Page 20 of Six Days in Bombay

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 myname. 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 sittingwithDr. 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—” Hissentences 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 maître 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.

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