Page 42 of Six Days in Bombay

Yours,

R. S.

I took a tram to the Bombay docks with my battered trunk, which was large enough to carry the roll of paintings plus a few skirts, sweaters and shirts. There were a great many people milling about. Bare-chested Indian men in theirdhotiscarried streamer trunks to the boats. A vendor sliced the tops of his green coconuts with a machete. Workers upended the fruit to pour coconut juice directly into their gullets. A British overseer ordered men to stack cargo onto a waiting bullock cart. A middle-aged Indian woman fried onion bhaji for hungry customers. European women in their ivory dresses, hats and gloves descended from a cerulean-blue Daimler, their driver ferrying trunks to the passenger dock of the steamship. British, French and Dutch families were saying goodbye to their seafaring loved ones.

The RMSViceroy of Indiawas even larger than the Taj Mahal Palace in Bombay. Passengers waved from the four decks to those who had come to see them off. The steamship’s hull was a glossy black with a white band while the decks and cabins were the color of Chowpatty Beach. Two enormous black funnels released smoke—or was it steam?

Four days ago, as I was shopping for new shoes for my journey (I had money now to replace my scuffed ones), I went past a travel agency. Posters with images of palm trees urged travelers to go to Calcutta, Allahabad and Mysore. On a whim, I went inside to inquire about the RMS Viceroy. Having never been on a steamship, I wanted to be prepared; I didn’t want Dr. Stoddard to think me naive. The agent, a Parsi with horn-rimmed glasses, told me that first-class staterooms—professionally decorated, of course—could be reserved with or without adjoining rooms. There were tennis and badminton courts, a bar and library, a smoking room, a formal dining room and a Pompeian swimming bath. A pool! I’d never been in one!

At the appointed day and time, I waited at the pier where passengers were preparing to board the steamship. When I saw the stolid nurse pushing Dr. Stoddard in the wheelchair his nephew had procured, I came forward. A plaid wool blanket was draped over Dr. Stoddard’s legs. He looked up at me through his thick lenses.

He pointed behind him at the nurse. “Nurse Steele. Dependable. Totally devoid of humor, of course. Isn’t that right, Steele? I shall miss her.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “On the first of never.” His eyes danced as if he and I were sharing a private joke.

Nurse Steele maintained such a neutral expression she seemed carved from stone. I nodded at her, professional to professional.This one is a handful, she seemed to be signaling.

“Well, then. Shall we, Nurse Falstaff?” he said, smiling up at me.

I took the reins from the older nurse and wheeled Dr. Stoddard toward the gangway.

“I wish to enjoy my voyage to Istanbul. I wanted someone jolly and fetching to accompany me. That’s what I told Mishra. Good man. You and I will be together for twelve days on this vessel and we will bloody well have a marvelous time.” In his patrician accent, the word sounded more likemaavelous.

In the wake of my mother’s death, I hardly felt as if I’d be a cheerful companion. Would I disappoint the good doctor? It was too late to worry about that now.

The steamship bellowed. We were leaving the Bombay docks. My adventure had begun.

***

The doctor had a well-appointed first-class stateroom with an interconnecting room for me. I was close enough to hear him if he needed me at night, but my room was private enough to give me space. It was comfortable and far more opulent than the flat Mum and I had shared. The walls were a polished mahogany as was the furniture. I had a bed, a washbasin, a dresser and an armchair. I needed no more.

My job was to get the doctor in and out of bed, help him put on his pajamas, make sure he ate, help him with exercises to heal his leg and prepare him for the day. I wheeled him around the ship for his morning constitutional and his meals. I didn’tfuss over him. I knew he would have hated being mothered. If he needed something, he would tell me.

I hadn’t counted on seasickness, however. The first few days were the worst. I was pushing the doctor’s wheelchair and started to feel nauseous. Automatically, I slowed down. Without acknowledging my discomfort, Dr. Stoddard said, “I’d like to move closer to the railing, Nurse.” I heaved into the ocean until I had nothing left. I used my handkerchief to wipe my mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Doctor. I’ve never been on a boat before.”

“Sorry about what? I prefer the view from here.” We spoke no more about it. But in the evening, I found a small piece of ginger on a plate by my bedside. I put it in my tea from then on to overcome the nausea.

The doctor napped in the afternoons, which gave my mind free rein. All I could think about was Mum and what a void her passing had left in my life. How she would have loved being on this steamship, meeting passengers from the world over. I carried a small notebook with me around the ship and would settle in a deck chair so I could pour my feelings onto paper.

Dear Mum,

I miss everything about you. I miss your smell—that mixture of rose water, turmeric and cotton that is no one else’s. I miss the paper crowns you made for my birthdays, even when I got too old for them. I miss your surprise of a milk toffee—just one—whenever I did well on a test. I miss the tiny jackets you made for my cloth dolls. You attached snaps where the buttons would normally go because you told me they didn’t make buttons that small. I used to watch, fascinated, as you bit the thread off with your teeth. I tried to do it too when you weren’t looking and endedup pulling out my baby tooth. Remember? You said it would grow back if we put the tooth in a jar and buried it in soil. Day after day, I looked for a new tooth to grow until one day you pointed to my mouth. It’s grown in, beti, you said. You knew everything. Everything that mattered to me. Why didn’t you tell me there would come a day when I would have to know everything too? But I don’t. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where I’ll end up. I’m not sure of anything. Why aren’t you here to guide me?

Some afternoons, I walked around the ship, wandering from one deck to another, tricking my grief into thinking I’d outgrown it. I came to like the smell of the ocean—a mixture of pickled eggs, shrimp, stale air—and the cool breeze that sprayed my overheated skin. My nurse’s uniform elicited more than a few stares and I used it like a shield to prevent personal questions about my life. If a crew member happened to be walking by, I would engage him in conversation to avoid nosy passengers snaring me in theirs. To engineers, I would ask,How does such a heavy ship stay afloat?To a petty officer,How many voyages does the Viceroy make in a year?After a few days, the passengers who had seen me pushing the doctor’s wheelchair stopped seeing me as a curiosity. Once more, I became invisible, which was the way I preferred it. I’d dodged prying questions and sly remarks about myhalf-halflooks all my life. There were times I wanted to believe the girls at school really wanted to be my friend, and I would let down my guard. Time after time, I learned that they simply wanted to know the story of my mother and father so they could leverage it for a more privileged status among their friends. I would come home in tears when they avoided me the next day. One look atme and my mother would prepare thesuji ka halwaI loved, the simple one without raisins or nuts. As I grew older and became more cautious, I sometimes wondered why my mother—and father—had put me in the position of the other. Didn’t they realize how hard it would be for me to blend in? The questions I’d be asked? I had trained my eyes to look away whenever Mum told the gossip-eaters that my father had died of a heart attack. I knew my face would give the lie away. It became safer for both of us to stay away from those who fed the rumor mill.

Dr. Stoddard was perfectly pleasant to passengers, smiling and remarking on their health.Looking fit as a fiddle, young man. Still alive and kicking, Major? Feeling tickety-boo, madam?Yet, if anyone tried to engage him in conversation, he would invent some activity he needed to join in or a lie-down was in order, don’t you think, Nurse? I knew why I was so reticent, but I wondered why he had any reason to be.

He was often invited to share the captain’s table, an invitation he rarely accepted, but when he did, he insisted I join him. The other diners sent alarmed glances around the table. As did I. I knew I had no place there, and so did Dr. Stoddard. I had the feeling my ornery charge did it on purpose to irritate them.

We played backgammon together. I now won more games than I lost. Which was probably why he began teaching me gin rummy. He cheated at cards too until I knew enough about the game to see what he was doing. I realized a game wasn’t fun for him unless he had a worthy opponent. So I became one. Soon, we were betting sips of port wine, which a steward delivered to his cabin every evening. The winner got to sip; the loser watched longingly. Of course, the winner would get pleasantly tipsy. We also bet teaspoons of caviar, which the doctor ordered from the kitchen. I’d never had caviar or port before. The alcohol went to my head, loosening my tongue and making me laugh more than I ever had. The doctor seemed pleased whenever I scolded him or took pleasure in winning. Of course, there were eveningswhen the day had been too hard on his bones, his leg, and he only wanted to be put to bed. He was more serious, less flippant on those occasions.

As I tucked the sheets around his bed one evening, he said, “I voted against the board, you know.”

I stopped to look at him.

“I know you. So does Mishra. You would sooner cut off your thumb than play loose with a patient’s dosage.” He removed his glasses and looked down at them, played with the earpieces. “When I was a young doctor in Manchester, I was looking after a wealthy patient whom I diagnosed with tuberculosis. I was so sure I was right. I prescribed rest and mild exercise.” He fiddled with his glasses some more. “Turns out he had pneumonia, which we might have treated with arsenic. He still may not have lived, but when he died…guilt followed me everywhere. I thought I could escape it by running to India. And I started over.” He put his glasses on again. “Mistakes are made every day in our profession, my dear.”

“But that’s just it, Doctor. I’m sure I didn’t make that mistake. I didn’t give Miss Novak more than the prescribed dose. Someone else did. But who? The assumption that I did the unthinkable follows me everywhere.” I scratched my forehead. “And where would I go to start over? India is my home.”

---