The little one sat very still, her palm stretched toward me with the seriousness of someone entrusted with great responsibility.
“A star here,” she said, pointing with her other hand. “And a heart. And a butterfly. But a small butterfly, okay?”

I nodded, bending closer to her palm, the cone of henna poised like a pen.
“Hmm,” I murmured, half listening, half already tracing the shape in my head.
“A star… a heart… and a butterfly,” I repeated softly, following her instructions as though they were sacred geometry.

The paste glided out in thin brown lines. She watched every movement. Then she asked suddenly, “How did you learn to do mehendi?”

“Hmm?” I replied, distracted but attentive in that strange way artists are present in body, drifting in thought. And then the question settled.

How did I learn?

For a moment, I wasn’t sitting with a child’s small hand in mine anymore. I was thirteen again, and narated; 

It was Eid.
We were at the Al‑Fateh Grand Mosque.

I remember being overwhelmed by everything at once the vast marble floors cool beneath my feet, the chandelier hanging like a constellation above us, trays of sweets being passed around, the warm scent of qahwa drifting through the halls. Sunlight slipped through the high windows and scattered itself across the marble like quiet gold.

Even the prayer hall felt like a story written in light. My name curved across the paper in elegant Arabic calligraphy strokes.
Later, I wandered into a room where women sat in small circles laughing, chatting, hands extended. Henna artists between them.

There was giggling.
There was excitement.
There was that unmistakable scent of fresh henna; earthy and comforting.

I sat down shyly in front of one artist and placed my palm on the cushion. She gave me the warmest smile. “What would you like?” she asked. I looked at another girl’s hand and whispered, “Flowers.”

She began with a swirl. Then another. Petals bloomed across my palm as if they had always been meant to live there.

I remember watching her hand move steady, graceful, almost effortless and something about it captivated me completely.
The mood. The artistry. The quiet concentration. The way the design slowly appeared from nothing.

It felt… magical. I spent the rest of the day proudly showing everyone my hand. The next morning when the stain appeared deep and beautiful. I stared at it for ages.

That was the moment I decided I wanted to learn.

Later my mother told me stories too. When she was little, my grandmother would call a Henna artist home to apply henna for her and her sisters. My mother loved it so much. She said whenever the artist finished, my grandmother would ask her to add a few extra petals somewhere just to make my mother happier.

And my mother said every time she saw the stain appear the next day, she felt like the happiest girl in the world. I think I wanted to be able to give that feeling too.

So I practiced. A lot.
There were many crooked flowers.
Many terrible stains.
Many hands sacrificed to very questionable designs.

But eventually, I got better and now, I suppose I can say I’m decent. More importantly, it brings me joy to bring that same happiness to someone else.

“Even you, darling,” I said, gently booping her nose. She giggled.

“I’m going to learn it too,” she declared.

I smiled at that. Because maybe that’s how it continues. So to the henna artist from that Eid long ago whoever you were, thank you. Your swirls and petals travelled farther than you probably knew and perhaps that’s the quiet magic of it all.

As women, we carry this art forward in our palms and with Eid approaching, I know many girls and women will sit just like this; hands outstretched, waiting for their patterns to bloom; with every stain that appears the next morning, we carry a little piece of tradition with us.

Eid Mubarak in advance to you all. 
May our Bahrain remain peaceful and bright for the generations that will one day hold it all after us. 

- Monisha Vyas