Page 9 of Six Days in Bombay

Mira sniffled. “Father, of course, has his own passions.” She changed subjects as often as a woodpecker attacks a coconut palm. “Did you know he’s building a synagogue right here in Bombay? There’s a lot of money to be raised. He’s good at that.”

I went to the corner sink in the room to wash my hands and thought back to what I’d read about Jews like her father who had settled in Bombay. India was a refuge for them, safer than it was for the colonized Indians who had lived here for sixty-five millennia.

Mira was saying, “He’s awfully busy with the planning. I’m sure he doesn’t know I’m in the hospital.”

My eyebrows shot up. As busy as he was building his synagogue, couldn’t Mira’s father find time to visit his only child after she had lost his only grandchild? His absence seemed almost intentional. Cruel, even. A reminder of my father.

I felt the need for fresh air. I opened the window in the room and leaned out. The delicate fragrance of the orchid tree outside her window entered the room, hesitantly at first, then settled in for the night. I listened for the mournful hoots of owls, the skittering night animals hunting for their dinner.

Behind me, Mira said, “It’s like music, don’t you think? Night music.” I made to close the window, hastily, but she stopped me. She held out a hand for me to take. By now, I was getting used to this request from her.

“Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,”she said. “A music of courtship. Supposed to be played at night. I imagine the animals being serenaded. The deer in the forest. Moths fluttering around the lights. The field mice.” She’d worked her fingers between my own and was swinging our hands lightly as she hummed the piece. Like the animals of the night, I felt as if she was courting me. She began talking about her childhood friend Petra in Prague. “She was my first. We were just schoolgirls trying out something. She fell in love. Followed me around like sheep. It wasn’t like that for me. I told you before I can’t fall in love. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”

I tried not to show it, but a Ping-Pong ball was bouncing inside my chest. She had slept with another girl? Did women have sex with other women?

Mira, who’d been watching me, laughed and offered me a wry smile. “You’re more Pip than Estella. I like that about you.”

I picturedGreat Expectationson my bookshelf at home. Mira, of course, was Estella. As the more shockable, chaste Pip, I marveled at how Mira could talk so openly about things most of us knew to keep to ourselves? Did she not care what other people thought of her or her family the way I obsessed about what they thought of my English father leaving my family? In that way, I was like most Indians, consumed by the judgment of others, so wary of the repercussions. I’d only known Mira for two days and I knew more about her life than the hundreds of patients I’d served over the years.

“You will love, Sona. Be sure of it.” Mira kissed my hand and let go of it. She sighed, lost in the music only she could hear and memories only she was privy to.

Was that a prediction? Or a demand? I clasped my hands together to contain the warmth and the free spirit of Mira Novak a little while longer.

***

There was a commotion in Mrs. Mehta’s room. I’d been looking for Indira, whom I hadn’t seen today, when I passed the open door. Mr. Mehta was standing at the end of her bed, his hands clasped in front of his suit coat, a gesture of supplication. “You must come back, Rani. Bippi is threatening to quit. I like her biryani. I don’t want her to leave.”

Mrs. Mehta’s face darkened, not a good sign. She had high blood pressure. “You like her biryani better than mine? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Quietly, I stepped into the room and poured her a glass of water from the pitcher at her bedside.

“No, Rani, no!” Mr. Mehta decided to appeal to me. “Nurse Sona, you must know how dire the situation is. I know Rani confides in you. My father can be…demanding. Bippi won’t stand for it.”

His wife’s nostrils flared. “I won’t stand for it either. But you never hear me when I say it. Bippi says it and you come running to me.”

Her husband looked as if he was on the verge of tears.

The window was ajar. I pushed it open farther and looked out at the night sky. “Is that a lovebird I hear, Mr. Mehta? You’re the expert birder. What do you think?” I didn’t know one birdsong from another, but I’d heard Mrs. Mehta mention their pet lovebirds.

His curiosity aroused, Mr. Mehta joined me at the window. He turned to his wife, excited. “Rani, come listen! It sounds just like our Dasya and Taara.” To me, he said, “Dasya is the blue lovebird. Taara is green.”

I helped Mrs. Mehta climb out of bed (although she didn’t need it; she just liked the special attention). She came to standnext to her husband and placed her hand on his arm. “Are you feeding them enough? Or do you leave that to that lazy Bippi?”

“How can you even think I would let anyone else feed them? They were my gift to you.”

Mrs. Mehta patted his arm and looked at him with such affection that he placed his hand over hers. “They’ll be glad to see you,” he said.

She walked back to her bed. “Tomorrow. I’ll be home tomorrow. Sona, I’m ready for one of my pills now.”

***

In between tending to patients and their dinners, I looked for Indira. I wanted to find out how her bruises were healing and tell her about Mohan’s proposal. We chatted at least once during our shifts, sometimes eating our dinner together, but we hadn’t crossed paths tonight. I passed Rebecca in the hallway and asked if she’d seen her. The other nurse narrowed her eyes and inspected my uniform. I looked down at my white skirt and apron. Had I spilled something on it? Rubbed against some blood?

“You know, you spend far too much time chatting. With Indira. With patients. With Dr. Mishra. Do you not have enough to do? I could do with fewer patients if you’d like some of mine.”

In my convent school in Calcutta, I’d known another girl like Rebecca, who, for reasons I never understood, decided to dislike me. Her name was Charity. She made snide comments within my hearing about my missing father, my scholarship to a school my mother couldn’t afford (the other girls came from comfortable circumstances) and my scuffed shoes (they were handed down from another student and, however much I polished them, they remained scuffed). What was it about me that made her hate me so? What had I ever done to Charity to make her treat me that way? At home, my mother would coax the story out of me when I failed to eat my dinner. I thought she would be angry at Charity on my behalf, tell me how unfair thegirl was being. Instead, Mum would rock me and said,Beti, you need courage to get through this life.She would massage my head with coconut oil and sing to me to soothe my wounded feelings.

But I wasn’t ten years old anymore and I wasn’t about to run home and cry to my mother. “No one is stopping you from talking to your patients, Rebecca. It doesn’t really take up much time, and I’m sure they would appreciate it.”

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