I watched the young woman with her steady hand drawn lines on my inner wrist, moving towards my palm. The dark brown paste chilled my skin, and its earthy scent wafted into my nose.
My fingers wanted to twitch, but her thin hand held my hand in place so she could complete her art. Art for the skin – that’s what mehndi is. I’d never seen anything so intricate.
The flowers and paisleys she left behind dried and crusted. When I scraped the remnants off, the design had dyed my skin a burnt orange, which darkened to a deep auburn.
In the days that followed, I caught myself bringing my hand to my nose to capture the remaining scent of the henna paste. I admired the artist’s handiwork – spirals, dots, lines, and loops all making a trail to my fingertips.
I was in love, and I wanted to learn it. That was five years ago.
Like many, I suffer from impostor syndrome, so my doubt held me in check. Was it cultural appropriation for me, a white woman, to learn mehndi? Would I even be good at it?
In India, it’s an art that’s passed through families, where people learn on their own. The street mehndi artists (the best) taught themselves all the techniques. The proper shading, the right pressure to place on the cone for dispensing, and the creativity to create large designs that cover entire arms, hands, and feet.
There was no way I’d learn it, I decided. I snuffed out my desire and moved on with my life.
I moved on until last September, when my husband, daughter, and I were milling around our local grocery store. There, crammed on the bottom shelf of the beauty section, were henna cones.
I kept glancing at them but left empty-handed, still not confident that I could learn it. Instead, I went home and searched how to do it online – is it easy or difficult? Which kind should I use? Which designs are good for beginners?
And I asked the opinions of others if I should even bother with trying (they were all encouraging).
So, the next time we were at our grocery store, I slapped three cones in front of my confused husband and said, “I want to learn.” I braced myself for his laughter because I had zero confidence in my ability. Instead, he said, “Okay,” and paid for our groceries.
My first attempt at mehndi was terrible. I cut the cone down too far, so the paste came out too thick, and I couldn’t draw much with it.
I learned that mehndi isn’t too forgiving – you cannot afford to make many mistakes with it. Still, I felt a thrill run through me that I was actually doing it, and even my husband complimented my shoddy design.
My second attempt improved a bit. I drew a peacock, which has since become my favorite, but I still had no idea how to create a motif that flowed together.
I began scrawling on paper with the paste when I ran out of room on my hands and feet. It soothed me. Squeeze the cone and watch the paste twirl into flowers, peacocks, tikkas, and geometric shapes. The more I did it, the steadier my hand became, and the easier it was to flow shapes one into another.
Seven months and fifty henna cones later, I now draw on hands, feet, and shoulders with ease. I create permanent designs on unfinished wood, including letters, bangles, necklace pendants, bird houses, and photo cubes.
I’ve even started using acrylic paints to make designs on journals and Mason jars.
If I’m already this good after seven months of practice, I cannot wait to see where I am seven more months from now.
An American in Kerala 