Page 4 of Six Days in Bombay

Her husband, a sweet cherubic man who ran a factory where they made earthen clay pots, was devoted to his wife but frightened of his father, who owned the factory. The Mehta family was well-known in society circles, which included many of Wadia Hospital’s patrons, so Matron looked the other way whenever his wife checked in.

As soon as I walked into her room, Mrs. Mehta, who was a light sleeper, raised herself to sitting. “I haven’t slept a wink. I’ve been making chai in my sleep over and over so it will be hot enough for His Highness.”

I smiled as I stacked pillows behind her back. “Why not make Bippi do it?” I’d become familiar with the family during Mrs. Mehta’s frequent stays and knew quite a lot about her household: her favorite servant’s name, her favorite food, her regret at being childless.

She brought the fingertips of one hand together up to her forehead, then let go as if she were sprinkling salt. “His Highness won’t accept tea from a servant. It has to be made with my hands, as clumsy as he says they are.”

I’d heard this before, of course. “I think they’re lovely hands, ma’am.”

Her expression brightened. She waved me over. We’d been through this before so I lowered my head without being asked. She placed her palms on my head to bless me. I didn’t believe in gods, Indian or Christian, but I appreciated the gesture for the goodwill she wished me. I returned her smile.

I’d brought a pill in a small cup, which I handed to her, along with a glass of water. She took her medicine like a good patient. Matron told me they were sugar pills.

Mrs. Mehta turned eager eyes in my direction. “I hear we have a world-famous patient visiting us.”

That made me laugh. Mrs. Mehta thought of hospital stays as vacation visits, which is what they were to her.

“I know she’s female. And India only has the one female painter everyone knows about.” She looked to me for confirmation.

I pressed my lips to keep from smiling.

“So it must be Mira Novak?”

“You know I can neither confirm nor deny.”

She nodded sagely. “‘A roguechowkidarcan make the village bankrupt.’”

As troubled as Mrs. Mehta was about her situation at home, she had all the comforts I wished for my mother. A big house. A loving husband. A home full of servants. Enough saris to fill five armoires. Even with her limited resources, my mother had given me so much when she’d had so little. Would I ever be able to provide a life like Mrs. Mehta’s for my mother?

I shook my head. My dreams were cobwebs spun from gold. That’s what my mother would have said.

***

I stopped at Dr. Stoddard’s room long enough to tell him we’d pick up the game tomorrow, but he pointed to the board. He’d shifted all his stones to one side. I assumed my haughtiest expression and mouthed, “Wanker.”

He laughed. “Dr. Mishra played your side out for me.”

Dr. Mishra appeared from behind the door, a clipboard in his hand. He must have been making notes on Mr. Hassan’s chart. I was surprised to see the Muslim gentleman, now awake, engrossed inChokher Bali, a novel of Tagore’s I’d read in Calcutta.

“I was looking in on Mr. Hassan and was somehow lured into the game,” Dr. Mishra said, his gaze straying to my cap, then my shoes, then the backgammon board on Dr. Stoddard’s table. Was I the only one who made him nervous or was he like this with all the other nurses? He was our house physician, young,unmarried. He’d been recruited from England the previous year. I’d heard he could have continued practicing there but decided to return to India. The nurses—the religious sisters as well as the medically trained nurses like me—were soft on him.

“Keen player Stoddard is. Beat me handily,” Dr. Mishra said. The dimple on his chin deepened when he smiled. In a mock whisper, he said, “Quite sure he cheated.” His two front teeth overlapped slightly in a way that made him appear humble.

I raised an eyebrow and said, “Popular opinion, that.”

Dr. Mishra chuckled, sending his dark curls flying. “‘We can’t change the direction of the wind, only adjust the sails,’ Nurse Falstaff.” I wasn’t aware he knew my name. The house surgeon and the registrar called all of usNurse, as if we were interchangeable.

“Out, out, the both of you.” Stoddard waved his hands, as if he were irritated by our teasing. But he was smiling.

Dr. Mishra turned to say his farewell to Mr. Hassan, who raised his book to wave goodbye. Dr. Mishra gestured with his chin at Dr. Stoddard’s leg. “It’s healing nicely. We can remove the cast within the week.”

Stoddard rubbed his hands together and looked at me, his smile wicked. “Cracking! Looks like you’ll have time to perfect your backgammon game.”

“And you to perfect yours,” I shot back with a smile.

“I’d better get back to my rounds,” Dr. Mishra said, walking toward me, looking at my nurse’s cap. I was still standing in the doorway. He tried to maneuver around me, smiling shyly at the terrazzo floor. I stepped to one side, only to be in his way again. We must have looked like a couple of awkward dancers. I caught a whiff of cardamom and lime on his lab coat as he finally slid past me.

“Oh, good evening, Nurse Trivedi,” I heard him say out in the hallway. Rebecca’s last name. So mine wasn’t the only name he knew. It made me feel less special somehow.

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