping into our bones. By the time night falls, we're all pleading for liberation from mehndi. Nee’s aunts finally sigh and nod. They take charge of us again, roughly sloughing off the henna we've been guarding so closely. The parts that have adhered too strongly to the skin are scraped away with the help of a sharp knife; the brown dried bits drop like scabs into a waiting towel. My arms and wrists are brushed clean, and then I am marched into the kitchen where one of the aunts holds my forearm over the stovetop, just above the flame. I instinctively cringe back from the heat, but the grip on my wrist is too strong to break. Just before the ache turns into full-fledged pain, she nods, lets go, and allows me to pull my arm away. She takes up my other wrist and repeats the process.

Once they've finished scraping and singeing me, my first stop is the bathroom. I lather my fingers carefully in the sink, making sure I do not get water or soap anywhere near the henna on the rest of my hands. Instead of using a towel, I shake my hands dry. My arms and wrists tingle. It’s not quite pain, but it’s not pleasant. I fancy that I can feel the henna soaking down through my pores, dyeing me orange and brown and red. The room is swimming before my eyes, and suddenly I realize I am very, very tired.

Nee’s father looks into my bloodshot eyes and puts his hand gently on my shoulder. “Go rest for a while,” he suggests. I nod wearily and head into the room I'm sharing with Nee.

We're supposed to go out later to a family party, but as soon as I sink onto the mattress, I know I'm not getting up again anytime soon. I'm still in street clothes; my glasses are heavy on the bridge of my nose, and my arms are splayed out at my sides, sideways corpse-style, but I have no trouble dropping right off. The rest of the group creeps into the room to say good night, turns on the mosquito lamp, and tiptoes off to the party without me.

When I wake, it’s the middle of the night, and the flat is quiet. Bombay is still bustling outside the windows, but in the room the only sounds are the gentle sweep of the ceiling fan and Nee’s calm breathing. Someone’s tucked a sheet around me, and it’s a welcome comfort.

My arms feel raw and heavy, as if they've been coated in oil and cooked. I blink, sit up, and hold them under the dim glow of the mushroom mosquito light to see what’s happened to them. Bright orange veins course across my skin, looping into blossoms and leaves .

Suddenly thirsty, I roll off the bed and tiptoe out of the room, doing my best not to disturb Nee. She crackles as she turns to her side; her arms and legs are wrapped in plastic. In order to set her henna as deeply as possible, she’s keeping it on overnight. She mentioned something about this earlier, but at the time I honestly thought she was joking. I'm glad I was able to take my henna off.

In the kitchen Savitri and one of Nee’s aunts are awake, talking over glasses of milky tea. They smile when they see me and wave me over to the table. I fell asleep before dinner was served, so a glass of water and a plate of biscuits do me well.

“Your mehndi turned out beautifully,” Savitri says. I grin and hold up one arm and then the other to examine my beautiful henna flowers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the clock on the wall. It’s 4 AM in Mumbai and the air is cool.

 

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