“50 years ago, I came with my father to Bombay. It was a long journey – ten days’ walk from Bharuch, where our native village lies”. Looking down from his elevated position, Sir Dwarkanath addressed the seated crowd, speaking in a voice that was as relaxed as a storyteller’s. “My father found a free school for me and took every job he could find, carrying and selling goods for the merchants who paid him just two paise a day. I helped when I wasn’t in school, and it’s only through God’s grace that we were able to set up our first shop and then save enough to start our stone business. Now I am grateful for all that has come from our work, including the chance to build many fine structures for the use of Bombay’s government. Many of you know that my wife, Premlata, died ten years ago.” He paused, the light in his eyes seeming to dim. “She was sacrificing, modest, and community-minded. She would have liked this hospital project very much. Perhaps the doctors and nurses of a proper women’s hospital could have saved her life. I believe – “
His subsequent words were masked by a child’s shriek. Perveen’s eyes shot to the area where the children were congregated. Two of the ayahs were already standing, looking in every direction. Who had cried out?
Then Perveen saw.
At the far edge of the courtyard, Ishan Bhatia was hopping up and down. The sleeve of his kurta was aflame, and as he shook his arm, the fire expanded. “Hai Ram!” bellowed Sir Dwarkanath, and Uma held a hand over her mouth, as if stifling her own cry. All along the rows, women screamed, some clutching at each other, and others tumbling against each other as they tried to rise – as if their presence around the jumping, screaming child might put out the fire.
Dr Penkar was already on the move, but she’d forgotten her kit. Perveen grabbed it and hurried after her as best she could in the confusion. As she got close, she saw one of the ayahs throw herself atop the burning, screaming boy. In the next moment, Parvesh was there, dousing the two of them with a pitcher of water.
“Sunanda. Ishan!” the Bhatias’ housekeeper called, moving quickly with a twisted gait. She also had a pitcher of water which she streamed over the two of them. Dr Penkar’s voice was calm as she spoke to Parvesh and Oshadi in Marathi. “The flames are out, but we still need more water. Get more water, please.”
“I’ve brought your bag,”; Perveen said, dropping it at her side. “Open it for me, will you? I need scissors first.” As Miriam Penkar bent to touch Sunanda’s shoulders, the ayah moaned in pain. “Sunanda, the fire is finished. Now let me get you apart from Ishan,” Dr Penkar beseeched. The ayah quieted and, although her shoulders moved, her body didn’t follow.
“Get off me, Sunanda!” wailed Ishan.
“How is my son?” asked Parvesh anxiously. “It’s good that you brought more water. Please pour it gently here,” Dr Penkar said, motioning toward the ayah’s side. As Parvesh doused the area she indicated, the doctor’s strong arms reached forward and swiftly turned Sunanda’s body. “Is the boy alive?” demanded Begum Cora, who was looking wide-eyed at the bodies collapsed on the stone courtyard.
“If he was dead, he wouldn’t be crying,” Dr Penkar snapped in English. “Please let me do my work!” She spoke in soft Marathi as she put her hand on the ayah’s shoulder. “Sunanda, you were very brave.”
Along with charred white cotton pieces of Sunanda’s sari, Perveen saw raw pink flesh and blood on her stomach. All that remained of Ishan’s silk kurta sleeve was completely black, giving the impression that terrible damage lay underneath. Perveen didn’t want to see; yet she could not tear herself away. “This is your fault, Sunanda! Why weren’t you watching him?” Mangala Bhatia was standing over the ayah with her arms crossed.
“Everyone here must be quiet. This is no time for blaming!” Dr Penkar said, taking a second to glare into Mangala’s furious face before returning her attention to Sunanda and Ishan. Taking scissors from Perveen, she cut away the cloth from Ishan’s arm. “We need many cloths soaked with cold water.” Sunanda whimpered something, and Dr Penkar took the stethoscope out of her medical bag and pressed it to the ayah’s chest. “Why weren’t you sitting at the table with the children?” Mangala scolded Sunanda. “You should have stopped him from wandering.”
Perveen felt her temper rise. The ayah had behaved heroically and was badly injured. “Mangala-behen,” Perveen said, then waited until she had the angry woman’s attention. She whispered, “Dr Penkar gave us orders to be quiet.” Mangala’s gaze moved past Perveen. Loudly, she said, “Oh, here you are at last, Uma. Don’t worry, he’s able to cry to the heavens!”
“I had to help Bapuji from the platform. And then it was hard to get through the crowds!” Uma knelt and put a hand on her son’s head. Softly, he moaned, turning his small, ash-smudged face toward her.
“Oh, Ishan! Please don’t die,” Uma whispered. “You can’t!”
“He will most certainly live,” Miriam said gently. “Sunanda will be fine as well. Tell me, can ice be found anywhere? We will need to use it for several hours’ time.” Parvesh wiped his hand across his brow. “A shop in town sells it. I’ll send two bearers to get as many as can be bought.”
“Also – we need an ointment from the pharmacy. A thin layer of American petroleum jelly will protect their burns from germs.”
“For Ishan?” Uma’s voice was shaky.
“Both need this treatment.” Dr Penkar’s voice was firm. As if chastised, Uma nodded. Then she touched the sleeve of her husband’s jacket and spoke to him in low Gujarati. Perveen caught the word “father”. Perveen had forgotten about Sir Dwarkanath. He was coming slowly through the crowd, the priest at his side.
Seeing them, Uma began to cry. “I’ve ruined everything. I am so very sorry –”
Excerpted with permission from The Mistress of Bhatia House, Sujata Massey, Penguin India.
