The Moonlight Palace by Liz Rosenberg Read Free Book Online

designs of mehndi.
    The bridesmaid was still sobbing. She looked at her now-naked finger as if her whole body had been stripped bare. I saw the bride exchange a glance with her groom. Their eyes met for a few seconds. Then her own look softened, and a reluctant smile came to her lips.
    “No need to cry,” said the bride. “I would have done the same. And who better to try on the ring than my own sister?”
    The plump girl gave her a shaky smile. Then the long procession turned itself around and filed back out the door. This time, the bride walked in the lead, taking short, measured steps with her groom close beside her.
    I waited until all had safely left the store. It felt as if I had witnessed a minor miracle. “Mr. Kahani,” I said. “What is in that bottle? Can you tell me?” The viscous stuff had been a vivid emerald color. I thought, you never know when such a thing might come in handy.
    “Ordinary dishwashing liquid,” he said. “But I put it in an elegant bottle, and I use a silk cloth.” He lifted one hand as if to silence me and placed his long fingers against his lips. “It is always best to keep a few secrets,” he said.
    Now and again Uncle Chachi sent Dawid to Little India to fetch me and walk me home. During Deepavali, the streets were packed even past midnight—with Hindus buying gifts and snacks, talking with friends, or just strolling along admiring the colored lanterns and window displays. I think Dawid relished the excuse to walk to and from Little India. For a shy boy, he greeted a lot of people—shopkeepers, waitresses, and the old men who sold the Indian papers. “Shubh Laabh,” he’d say. “Shubh Deepavali.”

    Not just in Little India, but all over Singapore and even throughout the world, a restlessness took over our decade, the Roaring Twenties. Everything was changing, from dance moves to hemlines. The enormous Fullerton Building shot up in the middle of Singapore, and the Majestic Theater opened its doors in Chinatown. Amelia Earhart, a woman pilot, flew across the Atlantic Ocean. The Chinese and Japanese declared a cease-fire, and at school half the girls bobbed their hair. I shared the world’s jitters. But after work, I would stare out the palace window for hours. If I’d ever imagined the Garden of Eden, I imagined it looked like the view from my bedroom window. The Kampong Glam Palace was surrounded by trees, an army of friends: mahogany trees, acacia trees, a yellow flame tree, kapoks, and, right outside my own window, a red-leaved pulai tree. The sound I associated most with home was the sound of rain splattering through leaves.
    Nei-Nei Down had raised me to believe it was not good to love anything too much. She may have acted so prickly to keep me from loving her too devotedly, as well. But it was no use. I had the kind of heart that would always be breaking. I wondered what it would be like to live in an ordinary house—a house that could be passed down from generation to generation without worry—or one that could simply be left behind for a brand-new house, bought for the bright colors of its walls or its modern conveniences. But no, we all clung to our leaking, crumbling palace.
    I insisted that Uncle Chachi use some of the money I now earned for a few needed repairs, and I was also able to talk him into hiring a new young girl to help Sanang with her household chores. This new worker’s name was Danai. She appeared at our back door one day, begging for food. She claimed to be thirteen years old but looked closer to eight or nine, considered too old now for the orphanage. I took her first to Nei-Nei Down, not because she was the softest-hearted member in the family, but because she was the most stubborn. If I could overcome her objections, I could overcome anything.
    “Nei-Nei,” I said. “This girl needs a roof over her head, and we need her help. We can pay her some small salary.” I named a figure I knew was too high, and the girl practically jumped out