If only Jay were here. Except for his time at Oxford, Jay has always lived in Shimla and speaks many of the local dialects. He could find out if the sheep belongs to the children, and if so, where is the rest of their flock? Where’s the shepherd? Or, if the animal isn’t theirs, where did they find it?
It occurs to me that Nimmi could help. Perhaps she speaks their language or could understand enough of it to clarify what happened. She’s grown up with sheep and goats and might have some idea why this animal’s wounds are so peculiar.
I indicate with gestures that the boy and girl should stay where they are.
In the Healing Garden, I find Nimmi on her haunches, patting down the soil where she must have just sown seeds.
“I need your help, Nimmi.” I tell her. “In the clinic.”
She knits her brows, and I know she must be thinking: You need me at the clinic?
“An injured sheep,” I say. “Two children brought it in.”
Nimmi stands. She still looks puzzled, but there’s no time to explain. I take her hoe and spade from her and put them in the shed while she brushes dirt off her hands and goes to wash them at the outdoor tap.
Inside, the sister on duty is laying a fresh sheet on the exam table. Then she helps the boy and girl gently lift the animal onto the table.
The instant Nimmi sees the wounds on the sheep’s shorn skin, she steps back with a shocked expression on her face. She glances, first, at me, then at the children. She says something to them in her dialect.
The boy just stares at Nimmi, but the girl responds and makes a gesture with her arm.
Switching to Hindi, Nimmi tells me, “I asked them if it is their sheep. The girl says no. She says they found the animal on the trail while they were collecting firewood on the mountain.”
“Without a shepherd?” Having lived in Shimla for a decade, I know that the nomadic tribes would never leave an animal to die alone; it would be too cruel—and the animal too expensive to replace.
Nimmi turns to speak to the girl. The two of them are communicating both with words and gestures. Most of the tribes, whether from the Nepalese or the Kashmiri border, share some common words in Urdu, Hindi and Nepali. Like many North Indians, I speak mainly Hindi with some Urdu words thrown in—but the hill dialects make use of words I’ve never heard, and the sentence structure is entirely different.
“The only sheep they saw was this one,” Nimmi says. “They could hear others farther up the mountain—but they wanted to help this one because she’s hurt.”
I ask Nimmi, “Do you know what might have caused the injury? Did someone do this deliberately?”
Nimmi moves closer to the animal, who is still lying on one side and breathing heavily. She leans forward with her elbow on the table and uses her forearm to hold the animal’s neck and head still while she peels the hide back as far as it will go. She probes the cuts with her fingers, as the sheep jerks and flinches.
“Illness didn’t cause these sores,” Nimmi says. “These are abrasions. Something was irritating her skin, and so she rubbed herself against a tree trunk or a rock—some hard surface—to scratch herself...or soothe herself...or maybe...”
When Nimmi eases her hold on the sheep and starts to examine one of its ears, she suddenly pulls back, and gasps.
The hair on my arm stands up.
Suddenly the air feels heavy, tense.
The children feel it, too. They look at me, then at Nimmi.
I say. “What is it?”
She frowns, staring at the animal, her lips a thin line. There’s something she doesn’t want to say. What?
Finally, Nimmi takes a breath and sighs. She says something to the girl, her hand on the girl’s shoulder. Again, they’re using words and gestures to communicate, and when the girl responds, Nimmi nods.
Then the girl turns to the boy, takes him by the arm, and leads him from the room.
Nimmi turns to me. “I told them we will help the animal. They mustn’t worry.”
I still don’t know what’s going on, but the set of her mouth tells me that she’s not going to tell me what she’s thinking. A bubble of resentment rises in my chest. I’m used to being in control of my exam room, my patients, the Healing Garden. But now even Sister is looking at Nimmi for instructions about what to do next. Sometime in the last fifteen minutes, Nimmi seems to have taken charge of my exam room. But she works for us. She has no reason—or right—to hold anything back. My feelings are hurt; I can’t help it.
I point my chin at the sheep. The words that come out of my mouth are as sharp as the needles Jay uses at the hospital. “Ask Sister to get you the supplies you’ll need to dress the wound. She’ll help you.”
Before Nimmi has a chance to answer—to object or tell me that her only job is to tend the garden—I walk over to the basin, turn on the faucet and briskly begin washing my hands with soap.
She knows more about what’s happened—but she’s reluctant to share. I’ll talk to Jay about it when I see him this evening.
* * *
My husband comes home later than usual; the delivery of the twins was fraught with complications. His days are longer now that he also has so many administrative responsibilities, fundraising events, board meetings. When he returns from the hospital, he likes to have an hour to unwind together before dinner. He is settled in his favorite armchair in the drawing room with the Times of India and a glass of Laphroaig. I check on dinner—masala lauki and dal, simmering on low, and join him. He hands me my glass of whiskey and a section of the newspaper.
But I can’t concentrate on the article about the ongoing battle between India and Pakistan over the Jammu/Kashmir area. We live over a hundred miles from there. And aside from Indian soldiers coming into Shimla for provisions or passing through on their way to the northeast provinces, we have little to do with the war. For Malik’s sake, I want it to stay that way. Providing provisions for profit is one of his specialties.
I fold the newspaper and set it aside. I sip my scotch.
Jay turns down a corner of his paper to peer at me. “What is it?”
I smile. My husband can sense my mood so easily.
“A sheep. At the clinic today. Two tribal children brought it in.”
“They brought in a sheep?”
“It was wounded.”
He chuckles, setting the paper on the table beside him. “Ah, that explains everything, then.” He drinks from his crystal tumbler, his eyes dancing.
I rise from the couch and sit on the arm of his chair. I love the salt-and-pepper curls that hang over his forehead; they grow too quickly and I’m forever brushing them away, as I do now.