Page 27 of Six Days in Bombay

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 walland 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 theRamayana?”

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