Page 16 of Six Days in Bombay

“I went across the way to give her some of thekofta.I added an extra chili because she loves it that hot, but today, as soon as I lifted the lid off the bowl, she threw up over the landing. That’s when I toldhershe was pregnant.”

I laughed, as my mother had known I would. She knew how to lighten my mood.

“So,” she said, pulling another fastener out of her button box. “What happened today?”

First, I told her about Mira. “She’s not getting better, Mum. Dr. Mishra thinks so too.” At the mention of his name, my mother cast a sharp glance at me. “I saw him arguing with Dr. Holbrook about it. Holbrook thinks it’s nothing. He seems to think complications of any kind are the result of indigestion or constipation. The sooner he retires, the better. You should see the way he talks to Dr. Mishra.”

“Should I?” she said, her tone shrewd. I ignored it.

I told her about Indira’s bruises and how she told me not to walk home with her anymore.

“Leave that girl alone, Sona. It will only bring you trouble.”

I got up to put my plate and glass in the sink. “How can you say that, Mum? If it were me who was being beaten by my husband, wouldn’t you help me?”

Done with the blouse, she held it up in front of her, looking for imperfections in her work. “Her husband sounds dangerous,beti, and I don’t want him anywhere near you.” After a beat, she said, “Mohan would never do that to you.”

I fumed. The voice in my head—the one my mother always told me to listen to—cautioned,Don’t, Sona. Stop!But today had been a trying day. Men like Dr. Holbrook looking at me as if he could see through my uniform and treating Dr. Mishra as if his Indianness was several levels below Holbrook’s Britishness. Indira’s husband beating her like a street dog he could kick to the gutter when he felt like it. Rebecca, thinking that her half-English blood was a foolproof shield, protecting her fromharm. Matron believing I deserved punishment for something I hadn’t done.

I turned and leaned with my back against the counter to face my mother. “Mum, people do things—hurtful things—that never cease to surprise me. And disgust me. They can be charming one minute and betray you in the next. Who’s to say Mohan isn’t like that? He’s kind now. But what if I failed to give him sons instead of daughters? What if he comes to believe that the British behaving badly is down to my English blood?” There they were. The words I’d locked inside me for as long as I could remember. I’d turned the key. Now they tumbled out at breakneck speed. “And what about my father? Charming his way into your life and leaving you with two children and no way to support them? Isn’t he the reason we never see your family? Isn’t he the reason we live in this cramped room with no air to breathe? The reason we have to watch every rupee we spend. And even then, we don’t have enough to buy you newchappals.What kind of man does that? I hate him, Mum. I’ve hated him since I was three. I hated him even more—which I didn’t think was possible—after Rajat died. I still miss Rajat, Mum. He was just a baby. He didn’t deserve to die.” I shook my head at her, breathing hard. “You were fooled into thinking my father was a good man. He wasn’t. If he had been, he would be with us here, now, and not in this appalling place with the trains waking us up every hour, the stench of their smoke in our mouths.” My heart pounded in my chest so loudly I thought I might pass out. My stomach hurt. I doubled over, my hands on my knees. I wished the last five minutes hadn’t happened. I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. I had no right to hurt my mother like that. Speaking out against my father was like blaming her for being with him in the first place. How was I any better than the people I’d been talking about—people who smiled at you and then stabbed you in the soft spaces? Wasn’t that what I’d just done to her?

When I raised my head to look at her, my mother was staring at me, her mouth slack, her forehead creased. I saw her, now, as others saw her. Defeated. Hunched over. Her elbows knobby, her knees bony. Her scalp showing through her thinning hair, the strands now more gray than black. Her fingers, so elegant once, now swollen with arthritis. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to thread a needle or sew a hem.Hehad done that to her. She had paid a hard price for loving the father of her children.

“You were only three. I didn’t think you remembered him.” She began rubbing the spot above her heart. “At least I wanted to believe that. I didn’t know all this time…” She looked down at her lap, at the abandoned garment, the silver threads winking under the glare of the single ceiling bulb. She made beautiful clothes for other people, clothes she couldn’t afford for either of us. When she looked up at me, her eyes were wet.

“But, Sona… I thought you were happy with our lives. True, we’re not as flush as we’d like, but it won’t always be like that. That’s why I wanted you to become a nurse. You’re doing well, and we’re saving money.” She paused, spit forming at the edges of her lips. “I didn’t know you hated being here so much. I didn’t know you hatedhimso much.”

The only time I’d seen her cry was when Rajat died. Now a tear rolled down the soft pillows under her eyes and into the hollow of her cheek. I rushed to her, kneeled in front of her chair, placing my hands on her knees. “Oh, Mum. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean them. Truly I didn’t. I’m so sorry.” I wiped her tears with my palms. “Please forgive me.”

There was a catch in her voice as she continued, “You’re not wrong. He did betray us. When he left, you were both so young. How could I tell you? Then you got older and, well, it never seemed like the right time. I just thought if you never asked, we could pretend it didn’t happen. I didn’t want to hurt you,beti. I only wanted to protect you.” She was crying openly now, thetears wetting my hands. “He promised, Sona. He promised he would stay with us forever. He loved us. He said that over and over. I didn’t know he had another family. He never told me. It never occurred to me that he didn’t want to marry me because he was already married. In England. He’d been married for five or six years when I met him. If he’d been honest, I never would have taken up with him.”

My parents had never married? My father had another family? In England?My chest constricted.Rajat and I were illegitimate? Legally, I didn’t exist?A headache drummed against my temples. What else didn’t I know about the man who had lent me his mouth, the color of his skin?

Mum was crumpling the blouse she’d been working on into a ball. “I was so young, Sona. And so naive. He waited to tell me the day he left. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe he was leaving. I couldn’t believe he had another family. I couldn’t believe he would do that to us. I wanted to gouge his eyes out. I slapped his cheeks, his temples. I beat him with my fists. I kicked his shins, his knees. I threw things at him. Whatever was at hand. A pot. Scissors. Rajat’s toys. He let me. I pushed him so hard, his head hit the wall. When he stepped away, there was blood. He looked miserable. But he said nothing. He just left. He left anyway.” She hiccupped, trying to catch her breath.

“Mum.” I pried the garment from her hands and covered her palms with mine.

She regarded our hands and rubbed my thumb. “For all that, Sona, I loved him. It wasn’t all bad. Maybe you can’t understand that. Not now anyway. But someday, you will. While he was with us, he was good. He loved you and Rajat. I wouldn’t have had the two of you to love if it hadn’t been for him. He used to make paper flowers for you, which you would scatter around your bed. He would put Rajat on his shoulders and take both of you to the zoo. You loved the peacocks. When they fanned their trains, Rajat would laugh.” She smiled at the memory.

I felt something harden inside, something small and round, like a marble. She was defending him. After all he’d done to her. To us. I released her hands. “Yes, and Rajat would still be alive if he’d been a responsible father.”

Worry lines crossed my mother’s forehead. “No, Sona. Rajat might have died anyway. His heart was weak when he was born. The doctors said there was nothing they could do about it.” She paused, her eyes darting around the table: the wrinkled blouse in her lap, the pinking shears, the pincushion in the shape of a tomato. She wiped her face with the end of her sari and regarded me for a moment. As if she’d made up her mind about something, she nodded. “It’s time I showed you, Sona.”

“Showed me what?”

Instead of answering, she rose and went to the foot of our charpoy where she kept a metal trunk filled with fabric remnants from her commissions. She used the leftovers for our sheets and pillowcases and my dresses. Once, I asked her if Mrs. Rao, who wanted Mum to account for every inch of cloth used on her garment, wouldn’t be upset that Mum was using her fine cotton for our curtains. My mother had tapped the side of her nose. “I have a secret.” She pulled a half-finishedkameezfrom the stack of clothes she was working on and showed me the seam inside. “Other seamstresses leave extra cloth in the seam so the Mrs. Raos of this world can gain a few kilos. The seam can be let out and no one’s the wiser. But our Mrs. Rao is sopatali-­dubalithat she couldn’t gain an ounce even if she ate a plate ofpakorasevery night. I make itlooklike I’ve tucked the extra seam allowance in the topstitching. Instead, I save the extra fabric to sew a newrajaifor our bed every year. It’s almost complete!” She grinned, revealing her overbite.

Now she returned to the table and sat in her chair. She was slightly out of breath. Her mouth drooped. Her pallor was gray. In her hand was a stack of letters about six inches high. Envelopes tied together with jute.

Immediately, I rose to help her sit down. Her heart had been giving her trouble, but she had medicine for that. “Did you take your pills today? Let me make you some rose water tea, Mum. I’ll put some hibiscus in it as well.” I took a step toward the Primus before my mother stopped me.

“I’m fine. Come sit down.” She patted the table. I didn’t believe her, but I returned to my chair.

She placed the stack on the table.

“These are yours.” Slowly, she slid the stack in front of me, her eyes downcast.

I’d never seen them before. I frowned at her.

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