The Perfect Stain One: Indian American Girl’s Ode to Henna

When I think of henna, I think of myself as a child, peeling the dark brown paste off my hands in my family’s car on our way back from the annual spring picnic hosted by our temple. The henna on my hands smells earthy and bright: like eucalyptus leaves and dirt soaked in rain. The smell diffuses through the car, and my mom sneezes. 

“Can you open a window?” She says to my dad. “The smell is a little strong.”

I, on the other hand, can't get enough of it. I lift my hands up to my nose and inhale. I’ve chosen an intricate pattern. Large orange circles fill both of my palms, the base of a sun with curved rays spiralling out to the edges of my hand. Each bend in my fingers is covered with lines of henna, and my fingertips are decorated with several delicate dots in the shape of a flower.

I know that I shouldn’t peel off the design before at least an hour has passed. Otherwise the stain underneath will turn out an understated orange rather than the preferred deep rust color. But I can’t help it. As the henna on my skin dries, it creates an itchy crust, and I’m impatient to get it off. I scratch at the crust, which falls in little flakes onto the car seat. My fingernails will definitely be dirty for the foreseeable future. But I don’t mind.

Playing with henna was a staple of my childhood. The decorative dye is created from the leaves of Lawsonia inermis, also known as the henna tree, which are dried and turned into powder or paste. The word henna is derived from the Arabic hinna. It’s also called mehndi in Hindi and Urdu, mardaani in Tamil and camphire in English. The practice has been part of South Asian, Southwest Asian and North African cultures for over 5,000 years, making it difficult to determine where it actually originated. Because of henna’s cooling effect, the people in these regions applied dots of it to their feet during hot summers. Noticing that it left lasting orange stains, this translated over time to the use of henna for body art, usually in intricate patterns. 

Henna is often applied for holidays and has no distinct religious association. Jews, Hindus, Christians, Muslims and Zoroastrians living in areas where henna grows often partake in a pre-wedding tradition called The Night of the Henna, where the bride and groom are adorned with henna. The plant paste is said to bring barakah, or blessings, so it’s used to spread both beauty and joy. Henna is also affordable, making it a popular wedding accessory in place of jewelry.

Even from childhood, I understood that henna signified grandeur. A cousin of mine performs bharatanatyam, a form of Indian classical dance that originated in Tamil Nadu, the state my parents emigrated from. For each of her performances, she paints a large circle of henna on the inside of each palm and caps each of her fingers in the plant mixture. After leaving the henna on her hands for several hours, she washes off the dried crust to reveal a deep brown design. Then she applies heavy black winged eyeliner, ties her jewel-toned sari around her waist and emerges ready for the stage. As she snaps her hands into precise formations, her inked skin is visible for even those in the back seats to see.

Henna reminds me of celebrations with my loved ones in India. On one trip, my family members threw a coming-of-age ceremony for me wherein they painted the soles of my feet with henna, braided jasmine into my hair and dressed me in a royal red silk sari and bangles. In that memory, the smell of henna mixes with the taste of sugary laddoos fed to me by my aunts and the sound of my uncles chanting prayers and ringing little golden bells. 

But most of all, henna was a way for me to keep in touch with my Indian roots while I grew up walking a tricky tightrope between two cultures. As an adolescent, I constantly doubted that I was Indian enough, so I rejected several aspects of Indian culture. However, henna, as a form of art, always felt like a safe activity — one that I could engage in without feeling like I was doing everything wrong. 

During trips to the Indian grocery store, my sister and I would stock up on henna cones wrapped up in flashy pink and purple aluminum foil. When we returned home, we would search for common henna designs on the internet and practice drawing mangoes, swirls and sunflowers on each other’s palms. As novices, our hands would shake and even the most basic shapes would turn out lopsided, but it didn’t matter. Even the mere act of gripping the henna cone always felt like reclaiming pride in our heritage.