Page 40 of Six Days in Bombay

Matron turned around to leave the room, saw me waiting by the door and motioned for me to follow her to her office.

She indicated for me to take the seat in front of her desk, then settled in her chair behind it.

She pulled out a drawer to her left and took out some paperwork. “It is my responsibility at Wadia Hospital to ensure the well-being of our patients while they’re in my care. I have failed in my duty with regard to Miss Novak. She was an importantpersonage, a national treasure, and her death will be mourned by many.

“I informed the hospital board that I accept that responsibility. Of course, they realize mistakes are made from time to time. They want to make absolutely sure it never happens again. And in order to comply with their request, they’re demanding that you be released from your duties effective immediately.” Her pale face mottled. Either she was angry at being put in this position or embarrassed to be foisting the blame on me. She looked down at her paperwork as if it contained another part of her script.

I felt numb. My pulse wasn’t racing. My breath was even. I glanced at my hands. They were steady. I looked at the floor. White marble with flecks of gray. My scuffed shoes. Amit had prepared me for this. Even so, some part of me had wondered if it had all been an imagining—Amit coming to our flat last night, telling me about the board meeting, telling me about Dr. Stoddard and the Istanbul offer. Now, all I could think was: Would I forever be shunned by every place I worked?

Matron didn’t meet my eyes when she said, “Even if you didn’t administer the fatal dose, you left a syringe and a bottle of morphine in plain sight in the room. That was a monumental oversight.” She touched the cross on her necklace. Was she seeking support from above?

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Ihadleft the room longer than was acceptable. The morphinehadbeen lying in the open. Twenty minutes would have allowed anyone to walk in and inject a sleeping patient. But did I leave Mira unprotected? Did I do that to her? Other nurses left their rooms all the time to grab something from the stockroom or break for a cuppa. Nothing happened to their patients. I was the unlucky one.

But what about the conversation between Amit and Dr. Holbrook? Holbrook had made a judgment call where Mira’s health was concerned.

I cleared my throat. “The six days Miss Novak wasn’t responding to treatment…”

She frowned. “What about it?”

Heat crept up my neck. Last night, Mum told me she’d shielded me all my life; she’d stood up for me when I couldn’t. She wanted me to be braver, tougher, to take a chance. Well, here was my chance. And even though every sensible part of old Sona was telling me to stop talking, my mouth wasn’t listening. I cleared my throat and leveled a hard gaze at the old woman. “Miss Novak was a young woman in pain, looking to us for help. But she was judged to be unworthy of our utmost care.” My voice had risen.

The older woman across from me flushed red. “Whatever are you saying, girl? Casting aspersions on our staff won’t help your situation. It’s insulting and baseless.”

“Baseless? You and Dr. Holbrook were talking about her the other day. How Miss Novak wasn’t a proper painter. Wasn’t British enough. Wasn’t a proper woman. She was our patient, Matron!”

“So youwerespying on us?”

“And to think that she might have been dosed with second-rate medication from the pharmacy—”

“Really, you are too much!” She rose from her chair, staring down at me. “You will clear out your locker at once. And if you’re looking for a reference, you won’t get one from me.”

I stood, without taking my eyes off her. I needed a moment to steady the shaking in my legs. I said, “Miss Novak was a friend. She was kind. She was gracious. She mattered. She mattered to me. She mattered to India. I will miss her terribly.”

She looked away, coloring, and touched her cross again.

I made my way to the nurses’ changing room in a daze. Had I just stood up for myself? And for Mira? Mira had been nothing but generous with her friendship, making me laugh even as she was in pain, warming me with her words of appreciation, thanking me for taking care of her. She taught me things.Her stories seemed disordered, flowing this way and that, until they arrived at the point she wanted to make. Once, I’d found her drawing on her sketch pad. Without taking her eyes off her drawing, she said, “It takes three to five years for cardamom plants to produce bright green pods. Those pods look nothing like the shriveled tough-skinned pods we break open to remove the seeds, the ones used to flavor chai orburfior chicken curry. I learned that from a female farmer in Kerala.” She paused to see if I was following her before continuing. “Josephine once asked me to produce something posthaste for a client who was eager to purchase one of my paintings. I told her I couldn’t do it. She said Picasso paints or sketches hundreds of artworks every year. I told her about the cardamom plants. How long they take to mature. ‘I can be both European and Indian, Jo, but not at the same time. Here in India, I’m Indian. I am the cardamom.’” Mira turned her pad around to let me see what she’d been sketching. It was a likeness of me. I took the drawing pad from her and stared at it. It was like looking in the mirror. The features of my face that could either have been Indian or English.

Now Matron’s words rang in my head, a cruel merry-go-round ofyou left a syringe and a bottle of morphine in plain sight in the room. How would I ever get past the accusation? Could I live with the knowledge of my failure?You left the room, you left the room, you left the room.

Mum’s words came back to me too.The blame will rest on you.

I opened my locker. A cocoa herringbone skirt my mother had made, a beige blouse inherited from a coworker back in Calcutta, low-heeled brown Bata shoes. A pair of coffee-­colored stockings. An extra pinafore. No photos of exotic places. Or beaus. Or friends laughing together. Not much to show for two years at Wadia’s. Oh, how I wished Mira were still here! We could laugh about how my pinafore was almost as long as I was tall. I could see her, eyes shining, cheeks flushed. I slipped onmy skirt, buttoned my blouse, tugged my woven stockings on, folded my uniform and put it all in my rucksack.

As I shut the door to my locker, Rebecca entered the room.

“So you’re leaving us?” She said it as pleasantly as if she were asking me whether I’d noticed the poppies blooming. As if my leaving were a choice. She removed her nurse’s cap and unpinned her hair, stuffing hairpins in her pockets, checking her reflection in the wall mirror. She shook her light brown hair loose. It looked pretty like that, down around her shoulders. “Looks like I’ll get the rich patients now.” She laughed.

From her locker, Rebecca extracted a wide-toothed tortoiseshell comb. As she brushed her hair, I asked, “What were you doing in Miss Novak’s room before it happened?”

Her eyebrows shot up. Her look was wary. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw you leaving her room. Right before I went in and saw that she was in critical condition.”

She reared her chin and shrugged self-consciously. “Probably thought I heard her calling me. Realized I was wrong.” She put her comb back in the locker, avoiding my eyes. She busied herself with her hairpins and her nurse’s cap while I looked on, waiting.

I tightened the cord of my rucksack. My throat was dry. My eyes hurt. I had no more fight left in me. What good would it do? My word was no good anymore. “You should wear your hair down more often. It suits you.” With that, I left the changing room.

I tried to put off going home for as long as possible. Now I would have to tell my mother it was done. I had lost. Although I had a feeling she already knew.

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