Page 29 of Six Days in Bombay

Reluctantly, I unwrapped the shawl, checking the front of my dress to make sure my breasts were not in full view.

“Oh, my! Our Sona has grown up, hasn’t she, Amit?”

Dr. Mishra, who had been staring at me, now directed his gaze at his shoes, at the marble floor. “Nice work, Nurse Falstaff.”

Mira looked cross. “Amit, you must call her Sona or people will think the two of you have come to rescue someone in an emergency.” She glanced at me. “Turn around so I can see the back.”

I did as she asked. She gasped. “Exquisite. There’s not a woman here who can compete with that. Let’s show Dev. He’s here somewhere.”

As we wound through the crowd—there must have been over two hundred guests—I saw men in maharaja coats, En­glish suits and mandarin jackets like Dr. Mishra’s. But it was the women in their jewel-colored saris of silk and satin and chiffon and necklaces of raw diamonds who glittered under the chandeliers. Scattered amidst the guests were Englishwomen, politicians and businessmen in three-piece suits and a handful of Anglo-Indians like me. Western garb may have been more obviously revealing, but the formal blouses of Indian women exposed backs, midriffs and bare arms too—albeit more subtly. Nonetheless, I knew dresses like mine would be subject to critical scrutiny and whispered asides of the Indian women.

“Amit!” We turned to see Dev making his way toward us in his white maharaja coat, the collar and cuffs embroidered in silver thread. He shook hands with Dr. Mishra and kissed Mira on the cheek.

“You’ve turned out quite nicely—as usual.” He winked at Mira. “Ashok Gupta is dying to meet you.”

Mira looked impressed. “Another film star? He’s here too?”

“He has one of your paintings in his house. Calls you India’s conscience. Compares you to Tagore. Says both of you understand the value of women.”

“Does he?”

“He says Tagore brought Indian literature into the global sphere and you’re doing the same with Indian art.”

“So he thinks of me as more Indian than European? Good!” She laughed. “Then I’m dying to meet him too.”

Now Dev turned to me. He blinked. “Nurse Sona?” Then he smiled. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your cap. Quite a transformation.”

I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, which is where his gaze had landed. Instead, I pretended that I wore something this revealing every evening of my life and inclined my head to acknowledge the compliment. I was surprised to feel Dr. Mishra’s fingers on my elbow, as if he wanted to steer me away from Dev. But Dev was too quick. He put a warm hand on the bare flesh of my back. My skin recoiled, but he seemed not to notice. He took Mira’s elbow. “There are all sorts here tonight. Government officials, newspaper editors, medical administrators, filmmakers. I want to introduce you to a few of them.” For Mira, that turned out to be an art historian from Delhi who wanted to write a paper about her. For Dr. Mishra, it was a Parsi gentleman interested in building another private hospital in Bombay. Once he’d engaged them in conversation, Dev led me to the cocktail bar, glad-handing and greeting several guests along the way. At the bar, he asked me what I’d like them to make for me. Other than the odd beer, I’d never touched alcohol.

Sensing my indecision, he asked, “Which sounds better to you? Salty Dog, Sidecar or Death in the Afternoon?”

I laughed. “Are those the names of drinks or sordid novels?”

He grinned. “I think you’re more of an old-fashioned sort, aren’t you?” He turned to the bartender and ordered a cocktail with bourbon, simple sugar and bitters.

“I’ll have one of those too, Dev.” It was Dr. Mishra, coming up behind us. “Your father was looking for you.”

Dev sucked air through his teeth. He bowed to me, patted Dr. Mishra on the back and went in search of his father.

“What do you think?” Dr. Mishra asked, pointing to my drink.

“Horrible,” I laughed. “I think I’d rather have animbu pani.” The bartender, who’d heard me, squeezed limes into a tall glass, added water and sugar and presented it to me with a sprig of mint. I thanked him.

Dr. Mishra slid my old-fashioned toward him and took a sip. He nodded and took another. “Maybe I’m an old-fashioned kind of man.”

“You know, Doctor, whenever Mr. Singh is in my vicinity, I feel as if you’re trying to rescue me,” I said.

“Am I?” He looked into his cocktail glass. “How do you know I’m not protectinghimfrom you?”

I arched a brow. “I hadn’t realized I was that intimidating.”

“Dev called you daunting, remember?” he said dryly.

A trio on the back terrace—sitar, harmonium and tabla—had been playing a song by Kanan Devi, one of my mother’s favorite singers. We went there with our drinks to admire the thousand twinkling lamps on the edges of the lawn. Round tables covered in white linen and decorated with gardenia centerpieces dotted the expansive green.

“I told you I’m not selling them!” It was a woman’s voice.

The outburst seemed to come from below. Dr. Mishra and I looked down to see Mira and Filip. Mira looked furious, her cheeks an unhealthy red. Filip was smoking his pipe calmly.

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