Page 38 of Six Days in Bombay

My mother pointed to the lot. “So the one markedSis yours?”

“Mira’s note was tucked in that frame, and it was addressed to me, so yes, I think so.”

Mum picked upThe Acceptanceand studied it. “Do you think you’re meant to be the bride getting her henna done?”

I colored. “Really, Mum, I don’t know what was on Mira’s mind when she wrote that note.”

“And you’re sure she didn’t want to leave these for her husband?”

“The note indicates otherwise.”

My mother raised an eyebrow. “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

I told her about the argument I’d witnessed between Mira and Filip the night of the Singh party.

“Sona, if she wrote this before she died, do you think…she knew she was dying?”

I bit my lip. The thought had occurred to me. But how could Mira have known she would end up in the hospital again, much less lose her life? Or—and I didn’t want to think about this—had Mira deliberately taken an overdose? Why? Because she was in so much pain? What other reason would she have had to take her life? She’d been melancholy about Jo and Petra and Po and how she’d treated them. Was she more downhearted than she let on?

My mother began to roll up the paintings. “Would Dr. Mishra know anything about these?”

I frowned. Did Mira tell Amit something she didn’t tell me? “I can ask him.”

Wrinkles lined her forehead. She rubbed her chest.

“You’ve taken your medicine?”

“Hahn,”she said absently.

I retied the rope around the rolled-up canvases, glancingevery now at then at her worried expression. When we finished, my mother told me to sit down. Then she sat across from me and took my hands in hers. She rubbed my knuckles tenderly. “You may not want to hear this, Sona,” she started haltingly. “But the blame will rest on you. Dr. Mishra will not be blamed. Your Matron will not be blamed. Dr. Holbrook will not be blamed. But they will need to hold someone responsible for Mira’s death. I worry that as of tomorrow, you will no longer be a nurse at Wadia’s.”

My mother’s image became hazy, as if I were looking at her underwater. I had suspected I might be punished, that my wages might be reduced, but not that I might lose my post. It had taken time to find this position; it would take time to find another. What would I say to another Matron when she asked why I left Wadia’s? Would she write to the Matron here to ask what had happened? Or would we have to change cities again? Neither one of us could bear another move. Would Mira’s death be the destruction of me? The hair on my arms stood up. If someone else caused Mira’s death, were they trying to punish me or her?

My mother was still talking to me. With an effort, I made myself listen.

“You need to clear your name,beti,” she said. “For your own sake. So this accusation isn’t hanging over your head. It’s the only way for you to move forward. Maybe one of those people—or all three of them,” she gestured to Mira’s note. “Maybe they can help you. Maybe they know something about her you don’t. Or maybe they know nothing.” She pointed her chin at the paintings. “Mira left you a note clearly asking you to deliver these paintings to her friends. She could easily have had them sent. But she didn’t. She wanted you to go. Why? There must have been a reason.” My mother exhaled slowly. “To find out, you’ll need your father’s money.”

I couldn’t believe what my mother was suggesting. “But,Mum, we’ll need the money for rent and food and medicine. Let’s use it for that until I find another job.”

She shook her head. “No,beti. What you need to do first is salvage your reputation so you can continue being a nurse. I’m asking you to do that. You have to go.”

I looked at my mother, who rarely asked me for anything but did so many things without my asking. She peeled the skin from grapes because she knew I only liked the sweet pulp inside. She massaged my legs after a long shift at the hospital, but would never let me do the same for her. She sewed, cleaned and pressed my uniforms, always tucking rose petals in the pockets to perfume them. Rarely did she buy anything new for herself. I noticed how the neckline of her blouse and sleeves were fraying. She needed new glasses but refused to spend the money on them even though she had to bend closer and closer to the fabric to see if her seams were straight.

“I can’t leave you alone here in Bombay, Mum. Who will take care of you?” I felt something akin to fear. Like the fear I felt after my father left. Who would take care of us?

She squeezed my hands. “Sona, it’s not me who needs to be taken care of. I’ve been caring for you since you were a baby. I will be fine. You need to learn how to take care of yourself. I have kept you soft.”

I was taken aback. I thought of myself as strong, capable, able to handle anything that came my way. “You’ve kept mesoft?”

“All these years, I’ve shielded you from those who wanted to hurt you. The market staller who sent you home with bruised fruit. The bus driver who wouldn’t let you on his bus. I went back and scolded the fruit seller. And the bus driver. And all the others who hurt you. I should have made you stand up to them yourself. I pushed you toward nursing school so you could support yourself whether I was here or not. I made you more British because I thought it would protect you. I made you so safethat you’re afraid to take chances. Think what your life could be if you weren’t afraid.”

I blurted it out before I could stop myself. “You took a chance on my father and look where it landed you!” My heart was knocking against my ribs. I’d never spoken to my mother like that before.

She released my hands. Was that pity in her eyes? “Oh, Sona. Don’t you know that I loved the time I spent with him? I would never take that back. I hated that he lied. I hated that he left but not that he and I came together. And he didn’t leave me alone. He left me with you, precious you and Rajat. How could Inothave taken that chance? This is your life. You should live it the way you want. Go where you want. See the things you cannot even imagine now. Your father’s money will make that possible.”

I stared at her. My mother thought I lived in fear? Too afraid to step over the line, even to stand up for myself? A memory of me as a thirteen-year-old girl floated into view. I’m standing next to my mother in the headmistress’s office. She is telling the older woman that I was cheated out of my number one rank because the teacher gave it to her own daughter, who did not do as well on the test as I had. My mother is speaking softly, but firmly. She is not complaining. She is explaining. The next day, the teacher gave me the rank I should have been given. I had expected my mother to prevail. Because she always had. Why had I never noticed the many ways she had been strong when I couldn’t be? She’d needed courage—and more—to overcome my father’s betrayal. Without it, how could she have raised a child without family, without money?

I thought about Matron’s reprimand when she called me to her office. I hadn’t wanted Rebecca to get into trouble over what happened when Mr. Hassan had a heart attack. I should have told Matron what my mother would have. In her own quiet way, she would have explained that without my quick thinking, a patient could have died. And the criticism about beingsociable with patients? Why hadn’t I told Matron that emotional comfort was part of my remit as a nurse, which I provided by taking my patients’ minds off their unease and engaging them in activities they enjoyed. Instead, I had said nothing.Too soft.

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