Page 8 of Six Days in Bombay

I rushed home on my bicycle, thinking about what the painter had said. Although I’d told my mother I would have been comfortable wearing one of my old dresses, Mira’s evening gowns had made me long for something far more glamorous. It was now five in the evening, the time I would normally have left for work. Somehow, with Mrs. Mehta’s and Dev Singh’s influence, replacements for Dr. Mishra and me had been found for the night shift.

I found Mum at her sewing machine with pins in her mouth and a pencil tucked behind her ear. The table was littered with pieces of the emerald sari and green satin for the petticoat. When I entered, she said, “Dinner is on the counter. First, eat. Then come and try this on so I can baste it.”

She was a nimble seamstress and always met her customers’ deadlines, but I knew this was a particularly fast turnaround. I had to be at the Singh household in three hours, and I needed to allow at least three-quarters of an hour to get there, first on the double-decker bus, then in a rickshaw. That would be the least expensive way. I was used to riding my bike everywhere in a skirt, but I could hardly do so in a floor-length gown.

I didn’t have much of an appetite, so jittery was my stomach. I ate half a roti with some dal and went to the landing to bathe in the bathroom. When I returned, my mother asked me to strip down to my slip. She rose from her chair, dragging pieces of the gown with her. She held up both sides of the bodice and pinned them together to form a center seam between my breasts. I looked down and saw how much of my cleavage was exposed.

“Mum, you know I can’t go anywhere looking like that!” I started to pinch the center seam so it would start two inches above my mother’s last pin.

She slapped my hand away. “This is my first opportunity to design an evening gown for my daughter. Leave the design to me and we’ll argue about it later.” She was smiling at her handiwork, which softened my resistance. I hadn’t seen her this excited about anything since she’d made my first nurse’s uniform—so full of pride she’d been. I kissed her forehead.

From the top of the bodice, two long straps wound over my shoulder and across my back. She’d made them from the zari border of her sari. With a stick of white chalk, she made a few marks and then removed the bodice. Next, she brought the long skirt that would attach to the bodice to see how much she needed to hem from the bottom. She planned to finish the hem with the remaining gold border. The skirt was slim-fitting and flared out below my knees. Together with the bodice, the dress created a long elegant column that made me appear taller than I was. We only had the one mirror over the sink so I couldn’t see all of me, but my mother’s expression was reflection enough.

“All eyes will be on you, my beautiful girl. Now, take that off and let me finish it.”

I removed it carefully so as not to undo the pins my mother had inserted.

“Shoes!” I cried. I didn’t have the right shoes to wear with this dress.

“Fatima!” my mother said. “Go!”

I dressed hastily and ran across the landing. Fatima, with her rosy cheeks and baby-making energy, answered the door. When she saw who it was, she looked concerned. “Mummi theek hai ?”

“Yes, Mum is fine.” I explained where I was going that evening and that my mother was sewing an evening dress for me but I had no shoes to wear with it.

Fatima grinned. “Come!” she invited me into their apartment, which was more spacious than ours. In one corner was a rosewood almirah. She opened it to reveal a rainbow of salwar kameez , many of them with gold and silver threading. Along the bottom of the armoire were a row of shoes, neatly aligned. There was one pair of high heels in black satin.

Fatima said, “My wedding shoes.”

I was almost afraid to touch them because they were so sleek. There was not a mark on them. What if I accidently stepped on horse dung while walking or a passing cyclist splashed mud on them? In the streets of Bombay, there were a thousand ways to soil what you were wearing. But Fatima, who seemed to sense my hesitation, said, “Try them on.”

I didn’t see how I could possibly fit into them. Fatima had smaller feet than I did. They were a little tight, but Fatima told me they would stretch because they were made of fabric. “But, Fatima—” I started to say.

“Sona, look,” she said, pointing to her feet, which were already starting to swell because of her pregnancy. “When will I be wearing them?” she laughed.

Her generosity overwhelmed me. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I touched her shoulder. “Thank you, Fatima. I promise to take good care of them.”

She patted my shoulder. “Salam alaikum.”

“Alaikum salam.”

***

My mother had done her best. Now she stood back to appraise her results. “Oh, Sona! I think this dress looks better on you than it looked as a sari on me.” She took the small mirror off the wall and held it at a distance so I could see the full-length gown. Our room was small, so she had to step out on the landing.

“Farther, Mum. Farther.” I could see that if I moved a certain way, half my breast would be exposed. I pinched the two sides of the bodice together.

“Stop that,” my mother said as she moved another foot on the landing toward Fatima’s door, still holding up the mirror.

“So I could go naked in the streets?”

“Don’t you dare try to close that gap tonight. It ruins the design.”

Fatima came out of her flat to see what the commotion was about. When she saw me, her eyes went wide. Then she covered her smile with her hand and said something in Urdu. She pointed to my cleavage and clapped, obviously delighted with the dress.

Embarrassed, I walked out on the landing to wrest the mirror from my mother. “See, Mum? People will be staring!”

“For all the right reasons.” We turned to see who had spoken. Dr. Mishra was standing in the street just beyond the courtyard. He was wearing a black suit with a mandarin collar, white shirt and tie.

I blushed, feeling foolish in a gown designed to elicit that kind of response.

He looked at Fatima, at my mother, then at the sky above us. “I hope you don’t mind. It seemed…a long way to go for a woman alone…especially one who is dressed for a party. I have a tonga waiting for us. Haven’t gotten around to buying a car yet.”

I could feel my cheeks turning red. I looked at my mother, who seemed as surprised as I was. “H-how did you know where I lived?” I asked.

“Ah. I have access to lots of records. I might even know your birth weight.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. My mother went inside our flat and returned with a black shawl. She was grinning, with a sly look directed at me.

“Shall we?” Dr. Mishra indicated the waiting horse carriage up the road.

“Jao,” my mother mouthed the word as she lay the shawl around my shoulders.

“Jao,” Fatima mouthed, her kohl-lined eyes twinkling.

I went down the stairs and out the front gate.

Dr. Mishra helped me step up into the horse carriage. I cringed, mortified that he’d seen where I lived—the home where we rented a room, with its peeling paint and mildewed walls. He’d seen my street, so narrow that a tonga couldn’t get through. He’d seen the trains that barely missed us as they screamed past. What must he think? It was one thing to see me at work with my pressed uniform and tidy hair and another to see me in my squalid surroundings at home.

But if he’d noticed, he didn’t show it. He was saying, “Perhaps you’ve been to a thousand occasions like this one. When the Singhs throw a party, it’s a little overwhelming. I thought you could use…some support. I know I could.” He attempted a small laugh.

I was still reeling from seeing him in my neighborhood. When I didn’t say anything, he stopped talking and looked straight ahead.

I pulled the shawl tighter around my shoulders. When I could find my voice again, I said, “I was surprised to see you.”

“Of course, of course. I do apologize. I thought I was helping. Perhaps I overstepped. We work together and perhaps we shouldn’t… Please accept my…” He ran a finger around his collar, as if it was choking him. “Would you rather I jump off and you could go the rest of the way in the carriage? I can always grab another one…”

The image of him jumping off the carriage made me laugh. He’d only intended to do a good deed. He’d barely noticed the neighborhood. “Thank you,” I said. I turned to meet his eyes, feeling my spirits lift. “Prince Rama.”

He smiled. “So now I’m the hero of the Ramayana ?”

I smiled.

He considered me a moment longer. “Right then,” he said, turning his eyes toward the road.

For a while, we were quiet.

“Doctor, I only know what Mr. Singh told me about you. Where were you brought up?”

“Shimla.”

I waited. “To wolves?”

“Oh, right. My father was a judge. My parents died in a car accident a long time ago. An auntie raised me.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“None. I learned to play the games my auntie liked to play. Bridge. Pachisi. Gin rummy.”

“Dr. Stoddard keeps threatening to teach me gin rummy.”

Dr. Mishra tapped my hand with his index finger. “‘Keep your cards close and your money closer.’” He smiled.

His touch sent such a charge through me that for a moment I couldn’t speak.

He turned his head. “Oh, dear, have I overstepped again? Perhaps you’re a secret gambler? There, you see? ‘When you have an ass for a friend, expect nothing but kicks.’ I must be the ass in that equation.”

I chuckled. I hadn’t expected him to be funny. He was always so serious at the hospital.

“Tell me more about your friend Dev Singh.”

“Dev. Yes. We became acquainted at Bishop Cotton. It’s a school near Shimla. I’m two years ahead of him. We saw each other again at Oxford where there were only a handful of Indian students. We became a tight group. Still keep in touch. Dev read history. I studied medicine. He’s studying architecture now. And I’m here in Bombay working with some very nice nurses—good nurses.” He studied his hands.

It was meant as a compliment and I took it as such.

“You haven’t been long in Bombay, have you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Have you seen Banganga Tank or the Hanging Gardens?”

I shook my head.

He looked at his watch. “We have some time. Shall we?” He told the tonga driver where to go. “The water tank is an ancient pilgrimage site for Jains. And now devotees of Lord Shiva go there. Me, I like it for its quietly obstinate presence in the middle of all this wealth.”

We arrived at a rectangular water reservoir amidst the mansions of Malabar Hill. On either side, a series of steps led into the water. There were diyas lit along the edge where worshippers had come to pray. I stole a glance at the doctor. I could have told him then what I heard between Matron and Dr. Holbrook, but he seemed so relaxed. His eyes didn’t wander, looking for a place to rest. Maybe I was fretting over nothing. Mira had looked so healthy earlier. Why raise the alarm? I let it go.

***

The Singhs’ three-story mansion was situated at one end of Malabar Hill. Our carriage skirted a manicured lawn with a pond at its center and stopped in front of an impressive stone staircase—wide enough for twenty men to scale. The house was massive, more like a small palace with twenty bedrooms. Men and women in their finery milled about the outdoor veranda while uniformed servants passed around hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. Clay diyas , their flickering flames giving off a soft glow, lined the balustrade.

We passed through the veranda into the house where ceramic vases with pink damask roses perfumed the room. Mira stood in the center, surrounded by admirers. She waved us over and introduced us to an art critic, a developer, a musician and a restaurateur. I looked around the room for her husband but didn’t see him.

“Filip’s sat in the corner there.” She pointed to the back of the house. “How do I look, Dr. Mishra?” She twirled around for us.

“Healthy?” he said with a smile that was more of a grimace.

Mira batted him on his chest. “Stop! None of that gloom-and-doom silliness. I’m fine now.” She turned to me. “Sona! Take that silly wrap off. Let’s see what your mother put together.”

I glanced at Dr. Mishra. How could Mira have been so thoughtless? Now the doctor would know my mother sewed my gown. I chastised myself. I was being a snob, not wanting to admit that my mother worked with her hands like a common laborer.

Reluctantly, I unwrapped the shawl, checking the front of my dress to make sure my breasts were not in full view.

“Oh, my! Our Sona has grown up, hasn’t she, Amit?”

Dr. Mishra, who had been staring at me, now directed his gaze at his shoes, at the marble floor. “Nice work, Nurse Falstaff.”

Mira looked cross. “Amit, you must call her Sona or people will think the two of you have come to rescue someone in an emergency.” She glanced at me. “Turn around so I can see the back.”

I did as she asked. She gasped. “Exquisite. There’s not a woman here who can compete with that. Let’s show Dev. He’s here somewhere.”

As we wound through the crowd—there must have been over two hundred guests—I saw men in maharaja coats, En-glish suits and mandarin jackets like Dr. Mishra’s. But it was the women in their jewel-colored saris of silk and satin and chiffon and necklaces of raw diamonds who glittered under the chandeliers. Scattered amidst the guests were Englishwomen, politicians and businessmen in three-piece suits and a handful of Anglo-Indians like me. Western garb may have been more obviously revealing, but the formal blouses of Indian women exposed backs, midriffs and bare arms too—albeit more subtly. Nonetheless, I knew dresses like mine would be subject to critical scrutiny and whispered asides of the Indian women.

“Amit!” We turned to see Dev making his way toward us in his white maharaja coat, the collar and cuffs embroidered in silver thread. He shook hands with Dr. Mishra and kissed Mira on the cheek.

“You’ve turned out quite nicely—as usual.” He winked at Mira. “Ashok Gupta is dying to meet you.”

Mira looked impressed. “Another film star? He’s here too?”

“He has one of your paintings in his house. Calls you India’s conscience. Compares you to Tagore. Says both of you understand the value of women.”

“Does he?”

“He says Tagore brought Indian literature into the global sphere and you’re doing the same with Indian art.”

“So he thinks of me as more Indian than European? Good!” She laughed. “Then I’m dying to meet him too.”

Now Dev turned to me. He blinked. “Nurse Sona?” Then he smiled. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your cap. Quite a transformation.”

I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, which is where his gaze had landed. Instead, I pretended that I wore something this revealing every evening of my life and inclined my head to acknowledge the compliment. I was surprised to feel Dr. Mishra’s fingers on my elbow, as if he wanted to steer me away from Dev. But Dev was too quick. He put a warm hand on the bare flesh of my back. My skin recoiled, but he seemed not to notice. He took Mira’s elbow. “There are all sorts here tonight. Government officials, newspaper editors, medical administrators, filmmakers. I want to introduce you to a few of them.” For Mira, that turned out to be an art historian from Delhi who wanted to write a paper about her. For Dr. Mishra, it was a Parsi gentleman interested in building another private hospital in Bombay. Once he’d engaged them in conversation, Dev led me to the cocktail bar, glad-handing and greeting several guests along the way. At the bar, he asked me what I’d like them to make for me. Other than the odd beer, I’d never touched alcohol.

Sensing my indecision, he asked, “Which sounds better to you? Salty Dog, Sidecar or Death in the Afternoon?”

I laughed. “Are those the names of drinks or sordid novels?”

He grinned. “I think you’re more of an old-fashioned sort, aren’t you?” He turned to the bartender and ordered a cocktail with bourbon, simple sugar and bitters.

“I’ll have one of those too, Dev.” It was Dr. Mishra, coming up behind us. “Your father was looking for you.”

Dev sucked air through his teeth. He bowed to me, patted Dr. Mishra on the back and went in search of his father.

“What do you think?” Dr. Mishra asked, pointing to my drink.

“Horrible,” I laughed. “I think I’d rather have a nimbu pani .” The bartender, who’d heard me, squeezed limes into a tall glass, added water and sugar and presented it to me with a sprig of mint. I thanked him.

Dr. Mishra slid my old-fashioned toward him and took a sip. He nodded and took another. “Maybe I’m an old-fashioned kind of man.”

“You know, Doctor, whenever Mr. Singh is in my vicinity, I feel as if you’re trying to rescue me,” I said.

“Am I?” He looked into his cocktail glass. “How do you know I’m not protecting him from you?”

I arched a brow. “I hadn’t realized I was that intimidating.”

“Dev called you daunting, remember?” he said dryly.

A trio on the back terrace—sitar, harmonium and tabla—had been playing a song by Kanan Devi, one of my mother’s favorite singers. We went there with our drinks to admire the thousand twinkling lamps on the edges of the lawn. Round tables covered in white linen and decorated with gardenia centerpieces dotted the expansive green.

“I told you I’m not selling them!” It was a woman’s voice.

The outburst seemed to come from below. Dr. Mishra and I looked down to see Mira and Filip. Mira looked furious, her cheeks an unhealthy red. Filip was smoking his pipe calmly.

“We need the money, brou?ku . The rent is overdue,” Filip said.

“And whose fault is that? I’m not the one buying expensive clothes—” She flicked a wrist at his three-piece suit. “Everything I have is five years old.”

“You could buy something nice for yourself.” His voice neither rose nor fell.

“With what? I make all the art, and you spend all the money. I—” She gasped.

“Are you alright, Mira?” Now he did sound concerned.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m working on a plan for the money. Let’s just go enjoy the party.”

We watched them walk around the perimeter of the stairs and into the far side of the drawing room. They hadn’t seen us. Dr. Mishra and I looked at one another. I felt a little guilty and embarrassed at witnessing such a private moment. I wondered if he did too.

The band stopped playing. Someone was tapping a drinking glass. We filed into the drawing room with other guests who’d been on the terrace. There, on a dais, stood Dev and an older gentleman, whom I assumed was his father—so much did they resemble one another. An older woman in fine regalia, whom I guessed to be Dev’s mother, stood to the side. Guests on the terraces began to join the crowd inside.

“Friends, thank you for joining us tonight for this most auspicious occasion—at least that’s what the astrologer has guaranteed or we may have to ask for our money back…” Dev’s father paused for the laughter to die down. He was holding a cocktail glass in one hand. His other hand was firmly on his son’s shoulder. “This one has made us proud with his studies at Oxford. Soon he will be one of India’s leading architects. A man like that needs a wife by his side who is intelligent, kind, compassionate and supportive. It doesn’t hurt if she is beautiful also.” His chuckle cued the guests, who complied, the men more so than the women. Dev hid a smile as he lowered his gaze to his embroidered shoes. “Which is why we are honored to add the family of Krishna Kaur and their intelligent, compassionate, beautiful daughter Gayatri to ours for what we know will be a long-lasting and happy marriage.”

The musicians started up again, the sitar taking the lead. The gathering made way for a formal procession of the father and mother of the fiancée, their daughter behind them, her head covered by a red-violet pallu beaded with tiny seed pearls. I stole a look at Dev, whose lips had parted. He was as curious to lay his eyes on the woman he would marry as the guests were. Everyone had squeezed in closer to catch a glimpse of the soon-to-be Mrs. Singh. Dr. Mishra had been pushed forward as I had, the two of us pressed together in a way that should have made me uncomfortable but did not. He placed a protective palm against my exposed back. His warm touch sent a pleasurable ache between my legs. He must have felt my body relax against his touch because he turned his head to look at me. I returned his gaze. My breath quickened. For a moment, it seemed as if we were alone in this drawing room and he might reach for me. I would have let him. In the end, he cleared his throat and broke off eye contact. He removed his hand from my back. Was that a look of guilt on his face? Did I mistake his gallantry for interest?

With an effort, I turned my attention to the dais where the fiancée’s father, dressed as elegantly as the Singh men, was making his remarks about the favorable joining of their two families. Finally, he stood aside to let his daughter, Gayatri, stand face-to-face with Dev. The guests craned their heads for a better look. Slowly, the young woman removed her pallu . But instead of casting her eyes downward like a coquette, she tilted her chin up and looked him in the eyes. From the way she carried herself, I could see that pride was her birthright. Here was a woman who thought well of herself. She would be defiant. She would insist on being treated like an equal. They smiled at each other. Was it one of happiness or relief or bravado? Two people who didn’t know one another would start a journey of discovering how to be with one another and in what measure they would love and lie.

Dev took her hand in his and turned toward the crowd, who started clapping. Now I saw the black arches of her eyebrows, the large kohl-lined eyes. Her lips, plump and inviting, her easy sensuality. Her mouth had been painted violet to match her sari. Heavy earrings laden with cut amethysts dangled against a jeweled choker that spanned the top of her neck to her shoulders. She did them justice, as if she were used to wearing such adornments daily. I touched my bare neck, aware that such finery would never be in my future. Even though Gayatri Kaur was on a dais, she lifted her chin, looking down at the crowd. Was it so she could appear more imposing? Or was it because she thought herself better than us?

I heard the guests behind me whisper, “I thought she would be younger.”

Another gentleman to my right wondered, “Why did they wait so long to get her married? Is there something wrong with her?” The crowd was dispersing, some heading toward the food and drinks tables, others congratulating the families and greeting the young couple.

A matron ahead of me was saying, “I heard the Singhs’ first choice for a wife fell through.”

Her companion said, “What I heard was that the Kaurs had to get the older daughter married before they could arrange something for Gayatri. The older one is pagla . She fell off a swing when she was little.” The woman made a face. “Finally, they found a family who took her off their hands for a substantial dowry. So now it’s Gayatri’s turn to be married. Although twenty-four is really the limit.”

Twenty-four? Gayatri was only a year older than me. If people thought she was too old for marriage, what did they think of me? Did they all talk like this behind my back?

I followed Dr. Mishra to stand in line and give my regards to the families. Mira joined us.

“Isn’t Gayatri too beautiful? And so masterful!” Mira imitated a Rani of Jhansi stance, the feisty Maharani who dared to go against the British in the 1857 rebellion.

Mira’s enthusiasm and high spirits were evident in the color of her cheeks. “I must ask what Dev’s fiancée thinks of the Ajanta Cave sculptures. Her family apparently lives near there.” I watched the painter closely for signs of fatigue or waning energy. I’m sure Amit—now I was calling him by his first name in my head!—was doing the same. She had only been released from the hospital this morning and she should have been resting. But other than the gray hollows under her eyes, she seemed fully recovered.

As we approached Gayatri and Dev, who were surrounded by well-wishers, it was obvious that they were very much a modern couple, the kind India adored. Both spoke fluent English, displayed Indian grace and Western manners in equal measure, and talked of books and politics. They seemed at ease with businessmen and academicians alike, discussing India’s future. Yes, I thought, they were a good match for each other. Perhaps Gayatri would be the one to curtail Dev’s roving eye.

When it was our turn to congratulate the couple, Amit was whisked away by someone, and I was left alone with Gayatri. Her eyes, so large they dominated her face, regarded me with curiosity. For some reason, I blurted, “My mother is Indian.” I’d assumed she wanted to know about my coloring, but I realized she was looking at my dress.

“Was it your mother’s sari?”

I nodded.

“Remarkable.”

I didn’t know if I should be flattered or insulted by her comment. She’d already turned to greet another guest. I didn’t even get a chance to congratulate her on her engagement.

Dev, who had taken his place next to her again, grinned at me. “Hey, Old Fashioned.” He leaned close to my ear. “Your dress is making the old sahibs in here very uncomfortable. Shabash! ”

***

On the back lawn, bearers were serving plates heaped with meat and vegetable curries or hearty English fare, whichever the guests preferred. They brought rose sherbets, falooda , cocktails and limewater as requested. Mira drank every cocktail put in front of her. She kept up a brilliant patter with everyone at our table.

The Indian minister of cultural affairs sat to Mira’s right. He was urging her to try her hand at a series of paintings showing the glory of Indian architecture. “Perhaps the palace in Udaipur? Or, since you prefer to paint in South India, what about the Mysore Palace? They’re both stunning.”

“People are what matter, Minister. I cannot say with buildings what I can say with people as my subjects.”

“But what you are saying, Miss Novak, is setting India back in time. These ancient rituals you paint are bound to tell the world that Indians are—are…”

“Backward?” Mira grinned. “How about thinking of my paintings as a way of highlighting all that is good—and true—about India? Traditions that have meaning going back thousands of years. Women who keep those traditions going despite the cost to their health and their hearts.” She looked at the minister through narrowed eyes. “Or perhaps it’s my style you object to?”

The older man looked uncomfortable. He pulled on his collar.

The matron sitting next to him said, “Rajasthani miniatures are known the world over. That’s a beautiful style for you to try, Miss Novak.”

“And it’s known as a very Indian style, isn’t it? But if we limit our idea of Indian art, we limit our experience of India. She —India—is so much bigger than our understanding of her. She should determine what represents her. Not us.” Mira’s eyes were shining as she lifted her wineglass for a sip. The minister wasn’t convinced, but I could see the dowager purse her lips thoughtfully.

Mira’s husband sat on the other side of her in his white three-piece suit, neither speaking to anyone nor ignoring them. When he wasn’t smoking his pipe, he was chewing on the bit, looking at his wife. There was a faint smile playing about his lips, as if he were enjoying the show.

I hadn’t much of an appetite, not since the feeling that bloomed within me when Amit placed his hand on my back. Sitting next to him was near impossible. He and I avoided looking at each other. I wasn’t sure what to say to him, what to make of what had happened between us. Had I imagined the look he’d given me? Was it merely a spinster’s imagination playing up? Just as I was thinking about getting up from the table, Mrs. Mehta accosted me, heavy gold bangles jangling on her wrists. I’d seen her across the room earlier talking to some of her cronies.

She put one hand on the back of my chair and another on the back of Dr. Mishra’s. “So, Doctor, did you know our Sona is quite the problem solver?”

Amit’s gray eyes turned to mine in question.

I felt the same rush every time he looked at me. I looked away.

Mrs. Mehta grinned. “It has to do with a pair of lovebirds. Perhaps I see another pair in front of me, hahn-nah ?”

I colored. Amit cleared his throat. Mrs. Mehta patted my shoulder, smiled mysteriously at Amit, and turned her charm on Mira, whom she’d been dying to talk to.

I couldn’t take another moment next to him without being able to touch him or say anything meaningful. I rose from my chair. A bearer came up behind me and pulled the chair out in one swift move. Amit looked up at me. “Are you leaving?”

I nodded. I couldn’t tell him that he was the cause of my erratic pulse. I needed space away from him, away from the charged excitement of this party, to collect my thoughts.

He pushed his chair back and put his napkin by his plate. “I’ll… Let’s get you a tonga.”

I wanted to tell him I’d take care of it, but I didn’t want to call attention to myself so I simply walked up the stairs and onto the terrace. I needed to find my wrap. It was far chillier now that night had fallen. I entered the deserted drawing room and veered left into the hallway. At this point, everyone was on the lawn. There was a cloakroom nearby where wraps had been deposited. I heard Amit’s footsteps behind me. I opened the door closest to me. No wraps. I tried the second door. The bathroom. As I walked nearer to the third door, I heard voices, deliberately kept low.

“I thought she was going to be younger.”

“What would you do with a younger wife that you can’t do with an older one? Both can produce heirs.”

I realized I’d happened upon a conversation between Dev and his father. I turned around to retrace my steps but I almost ran into Amit, who was right behind me. He put a finger to my lips to keep me from crying out.

“Besides, beta , her family is useful.”

“Meaning?”

“Mr. Kaur is an influential magistrate. He will keep your unpleasant…business…out of the courts.” There was a pause. Dev mumbled something I didn’t catch.

When he spoke again, the elder Singh’s voice was stern. “I can’t have this happening again, Dev. You will do right by Gayatri. My hands are tied.” It sounded like an order.

I felt Amit’s hand take mine to lead us back the way we’d come. We ran into a bearer in the drawing room, and Amit asked him to find my wrap. The servant nodded and went down a different hallway.

“We shouldn’t have heard that, and we shouldn’t have heard Mira and her husband talking either,” I said, feeling like an interloper.

“Sona, perhaps I should tell you something…about Dev…”

The servant was back. He handed me my wrap. Amit took it from me and covered my shoulders with it. When I turned to thank him, his face was inches from mine. “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name? Miss Novak and Mr. Singh called me Sona from the first moment I met them. And I’ve known you a year longer.”

He backed up a step. In Bombay, the city of the film industry, you never knew if you were about to star in the next juicy piece of gossip. It was always better to be safe. He’d just crossed the line by calling me Sona, and he was aware of the repercussions. “Come. Let’s get our tonga.”

“There’s no need for you to accompany me.”

His head reared back. “In that dress? Have you not noticed the way these men have been ogling you tonight? If I hadn’t been by your side, who knows what would have happened?”

That’s why he’d been shadowing me all evening? Not because he wanted to be near me but because of my dress? This was too much! The pleasure I’d felt in his company earlier gave way to outrage. I walked quickly to the door and called out to a bearer. “I need a tonga please.”

“Of course.” The servant went down the front stairs to the road below.

“Sona, please don’t be angry. Let me drop you off at your house. I’m not joking. It’s not safe at this time of night. There are protests on the streets.”

“I leave work at this time every single day. I’m used to the night.”

“You cycle home. It’s not the same thing.”

He knew I cycled home? What was he doing, watching me out his office window?

The bearer came back to the front door. “Memsahib, carriage is here.”

Amit got to him before me. He gave the servant a few coins and ushered me down the steps.

“Will you stop being so stubborn and take help when it’s offered?”

I slowed down. Wasn’t that what I was always telling Indira? I knew she needed help even if she didn’t. Was that what Amit was doing? And here I was being stubborn. And petty.

He sensed the change in me as I came to a stop. “Now what?” He rarely sounded exasperated, but he did so now.

“You’re right. I need you to take me home.”

He closed his eyes. The relief on his face was palpable.

When he helped me onto the rickshaw, I wondered what the people at the party thought when they saw the two of us together. Did they think we were married, bickering as married people do? Or did they assume we were lovers, quarreling, and that all would be well when the spat was over? Like Mrs. Mehta’s lovebirds.

***

It was always difficult to avoid sitting shoulder to shoulder in a tonga unless you were absolutely determined not to. The seat was narrow, and the jostling caused by trotting horses made riders slide toward the middle. I made no attempt to stop the slide toward Amit. Every inch of my skin was aware of Amit’s body heat against my thigh, my breast, my shoulder, my cheek. He was trying to protect me from the jarring motion of the carriage by extending his left hand across the back of the tonga. The sleeve of his jacket rubbed against my back, sending goose bumps down my legs. Some urgent need was tempting me to press my body against his. How would I possibly keep from doing that on the forty-five-minute ride to my flat? I clasped my hands together and thought of India’s colonial blight, the children of the kothas , my mother’s eggplant curry. Anything to distract me from laying my hands on him.

I cleared my throat. “Where will Gayatri and Dev settle, do you think?”

Amit was looking straight ahead, as if he were trying to avoid looking at me. “I would have thought Bombay—to live with his family—but I heard someone mention that they would live in Jaipur. Something about Gayatri not wanting to live in a joint family. It’s probably just as well.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Dev is complicated. It’s what I was trying to tell you earlier. He’s very hail-fellow-well-met, but he can carry it too far…where women are concerned. I helped him once at Oxford—I’d just started studying medicine. Not yet a full-fledged doctor. There was a young woman he… Anyway, it’s a side of him I don’t care for.” Now he did turn his head to look at me. His lips were a hair’s breadth away. “Have I ruined your image of him? Perhaps you—”

I couldn’t help myself. I placed my hands on either side of his face and pressed my lips to his. Me, Miss Old Fashioned. I knew you weren’t supposed to do that with the tonga driver just six feet away. I knew you weren’t supposed to do that with a man who was your superior at work. I knew you weren’t supposed to do that sort of thing as a woman—that it was a man’s domain. I did it anyway.

But then I felt his lips move against mine. Tenderly. Mine had been an act of frenzy. His was a slow build of desire. I hadn’t been dreaming after all. He did at least feel some of what I did.

He pulled away first, taking my hands in his and bringing them down to my lap. He was looking at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. He blew air out of his mouth.

“Dev Singh is not my cup of tea, Doctor,” I said.

“That’s good to know, Nurse.”

He seemed to remember that we were in a public vehicle and reluctantly let go of my hands. Tonga drivers coming from Malabar Hill tended to know all the houses they serviced as well as the owners, the groundskeepers and chauffeurs. If our driver saw us, we’d be giving him plenty to talk about. Slowly, Amit turned to the front and placed his arm behind my back once more. This time, he didn’t try to keep from touching me. He moved in closer.

The carriage couldn’t make it down our narrow street, so Amit walked me to our front door. He guided me with a hand at my elbow. I wanted so much for him to put his arm around my waist, to slide his hand under my wrap so I could feel his warm palm against my naked back. But it was eleven in the evening, and any scandal—even public displays of affection among married couples—was entertainment for prying eyes. We lived in India, not Prague or Paris or Florence or any of the places where Mira had lived and loved so freely. Where could Amit and I go (assuming he wanted to)? Not to my flat where my mother was waiting for me. Not to Amit’s apartment where word of the indiscretion would travel faster than a monkey can scale a banyan tree. The man who shined shoes at the corner of Amit’s apartment building would tell the peanut vendor on the next corner, who would tell his cousin the mechanic, who would tell his wife, the one who cleaned the house of a society matron, and before you knew it, all of Bombay would know Dr. Mishra had had a female visitor—or was she a harlot?—late at night. And did you see the half-naked gown she was wearing?

So Amit left me at the front door of our building without a word but with a look that told me he wished our evening had ended differently.