Page 36 of Six Days in Bombay

“Do you have any large sheets of paper? Brown. Large enough to wrap these?” I knew that all hospital equipment and their parts arrived in this room bound in paper or burlap or some sort of padded cloth. It was Mohan’s job to take the items to the right destination. But I assumed he would save the packing materials. In India, nothing was ever wasted. Everything could be repurposed.

He nodded. He walked to the shelves on the opposite wall and bent down to pick up a stack of flattened cardboard as well as some burlap sacks from the lowest shelves. He took these to his enormous worktable, which he cleared.

He and I lifted the four paintings from the floor one by one. We leaned them against the sides of the worktable. I stared atThe Acceptance, wondering about the women solemnly preparing one among them for marriage. Who were they? Was the bride in the painting enjoying married life? Did she have children now? Who eased her burden after a day’s toil, after cooking the evening meal, after feeding the chickens and goats, after tending to her children’s wants and her husband’s desires?

I started to pack theMan in Abundance, the least intense of the paintings. I wondered how Mira chose her subjects, what inspired her to paint Paolo with three apples. I wish I’d asked her what the apples signified.

Mohan picked up theThe Acceptance. He said, “Sona?”

I looked up. He stood the painting on its side, the back facingme. Tucked into a corner was a little piece of paper, folded over into a square the size of a matchbox.

“Should I take it out?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure. Was it meant for me or for Filip or for an art gallerist? I took a sharp breath and plucked it out of the frame. I don’t know why but my fingers shook as I unfolded the paper. It was a piece torn from her sketchbook. The slanted handwriting, which I recognized from the titles of her sketches, looked as if it had been scrawled hastily.

Dearest Sona,

I know you will take care of these. As will Jo and Petra and Po.

Yours,

M.

***

I handed the note to Mohan. His eyebrows rose higher as he read. “Do you think… It seems as if she meant these for you?” He gave the note back to me and surveyed the paintings. “Who are those people she mentioned?”

It took me a moment. “Old friends.” Once more, I regarded the canvases. All these paintings? But they were so valuable! I thought back to her last words to me.The paintings. Downstairs.Why would she want me to have them? Why not her husband? I read the note again.As will Jo and Petra and Po.Were the paintings meant for them? But which ones were for whom? Did she mean for me to send them the paintings? Or deliver them in person? Perhaps there was a message in each frame? I turned the paintings around and ran my fingers on the inside of the frames, feeling for another note. But there was nothing. Except…there were painted letters on the back ofMan in Abundance. “Po.”The canvas with the group of monks listening to their master,ThePledges, was inscribed with aJ. The Waitingwas labeledP.The last,The Acceptance, was markedS.

I stepped back from the worktable, as if the paintings had scalded me. Each had been designated for a different friend. Josephine, Paolo and Petra. But she’d never mentioned a friend whose name started with anS. For Sona? Did she mean me? It was one thing to gain Mira’s friendship—it had been my privilege—but quite another to receive such largesse. I glanced at Mohan, who was watching me. In exchange for the gift, was I to send the paintings to their intended recipients? How? Aside from the cities where Mira told me they lived, I had no addresses. How would I find them without talking to Filip? I remembered the argument he and Mira had been having under the back terrace of the Singh mansion. She’d told Filip she didn’t want to sell these four paintings. She must have known then she wanted to give them to her friends.

I had only met Mira Novak six days ago. Why would she entrust me with such a large, such a personal task?

Mohan asked, “Sona, how will you get them home?” It was as if he had already come to the same conclusion I had without a word exchanged between us.

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought about that. Each painting was two by three feet. Too large to take on my bicycle.

“I have an idea.” Mohan began removing the wooden frames from each canvas. Flattened, the canvases looked vulnerable. He stacked them one upon the other, carefully laying brown paper between them. With the utmost care, he rolled the stack until it resembled a long tube. He tied a rope at each end of the column to keep the canvases from unfurling.

“I’ll fasten it to the rack of your bicycle. If men can carry ladders and a family of five on a bicycle, I think you should be able to get these paintings safely home.”

I smiled at Mohan. I hoped the woman he did end up marrying would value his small kindnesses. “Thank you,bhai.”

He wagged his head. As I turned to leave the room, he said simply, “Bhagwanwill take care of her, Sona.”

Once again, I was on the verge of crying for Mira and all I had lost, all her friends had lost, what India had lost. Walking back to the ward, I thought about all those beautiful paintings, the entire body of Mira’s work. Her death had put an end to what had been a brilliant career. Mira’s talent had been a source of pride for Indians.One of our own made it despite those who held us back, who belittled every one of our attempts to create, build or improve India for Indians. I caught myself in my hypocrisy. Here I was aligning myself with the Indian side of me while holding the English side of me accountable. Being anin-between, how convenient was it for me to switch allegiance as my mood suited me. I was so deep in thought I almost ran straight into Matron coming the other way.

“Apologies, ma’am.”

She regarded me a moment, then consulted her watch fob. “Nurse Falstaff, I don’t believe you’re at your best right now. Miss Novak’s death has probably made it difficult for you to perform your duties effectively. Go home. I will ask the other nurses to take over the rest of your shift. Come see me tomorrow when you arrive for work.”

It sounded like a reprimand, less like a sympathetic suggestion. Perhaps her scolding was justified. “Yes, Matron,” I said.

I’d been eager to talk to Amit about Mira’s death and about how much I’d miss her. But private ambulances had brought two patients involved in an accident. A young Englishman whose scooter had collided with an Indian woman coming out of an alley with her shopping bag. Both were unconscious. Dr. Holbrook and Amit had called in emergency reinforcements from JJ Hospital to help triage the injuries and stave the bleeding on the man’s thigh and the woman’s stomach. The surgeries would take hours.

***

I left the hospital at eight o’clock that night. I cycled slowly, trying to delay going home, when I’d have to tell my motherwhat had happened. My route from Wadia Hospital took me past the High Court of Bombay, where a rally was in progress to protest working conditions of textile workers. A man shouted into a megaphone, “We work fourteen hours a day and still can’t feed our families. Men have lost arms, hands, fingers in old machinery that the bloody British won’t fix. We are suffocating! We work in rooms without windows, without air…” His voice was drowned out by the rallying cry of the crowd. “Respect our rights!”

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