Page 25 of Six Days in Bombay

98.6. Normal.

Mira grinned. “So I’m good to leave, correct?”

Dr. Mishra said, “You could leave tomorrow, but I don’t recommend it. You’re stable now, but we should have you here for another day or two to be sure. Your body underwent a great ordeal just five days ago.”

Mira gave him her most charming smile. “I’ll be fine, Doctor. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

That was what Dr. Stoddard always said. My heartbeat skipped. In his case, I always took it as a joke between us. Mira’s words felt more like a pronouncement.

Dr. Mishra frowned, but Mira could not be persuaded to extend her stay. “And, Sona, come to my apartment tomorrow afternoon. We’ll have such fun with the dresses!”

She looked so incredibly happy. How could I say no?

Dr. Mishra left after signing off on Mira’s chart and telling herwe would all miss her at the hospital. He and I avoided looking at each other for the remainder of the night shift.

***

Over dinner with my mother, my news was all about Dev Singh. What he looked like, how he was with Mira, how she was with him. “If I hadn’t been in the room, Mum, they might have climbed on top of one another,” I told her. I’d pretended to be blasé about it, but I’d only ever read about things like that inSaraswati Magazine.

“Looks to me like you have a crush on this Mr. Singh.”

I laughed. “No, Mum. He’s fun to be around, but he’s too fast for me. I don’t know how this new wife of his is going to handle his flirtations. He was even making eyes at the sink in the room.”

My mother cleared the table, laughing.

I turned in my chair to look at her. “Oh, and Mr. Singh has come from Oxford—that’s where he and Dr. Mishra went to university—to announce his engagement to a Miss Gayatri Kaur. He said she is very beautiful, but he’s only seen a photo of her. It’s going to be a big party tonight. Devika Rani will be there, along with other film stars. Mira is going. Dr. Mishra is going. I’ve been invited too—” I stopped. How selfish of me to go on about a party my mother wouldn’t be attending. I shook my head. “But I’m not planning to go, Mum. I don’t know any of those people.”

“Of course you’re going to go! How often do you get invited to these kinds of things? It would be insulting not to go after being asked by the intended groom, Sona. Come, let’s see what we can do as far as a dress for you.”

I was relieved. She didn’t sound peeved in the least. But the thought of going was making my stomach hurt. Meeting new people had never been comfortable for me. At the hospital, my position gave me excellent cover. My patients needed to know someone was in charge, and I could be outgoing in the service of nursing them back to health. They never suspected that I’d rather have been sitting in a corner chair with my nose in a book.

My mother was now rummaging inside her treasure chest. I heard her say, “Ah-ha!” She came back with a emerald silk sari bordered in goldzari.

“Mum, where did you get that? It’s capital! I’ve never seen you wear it.”

She waited till I’d cleared the table to lay the sari on top. Smoothing her hand over the soft material, she said, “I’ve never worn it. I thought I would when your father and I married.” She sighed. I rubbed her arm and we were quiet for a while.

She unfolded the fabric. “Accha. I know you’re not keen on wearing a sari, so we’re going to turn this into a dress that will make people stop and take notice.” She looked at my chest. “We’re even going to show some cleavage.”

“Mum! What’s gotten into you? It’s just a party. I can wear any old dress. And that’s such an expensive sari. Why would you want to cut it up?”

Her face was stern. “No, you can’t wear any old dress, Sona. I won’t have my daughter show up at the party of the year looking like a beggar. We’re going to do this properly.” She held the fabric up to my shoulder, then at my waist. She played at pleating it, gathering the skirt, raising and lowering it against my chest. She didn’t use a measuring tape; she knew my measurements by heart since she had always sewn all my clothes. After making a few rough sketches, she reworked the details on one of them. She nodded once, having made up her mind. I watched as she took her large shears to the fabric, slicing the silk.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I’d never been a talented seamstress. For my mother, I’d hand-stitched the odd hem or purchased the supplies she needed and delivered the finished garments.

She looked at me thoughtfully. “You can pluck some of those flowers from the red silk cotton tree. Those will contrast nicely with your hair.”

“I’ll do it on the way back from Mira’s apartment. Did I tell you she was released today? She’s doing so much better. Sheasked me to help her pick out a dress.” I grinned slyly at my mother. “Would you recommend we look for something that shows her cleavage too?”

“Cheeky bugger,” my mother said, hiding her smile.

***

Mira and Filip lived in one of the Art Deco buildings on Marine Drive along the Back Bay. I’d seen these tony flats advertised in the newspaper—along with adverts for steel furniture from the Army & Navy Stores, radios, modern floor tiles. An exhibition of Ideal Homes this year promised the likes of Dev Singh a lifestyle enhanced by aluminum pots and pans, gas refrigerators and sleek toilets.

I pressed the button for Mira’s apartment. A buzz and a click later, I was walking up the stairs to the fourth floor. She opened the door in a bathrobe. Her hair was freshly washed and her skin dewy. I was so used to seeing her in a hospital bed that I almost didn’t recognize her. She pulled me inside and extended her arms. “What do you think?”

I looked around at the chic sofa and chairs, the steel light fixtures and geometrically patterned tile—so much like the advertising I’d seen. “Like it belongs inThe Thin Man!” I said. At the Eros Cinema, not far from here, I’d fallen in love with the charming couple Myrna Loy and William Powell, as they drank martinis and solved crimes in New York City. Their flat in the movie could have been the model for Mira’s.

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