Nimmi’s palms followed the curved line of her belly, pausing every few inches, her head cocked as if she were listening through a stethoscope. Up ahead the sun slipped through a grove of mango trees, spilling light through red rimmed clouds. The warm concrete benches were beginning to cool. Nimmi pulled her pashmina shawl tight over her shoulders and nestled against her husband.
“Are you cold?” Dileep asked.
“A little.” She cradled her belly. “Sometimes, I worry,” she said. “I think it sleeps too much.”
Dileep tucked a vagrant strand of hair behind her ear. His eyes were playful. “Well, I guess the little fellow’s lazy—like me. Here, let me see.” He cupped his ears to his wife’s belly and knocked on the gently sloping arch. “Hey son, wake up. It’s time to work! Think you’re a maharaja—sitting there on your throne?”
Nimmi burst out laughing. “How do you know it’s not a maharani?”
“Because girls aren’t lazy. They wake up early. Gives them time to start worrying.”
Nimmi smacked her husband’s arm. “Wouldn't you worry if something was growing in you?”
Dileep patted his six-pack abdomen. “There’s nothing here except your yummy biryani.”
“But you didn’t eat much. Papa had three helpings!”
“You’re right,” Dileep said, his eyes glinting. “Actually, I’m still pretty hungry, but not for biryani.”
Nimmi nestled in her husband’s arms. Despite their banter, her spirits were like a bird’s wet wings. “It’s going to be a long break. When exactly will you come back?”
“I told you. Six weeks, and then we’ll go home, okay? I wish I could’ve left you with your mother instead of my parents. If she hadn’t had that heart attack … ”
Tears stung her eyes. “Don’t bring that up.”
“I’m sorry. When I get back, we’ll take Lazy Bones and go visit your mother, okay?”
She smiled, kissing his collarbone, her fingertips moving up his neck. “As if we could leave him behind.”
Casting her thin blanket aside, Nimmi turned toward the moonlit window. Had it only been two weeks since Dileep left? From across the hall she heard the clock chime eleven. Any moment now, the mail train would let out a piercing whistle, clack-clattering by.
She rose up onto her elbows. “What’s the matter? Why are you awake?” she whispered to her navel. Her fingers found the little hole. “You’re definitely not your father’s son.”
“I love sleep. It’s free,” Dileep would say, burrowing deeper under the covers.
But now Dileep was away, five weeks in Madras and then north to Delhi for his convention. How much she wished he hadn’t left her here. She should’ve told him that she hated village life, the endless rolling days, people’s unchanging ways, their pujasand superstitions. But she hadn’t.
“Ma will feed you well; she knows all the secrets for a healthy baby,” he’d said, “and Papa’ll fill your ears with his voodoo herb-stories. His shed is stuffed. He’ll turn you into a real medicine woman!”
“Oh, that’s mean. You pooh-pooh alternative medicine because you have an MD degree?”
“I don’t. Papa overdoes it. That’s all. His silly shed has a cure for everything.”
Rising, Nimmi grabbed her shawl and squeezed her swollen feet into sandals. A short walk in the compound might lull the baby to sleep. Quietly, she opened the screen door and stepped over the threshold, careful not to let it slam. If Ma awakened, she would fuss like a hundred frenzied bees around a hive. Why you going out? Can’t sleep? What’s hurting? Come-I’ll-give-you-face-massage. Temples-hold-tension, jaws-too. Tutta-tutta-tutta-tutta. She’d roll her tongue against the roof of her mouth, chattering to keep pace with her own rattling mind.
Above the coconut trees, a half-moon wedge like a silver rupee in a penny box. Slowly, she planted her feet step by step along a gravel path, hugging the contours of the shrubbery, past her parents-in-law’s bedroom window. A light breeze carried the sweet smell of jasmine. Perhaps, she would walk past the shed, past the mimosa tree to the broken brick wall from where she could hear the lapping stream, the occasional plop of fish and frogs. Perhaps, the ripples would soothe her.
She was still several yards away when, looking up, she saw a dim yellow light in the shed, the silhouette of a man framed in the window. Startled, she turned back to leave, caught her sandal on a tree root and fell. A low cry escaped her lips. The shed went black. The moon sneaked behind a cloud. A flashlight went on and off. Moments later, she heard a shuffle; a cane clip-clopping toward her. Crouching, she shut her eyes.
“Nimmi? Nimmi? Is that you?”
Leaning on his cane, Papa dropped to his knees beside her.
Nimmi opened her eyes. “Oh, Papa, you scared me. You always lock the shed; I thought it was a chor.”
Papa chuckled. “What’s there to rob in that old shed?” He looked toward the house. “Good thing Ma’s half deaf, or we’d both be in trouble.”
“Me, yes! But why you?”
“Because she’s afraid something will happen to me. What can happen?” His tone softened. “And why are you here in the dark, beti?”
Nimmi’s heart warmed. He always called her “daughter”, rarely using her name. “It’s not dark. Look, there’s a half-moon there and a sky brimming with stars. Such a clear night, I thought I’d take a walk.”
Papa squinted. “This late?”
“I can’t sleep. I feel so … so nervous, and without Dileep … ”
“No sleep? Why didn’t you tell me? How long have you felt this way?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, let’s go back to the shed. I’ll give you something that’ll work like magic.”
Nimmi heaved herself up, then helped her father-in-law. Swiveling on his cane, he turned toward the shed with familiar confidence, ducking under a sprawling chikoo tree, sidestepping cement cracks and small potholes. At the shed, his fingers probed for the keyhole and inserted his key. The door creaked open. Straight ahead, he yanked on a rope dangling from the ceiling. A soft, marigold light flooded the room.
“Oh, my goodness, look at this!” Nimmi exclaimed.
At one end of the rectangular room, a variety of saplings grew in earthenware pots, some clustered on gravel beds under a fluorescent light. At the other end, shelves were stacked with mortars and pestles, bottles, vials, balances with silver weights, wax paper, and assorted little spoons and knives. One shelf held two inch bottles of ready-to-sell samples with ingredients, dosage, prices and instructions. Another shelf held herbal blends of teas replete with brewing instructions. Dried roots, seeds, pithy stems, and mango buds were clustered in saucers. The place was well organized, not “stuffed” as Dileep had said.
Papa put his arm around Nimmi. “Well, this is my life’s work.”
Nimmi saw the pride in his eyes. “That’s why they call you Medicine Man.”
He nodded. “Hmm. It’s a too-big compliment. There’s lots more to learn.” He walked over to his work bench. “You know what you need on a night like this?” He held up a bottle of syrup. “Smell this,” he said, loosening the cap.
Nimmi’s nostrils swelled in scents she couldn’t quite capture. “Oh, that smells so … so soothing, like pudina.”
“Well yes, it has mint leaves, different tree roots, and comb honey with beeswax. Two teaspoons will put you right to sleep.”
Nimmi watched her father-in-law pour the golden syrup into a measuring spoon and hand it to her.
For a moment, she hesitated. “Maybe, I shouldn’t … ”
“Come on,” he coaxed. “Just try it.”
She swallowed the liquid. “Hmm, not bad tasting.”
“Nothing here tastes bad. I sweeten whatever is bitter or sour with sugar cane syrup.” He pointed to a bottle of thick, yellow liquid. “Ma makes that fresh every week. Straight from sugar cane juice.”
“Why not just use sugar?”
“Because that’s processed sweetness. Not natural.” He handed her the bottle. “Come on, now take this old man’s hand, and let’s go home.”
His palm was coarser than grated pepper, his gnarled fingers like a ginger root. They walked into the moist night air.
Nimmi slept soundly through the night and well into the morning. When she awakened, her parents-in-law had finished bathing and eating. The crimson smudge on Papa’s forehead told her she’d missed the morning puja.
“Sleep well?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
Ma held a cup of warm turmeric milk. “Drink this before you sit down to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Nimmi began. Ma sucked up a swish of air through her teeth, and began slicing a banana. “Okay, okay, I’ll eat one puri with curds,” Nimmi said.
“Sprinkle a little jeera on the curds. Good for digestion.”
Nimmi obeyed, swirling in the golden cumin flecks.
“So? You two burned the midnight oil last night?” Ma asked.
Nimmi looked at Papa. Had he told her? Or had she heard them?
“Oh, I was teaching Nimmi Ayurvedic medicine. She’s going to be a medicine woman,” he said.
Nimmi’s cheeks turned pink. “Medicine woman? Oh, I wish … but I can’t even name all those roots and leaves.”
Papa nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll—”
Ma looked as if she’d sipped vinegar. “Never mind tomorrow. You’d better hurry today! Your supplies for the dispensaries packed? Rickshaw will come in twenty minutes.”
“Today? Is today Thursday?” Papa rose as quickly as his legs would permit. “Thought it’s Wednesday; I haven’t even weighed … ” He turned to Nimmi. “You want to go with me?”
Nimmi’s eyes shone. “Sure, I … ”
Ma glared at her husband. “What? Look at her. She’s tired and … and besides people might cast evil eyes on our grandchild, and—”
Papa chuckled. “Oh, I can banish evil spirits.”
“Yes, yes, I know. You think you can do everything.”
Papa turned to Nimmi, smiling. “Another time, beti.”
After that, Nimmi spent many evenings beside her father-in-law, watching him concoct new medicines. Sometimes, he put a drop on her tongue. “It’s good for you,” he’d say. “It’s all natural. No chemicals, no plant spraying, nothing.”
She watched him reach for two branches hanging from the rafters. He plucked off a few dried leaves and dumped them into a mortar and pestle.
“What’s that for? Are you making mudpacks?” Nimmi asked.
“Mudpacks? What’s mudpack?”
“Oh, just a paste women use to clean pores and tighten skin. It’s sold all over Mumbai in gift shops and beauty salons.”
Papa snorted, sifting the mud-colored, silt-like powder into a small basin. “Cleaning happens from inside, beti, not outside. Astringents, creams—even your muddy packages are temporary. For good skin, bright eyes, strong bones, eat healthy and detoxify regularly.” He unscrewed a dark-brown lidded jar. “See, my mud-package? You don’t wear it; you drink it. Tea for strong bones with oat straw, red clover flowers, and … and something else.” His brow furrowed. “Ah yes, rose hips. Oh, and nettle too. Should be kept away from the light,” he added, tapping the brown bottle. He reached for a tin can with a picture of the child-god, Krishna. “And take this to Mumbai when Dileep returns.” He drummed the tin. “Pregnancy tea. Stimulates uterine contractions. Helps with labor pains, too.”
“What’s in it?”
“Oh, same things—rose hips and oat straw, but also red raspberry, spearmint, and that one in the basket—I forget the name,” he said, pointing.
“Okay, I’ll take some—if Dileep lets me.”
“Why shouldn’t he? It’s very good. The village women love it.” He smiled at her. “You worry too much, beti. That’s why you can’t sleep. Is that golden syrup helping?”
“Oh yes, very much. Two teaspoons, every night.”
He scratched his head. “Two teaspoons?”
“Yes,” she said, happily. “And we both sleep.”
Nimmi watched her father-in-law’s hands, the way she used to watch her father’s hands deftly flapping bales of material into packs and re-stacking them like books on his store shelves. Sometimes, he would cut off a yard of soft fabric and let her drape herself in it. Her heart ached. How she wished her father were alive to see his first grandchild. Papa’s movements were precise too, the way he examined his specimens—pounding and grinding plant parts, smelling, tasting, feeling them with his fingertips. Nothing was written down; it was all in his head.
“This is so interesting,” she said, glad she’d started writing recipes for various ailments in a notebook.
A shadow darkened Papa’s face. “I wish Dileep thought so. I learned everything from my father. Now, it will die when I die.”
“But Dileep did go into medicine,” Nimmi said, soothingly. “He’s a medicine man, too.”
Papa looked away. “Not my kind. This is ancestral wisdom you can’t get from books. This is thousands-of-years-old Ayurvedicmedicine. Dileep’s medicine treats human parts—liver, heart, lungs—as if each organ lives out there,” he said, pointing to a bowl. “When one fails, they do surgery—just cut out the gall bladder or”—he pointed to his neck—“thyroid. Or anything, as if we are machines with engines and levers. If they could just dump out the heart, they would. But, they can’t. So, they do bypass. Bypass what? Imagine bypassing a piece of your heart—it’s where the athma, God Himself, resides.” He shook his head. “No, Dileep is not a medicine man. He’s a doctor. Big difference.”
Nimmi stopped herself. She wanted to tell him that Dileep didn’t “dump out hearts” when he performed transplants; he was skilled and knowledgeable, she’d seen his thick books of words she could barely pronounce. She’d listened to his friends discuss medicine and religion over endless cups of spiced chai. But what good would it do?
“Modern medical people want to get rich. They work in big hospitals in the city. What about villagers? Who’ll take care of them?”
Papa’s eyes were fuming. Nimmi wondered if he was taking the high blood pressure pills that Dileep prescribed for him over a year ago.
“He’s a stubborn mule,” Dileep had said. “He’d rather chew odd-shaped leaves and wrinkled roots than swallow a pill.”
As always, Nimmi had come to her father-in-law’s defense. He was, after all, the only father she’d known. Her own had been killed in a train crash when she was five years old. “Well, something works,” she’d said. “He looks great for a man in his mid-seventies.”
“Yup, till he drops dead some day in that shed, and no one will know.”
“Don’t talk like that, Dileep,” Nimmi had said, her eyes filling with tears. “If you’re worried about him, tell him.”
“You think I haven’t tried? He thinks he knows everything!”
His voice softened. “Maybe, he’ll listen to you.”
Only ten days more, Nimmi thought, stretching out her limbs. Then, Dileep will be back and we’ll go home to Mumbai.
Village life bored her. One cinema house, one hospital, one bazaar, one temple, one mosque, one convent school, one post office. The same routine, the same conversation—everyday, day after day. The price of potatoes was ludicrous. Were they made of gold? Were the fishermen on strike? And the postman, did he give himself another holiday? And why didn’t Mrs Rao change her sari? She’d been wearing the same red one to the bazaar for four days straight. Life revolved around intersecting human routines, the monsoons, the crops; and no one died, because memories lived on in stories told under the banyan tree, at the well, on jute cots under stars on hot summer nights. Except for temple visits, or shelling peas with Ma, there wasn’t much to do. With Papa, at least she’d learned something new. She’d sketched several plants and logged them in her notebook. Still, he was wearing her down—his barrage of information, didactic pronouncements and self-proclaimed wisdom. She felt withered like one of his dried-up roots. She longed for her husband’s return—how solid the earth felt beneath her feet when she could hear him run up the stairs or whistle in the kitchen—how surreal his presence was if he happened to be home before her. She could feelhim from afar like light or air. And when he was near, she felt the pull of gravity—the sinewy strength of his arms, the swell of his body against hers. As for this baby, she couldn’t wait for it to come.
Nimmi awakened to a sky bunched with dark clouds. From the window she could see the neighbor milking the family cow, a rhythmic pull and tug, a steady white stream hitting the aluminum pail beneath the animal. Soon she would hear the snap of gravel and Ma scolding the milkman for being late. She wanted to rise, bathe, prepare for morning puja. Instead, she turned on her side, her breath doggedly rising and falling, her cheeks damp with sudden tears.
Ma pushed open her door. “Nimmi? Are you still sleeping?”
“No, Ma. I … I feel terrible.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Just tired.”
Ma came in, sat on the bed beside her, and felt her brow.
“No fever, thank God,” she said.
“Maybe I’ll stay in bed today and write to my mother. And reply to Dileep,” Nimmi said, reaching for his letter from under her pillow. “Will you mail my letters?”
“Of course. You slept okay?”
“Oh yes—like I’d died.”
“Don’t talk like that; don’t use that word.” Worry crumpled Ma’s face. “I’ll go prepare your turmeric milk. That stupid milkman was late again today.” At the door, she turned around. “Just lie down; don’t read, don’t write.”
Nimmi waited till her footsteps receded, then unfolded Dileep’s letter. She squinted, a smile quivering on her lips, wondering if bad handwriting preceded medical school, or followed from copious note-taking. Fortunately, she’d read his letters so often, she knew them by heart. “My dearest wife,” she read. She turned the paper toward the light. “I miss you so much. Each day brings you closer, yet you seem so far. My talk went really well. The audience asked lots of questions. And I made some good hotshot contacts for our future. Glad Ayurvedic medicine interests you. Papa must be bending your ear; he’s been longing for an ardent student. Also glad you’re writing it down and that both you and the maharaja are sleeping well.” Her eyes grew heavy, dropping to the bottom of the page. “Just think, by the time Lazy Bones starts walking, there’ll be public phone booths in most villages, even some private phones. We can phone your Ma every day. But for now … ”
She cast the letter aside. She would reply later. She would tell Dileep that she was a little scared, uncertain … this silence within her. Was it natural? She didn’t want to alarm her in-laws. She closed her eyes. The letter slipped from her fingers. Sliding down into the pillows, she felt herself falling, free-falling, feather-light down a long dark tunnel. She tried to call Ma, but her voice was hollow. She wafted down, down, down. Just as she touched bottom, she felt a sticky wetness between her legs.
Her eyes opened into a shadowy gray light. The thick, murky-black walls of the tunnel were now a dingy white. And there were faces around her in starched, white coats. A pungent odor burned her nostrils. She tried to focus as Dileep’s face took shape. He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Papa was holding her left hand, tracing the lines in her palm, his leathery face beaten soft; Ma was standing at the foot of the bed, gently massaging her feet, her eyes focused on each stroke. She seemed to be counting, or mumbling something, or softly chanting.
“Where am I?” Nimmi whispered. “What happened?”
She’d had a C-section, that dark day. A “stillborn fetus”, the doctors had called it. She’d developed a kind of toxicity, a poisoning of the placenta. Aiy, such nonsense, Ma had moaned. Toxic? From where would poison come? They lived where the air was fresh; away from city smoke stacks, city water, grime and pollution. They ate fresh food made from fresh produce from the bazaar, daily. Every morning, Ma had prepared turmeric milk with her own hands. Every Tuesday at dusk, the village women had gathered under the ashoka tree to pray to Durga, the Divine Mother. What more could they have done?
Papa had blamed the doctors for everything—their hasty decision to do a C-section, their poor craft—they’d likely made too-big stitches with a too-big needle. Even a mochi sewed sandals better, he’d shouted.
She’d walked into the courtyard, where the family’s beloved tulsi plant, so sacred to Vishnu, grew. She’d been unable to watch Dileep’s face seething like a cauldron of boiling oil. She’d leaned against the wall, repeating, “Breathe. Just keep breathing. That’s how you stay alive.”
And now the clock was ticking again—loudly, since both Dileep and Papa were only sons. Everyone was counting on her. After repeatedly begging her husband to tell her, he’d finally said, “A little boy.”
She hid her notebook of Papa’s recipes in her old steel trunk. Sometimes, she wished she had left it behind in the shed. Sometimes, she wished she had stayed indoors that half-moon night. Sometimes, she wondered if Papa’s heart was perforated with doubt, and her heart ached for him, too.