Page 8 of Six Days in Bombay

“Theek hai, Anish?”

“Hahn-ji.I made the milk especially tasty for you today.” He laughed. Anish was a cheerful sort, barely twenty years old, who had inherited this job when his father died.

“Has your sister found work yet?” Without a father, it was impossible for his family to provide the dowry they would need to find a suitable husband for his sister. Anish had told me his fourteen-year-old sister, Anu, had been looking for a job.

His smile was uneven when he said, “Bhagwanhas been good to us. She foundnaukareeclose to here.”

“Accha?Where?”

He indicated with his chin that it was south of us. He didn’t meet my eye when he said it was ahaveliof women. “There are seven of us at home,” he said quietly.

They needed the money. I understood. Anu would be working at a house of courtesans. I had seen thekothaon my way to work when the vegetables and fruits were being delivered to their kitchen for the evening’s entertainment. The courtesans fed their patrons well and were reputed to have dishes comparable to Bombay’s Café Leopold, a favorite of Britishers, Parsis, Muslims and Hindus, many of whom were also regulars at thekotha.

What could I say to Anish? On the one hand, his family were sure to be shunned by their relatives and neighbors for having a daughter who sang and danced for men. On the other hand, the courtesans ran a profitable business, which meant Anu could provide for her family more lavishly than they could ever have dreamed. She could fill their bellies with rich curries. I knew courtesans had been part of the royal court before the British Raj began dissolving the Mughal Empire. Now, the women ofAnu’skothaowned factories, jewels, buildings. Their children were tutored privately within the house. Anu’s chances of an arranged marriage may have suffered, but she would have financial independence that might have eluded her in a traditional union. I wasn’t about to judge her choice. She was doing what was best for her family.

I assured Anish, “I’ll visit Anu one of these days when I’m headed that way,accha?”

His face broke into a smile and the dimple on his left cheek winked at me. He turned and delivered Fatima’s milk across the landing before sprinting down the stairs.

Fatima opened her door. I greeted a good morning to her.

She responded with a smile. “How is your job at the hospital? You work so late.”

I laughed. “That’s because I start so late.” I added with a whisper, “You were working late yourself,ji.”

She giggled, raising her shoulders in a conspiratorial shrug, before picking up the bottles and closing her door. She would be a mother long before her twenty-third birthday.

Chapter 2

At the start of my shift the next evening, my first task was to change Mira’s sheets. I walked into her room to find Dr. Mishra pressing on her abdomen. Mira’s face was pinched. Her breathing was labored.

When the doctor saw me, he said, “Nurse, could you help me for a moment?”

“Of course.” I set the sheets down on the only chair in the room.

As soon as Mira saw me, she said, “Sona! Please…” She held out her hand for me to hold. She looked frightened. Her forehead was shiny with sweat. I clasped her hand.

“Just here.” He placed my free hand just below Mira’s navel. Surprised that he would ask me to do something nurses generally didn’t, and even more surprised that he touched my hand, I pressed lightly on Mira’s belly.

She let out a yelp that made my stomach cramp. I tried not to grimace. The doctor handed me his stethoscope. His body was so close I could hear him breathe, smell his lime aftershave. I moved the chest piece of the stethoscope in the area where my hand had been, keeping my expression neutral so as not to alarm Mira. I looked at Dr. Mishra as I handed back the stethoscope and tipped my head down slightly.Yes, I hear it too. A gurgling that indicated inflammation. He took a deep breath.

“What is it?” she asked now, staring at us.

Dr. Mishra smiled reassuringly. “Probably nothing. When you came to us, you were in the early months of pregnancy, and your body underwent significant trauma with the miscarriage. Dr. Holbrook took care of you in the operating theater. Sometimes, there’s residual swelling afterward, which may be the cause of your pain.” I noticed that when he talked to patients, he lost much of his shyness.

Mira let out the breath she’d been holding and nodded.

“We should check you out more thoroughly in a few hours when the house surgeon returns.” He patted her shoulder. “Rest now.” He made notes on her chart, looked vaguely in my direction to thank me and left the room.

“Take a deep breath, Miss Novak. I’m going to turn you on your side now.” As I did, she let out a cry. The stitches, no doubt. The surgeon had repaired her from the outside but her insides still needed healing. Delicately, I pulled up her gown and removed the blood-soaked underwear and the wet menstrual cloths, taking care to place them in a container underneath the bed, out of sight. I picked up the rubbing alcohol and a small towel. With a light hand, I wiped her, changed the cloths and dressed her in a fresh gown. I scooted her to the far side of the bed so I could change the sheets on the side closest to me. She grimaced and clutched my hand to stop me.

“My mother was the one who discovered Paolo at the Venice Biennale in 1924,” she continued as if we hadn’t taken a break from the day before. “She fell so hard for him! Followed him back to Florence, dragging me along with her. When I finally met him, I could see what she saw in him. He’s beautiful.” She sighed. “Of course, Mama was always falling in love. Which is probably why I can’t. She was so messy with it. Tantrums and fainting spells and screaming matches. Father stayed out of her way as much as possible when she wasinnamorata.”

I eased my hand from her grip and continued making thebed. A mother who had love affairs and didn’t hide them from her husband? What did he think of her dalliances? Did he have affairs of his own? I’d heard of such marriages among film stars here in Bombay and rumors of unusual arrangements between wealthy couples.

“When I was little,” she was now saying, “my father took loads of pictures of me. Dressed me up in costumes. Mama did not like that. When I began painting, she told him to stop and took over. I’d started being noticed, you see. She began showing me off. Like a prize she’d won at themela… I’d craved her attention for so long, but…why did I have to paint for her to see me?”

Tears were rolling down her temples as I helped her lay on her back again. I wiped them for her with a clean cloth. Were those tears of pain or memory?

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