Page 39 of Six Days in Bombay

A knock at the door startled us. We hardly ever had visitors. My mother always saw clients in their homes, taking a small sewing kit of pins, basting chalk, a tape measure. She did her best to refresh our cramped flat by sewing new curtains or crocheting a new tablecloth and quilting arajaievery year, but it certainly wouldn’t do for her clients to see our humble quarters. Among those were wealthy Indians whose loyalties lay with the British for as long as it served them. Others were Britishers who lived like royalty in India but would have had a stark middle-class existence in England. A few were European gadabouts not bright enough to help with their fathers’ estates back home or ones who had transgressed in such a way as to be sent out of sight, out of mind.

I rose to answer the door. It was my landlady, the mother of the brood downstairs. Not for the first time did I notice that she needed to let the seams out on her blouse. Flesh oozed out of her midsection from the bottom of her blouse to the top of her petticoat.

“You have a visitor. A man,” she said. She remained standing at our doorstep, eyeing me suspiciously. She pulled herpallutighter around her plump shoulders. “You know I don’t approve of guests coming this late to the house.”

I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight. Aside from Amit, who had arrived early in the evening yesterday to take me to the Singh party, Mum and I had never had guests.

“Well, if it’s a visitor, I had better go visit,” I said, skirting her stout frame. I ran down the steps, leaving her to plod slowly behind me.

Amit Mishra stood at the gate. My heart picked up its pace. The weak bulb cast shadows on his face that made him look tenyears older. Or did he look haggard because of the long hours he’d just spent in surgery for the emergency patients? Or because Mira had died on his watch?

“Let me come out to you,” I said, opening the gate and joining him in the lane. I led him down the slender path away from the house. When we’d taken a few steps toward the main street, he asked, “How are you?”

“I… It’s just so…” I couldn’t finish my sentence. I fished my handkerchief from my pocket and blew my nose. “I can’t imagine going in tomorrow and not seeing her, you know?”

He lifted his hand toward me, perhaps to comfort me, then dropped it, stuffing both hands in the pockets of his trousers. He hung his head. Mira had been his friend too. It occurred to me that he must have had to suppress his feelings about her death at work. We walked for a while without speaking.

“I know how heartbroken you must be about Mira,” he said. “I don’t know if this helps, but what happened to Mira can happen to any patient. We see suffering in the course of our day, every day. She told me how you made her suffering bearable. You did so much for her, more than she could have expected. And—I believe—she loved you. One day, we were talking about…oh, I don’t know…operas we’d seen in London, how the river Wein in Vienna glows at sunset, how brilliant a cappella sounds in a Prague cathedral—and she said she’d love to take you to all those places. She saw in you someone who was bursting to explore the world but was holding herself back.”

Oh, Mira. What made you think more of me than I was capable of? I told you over and over that your world and mine weren’t alike.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and stopped walking. I turned to face him. “I’m… I have spoken to Dr. Holbrook and Matron at length. Also, to the hospital board. We discussed the various causes of Mira’s sudden death. Holbrook still maintains that she suffered nothing more than gastritis…and that the party at the Singh home more than likely tired her.” He hesitated. “Butthe issue of the syringe left in the room, the missing morphine in the vial…is still a cause of concern. I spoke of your dedication to your work, your patients and your impeccable work record. I said the explanation had to lie outside of your involvement. There are a number of possibilities the hospital will investigate.”

A train sped past the chain-link fence.Chug-chug-chu-chug. Amit stopped talking. We resumed our stroll.

“Sona, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been wondering ifImade a mistake in her care. Perhaps she didn’t tell us about a condition—her heart, a childhood disease, something—that could have caused such a sudden—relapse. If only I could have convinced Dr. Holbrook to do the surgery. I keep thinking why—how—” With a start, I realized he was torturing himself the same way I was.Could he have prevented the tragedy?

This would have been the perfect time to tell him what I’d overheard between Matron and Dr. Holbrook. That the older doctor had ignored Mira’s pain because he felt she’d not been worthy of his attention. Not British enough. Not chaste enough. Not the kind of painter he approved of. I could have told Amit that Dr. Holbrook suspected Horace in the pharmacy of skimping on quality drugs. How to prove any of that? And what good would it do to tell Amit? He’d only feel worse for not fighting harder for the painter. Besides, nothing would bring Mira back.

Amit stopped mid-stride and turned to me, his brow creased with worry. He touched my arm. I looked at the spot where his fingers lay. “Unfortunately, I won’t be at the hospital tomorrow, Sona. My aunt has taken ill in Shimla. I’m about to take a train to Delhi tonight and will go to Shimla from there.”

I almost gasped.Don’t leave me with this, I wanted to say. I crossed my arms over my chest, as if to protect myself. Had my mother been right? With no one to support me when I showed up for work tomorrow, I would be the one held responsible for Mira’s death. My eyes pleaded with him. “I’ve gone over it in mymind so many times. I can’t see where I might have gone wrong. I didn’t administer that fatal dose, but I can’t imagine who did.”

He came closer and put his hands on my arms. “I believe you.”

I searched his face, desperate for his assurance. His opinion mattered to me, both because he’d been Mira’s friend and because I felt he was mine.

He dropped his hands. “If something were to happen… If the hospital… What I mean to say is…” He brushed a hand through his hair. “I spoke to Ralph Stoddard. He may have mentioned to you that he’s going to Istanbul. He will need a nurse to accompany him. The post entails full passage and expenses as well as a stipend.” He offered a brief smile. “And the company of a lovely old codger. Is that something you might consider if…?”

I felt faint. How could I possibly leave Mum in a city we were both just coming to know? Istanbul was so far away from home. It was the kind of opportunity Mira would have jumped at without knowing where it could lead. The thrill of a new experience would have been enough.

“Think about it,” Amit was saying.

I nodded absently and looked at the packed dirt beneath us. We stood without speaking, listening to another train whistle past.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. I need see if my aunt will pull through. Of course, I’m hoping for the best. It could be five days. Or three weeks. If you decide not to take Dr. Stoddard’s offer, I will help you find another position in Bombay, which would be…preferable for me.”

When I met his eyes, I saw the sadness. Mira’s death could have been a moment for us to find comfort in one another, but propriety wouldn’t allow it. All I could do was nod. I retraced my steps back to my flat, knowing he was watching me until I was safely inside the gate.

As I climbed the steps to our flat, I knew I didn’t want to tellmy mother that I’d be losing my position even though she was expecting it. I would lie and tell her Dr. Mishra came to tell me my post was safe. Let her have one more night of peace before my inevitable fall.

Chapter 7

The next day, I arrived early for my shift to see Matron, dreading the meeting with her. I looked in every room of the hospital on two floors before I spotted her. She was instructing two junior nurses about the Nightingale method of bathing a patient. While she was the same height as the nurses, she had such an imposing presence that she seemed to tower over them. They looked from her to the waiting patient, an elderly woman with frightened eyes.

“Hot water and a towel like this.” Matron pointed to the rough washcloth sitting next to the washbasin on the rolling table. “Rub and rub hard. No fancy soap or soft sponges. With those, people tend not to rub as hard and then clean is just a dream.” She glanced at the patient, who was now clutching her bedsheet.

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