Page 3 of Six Days in Bombay

Chapter 2

At the start of my shift the next evening, my first task was to change Mira’s sheets. I walked into her room to find Dr. Mishra pressing on her abdomen. Mira’s face was pinched. Her breathing was labored.

When the doctor saw me, he said, “Nurse, could you help me for a moment?”

“Of course.” I set the sheets down on the only chair in the room.

As soon as Mira saw me, she said, “Sona! Please…” She held out her hand for me to hold. She looked frightened. Her forehead was shiny with sweat. I clasped her hand.

“Just here.” He placed my free hand just below Mira’s navel. Surprised that he would ask me to do something nurses generally didn’t, and even more surprised that he touched my hand, I pressed lightly on Mira’s belly.

She let out a yelp that made my stomach cramp. I tried not to grimace. The doctor handed me his stethoscope. His body was so close I could hear him breathe, smell his lime aftershave. I moved the chest piece of the stethoscope in the area where my hand had been, keeping my expression neutral so as not to alarm Mira. I looked at Dr. Mishra as I handed back the stethoscope and tipped my head down slightly. Yes, I hear it too . A gurgling that indicated inflammation. He took a deep breath.

“What is it?” she asked now, staring at us.

Dr. Mishra smiled reassuringly. “Probably nothing. When you came to us, you were in the early months of pregnancy, and your body underwent significant trauma with the miscarriage. Dr. Holbrook took care of you in the operating theater. Sometimes, there’s residual swelling afterward, which may be the cause of your pain.” I noticed that when he talked to patients, he lost much of his shyness.

Mira let out the breath she’d been holding and nodded.

“We should check you out more thoroughly in a few hours when the house surgeon returns.” He patted her shoulder. “Rest now.” He made notes on her chart, looked vaguely in my direction to thank me and left the room.

“Take a deep breath, Miss Novak. I’m going to turn you on your side now.” As I did, she let out a cry. The stitches, no doubt. The surgeon had repaired her from the outside but her insides still needed healing. Delicately, I pulled up her gown and removed the blood-soaked underwear and the wet menstrual cloths, taking care to place them in a container underneath the bed, out of sight. I picked up the rubbing alcohol and a small towel. With a light hand, I wiped her, changed the cloths and dressed her in a fresh gown. I scooted her to the far side of the bed so I could change the sheets on the side closest to me. She grimaced and clutched my hand to stop me.

“My mother was the one who discovered Paolo at the Venice Biennale in 1924,” she continued as if we hadn’t taken a break from the day before. “She fell so hard for him! Followed him back to Florence, dragging me along with her. When I finally met him, I could see what she saw in him. He’s beautiful.” She sighed. “Of course, Mama was always falling in love. Which is probably why I can’t. She was so messy with it. Tantrums and fainting spells and screaming matches. Father stayed out of her way as much as possible when she was innamorata .”

I eased my hand from her grip and continued making the bed. A mother who had love affairs and didn’t hide them from her husband? What did he think of her dalliances? Did he have affairs of his own? I’d heard of such marriages among film stars here in Bombay and rumors of unusual arrangements between wealthy couples.

“When I was little,” she was now saying, “my father took loads of pictures of me. Dressed me up in costumes. Mama did not like that. When I began painting, she told him to stop and took over. I’d started being noticed, you see. She began showing me off. Like a prize she’d won at the mela … I’d craved her attention for so long, but…why did I have to paint for her to see me?”

Tears were rolling down her temples as I helped her lay on her back again. I wiped them for her with a clean cloth. Were those tears of pain or memory?

Mira sniffled. “Father, of course, has his own passions.” She changed subjects as often as a woodpecker attacks a coconut palm. “Did you know he’s building a synagogue right here in Bombay? There’s a lot of money to be raised. He’s good at that.”

I went to the corner sink in the room to wash my hands and thought back to what I’d read about Jews like her father who had settled in Bombay. India was a refuge for them, safer than it was for the colonized Indians who had lived here for sixty-five millennia.

Mira was saying, “He’s awfully busy with the planning. I’m sure he doesn’t know I’m in the hospital.”

My eyebrows shot up. As busy as he was building his synagogue, couldn’t Mira’s father find time to visit his only child after she had lost his only grandchild? His absence seemed almost intentional. Cruel, even. A reminder of my father.

I felt the need for fresh air. I opened the window in the room and leaned out. The delicate fragrance of the orchid tree outside her window entered the room, hesitantly at first, then settled in for the night. I listened for the mournful hoots of owls, the skittering night animals hunting for their dinner.

Behind me, Mira said, “It’s like music, don’t you think? Night music.” I made to close the window, hastily, but she stopped me. She held out a hand for me to take. By now, I was getting used to this request from her.

“Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” she said. “A music of courtship. Supposed to be played at night. I imagine the animals being serenaded. The deer in the forest. Moths fluttering around the lights. The field mice.” She’d worked her fingers between my own and was swinging our hands lightly as she hummed the piece. Like the animals of the night, I felt as if she was courting me. She began talking about her childhood friend Petra in Prague. “She was my first. We were just schoolgirls trying out something. She fell in love. Followed me around like sheep. It wasn’t like that for me. I told you before I can’t fall in love. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”

I tried not to show it, but a Ping-Pong ball was bouncing inside my chest. She had slept with another girl? Did women have sex with other women?

Mira, who’d been watching me, laughed and offered me a wry smile. “You’re more Pip than Estella. I like that about you.”

I pictured Great Expectations on my bookshelf at home. Mira, of course, was Estella. As the more shockable, chaste Pip, I marveled at how Mira could talk so openly about things most of us knew to keep to ourselves? Did she not care what other people thought of her or her family the way I obsessed about what they thought of my English father leaving my family? In that way, I was like most Indians, consumed by the judgment of others, so wary of the repercussions. I’d only known Mira for two days and I knew more about her life than the hundreds of patients I’d served over the years.

“You will love, Sona. Be sure of it.” Mira kissed my hand and let go of it. She sighed, lost in the music only she could hear and memories only she was privy to.

Was that a prediction? Or a demand? I clasped my hands together to contain the warmth and the free spirit of Mira Novak a little while longer.

***

There was a commotion in Mrs. Mehta’s room. I’d been looking for Indira, whom I hadn’t seen today, when I passed the open door. Mr. Mehta was standing at the end of her bed, his hands clasped in front of his suit coat, a gesture of supplication. “You must come back, Rani. Bippi is threatening to quit. I like her biryani. I don’t want her to leave.”

Mrs. Mehta’s face darkened, not a good sign. She had high blood pressure. “You like her biryani better than mine? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Quietly, I stepped into the room and poured her a glass of water from the pitcher at her bedside.

“No, Rani, no!” Mr. Mehta decided to appeal to me. “Nurse Sona, you must know how dire the situation is. I know Rani confides in you. My father can be…demanding. Bippi won’t stand for it.”

His wife’s nostrils flared. “I won’t stand for it either. But you never hear me when I say it. Bippi says it and you come running to me.”

Her husband looked as if he was on the verge of tears.

The window was ajar. I pushed it open farther and looked out at the night sky. “Is that a lovebird I hear, Mr. Mehta? You’re the expert birder. What do you think?” I didn’t know one birdsong from another, but I’d heard Mrs. Mehta mention their pet lovebirds.

His curiosity aroused, Mr. Mehta joined me at the window. He turned to his wife, excited. “Rani, come listen! It sounds just like our Dasya and Taara.” To me, he said, “Dasya is the blue lovebird. Taara is green.”

I helped Mrs. Mehta climb out of bed (although she didn’t need it; she just liked the special attention). She came to stand next to her husband and placed her hand on his arm. “Are you feeding them enough? Or do you leave that to that lazy Bippi?”

“How can you even think I would let anyone else feed them? They were my gift to you.”

Mrs. Mehta patted his arm and looked at him with such affection that he placed his hand over hers. “They’ll be glad to see you,” he said.

She walked back to her bed. “Tomorrow. I’ll be home tomorrow. Sona, I’m ready for one of my pills now.”

***

In between tending to patients and their dinners, I looked for Indira. I wanted to find out how her bruises were healing and tell her about Mohan’s proposal. We chatted at least once during our shifts, sometimes eating our dinner together, but we hadn’t crossed paths tonight. I passed Rebecca in the hallway and asked if she’d seen her. The other nurse narrowed her eyes and inspected my uniform. I looked down at my white skirt and apron. Had I spilled something on it? Rubbed against some blood?

“You know, you spend far too much time chatting. With Indira. With patients. With Dr. Mishra. Do you not have enough to do? I could do with fewer patients if you’d like some of mine.”

In my convent school in Calcutta, I’d known another girl like Rebecca, who, for reasons I never understood, decided to dislike me. Her name was Charity. She made snide comments within my hearing about my missing father, my scholarship to a school my mother couldn’t afford (the other girls came from comfortable circumstances) and my scuffed shoes (they were handed down from another student and, however much I polished them, they remained scuffed). What was it about me that made her hate me so? What had I ever done to Charity to make her treat me that way? At home, my mother would coax the story out of me when I failed to eat my dinner. I thought she would be angry at Charity on my behalf, tell me how unfair the girl was being. Instead, Mum would rock me and said, Beti, you need courage to get through this life. She would massage my head with coconut oil and sing to me to soothe my wounded feelings.

But I wasn’t ten years old anymore and I wasn’t about to run home and cry to my mother. “No one is stopping you from talking to your patients, Rebecca. It doesn’t really take up much time, and I’m sure they would appreciate it.”

I sidled past her to look in the stockroom. No Indira. I didn’t remember her telling me she was taking the day off.

As I was leaving the stockroom, I heard Dr. Mishra cry out, “Morphine!” from Dr. Stoddard’s room. Rebecca, who was in the hallway closest to Stoddard’s room, hurried inside.

“No, no, no!” I whispered, praying it wasn’t the old doctor. I ran in after her to find Dr. Stoddard sitting up in bed, his hair rumpled, looking about to see what was going on. Dr. Mishra was with the other patient, Mr. Hassan, the one whose appendix had been removed.

Rebecca brushed against my shoulder as she rushed out the door. Dr. Mishra looked up as I walked in and said, “It’s his heart, Nurse Falstaff. Keep him steady. Talk to him. Nurse Trivedi has gone to the pharmacy to get morphine. He’s going to be fine. I have to get Dr. Holbrook.” Holbrook was our house surgeon. With that, Dr. Mishra left just as Rebecca, out of breath, brought the enamel pan with the loaded syringe, cotton balls and antiseptic solution.

I grabbed Mr. Hassan’s hand. Already my chest was constricting in time with his and I was finding it hard to breathe, but I willed myself to stay calm. “You’re going to be fine, Mr. Hassan,” I cooed. “Did you hear the doctor just now? Nurse is here with medicine. The doctor is here too.” I didn’t want him to think Dr. Mishra had abandoned him.

Mr. Hassan was a big man. He was clutching his chest with one hand, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, and shaking his head from side to side. Rebecca quickly cleaned the crook of his arm with antiseptic solution. Just as she was about to inject the morphine, Mr. Hassan twisted his body in pain, striking her arm. Rebecca almost lost control of the syringe—it was about to pierce the patient’s lung, which would have been fatal. I flung Rebecca’s arm away from his chest and held Mr. Hassan down with my elbow to keep him from moving and reopening his appendix scar. Rebecca stood with her mouth open, stunned at what might have happened, unable to move.

“Rebecca!” I said.

She shook herself and injected the syringe into the vein on the inside of his elbow. He calmed instantly. Both Rebecca and I were breathing heavily, but he was drifting off to sleep.

I released my hold on the patient and took a deep breath. I straightened my apron, wrinkled from the fracas. Rebecca was cleaning the site of his injection. Her face was mottled pink, red, pink.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” she said, her voice tight.

I was confused. “Do what?”

“Push me like that. I knew what I was doing.”

My mouth fell open. “Rebecca, an injection to his lungs could have killed him,” I whispered.

“I was nowhere close to his lungs.” She grabbed the enamel pan, her knuckles white on the rim. “When I tell Matron, no doubt she’ll take your side in this as she always does. You’d have to murder someone to get on her bad side!” She brushed past the bed so quickly I felt the whoosh of air as she left the room.

I stood still, my heart racing. I’d never had difficulty at Wadia with anyone but Rebecca. I liked our staff. As undermanned as we were, we worked efficiently together, largely because Matron managed us like a military battalion.

“Well, I jolly well like you.” I turned to see Dr. Stoddard smiling cheerfully at me from his bed. I’d forgotten he was there. “You saved me from the dreaded snores tonight. Think he’ll sleep all the way to morning?”

I nodded, still reeling from Rebecca’s words. I heard voices in the hallway, which spurred me to action. I pulled Mr. Hassan’s chart from the foot of his bed and wrote down what Rebecca and I had administered, how much and who had requested it.

Dr. Mishra walked in with Dr. Holbrook. The surgeon was saying, “Well, you should have asked me first.”

Dr. Mishra blinked. “He was having a heart attack. We had to act quickly. And I did come get you as soon as I saw what was happening.”

The other doctor said with feigned patience, “Where you come from, they might have called it a heart attack. In En-glish medicine, it could have been an asthma attack or gas pain or an ulcer.”

Dr. Mishra stood, incredulous. “I come from the finest medical school in England, Dr. Holbrook. The patient presented the symptoms of a heart attack.”

Dr. Holbrook wasn’t listening. He examined the patient with his stethoscope, pulled open his eyelids, inspected the site of the surgery for his appendix. “He’s fine now, it seems.”

“Because we acted in time, sir.”

“Yes, well, Mishra. Could have been much worse for you. Lucky break.” He clapped his hand on Dr. Mishra’s shoulder and left the room. The young doctor’s face was dark with anger.

I felt Dr. Mishra’s frustration. Dr. Holbrook, with his patrician air, left no room for anyone else to make their case. Matron had told the nursing staff that Holbrook had been in India for thirty years and was used to doing things his own way, even if it wasn’t the right way.

The young doctor turned to me, his gaze alighting on my face, my arm and the patient before saying, “Thank you, Nurse Falstaff.” I handed him the chart and he signed his name. Then he left.

Dr. Stoddard waved me over and whispered, “Dear girl, that snorer owes you and your handsome doctor his life, much to my chagrin.” He winked merrily.

The heat rising up my neck meant my face would be turning pink soon. “He’s not my handsome doctor. He’s a handsome doctor. No, I didn’t mean… He’s not not handsome. Oh, just—” I was flustered in a way that wasn’t like me. I rubbed my palms down my apron.

“I see I’m going to have to teach you how to bluff when we start playing gin rummy.” He grinned, his crooked teeth on full display.

***

When I got home, my “report card” was full. There was Mira’s talk of Paolo and Mozart, Mr. Hassan’s heart attack and Mrs. Mehta’s tirade.

There was also, of course, Dr. Mishra. Just thinking of Dr. Stoddard calling him my handsome doctor made my face warm. I didn’t tell Mum about that. Nor did I tell her how I felt when Dr. Mishra touched my hand. She would jump to conclusions, and I didn’t want to encourage her.

It had been an exhausting night, and after dinner, I immediately lay down for a nap. I stroked my cheek with the hand Dr. Mishra had placed on Mira’s belly. How cool and dry his touch had been.

Two hours later, when sunlight filled the room, I decided to cycle to Indira’s house. I’d asked Matron during my shift if Indira had called. Matron had scowled; she was disappointed in Indira. My friend had not sent a note to say that she had a cold or had been in an accident or was at home with a sick child, and Matron had stayed late, as she often did and was expected to do, to pick up the slack. That wasn’t like Indira, who was conscientious to a fault.

By the time I got to Indira’s house, my neck was damp and the backs of my knees were sweaty from cycling. Her family lived in a chawl built for mill workers over forty years ago. Age and neglect had blackened the timber and pitted the brick buildings. I stepped over exhausted laborers sleeping on the streets. Posters for the film Mohan had invited me to see, Duniya Na Mane , covered the walls of a paan-walla next door. This was not the Bombay the English knew. I looked for Indira’s building number. On the ground floor was a barbershop. Off to one side was a stairwell that reeked of urine and turmeric, made more pungent by the close quarters. I mounted the stairs to the fourth floor, covering my nose with my hand. I couldn’t help but thank our good fortune—Mum’s and mine—to have found a cheap room—that we generously called a flat—in a simple two-story house pressed up against the train tracks. At all hours of the day, we heard the melancholy howl, the hissing and puffing, the screeching of trains. After a few months, we became used to the noise but not the quaking of the building as the trains sped past. Still, the only smell we had to endure was the belching of coal smoke, a smell I had learned to tolerate.

I knocked on a door that had once been painted green. It was evident that the next layer down had been blue. Where both colors had worn away was bare wood. The walls were scarred with spit from paan eaters who spewed red juice wherever they walked.

A man with plump cheeks and smallpox pits across his nose answered the door but only opened it halfway. A small girl—somewhere between two or three years—clung to his leg. She smiled shyly at me, pulling on her pink skirt. I thought of Rajat and his gummy smile, and I felt a hitch in my heart. What a lovely thing it had been to feel my brother’s tiny body pressed against mine in sleep. I missed him terribly after he died, but for Mum’s sake, I buried the feeling. It was only when I came face-to-face with little children that memories surfaced—like divers rising from the water, gasping for air—how his laugh had sounded like a hiccup, how he had loved playing with my hair. I swallowed.

Indira’s husband wore a white undershirt—or it had been white once upon a time—under a plaid short-sleeve shirt and tan pants. He was in the process of putting on a silver-colored watch, the edges revealing brass links underneath. His frown had chiseled two permanent gouges between his heavy brows. He looked me up and down. My long skirt and shirt must have tipped him off to the half of me that was Angreji . In this neighborhood, I would have been better off borrowing my mother’s sari.

“ Namaskar . I’m looking for Indira.”

“She is sick.”

“Oh. She hadn’t called the hospital. We were worried.”

“Too sick to call.” His black eyes were burrowing holes into mine. My knees trembled. I, who prided myself on my boldness, felt fear, the kind I imagined Indira felt every day. I looked at the little girl. She picked her nose and went inside the house, bored now by the stranger.

“May I see her? I need to know if she’ll be coming to help me with the patients later today.” It was a tiny lie, but at its heart, it was trying to be true. Indira was assigned to a different roster of patients. My hands had curled into fists, and my fingernails were carving moons on my palms. In my ears was a high-pitched alarm that I knew no one else could hear, like dogs who sense danger before humans do.

“She’s sleeping. And I need to leave for work.” He managed to slide his body out of the half-open door and shut it behind him. He used his keys to lock the door. Extending his arm to indicate that I should precede him down the stairs, he left me no choice but to leave without having spoken to my friend.

By the time I got back on my bicycle, which an old Muslim man had been guarding for me, my whole body was shaking so much that I had to dismount and walk with the bike until I felt able to steady myself on it.