Page 17 of Six Days in Bombay

“Every year since your father left, he has sent money on your birthday—and Rajat’s.” Her lower lip trembled. She pointed to the envelopes. “There are no written notes. No return address. If there had been, I would have told him about Rajat’s passing. There’s only British money. The early letters contained a few shillings, then a pound. On your last few birthdays, he sent three pounds a year. I’ve never touched the money. I saved it for you.” She put her hands between her knees, in the well created by her sari. “For your marriage. He owed you that much,” she said quietly.

I stared at her. My father had been sending me money for…twenty years? “But how did he find out our address in Bombay after we moved from Calcutta?”

“I don’t know how he knew. Maybe from one of our old neighbors.” My mother looked down at her gnarled hands. “Please forgive me for keeping these from you.” Her voice cracked. “I only wanted to do what was best. And…frankly… I didn’t want you thinking better of your father for trying to provide for you. I was selfish, I know. I was so furious at him for so long. Just like you are now. But it’s time to let your anger go, Sona. As I had to. In the long run, it will do you more harm than good.” She wiped her eyes with a scrap of fabric on the sewing machine.

I looked at the stack of envelopes, a small mountain in the middle of our table. “But…shouldn’t we use this money for food? Or pay the rent in advance? We could get you new spectacles so you could do your fine hand stitching.”

She shook her head. “I’ve saved enough from your salary and my sewing to do all that. This is your money. Do what you will with it.”

I stared at the pile on the table. It was like another presence in the room, pulsing with life, expanding and contracting. I got up from my chair, nearly upending it, and began pacing the room.

So many thoughts were churning, unwinding, then spiraling again. My father remembered my birthday—and Rajat’s—every year since he left? Did my father ever write to us? And then, at the last minute, decide not to mail the letter? Did he think it would hurt us to hear from him after so much time had passed? My father had an English wife? What did she look like? Did he have children with her? Boys? Girls? What ages? Did they know about us? What did they say when they found out? Did they ever find out? Did he ever miss us? Did this money make up for all the years of neglect? Would it make me any less angry with him?

What I was looking at was guilt money. He was guilty for lying to us. For abandoning us. Not letting us know if he still loved us. Was my mother inventing memories like the paper flowers and the visits to the zoo? Were they things she wished had happened but didn’t?

I didn’t want his money—to keep or to use. I didn’t even want to touch it.

But when I looked at my mother, the heart medicine she needed, the wornchappalsshe insisted on wearing because she said they were more comfortable than new ones would be, the sari she had worn so often the fabric was transparent in places, I knew we needed more than the money she’d put away.

I let out a long, long breath and stood in front of my mother. She looked up.

I leaned toward her, touched my forehead to hers.

Then I pulled my chair up to the table and sat.

“Let’s count the money,” I said.

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 ifyouare washing my hair today.”

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