The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

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.

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 anda 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.

“I called Nimmi to help. I thought she would be able to communicate better with the boy and girl.”

“And?”

I tuck a curl behind his ear; it springs back again. “Jay, what’s the reason someone would shear a sheep—halfway—and then sew the hide back on as if it hadn’t been sheared?”

He raises his brows.

“The wounds were under the sheared wool,” I say. “As if the animal had rubbed her raw skin against something abrasive. But how could she possibly have done that when the fleece was mostly still attached?”

“Still attached?”

“Exactly. Like a pocket someone tried to sew back on. The thread had come loose, so the flap of fleece was visible.” I indicate the wound’s size—maybe four inches by five inches—with my hands. “Just about this big.”

Jay puts a hand on my arm. “Who brought the sheep into the clinic?” He says it quietly enough, but something in his tone alarms me.

“Two children. They came across her on a mountain trail while they were gathering firewood.”

“Where’s the sheep now?”

A shiver crawls up my spine. I can tell when he’s trying to make something sound like nothing, like when he has to tell a patient they have cancer. “At the clinic. I asked Nimmi to take care of it.”

“And where is Nimmi at this moment?”

I feel Jay’s hand on my arm tense. Now I’m more afraid than worried. Jay knows something I don’t, and I sense that he’s about to tell me I’ve put Nimmi in some kind of danger.

“At her house, I would imagine, with her children. And the sheep,” I say slowly.

Jay blinks. “You said the wound was only on one side of the animal. Did you check its other side?”

I shake my head.

He covers his mouth with his palm. The look on his face raises goose bumps on my arms.

“Why?” I ask. “What’s happened?”

When we reach Nimmi’s lean-to at the bottom of the hill, I can see the light of a kerosene lamp through the window. I don’t want to wake her landlords on the floor above hers, so I tap lightly on the door, and Nimmi opens it a moment later. She looks surprised to see us.

She’s carrying Chullu in a homemade sling strapped to her back. Behind her, I see Rekha, sitting on one of the many bolsters lining the walls of the room. She’s eating a chapatti. Rekha sees me, smiles and looks at me as if she’s hoping that I might have brought another book for her to read. I smile back.

Then I hear a bleat. I hadn’t seen that the sheep was in the room as well, sitting on another grass-stuffed bolster, munching on thistle leaves.

Nimmi hasn’t moved from the door. She looks from me to Jay. Baby Chullu regards us over her shoulder.

“Nimmi,” I say, “Dr. Kumar thinks we need to take the sheep.”

“Why?” she says. She sounds annoyed. “She’s better now. She needed food and rest.”

Jay steps forward. “Nimmi,” he says, “the owner must be looking for it. May I check—”

Nimmi steps in front of him to block his way.

“I won’t hurt her, Nimmi. I just need to see if—”

“I’ve already done it.” Her voice is low. She looks down at her feet.

“Done what?”

Now she looks at Jay. A moment passes. “Checked her other side.”

Jay steps back and nods. “And?”

Nimmi finally moves aside to let us in, then pulls the door closed.

When she turns to face us, she says, “Still intact. The gold.” She sighs.

Jay nods, turns to me. He had explained it all to me earlier, before we left the house to see Nimmi. He showed me the article in the paper; more and more gold being smuggled through the mountains.

Nimmi reaches an arm behind her to pat Chullu, more to comfort herself than him, I think. “The gold moves on the same trails as our tribe. Two years ago, a man—a trafficker—told Dev there was a lot of money to be made if he agreed to help the smugglers, but Dev refused.” She steals a glance at me. “I knew, this morning, when I saw the sheep had not been sheared. See, we always shear the sheep when we arrive here, in the foothills, for the winter. That way we can sell the wool before we make the trek back up the mountains in the spring. The tribes already sheared their sheep and left weeks ago to take their herds north for the summer.”

My husband frowns. “Nimmi, it’s not safe for you to have her here. Someone will come looking for her.” He bites his lip and looks at me, then back at Nimmi. “The smugglers won’t stop until they find what’s theirs.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Nimmi turns away from us and squats in front of the wool blanket on which she has collected the family’s few possessions. “They used to sneak it in their shoes, the lining of their coats—gold ingots the size of those candied lemon slices you make.” She flicks another glance my way. “But now they’re using our sheep. Hiding it under their fleece. And for that, they need a shepherd.” She knots the ends of the cloth together tightly and sets the bundle on a padded quilt laid out on the floor. Then she stands and turns to look at us. “I have to go. I have to find his flock—and him. They’ll kill his family if the gold is not delivered.”

I put a hand on Nimmi’s arm. “Find who? Whose family is in danger?”

She turns away, her shoulders tense. I can almost smell her fear. She stares down at the quilt. “My brother. Vinay.”

Now she looks at the sheep quietly munching in the corner. “The markings on her ear. That’s my brother’s flock.”

When she turns to us, I see desperation in her eyes. “I have to find him. The only reason one of his sheep would be running around loose is if Vinay is hurt badly, too. So badly that he can’t move. Or he’s—” She blinks. “His flock must be out there without a shepherd. With all the gold.”

Jay runs a hand through his curls. Then he turns to Nimmi and says, “Could someone else have taken Vinay’s flock?”

My mouth falls open. I hadn’t considered the possibility that bandits might have taken the sheep.

Nimmi’s jaw clenches. “You don’t think that’s occurred to me? My brother has a wife and two sons. If the smugglers think the gold’s been stolen—if it doesn’t get delivered to the people who are waiting for it, they’ll kill everyone in Vinay’s family. They’d kill our entire tribe if they think that one of us knows where the gold is.” She bends down and pulls the knot on her bundle tight.

Baby Chullu senses his mother’s unease. He starts fussing. She reaches an arm over her shoulder to stroke his neck. He quiets down.

I look at Rekha. She’s stopped eating. She looks at her mother, then at the two of us. She senses something’s wrong, but I don’t know how much of what we’re saying she understands.

One of the main reasons I sent Malik to Jaipur was to keep him from falling in with traffickers. Carrying illegal goods tempts many who have heard that there’s good money to be made. I’d worried Malik might try trafficking guns, given that a war was on up north. With his enterprising instincts, he might have thought himself too clever to be caught despite the risks. But gold smuggling hadn’t even been on my radar.

Silently, I offer thanks to Manu and Kanta for agreeing to give Malik a home, away from all these temptations.

Now I squat next to Nimmi. “How would they—the smugglers—find your brother’s home? Your tribe is always on the move.”

“We are until we reach our summer destination. All the families have huts up there. Dev’s and mine is next to Vinay’s, though I wouldn’t be surprised to hear another family has since moved in.” She reaches around her neck to stroke Chullu again. She must be remembering her husband and the life they had together with their tribe.

With renewed fervor, Nimmi begins rolling the bundle on the floor.

“You really plan to leave tonight? And take the sheep?”

Nimmi says nothing.

I look at Rekha, her eyes large, unblinking. “What about the children?”

Nimmi raises an eyebrow. “We’ve always traveled the mountains with our children.”

“And Malik?” I think about the letters I’ll receive from him addressed to her. How much he wants to say to her. How much he doesn’t say because he knows I’ll be the one to read it to her.

Her hands hover over the quilt for a second. “He’s not here,” she says. Then she cinches the bedroll with jute.

I look helplessly at Jay, who seems to be as lost as I am about what to do. I know that Nimmi shouldn’t go alone, with her children and the sheep, to find her brother. It’s too dangerous. If any one of them falls ill, is injured or encounters bandits, there’ll be no one there to help.

Now Jay squats beside us. “Wait until the morning, Nimmi. Please. Let us think about this, make a plan together.”

Nimmi flashes her dark eyes at him. “You won’t go to the police?”

He shakes his head. He and I had already talked about this. The police would be inclined to punish and jail a poor shepherd serving as nothing more than a courier. Or they might want the precious metal for themselves and decide Nimmi knows more than she does, in which case, they might threaten her life. When it comes to smuggling contraband goods, it’s hard to know whom to trust—even among the police, who are supposed to control the trafficking.

Nimmi looks at her daughter, who has wandered over to the sheep and is petting the animal’s head. Without meeting our eyes, Nimmi nods.

Jay and I breathe a collective sigh.

Jay rises and goes to the sheep. He smiles at Rekha. “Can I pet her, too?” he asks.

She whispers in the way small children do—loud enough for all of us to hear. “Her name is Neela.”

Gently, Jay lifts the sheep’s woolly pelt and inspects the wound. “Hello, Neela,” he says. He turns to look at Nimmi. “You did a good job. The wound will heal and she’ll be fine. I’m thinking maybe we could use a veterinarian in Shimla.”

The look of puzzlement on Nimmi’s face makes him smile.

“Animal doctor,” he says. “We need one.”

But in the morning, Nimmi does not show up for work. I go directly to her lodging. No one’s there. The children, the sheep, the bolster and the bedroll—gone.