Page 6 of Six Days in Bombay

Chapter 4

I was hoping that after his talk with Dr. Mishra, Dr. Holbrook had reconsidered Mira’s treatment, but at the end of my shift yesterday, I saw on the chart that he hadn’t. The shadows under Mira’s eyes had been darker than they’d been the day before. Her skin, paler. Her hair, limp. Her breath, sour. Was no one looking after her? Where was her husband? Why wasn’t he demanding better treatment, the way Dr. Mishra was? For that matter, did Filip Bartos ever come and sit with his wife? Yesterday, when he’d left the paintings in her room, was the first time I’d seen him.

Today, as I changed into my uniform for my shift, I was determined; if her husband wasn’t going to help her, I was.

I wheeled a gurney into Mira’s room. I’d brought two enamel pans filled with warm water, a bottle of sandalwood shampoo, towels and an enamel cup.

But Mira wasn’t alone. She was sketching Indira. The moment Indira saw me, she colored and reached for her nurse’s cap.

“No, I’m not finished,” Mira cried.

Indira said, “Ma’am, Sona is here. That means it’s the start of my shift too. I must go.” She pinned her cap on her hair.

Mira looked at me helplessly. “I asked Indira to come early today to pose for me. She has such character. Such depth. Take a look.” She held up the sketch.

Indira and I moved in close. The charcoal rendering was Indira. The drawing captured her unhappiness, the way she struggled to hide it. The guarded eyes, always at half-mast. The lips that stretched into a flat line, neither turning up nor down at the corners. But Indira’s features in the sketch were less defined, blunted even. She could have been any woman. Indira, but not Indira.

Indira looked at the sketch with wonder. She said, “Do I really look like that?” A tear sprung on the inside of each eye. “She looks so helpless. And sad.” She glanced at me. “Do I?”

I put my arm around her. “You are you. There’s only one of you.”

Indira turned to go.

“I have mango lassi in my thermos today, if you’d like some,” I said.

She shook her head and left. I turned to Mira and realized she’d been watching us in silence.

I opened the window to let in a light breeze. I smiled at her. “Should we wash our hair today?”

She laughed. “There is no ‘we.’ It looks as if you are washing my hair today.”

Embarrassed to have spoken to her as I’d spoken earlier to the young boy scheduled for a tonsillectomy, I apologized and did a mock salute.

“No bother, Sona. I’m always delighted to see you.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Tell me. What are you protecting your friend from?”

I looked at her. “Who? Indira?”

She nodded.

I should have known. As much as Mira liked to talk, she also listened. She heard what wasn’t said. She felt what wasn’t voiced. It’s one of the things I liked about her. “Her home life is not good,” I said before turning my attention to the bottle of shampoo and unscrewing the cap.

She raised her eyebrows. “When I first started painting the women in my work, I saw many with bruises of hard labor or abuse or neglect. I wanted to help, but it wasn’t my place. They didn’t want me to either. They told me they would be in more trouble at home if I interfered. I couldn’t understand it at first, but I finally realized that I could do more good by portraying their lives and their feelings on canvas—for the world to see. That was when the work took over and I ceased to exist. The paintings came alive under my brush. Sona…” She waited until I looked at her. “Let Indira live her life.”

Part of me was surprised at her prescience; she was telling me what Indira had, what my mother had. The other part of me bristled at the advice I didn’t want to hear.

Mira put her pencils and sketch pad off to one side. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I want to ask you.”

What privacy boundary was she going to cross now? I was both wary and curious. “Alright. But first, do you think you could manage to sit in a chair?”

She frowned, then shook her head. I helped her to sit up on the bed instead. She let out a whimper. I glanced at the sheets to see if she was still bleeding. There were a few stains the size of an anna. I would change her sheets after I’d washed her hair. I noticed on her chart that the nurse from the previous shift had given her a dose of morphine not long ago. Perhaps it would take effect soon. I removed the pillows behind her, replacing them with a stack of towels to catch the water. One towel I wrapped around her neck and shoulders.

She asked, “If you had to live your life over again, would you do anything differently?”

Once more, she was probing, disturbing my neat surface of duty and responsibility to delve into the soft, imperfect, messy layer underneath. But instead of rebuffing her attempt to engage me, I found myself admiring how she went about it. Like an arrow heading straight for its target. Not in a malicious way, but because she was genuinely interested.

I said, “Why do you ask?” as I poured warm water over her hair, taking care not to let it drip on her face.

“Because I can talk to you—and Amit—about what matters to me.”

I was glad she couldn’t see the blush on my cheeks. Why did her close friendship with Dr. Mishra bother me? It was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he and I were… Maybe I was more upset to know that she had anointed him, made him feel privileged to be in her circle, as she had me. She did have that way about her, making people feel special, loved. It was that trait that must have attracted Petra and Paolo—and any number of people she’d met—to her.

I poured some shampoo into my palm and massaged it onto her scalp and into her wavy black hair. It was oily now, but by the time we were done, it would be shiny again. The soothing fragrance of sandalwood filled the room.

“If I had it to do over again,” she continued. “I would have been kinder to Jo. Josephine. I’ve been thinking about her a lot. She didn’t deserve what I did to her.” Her head dipped slightly. “Jo was—is—an art dealer in Paris—a big name. She sold a lot of my work…” Mira paused. “It was while I was at the Académie there. Jo and her husband, Jean, sort of adopted me. They had me over for dinner, took me to the Louvre—we spent hours and hours there. I sketched while they strolled. They introduced me to the Jeu de Paume, Palais de Chaillot, l’Orangerie, the Impressionists. I fell in love with Gauguin and Cézanne. Jo and Jean were so kind. They listened to my rants about Paolo. And then I did the most horrible thing. It was inexcusable.” She paused again. “I betrayed them for no good reason, Sona. I made a play for Jean. Why I did it, I don’t know.”

Once more, she had shocked me. Had that been her intention? She confessed that she’d betrayed a good friend in the worst possible way. Was she looking for absolution? From me? Who was I to pardon anyone? I waited for her to say more as I rinsed her hair with clean water from the other pan.

“Jean and I had an affair. When Jo found out, she was furious of course. And hurt. Eventually, Jean left her and Jo fired me. I don’t blame her, Sona. What I did was awful. She’d done nothing to deserve it—quite the opposite. She made a name for me in the art world. But after what I did, no agent wanted to touch me. I felt awful. I couldn’t paint. I had no money. Eventually, I went back home to Prague and flirted with Filip.” Guilt had crept into her telling. “My mother was livid. She thought I could do better. A prince or, at the very least, a diplomat.” Her smile was wry. “He was neither. Which is probably why I married him. And left for India.”

I gathered her hair in a towel and wrung it tightly. I don’t know where the words came from, but I knew them to be true. “You weren’t in love with Filip.”

She craned her neck round to look at me and nodded. “Everyone thought I was brave to defy my mother. Truth was, I didn’t want to go to India—where I’d never been—alone. I needed a companion. And Filip was a good companion.” She turned back to the front, took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I wreak havoc wherever I go, Sona.”

I didn’t know what to say. This was probably why we weren’t supposed to get close to the sick, as Rebecca had warned. I’d been so impressed by Mira, so taken by her worldliness, her sophistication. Now I saw a far more complicated woman, who, as loving as she was to me, had betrayed people who loved her. And she’d done it on purpose. Would she do the same to me one day? She’d known the lines she was crossing and had done it anyway. Only now did she sound remorseful. Normally, I would have tried to replace a patient’s darkness with light, left her in good humor. But with Mira I resisted. She’d drawn me in. Allowed me, encouraged me, to get close to her. Hadn’t that made me feel important? And then, she’d disappointed me. Was that what my mother felt when she found out the man she adored, the one who had fostered their coupling, was a charlatan?

I gathered my supplies—damp towels, enamel pans, shampoo—and put them on the gurney. When I turned around to tell her I was coming back to change the sheets and help her settle for bed, I saw tears making their way down the sides of her nose onto her lips. Her guilt—albeit belated—thawed a little of my resistance. Wasn’t it enough that our bodies, our limbs hurt? Why did we also have to hurt in our heart, the pain tucked so deeply in the soft tissue that we couldn’t just pluck it out? I took the handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped her face. Then I turned to go.

She caught my wrist to stop me from leaving. “Thank you.”

I nodded. She was thanking me for listening to her without judging her. But in my heart, I had judged. How could I not? I understood what Mira’s friend Jo, what her friend Petra, what her lover Paolo must have felt, how Mira had used them. I’d also been on the other side of betrayal. It was ugly, a thing with claws, covered in scales.

It was my father.

***

Timothy Stoddard was helping his uncle into a wheelchair with a wicker back. The lower part of the chair could be extended ninety degrees to accommodate patients with a broken leg. Dr. Stoddard’s cast had been removed earlier that day.

“My dear! Your carriage awaits!” the good doctor said when I entered the room.

Timothy laughed. “She can’t very well sit in your lap, Uncle.”

The doctor introduced us. Timothy, with his easy smile, was around my age. I put Dr. Stoddard’s arm around my shoulder so I could carry half his weight. Timothy steadied him from the other side as we helped him off the bed.

“Where did it come from?” I asked as I held the wheelchair in place and Timothy lowered the doctor into it.

“I still have a few favors I can call in,” the doctor said. “I had Timothy ask Mohan, down in maintenance, to bring it up after the visitors were gone.”

He looked at his roommate, Mr. Hassan. “What say you, Fahid? Shall we wheel down to the pawnbroker if you can tear yourself away from that tome?”

Mr. Hassan, whom I was here to check up on, had become used to his roommate’s sense of humor. He set down his copy of Tagore’s The Home and the World . “I’m halfway through, my friend. Can’t possibly stop now,” he said. For now, his condition was stable. We would keep an eye on his heart while he recuperated from his appendicitis operation. “Bon voyage,” he chuckled.

“Get cracking, Timothy!” Dr. Stoddard, tired of his cast, was anxious for the adventure to begin.

Timothy Stoddard’s spectacles shielded velvety brown eyes with thick lashes. He grinned at me. “Uncle Ralph has always been a handful. I’m not sure his servant wants him back home.”

“I may decide to go elsewhere, laddie. Been thinking of Istanbul,” he said. Then he brightened and addressed me, “Why not come with me, my dear? Be good to have a fetching nurse on board the ship. I can teach you that gin rummy game I keep promising.”

Timothy, behind him now with his hands on the handles, winked as he passed me. “He cheats, you know.”

“I’m well aware, laddie.” I smiled.

I followed them to the doorway. Dr. Stoddard exclaimed, “Heave-ho!” Timothy pushed the wheelchair with all his might down the hallway. I clapped softly. It was like a race with only one entrant, and Timothy was making good time. He reached the end of the hallway and turned the wheelchair in my direction. I looked around to make sure no patients were hovering in the hallway. That’s when I saw her.

Matron’s formidable mien was headed our way, blue eyes blazing.

Using all his might, Timothy was able to bring the wheelchair to a standstill just as it reached her feet. Only then did she notice me. I looked at Dr. Stoddard, then at Timothy. My heart was hammering so loudly in my chest, the noise in my ears was deafening. I would be reprimanded again in the high court of the Matron. My armpits were moist. I braced an arm against the door, afraid for my thudding heart.

Matron folded her arms across her chest. “I take it this is a doctor-approved regulation wheelchair?” We all knew Wadia Hospital did not have wheelchairs at its disposal.

Dr. Stoddard looked up at her with his most charming smile. “Of course, Matron. Would I ride in anything else?”

The doctor and Matron regarded one another in silence. Finally, she turned to me. “Nurse, come see me when you’re done here.”

Dr. Stoddard said, “She didn’t order the wheelchair, Matron, or make me sit in it. She came to look in on Hassan, the old chap.” He lowered his voice as if he were sharing a confidence. “Between you and me, Nurse Falstaff is the highlight of his day.”

Timothy chimed in, “Nurse Falstaff did try to stop us, but Uncle would have none of it.”

The doctor pressed his hands together in supplication. “I’m a brute, Matron. Please, as a favor to me, don’t penalize the poor girl.”

“Dr. Stoddard,” she said, as if she were pointing a finger at him. “What I do or don’t do with my nursing staff should be no concern of yours.”

“Oh, but it is, dear girl. I’m on the board of the hospital, don’t you know? And I say, this girl will not be punished for something I instigated. Right then, Timothy. You may wheel me back to bed.” Timothy did as requested, giving me a wink as he went past.

Emboldened now, I looked at Matron. “I need to finish with Mr. Hassan.” Without waiting for her approval, I turned on my heel and walked to his bed, busying myself with the blood pressure cuff. I was afraid to look at the doorway. When I finally did, she was no longer there.

Timothy was struggling to get Dr. Stoddard out of the wheelchair. I went to help him. I could tell that while the ride had been exhilarating, it had tired the old doctor. His cheeks and his nose were flushed. Timothy poured a glass of water for him.

“Doctor, I’m curious,” I said. “If you’re on the hospital board, why didn’t you request a private room?”

“Because I like company, my dear. Hassan is great company.”

I went back to Mr. Hassan, who seemed not to have seen or heard anything. He calmly put down his novel. I gave him his medicine and a glass of water.

“I’m not sure what to make of a woman who saves my life and monitors wheelchair races.” The old Muslim grinned, his salt-and-pepper mustache dancing.

I glanced at Dr. Stoddard. His smile was kind when he said, “Heroes should be recognized, my dear. Raise a toast, Fahid.”

Mr. Hassan raised his water glass to me. Dr. Stoddard did the same.

***

The hospital provided food for staff, but the kitchen closed at half past six. The dining room, however, stayed open to accommodate the night shift. My mother packed a tiffin for my dinner every day. Frankly, her food was tastier than anything I could have eaten from the hospital kitchen. I chose to eat my dinner at ten in the evening, which would stay my hunger until dawn, the end of my shift.

I was on my way to the dining room with my tiffin and looking forward to reading my book, A Room of One’s Own. I’d found it in a secondhand bookshop off the Bhendi Bazaar. I would have preferred eating in the stockroom—it was more private. Matron, however, forbade the smell of curry there, claiming the scent would permeate the sheets and towels.

I had just passed Dr. Mishra’s office when I heard him call my name. I backtracked a few steps to find him sitting at his desk. My heart did a little flip and my breath quickened. He started to rise when he saw me and gestured across from him. “Please.” His gaze wandered to the fountain pen in his hand, the lampshade on one corner of his desk and then my shoes.

Except for his unruly hair, he was neatly dressed, his shirt and lab coat pressed. His office was a different matter altogether. Prescription pads, medical forms, an inkwell, a letter in progress and a half-full cup of tea cluttered the surface of his desk. A medical journal, open to an article where the corner had been turned down, lay precariously on a haphazard pile of books. I fought the urge to rescue the journal, sensing instinctively that he would not appreciate a reorganization of his particular brand of order. The photo of Gandhi and Nehru, surrounded by leaders of the Indian National Congress, hung on the wall behind Dr. Mishra. The room contained his particular cardamom--lime scent.

I stood, unsure, in the doorway. I wanted desperately to comply with his request—I remembered the feeling of standing close to him, his hand on my hand as we examined Mira—but protocol stopped me. Was it proper to sit with a doctor in his office? Nurses and sisters talked to doctors from office doorways or stood in front of their desks to receive orders or ask a question. Would Matron approve of me sitting with Dr. Mishra? I didn’t think so. What if she assumed an imagined impropriety? I’d already been in Matron’s crosshairs earlier with Dr. Stoddard and his wheelchair; I didn’t want two infractions within the space of two hours.

“I must ask you something.” His expression was earnest, almost pleading. He combed his fingers through his curls, which did nothing to settle them.

I sat down gingerly, placing the tiffin and book in my lap. My palms were damp. I resisted the urge to rub them on my apron.

His eyes strayed to my tiffin, and he flushed. “Oh, I am sorry! I didn’t realize—that’s your dinner—I shouldn’t have—” His sentences were like the hammering of a flameback woodpecker: rat-tat-tat , pause, rat-tat-tat .

“Would you care to—” I lifted the lid of the first tiffin. “There’s enough. Chole, karela .” I opened the second tiffin. “Chutney. Rice.” I realized I was blathering. Stop talking, Sona.

“Ah. I have tea…” He held up his cup. Sisters regularly came around to deliver tea to the doctors. “Thank you though.” With that lanky frame, I wondered if he ever ate.

I felt my neck flush as I secured the lid on the container and waited for his question, listening for footsteps in the hallway.

He folded his hands on his desk. “How do you think Miss Novak is doing?”

Should I be honest? Would I get into trouble with Matron discussing a patient with a doctor? That was definitely not in our remit. On the other hand, Dr. Mishra had specifically asked me, and a patient’s health was at stake. After hesitating for a moment, I said, “She’s not getting better. I don’t see a change in her. The morphine is only hiding her discomfort.” I met his eyes to see if I’d overstepped.

But he nodded. “I agree. The morphine isn’t the answer. Holbrook thinks it is. I can’t seem to change his mind.” He rubbed his forehead.

It hadn’t occurred to me that even doctors had a Matron of sorts, a higher authority they dare not disobey.

“What would you recommend?” I asked.

“I think there might be residual fetal tissue that has become infected. The only way we’ll know is to look inside.”

“And Dr. Holbrook doesn’t want to operate?”

He shook his head. He picked up the fountain pen and rolled it in his fingers. He was quiet for so long I wondered if he knew I was still there. My stomach rumbled with hunger.

“I came back to India to teach Indian medical students what I’d learned in England,” he began. “Here, the British allow only the most elementary curriculum for Indian schools of medicine. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at Wadia excited to teach and Holbrook assigned me to the night shift when training is all but over for the day. That means fewer Indian doctors at Wadia will get the education they need.” He glanced at me to see if I understood. His gray eyes flitted from my face to the pen in his hand to the inkwell. “Independence is inevitable, and things will change. Doctors like Holbrook think it won’t happen. That just because the Bombay Gymkhana finally allowed Indians to become members a few years ago, the Brits have made real progress. We all know that’s not true.” He stopped fidgeting with the pen and looked at me in alarm. “Oh, dear. Perhaps I’ve offended you. You might be on the side of the Brit— I do apologize.”

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “I’m not on anybody’s side, Doctor. All I know is that India is my country too. My father came from England to serve in the British Army. He left me, my brother and my mother behind, which does not make me love him. My parentage is complex.” I smiled to let him know I had taken no offense.

“Ah,” he said, his fine brows rising.

“So what will you do about Mira—Miss Novak?”

He cleared his throat. “In cases like this, it’s often up to the patient to insist the head surgeon find a solution. I’ve suggested that to her and to her husband. They’re the only ones who can get Holbrook to change course.” He looked at me hopefully.

“I see.” If I understood the meaning behind his words, he was asking me to encourage Mira to champion her own treatment. I wondered why she—and her husband—hadn’t already done that. Was it even my place to suggest such a thing? “You’d like me to…”

“Precisely.”

I nodded.

“And I’m sorry about… Enjoy your dinner.” He pointed to my tiffin. Then he stood and gestured at the door, as if he were a ma?tre d’ at a restaurant. I suppressed the urge to tell him which table I wanted.

* * *

I had very little time to scarf down my meal before resuming my duties. I’d resolved to talk to Mira about her treatment plan, but when I came around to Mira’s room with the morphine, I heard voices. Who could be visiting her this late at night? Unsure about whether I should intrude, I stopped just outside the door.

“ Princezno , you know how your mother is. She’s worried sick about you, but she’s also hurt. You do nothing but disobey her. Like Filip. Like moving to India. She gets angry. It wreaks havoc with her nerves.”

“Papa, you moved to India first. Why is it so wrong for me to?” Mira sounded angry.

“Well…”

“So, she’s not coming?” Now her tone was petulant, a disappointed child. That surprised me. Whenever she’d mentioned her mother to me, she’d sounded indifferent, as if they’d been friends who had drifted apart.

“How can she, brou?ku ? She’s taking the waters in Geneva. Once you’re well again, you and I can go visit her.” I heard his chair scrape the floor, as if he were inching closer to the bed. “Now, do you want to know about my project? Rabbi Abraham has rounded up three more philanthropists to help pay for the new synagogue. We just need a little more and we’ll start building. And this is the best part, Mira.”

I could hear the excitement in his voice.

“We are going to ask Ruby Myers to cut the ribbon!”

I heard Mira scoff. “Really, Father! Bollywood royalty? Is this an opening for a synagogue or a burlesque show?” There was a pause. Mira raised her voice. “Sona, is that you at the door?”

I stepped into the room. Mira extended her hand to me. I took it automatically. She looked better than she had earlier. Her eyes were bright. Her color had returned.

“This is my otec ,” she said, pointing her chin at the older gentleman in the room.

Her father rose from his chair to greet me formally, his hat in his hands. He was a beefy man, around sixty, with a prominent nose and rosy cheeks. His beard was close-cropped, neat. His thinning hair was plastered to his head with pomade. He wore a woolen suit with a vest and a gold watch chain like many European gentlemen of his generation. When I was a little girl, accompanying my mother to the homes of wealthy ladies whose measurements she was taking, I saw men like him planted in plump armchairs, reading the newspaper.

Mira beamed at her father. “Papa, this is my favorite nurse, Sona. See how shiny my hair is? She washed it for me.” The last word had barely left her mouth when she clenched her jaw, squeezed her eyes shut.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Novak,” I said. “I’m sorry to curb your visit, but your daughter needs her rest now.”

“Of course, Nurse. I will be on my way.” He walked to Mira’s bed with his hat in his hands and kissed her forehead. “Brzo se uzdrav.”

After he left the room, I began to prepare the injection for her, but she stopped me. “I was only pretending. I didn’t want him here anymore. All he ever does is make excuses for my mother.”

“Oh.”

She picked up the sketch pad and charcoal lying next to her. “Papa kept bringing up Filip.” She tapped a stick of charcoal on her pad. “We grew up together, Filip and I. He was like an older brother. I half hoped we would grow into passion. But we didn’t. Filip let me be. After a while, that was fine.” She stopped a moment to look at me, then started drawing again. “Filip seemed to exhibit no particular ambition. No desire to do anything. Whereas I have always had loads of ambition. Mountains of it. My dreams are bigger than this room, Sona. Bigger than this hospital, bigger than all of India. I want so much. All the time.” She sighed. “Do you ever feel like that?”

“Yes.” I surprised myself. It was the first time I’d said it aloud.

That cheered her up. “I knew it. I wanted to hear you say it.” She began sketching in earnest. “For a time, I wondered if Filip was keeping the best parts of himself to himself instead of sharing them with me.” She turned those large dark eyes on me. “But what if it wasn’t that? What if there was no more to him? What if there was no there there? as Gertrude Stein might say. I’d assumed that the reason he didn’t practice medicine was because there was a greater Filip inside. He wanted extraordinary things for himself like I did. That’s what I told Mother. She wasn’t having any of it. ‘Marrying your first cousin! The scandal! Your children will be backward. Why couldn’t you have married a baron or a prince?’” Mira stabbed her pad with the charcoal. “I didn’t want to marry a baron or a prince. All I wanted was to paint. To be a painter. To be a great painter. That’s all. Why could she never understand? Why couldn’t she see me as I was? Not as she wanted me to be?” Mira threw up her hands, the charcoal stick flying out of her hand, landing on the floor, breaking in two. “And now, when I need her, she won’t come because I’ve disappointed her. I didn’t become the person she planned for me to be.”

Her cheeks reddened. I felt her frustration. Here she was, so full of feeling, full of wanting, full of the energy she wanted to express through her art. She wanted to be understood by people who should have known better. Who should have cared enough to. I sat on her bed, something I never would have done with another patient, and, for the first time, I reached for her hand, not caring if her blackened fingers dirtied mine. She looked at me, pain flooding those luminescent eyes of hers. Then she released my hand and wrapped her arms around my neck, holding me tight. She wept, huge choking sobs. I stroked her hair. She was so young and so frightened and so alone. How stubborn did her mother have to be to refuse to come to her? How involved in his own life did her father have to be to pay her only one visit? And what about her ghost of a husband? Where was he in all this? He’d brought the paintings she’d asked for. He’d brought the sketchbook and charcoals. But where was his heart? His love?

I rocked her until she quieted. Then I helped her lay down on the pillows.

She declined the injection she was due, saying she didn’t need it. Perhaps this was an indication that she was on the mend. At least I wanted to think it. Because I was reluctant to bring up Dr. Mishra’s suggestion that she challenge Dr. Holbrook’s treatment. It wasn’t my place.

As I was leaving her room, I heard hushed voices in the hallway. I recognized Matron’s and Dr. Holbrook’s. Something about their muted exchange made me hang back in the doorway.

The house surgeon was saying, “…told you before. Horace isn’t buying from reputable British sources. Probably Indian. Probably adulterated—”

Matron’s deep voice cut in. “Horace wouldn’t. He’s been running the pharmacy for twenty years.”

“And he’s your brother-in-law. How will that look if she dies? I’m under enough pressure from Mishra as it is. Fix it, Matron. Or we’re both culpable.”

Matron mumbled something I didn’t catch.

“His system… Clipboard indeed!”

“…always worked before.”

“Has it? How do we know… All the deaths… Wish she’d never come here. Doesn’t even paint properly. Give me Constable any day. And we don’t know, do we, what she might have done to that baby. That type of woman…”

Matron had lowered her voice to a whisper. I couldn’t hear what she said.

“Not sure I agree. She’s not British. Kipling was right. Savages, every one of them.”

I heard Dr. Holbrook’s heavy footsteps walking away. Matron remained where she was, looking at the floor, deep in thought. Then she turned in my direction and saw me. Her face lost all color. For the briefest of moments, her eyes were naked with fear. Then she seemed to compose herself, her expression grim. “Are you spying, Nurse?”

“I—I’m on my way to see to the new baby and mother, ma’am.” My pulse was racing. I might have just overheard the reason why Mira hadn’t improved, why her condition was worse.

“Then you’d better be on your way. The baby is underweight. You need to manage that.”

She was talking calmly, as if the conversation I’d overheard had never taken place. Had I imagined it? No, they were definitely talking about Mira! Why hadn’t I spoken up for her? Instead, I’d been a coward, complicit in my silence. She deserved better. Should I tell Dr. Mishra what I’d overheard? The line between right and wrong and where my responsibility lay was making my head pound.

***

It had been a long day. Dr. Stoddard’s wheelchair, the request Dr. Mishra made of me, and then the conversation between Dr. Holbrook and Matron—all of it had drained me. I hadn’t been able to find Dr. Mishra before my shift ended to tell him what I’d overheard. Maybe I should confide in Indira.

At four in the morning, I found Mohan replacing the wheels on a gurney, which he’d turned upside down. He worked longer hours than I did. I often wondered if he slept in the maintenance room.

Instead of his usual shy but cheerful greeting, he barely looked up when I approached him.

“Have you seen Indira, Mohan?”

He lifted his head and gave me a blank stare. I understood. He was smarting from my response to his marriage proposal. I had to say something or that rejection would become a festering sore. I came close enough to him to see the dark hair in his ears. Ignoring me, he picked up his screwdriver and removed a fastener from the wheel. As usual, the room was crammed with old chairs and tables and broken equipment. Even so, it never felt stuffy until today, given Mohan’s mood.

“Mohan, I am not ready to marry anyone. I don’t know if I will ever marry. I’m not convinced it’s a shift I’d want to sign up for.” I was hoping my little joke would help lighten the mood, and I thought I noticed a softening around his eyes. “You’re very kind to offer me a life of companionship and security. I want you to know that.” I offered him a humble smile. “I’m not sure you’re aware what you’d be getting in me. I have strong opinions. I like to do things my way—except when Matron catches me.”

That brought a thin smile to his lips. He looked at me then, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“You deserve better than me. Someone who cooks dinner for you when you come home. And massages your feet after a long day’s work. And makes you tea whenever you want it. Knows what you need even before you do. You know that’s not me. It never will be. The right girl is waiting for you. You’ll find her. She may even come help you here, fixing gurneys and painting tables.”

“ Accha, accha ! Stop!” He was laughing. “Indira was here, but she left. Her husband came to get her.” Mohan’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “ Maderchod . The way he handled her. Told her he was going to walk her home from now on.”

My ears started ringing. “What did he say exactly?”

Mohan looked away, embarrassed. “‘I don’t want that gori randi anywhere near you.’”

So now I was the white whore . It was laughable and cruel at the same time. If Indira’s husband only knew I’d never even been with a man.

“Did she seem scared, Mohan?”

He thought about it. “She was startled more than anything. I don’t think he’s ever come here before. I’ve certainly never seen him. She started to say he needn’t worry, that she’d told you she couldn’t walk home with you anymore, but he slapped her. Then he shook her.” Mohan cast his eyes at the gurney, as if he didn’t want to meet my eye. “It was hard to see, Sona. After that, she just followed him out the door. Like she was in a trance.”

I gritted my teeth. I wanted to scream, How did men like Balbir get away with it? Instead, I took a deep breath. “Thanks, Mohan.” I walked over to my bike.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

I turned around. The expression on my face must have told him I didn’t understand.

“To Indira’s?”

He nodded. In that moment, if Mohan had asked me to marry him, I might have said yes. How noble it was of him to want to protect me from the likes of Balbir.

I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

***

No sooner had I cycled two blocks from the hospital than I saw the young Indian students under the streetlamp. They were passing around a pack of Scissors cigarettes. The smoke competed with the strong medicinal scent of the golden shower tree, the flowers of which Mum mixed with rice water as a balm for my sore throat.

“But Gandhi-ji says violence is not the way—”

“How else can we show the bloody Brits we won’t be bullied anymore? The elections proved we’re ready to govern ourselves and still they ignore us.”

“Are you coming to the rally on Friday?”

As I passed them, I turned my head to catch their conversation when my wheels seemed to lock in place. My body jerked forward, almost throwing me off the bike. I looked around for the cause. Indira’s husband, Balbir, was gripping my handlebar. He smelled of paan and cigarettes. His eyes blazed with anger.

“Stay away from my wife! Indira doesn’t need you putting your perverted ideas in her head. Don’t come around our house or talk to her at work. You will regret it.” He lifted a hand as if he were going to slap me. Fear gripped me, but I willed my body not to flinch. We stared at one another for a long moment.

He leaned close to my ear and whispered, a hint of menace in his voice, “And remember: I can follow you home anytime.”

“Even that won’t give you the son you’re looking for, Balbir,” I said quietly.

His mouth sprang open, a look of shock on his face. He wasn’t used to women talking back. He loosened his grip on my handlebars.

“Hey, what are you doing?” one of the students shouted. I realized they were talking to Balbir. With a menacing glance at me, he let go of my bicycle and walked quickly away.

The young men were running toward me. “Miss, are you alright?”

I thanked them for their kindness and pedaled away, still shaking. When I got home, as soon as my fingers stopped trembling, I locked up my bicycle. Then I smoothed my skirt and wiped the sweat from my brow before walking up the stairs to our flat.