I trace one of Chullu’s eyebrows. Dev is no longer in my life, and I have to show Rekha and Chullu that they can survive without him, too. I blink to clear my eyes. I glance at the picture book of wildflowers. I try to sound out the words below the photo. But I recognize only the letter at the beginning. I close the book. Will I ever be able to write a letter to Malik? If I could, what would I say?
My love,
After Dev died, I didn’t know if I could love another man. Then you came along. You’re like him but also different. And I miss you so much!
Let me tell you something that will make you happy. I’m enjoying working for your Auntie-Boss. Mostly because she leaves me alone. I decide what to plant, whether to use seeds or seedlings, when to fertilize and when to harvest.
She’s made some mistakes—I can tell you that much. She’s trying to grow a sandalwood tree, but it’ll never take. I haven’t seen another tree like that one here. But your Auntie-Boss never gives up, does she? She’s always trying something new, mixing new things in the soil, moving that sandalwood sapling to different parts of the garden.
I’ve told her what she should substitute for the Rajasthani grasses she’s used to using for her ointments. I hope I’m right. I’ve never been anywhere south of Shimla, and I don’t know what Rajasthan is like or anything about the plants that grow there. Your Auntie-Boss says it’s so dry in Rajasthan that the soil just turns to dust and flies away. I can’t imagine that!
She lets me bring the children to work, and they love being outdoors, near the garden. I used to fear that when I left Rekha and Chullu with the Aroras, who are as old as the Himalayas, the children got no exercise. Now my children breathe fresh air all day.
I brush a strand of hair away from Rekha’s face. She sleeps so soundly.
What else would I write?
The Shimla Mall has become busier with tourists from all over. But it isn’t the same when you’re not around to surprise the children with your little presents. They’re restless, always hoping you’ll show up. Rekha says she’s angry with you for not coming to see us. She wants you here so you can buy balloon animals for her from the vendor in the next stall. Chullu is gnawing everything in sight as his teeth come in, including the balloon creatures, so most of them are no more. (Rekha has shrouded them in scraps of cloth that Mrs. Arora gave her and given them a funeral.)
I remind Rekha that Lakshmi-ji and Dr. Jay always give her a balloon animal when she asks for one, but she says it’s not the same as when you do it because she likes to hear you make the different noises of the animals you give to her. You’ve spoiled her!
Rekha released the green cricket you gave her somewhere in our room. His loud chirps, early in the morning, wake us up. She tries to catch him, but the cricket’s faster. Still, she won’t give up.
Chullu just cut another tooth! He’s grouchy because it’s hurting, but I rub that honey you gave us on his gums, which makes him very, very happy.
They’d both be happier if you were here. They want to know when you’re coming home.
So Malik, when are you coming home?
Your Nimmi
TWO DAYS BEFORE
THE COLLAPSE
8
LAKSHMI
Shimla
It’s late afternoon. I’m at the Community Clinic, washing my hands at the basin while my patient buttons up her blouse. Jay is at the hospital next door, seeing to an emergency delivery. He left an hour ago.
Like many of the people in this area, my patient speaks a mixture of Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu and her local dialect, but I didn’t need to understand what she was saying to figure out why she had come to the clinic. Years of carrying firewood from the edge of the forest to her hearth has taken a toll on her right shoulder. Even while sitting on the exam table, she is listing to one side, leaning away from the weight of her invisible cargo.
The nun who is helping me today puts warm water compresses on the sore shoulder to relax the muscles before I apply a mixture of turmeric powder and coconut oil to the bruised skin. That should reduce the inflammation. I tell my patient to remove the ointment when it dries, in half an hour, then reapply the warm compress and rub on more of the lotion, which I’m sending home with her. I wish I could command her to stop hauling firewood until her shoulder heals, but she’s a widow, and her children are too small to help her with the task.
Now I dry my hands and moisten them with lavender oil to prepare for the next patient; the scent relaxes patients who might be nervous about coming to the clinic. It relaxes me, as well. I breathe it in.
I hear the receptionist in the outer room say, “Wait! You can’t go in there!”
A boy and girl—ten years old or thereabouts—burst through the curtain that separates the exam room from the clinic’s waiting room. They’re carrying a sheep—the boy holding the front end, the girl carrying the rear. The receptionist follows them, apologizing to me.
“Theek hai,” I tell her. It’s fine.
She looks relieved and returns to her desk.
The sheep is bleeding from what appears to be a nasty gash on its right side. I can’t understand what the girl is saying to me, so I turn to Sister and wait for her to translate. The foothills of the Himalayas are home to many indigenous tribes, and between the staff and me, we can usually manage to work out what our patients are telling us.
My patient with the swollen shoulder, now dressed, jumps down from the exam table. She points at the sheep and says something I don’t understand. It’s clear she’s frightened.
I look for help from Sister, who shakes her head; she doesn’t understand the woman’s rapid-fire speech any better than I do. The girl and boy stare at the patient, their mouths hanging open. The sheep bleats.
My patient grabs the bottle of turmeric ointment I mixed for her and flees the room as if the building is on fire.
Is she frightened of a wounded sheep?
I inspect the gash while the sheep struggles to escape the clutches of the children, but they hold on fast, and I get a good look at the area. The fleece appears to have a clean slit, like a welt pocket on a coat. The wound is underneath the fleece. How could that have happened?
Then I see a coarse thread hanging from the fleece. And uneven stitching at the edges of the slit. It’s like a pocket that has been sewn shut. Working gingerly, with a pair of scissors, I cut the ragged stitching open and peel back the layer of fleece. And now I understand the problem. Underneath the wool, the skin is covered in sores, pus and blood oozing from an open wound.
I’m wondering who would shear a sheep’s fleece in this way, then stitch it back together. Why not treat the wound? Why would a shepherd try to hide these sores? Sheep are as precious to the hill people as gold is to the matrons whose hands I used to paint with henna. No shepherd would leave an injured sheep on its own or, worse, abandon it.