Page 28 of Six Days in Bombay

I smiled.

He considered me a moment longer. “Right then,” he said, turning his eyes toward the road.

For a while, we were quiet.

“Doctor, I only know what Mr. Singh told me about you. Where were you brought up?”

“Shimla.”

I waited. “To wolves?”

“Oh, right. My father was a judge. My parents died in a car accident a long time ago. An auntie raised me.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“None. I learned to play the games my auntie liked to play. Bridge. Pachisi. Gin rummy.”

“Dr. Stoddard keeps threatening to teach me gin rummy.”

Dr. Mishra tapped my hand with his index finger.“‘Keep your cards close and your money closer.’”He smiled.

His touch sent such a charge through me that for a moment I couldn’t speak.

He turned his head. “Oh, dear, have I overstepped again? Perhaps you’re a secret gambler? There, you see?‘When you have an ass for a friend, expect nothing but kicks.’I must be the ass in that equation.”

I chuckled. I hadn’t expected him to be funny. He was always so serious at the hospital.

“Tell me more about your friend Dev Singh.”

“Dev. Yes. We became acquainted at Bishop Cotton. It’s a school near Shimla. I’m two years ahead of him. We saw each other again at Oxford where there were only a handful of Indian students. We became a tight group. Still keep in touch. Dev read history. I studied medicine. He’s studying architecture now. And I’m here in Bombay working with some very nice nurses—good nurses.” He studied his hands.

It was meant as a compliment and I took it as such.

“You haven’t been long in Bombay, have you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Have you seen Banganga Tank or the Hanging Gardens?”

I shook my head.

He looked at his watch. “We have some time. Shall we?” He told the tonga driver where to go. “The water tank is an ancient pilgrimage site for Jains. And now devotees of Lord Shiva go there. Me, I like it for its quietly obstinate presence in the middle of all this wealth.”

We arrived at a rectangular water reservoir amidst the mansions of Malabar Hill. On either side, a series of steps led into the water. There werediyaslit along the edge where worshippers had come to pray. I stole a glance at the doctor. I could have told him then what I heard between Matron and Dr. Holbrook, but he seemed so relaxed. His eyes didn’t wander, looking for a place to rest. Maybe I was fretting over nothing. Mira had looked so healthy earlier. Why raise the alarm? I let it go.

***

The Singhs’ three-story mansion was situated at one end of Malabar Hill. Our carriage skirted a manicured lawn with a pond at its center and stopped in front of an impressive stone staircase—wide enough for twenty men to scale. The house was massive, more like a small palace with twenty bedrooms. Men and women in their finery milled about the outdoor veranda while uniformed servants passed around hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. Claydiyas, their flickering flames giving off a soft glow, lined the balustrade.

We passed through the veranda into the house where ceramic vases with pink damask roses perfumed the room. Mira stood in the center, surrounded by admirers. She waved us over and introduced us to an art critic, a developer, a musician and a restaurateur. I looked around the room for her husband but didn’t see him.

“Filip’s sat in the corner there.” She pointed to the back of the house. “How do I look, Dr. Mishra?” She twirled around for us.

“Healthy?” he said with a smile that was more of a grimace.

Mira batted him on his chest. “Stop! None of that gloom-and-doom silliness. I’m fine now.” She turned to me. “Sona! Take that silly wrap off. Let’s see what your mother put together.”

I glanced at Dr. Mishra. How could Mira have been so thoughtless? Now the doctor would know my mother sewed my gown. I chastised myself. I was being a snob, not wanting to admit that my mother worked with her hands like a common laborer.

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