Page 2 of Six Days in Bombay

“And your first name?”

Warm honey spread through my limbs. Most patients didn’t bother with anything beyondNurseorSister. “It’s Sona,” I said shyly.

She opened her eyes. “Sona? Like…” She pointed to the tiny gold hoops on my earlobes.

I smiled. “Yes, ma’am. It means gold.” I could have told her that my mother had pierced my ears on the third month after my birth.Auspicious, the pundit had told her. She’d taken me to a goldsmith—a safer choice than the tailor. The jeweler had threaded a thin black cord through the holes with a gold needle and told her to bring me back in two weeks. If I’d been able to speak at that age, I would have told my mother not to bother with the expense. The tiny gold hoops he inserted when my mother brought me back cost her two months’ earnings.

But I said none of this to the new patient. I didn’t talk about my life with anyone except Indira. And even with her, I only revealed a little at a time, the way Gandhi spun thread on hischarkha, adding only as much cotton to the spool as he needed.

Mira cried out, more sharply this time. My body jerked in response. It wouldn’t hurt to give her a smaller dose, would it? As soon as I did, Mira’s eyes closed. I watched the painter until she was breathing evenly. Then, I left the room to attend to my other charges.

***

I found Ralph Stoddard in his striped cotton pajamas reading the newspaper by the light of his bedside lamp. He had broken his left leg when he slipped on the floor of his bungalow. His servant had recently finished polishing it, but Dr. Stoddard hadn’t noticed. He’d been flicking through his mail, walking toward his study. A retired doctor, he was eighty, if a day. At his age, it was easy to break a bone or two.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Doctor,” I scolded.

He lowered a corner of the paper and regarded me throughthe thick lenses of his spectacles, which made him look like an owl. “I’ve broken my leg, Nurse. Not my ability to tell time.” A smile played about his lips—lips so thin they folded into his mouth. “Besides, with that racket—” he pointed with his chin toward his snoring roommate, Mr. Hassan “—who could catch a wink?” He went back to reading the paper. On the front page was more news about the Hindenburg disaster. Casualties continued to be found in Lakehurst, New Jersey, a place so far and exotic to me that I couldn’t ever imagine seeing it in person.

“It says here England has started an emergency 999 service.” He tapped the paper. “If India had one, I would have used it when I fell like a blasted domino in my house instead of waiting for Ramu to return from the shops.” He folded the paper and set it aside. “Fancy a game?” he asked hopefully.

I hesitated. We were short-staffed, and I had many patients to look after. But it had been three hours since my last break, and I could use a breather. Besides, Dr. Stoddard’s good humor was hard to resist. He was an insomniac who could always coax me into playing backgammon when I had a little time. At his insistence, his nephew Timothy had brought a game board from home, which Dr. Stoddard now kept on his bedside table.

I asked if we wouldn’t wake Mr. Hassan in the other bed. He raised his eyebrows and observed dryly, “Not even the Hindenburg disaster could rouse that man.”

When Dr. Stoddard had first asked me if I played, I’d said yes. There was a girl at school in Calcutta who’d tried to teach me. But the bell for the next class always rang before we could finish a game. She was a fast player; it took me forever to catch up.

“Smashing,” he’d said, his smile sly. On our first game, I noticed he moved his stone six wedges instead of the five on his dice. I let him. After all, I was there to help him pass the time, not challenge him. After the fifth time he made a fast move, he threw up his hands. “Dammit, woman, why are you letting me cheat?”

Too startled to speak, I stared at him.

He took off his glasses to clean them with the bottom edge of his pajama top. “I cheat. Can’t help myself. Need someone to tell me I’m a wanker.”

I was appalled. “I don’t think I’m allowed to say that, Doctor.”

“Who says?”

“Well… Matron would never…”

He leaned across the board and pushed his spectacles farther back on his nose so his eyes were magnified. “She’s not here then, is she? Unless she’s hiding behind the door.”

Automatically, I turned to look at the door to his room. When I turned around again, he had moved all his stones on his side of the board, effectively winning the game.

He gave me a charming smile. “Jolly bad luck for you. Another go, then?”

Tonight, as he set up the board, I turned my wrist to look at my watch. Mrs. Mehta was due for her pill in another half hour.

“Focus, Nurse. Focus,” the doctor said.

These days, the game went faster. Ever since I’d taken to calling him on the liberties he took with his stones, he’d stopped cheating. I scrutinized the board with a sharper eye and strategized my moves. Ralph Stoddard had made a competitor out of me.

Ten minutes into the game, I heard my name being called. I looked over my shoulder to see my friend Indira, a stack of folded sheets covering half her face. She worked the same shift I did and we often walked home together, but I hadn’t seen her since I clocked in at six this evening.

I excused myself and warned the doctor, “Do not move those stones while I’m gone. I have eyes in the back of my head.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said, “like a good Christian.” We both knew he was lying; he was an atheist.

***

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