The Secret Keeper of Jaipur by Alka Joshi

4

NIMMI

Shimla

Today, I’ve left my children with the Aroras while I make my way to the Lady Bradley Hospital. The Aroras, my landlords, would love nothing better than to care for (and spoil!) Rekha and Chullu every time I leave the house to tend my flower stall. But I would miss my children too much, and so I usually want them with me. As I go about my day, my daughter and son are learning our tribal rituals and knowledge the same way I learned them by staying close to, and observing, my mother.

When I woke at dawn this morning in our cramped lodgings, my children were pressed against me on our cot, one on either side. I smoothed the heavy cream blanket covering our bodies, a blanket I had woven from the wool of our sheep. A sharp bit of straw pricked my finger.

Rekha kicked one of her legs outside the blanket and Chullu clenched his little fist. I wondered what they dream about, my children. Do they dream about their father? Or their grandfather? Do they dream about the goats we left behind, the smell of summer corn being roasted? Do they ever dream of Malik? His joyful laugh, the gifts he brings for them? I let my hands rest on the blanket as they slept, for the comfort of it, to feel the gentle rise and fall of their breathing.

I thought about Lakshmi inviting me to help with the hospital garden. Rekha needed new shoes; already her feet had grown too large for the ones I’d made for her last year from a goat’s hide. Soon she would be old enough to go to school. (Just think! I’d never had the chance, but my girl would get to go!) But she would need books and paper, pencils and erasers.

Chullu was growing, too. He needed a new sweater, but without our sheep, I had no wool to make one for him. My children needed these things now and would need more as they got older, and rather than find ways to get those things for them, my thoughts kept turning back to Malik, always Malik. The feel of him, the sharp angle of his jawline, the way he reassured me that I belonged here in Shimla. Then my thoughts turned to Lakshmi, and I felt my teeth clench. I didn’t want Mrs. Kumar to plan his life for him. Was it jealousy I felt? Jealousy of her? Certainly, she held more sway over him than I did. Otherwise, why would he have left me and the children without a backward glance? Did he think so little of us? It would be for only a short while, he said, but if Lakshmi asked him to stay in Jaipur forever, would he?

I tucked Rekha’s leg back inside the blanket. Was I being unfair to my children—putting my own needs ahead of theirs? Was it pride or selfishness, or both, that made me think about these things? What would Dev have wanted me to do? I sighed. My husband would have wanted me to do what was best for his children.

So, later that day, I asked Mrs. Arora to watch Rekha and Chullu while I trudged up the hill to the Lady Bradley Hospital, where I knew I would find Lakshmi Kumar.

Now I stand in front of the hospital, a sprawling three-story building. Several times, while I was working at my flower stall on the Shimla Mall, and Malik worried that my children might have ear infections, he took them to the Community Clinic run by Mrs. Kumar’s husband. I know the clinic must be near the hospital. And Lakshmi must be at the clinic.

A steady stream of people are going in and out through the glass doors of the main entrance. Each time the doors open, I see nurses dressed in white and nuns in wimples going about their business.

I’ve never been inside a hospital, never been this close to one. Even from here, twenty feet from the entrance, I detect a strong odor—foreign to me—but I don’t know where it comes from, or what it is.

A young nurse who has just come through the door seems to sense I’m lost and asks if she can help me.

“Yes, please. Do you know where Mrs. Kumar works?”

She tells me that around the corner of the building, to the left, I’ll see a door marked “Community Clinic,” and points the way. She’s assuming I can read, which makes me grateful to her, and I thank her for her help.

There are two doors on the left side of the building, but only one has writing on it. If not for the nurse, I wouldn’t have known which door to try.

When I cross the threshold, I find myself in a room with walls painted the color of lichen. The four people sitting on chairs set against one wall are wearing vests and skirts and local headdresses. A pretty woman in a sari sits behind a desk writing something on a piece of paper. She wears black eyeglasses and pink lipstick. Her hair is styled in one long braid down her back.

When I step forward, she says, “May I help you?”

Before I can answer, Lakshmi Kumar steps through a white curtain covering the entrance to another room and calls out “Nimmi!” She has on a long white coat that’s covering her sari. I can tell by her smile that she’s pleased to see me. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. In my finest dress, silver jewelry and the medallion on my forehead, I look so out of place. The hill people, the receptionist and Lakshmi are in their everyday clothes. But Lakshmi grins at me reassuringly.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she says. “I’ll be right with you.”

She holds the curtain open to allow another woman to exit the room they were in. She’s a hill woman, and the girl whose hand she’s holding has a fresh white bandage on her arm. The woman and child go to the front desk, and Lakshmi follows. To the woman behind the desk, she says, “Please tell her to put ointment on the wound only after she has washed her hands with hot water and soap. Tell her it’s important.”

The receptionist repeats Lakshmi’s instructions in another dialect, and the woman wags her head to indicate she understands. Lakshmi smiles at the child and fetches a red balloon made to look like a monkey from behind the desk. It looks just like the animal balloons the vendor next to my stall sells. That must be where Lakshmi buys them. That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.

Lakshmi, grinning, turns to me. “Tell me you’re taking me up on my offer.”

I wag my head, which can mean yes, or no, or we’ll see.

Lakshmi grins as if I’ve said yes. She turns to the receptionist. “Sarita, this is Nimmi. You’ll be seeing her more often.”

Now Lakshmi takes me by the arm. “Come. I’ll show you the garden. But I must be quick because we have a few more patients waiting. Dr. Kumar is in the other exam room. When he’s finished with his patient, I’ll introduce you to him.”

She leads me into a long corridor. A few steps farther and we’ve come out of the back of the building, where I see a neatly laid-out garden that’s twice as large as the footprint of the clinic. It’s surrounded by a wooden fence. Each row is carefully labeled, I imagine with Lakshmi’s handwriting on a wooden stake. I can see the soil has been turned recently and some rows have been tilled but not yet planted. Off to one side are more mature trees, like nag kesar, whose leaves our tribe always uses to make a poultice for head colds. I spot a spindly tree, struggling to survive.

Mrs. Kumar sees where I’m looking, and laughs. “That’s me being hopeful,” she says. “The powder I make from a sandalwood tree is good for relieving headaches, but I haven’t found the right place for it. I’ll keep trying until I find it.”

Three-foot shrubs are planted next to the trees. I recognize moonseed, brahmi and wild senna.

“I’ve set some rows aside where we can grow the flowers you provide for poultices and treatments.”

Lakshmi talks as if I have already accepted her offer. When I nod, again, I realize I haven’t said a word since I came into the clinic.

“In Jaipur I used herbal remedies made from native plants to heal women’s ailments. I’ve been doing the same in Shimla, using plants that grow only here. Shimla’s climate is so different from Jaipur’s. I had to learn about the native herbs and flowers that grow in this soil, in these foothills.” She pauses, looking at me. Maybe thinking that she’s telling me too much? Or is she waiting for me to respond to what she’s telling me or to ask a question? I’m not sure, so I say nothing. In a moment, she continues.

“There’s so much more to learn. That sik dish you made from local fruit for one of our patients? If you can do that, just imagine how much more you can do with medicinal plants that grow in the higher elevations. You could help so many of the people who come to our clinic, Nimmi. Let’s try growing those same plants in the Healing Garden and see what happens!”

Lakshmi’s blue eyes are sparkling with excitement, and she bends down and grabs a handful of soil. “I’ve put different ingredients in the soil, trying to make it as rich as it can be—and also a little less acidic.” She lets the dirt—moist, black, free of twigs, pebbles and leaves—fall through her fingers. “Mostly I’ve been using pulverized limestone—” She stops, turns to me and laughs. “I’m going on and on, aren’t I?”

She rubs her hands together to get rid of the soil. “Shall we get started on the paperwork to see that you get paid on time?”

As always, Lakshmi exudes confidence. I have to wonder if she’s ever failed at anything. If any of her many plans have not worked out. Is she so confident because things always go the way she means them to? Did she always know Malik would agree to go to Jaipur for his apprenticeship? Does she mean to keep him there...forever?

“After we’ve done the paperwork, I’ll introduce you to the staff,” she says, already on her way to the back door of the clinic. “We’ll draw up a list of plants you think we’ll need to fill out our garden. Our tools are in that shed. I use dung for fertilizer—cow or sheep or goat, depending. Bhagwan knows there’s plenty of the stuff to go around, though certain of the staff complain about the odor of the sheep dung!”

The afternoon passes quickly. Given my dress and jewelry, most of the staff I’m introduced to would normally stare at me on the street, but here they’re polite to my face, murmuring welcomes. I can tell by the way they defer to her that they obviously respect Mrs. Kumar. After we wash our hands—with more soap than I’ve ever used in life at one time—she introduces me to her husband. I’ve been curious to meet the man Malik has told me so much about. Dr. Jay, as Malik calls him, is tall, taller than anyone I’ve met. His black-and-white curls are in disarray over his forehead. He has gray eyes, both observant and kind. When he first sees me, his eyes flit to my silver medallion, my skirt, the overhead ceiling fan and his shoes. He’s shy, like my Rekha. His smile reveals two overlapping front teeth. I find myself smiling back at him.

“So this is the mother of the charming Rekha and little Chullu! Pleased to meet you. If Sister out there weren’t watching me, Rekha would be able to charm me out of the whole lot of animal balloons Mrs. Kumar stocks!” The skin around his eyes crinkles into small folds when he smiles.

Mrs. Kumar looks at him fondly. “Arré! The balloon seller has been able to remodel his whole house because of your generosity!”

I see now that my clothes are not right for gardening. The sisters are in white habits. Dr. Jay wears a white coat over his clothes. Mrs. Kumar and the woman at the front desk wear white coats over their saris. Should I ask for a white coat to keep my finest skirts from getting soiled? And what will I do about my jewelry?

As if Lakshmi Kumar has heard me ask the question, she says to the nun behind the front desk, “Sister, would you please give Nimmi-ji one of the gardening aprons and a set of gloves? Oh, and also that paperwork I filled out earlier for Nimmi-ji.”

I feel a jolt up my spine. She knows I can’t read Hindi or English. What will the other clinic staff think—the ones who can read and write? Is Lakshmi trying to humiliate me?

The nun hands the paperwork to Mrs. Kumar, who rolls it and puts it in her coat pocket. She glances at me. “Perhaps later this afternoon, you and I can go over it, accha? I must join Dr. Kumar now.” With a reassuring smile at me, she parts the curtain, about to disappear into the area where she and the doctor work with patients. Where Malik must have taken Rekha and Chullu for their ear infections.

“Lakin...”

Mrs. Kumar turns her head around to look at me, inquiringly.

“It’s just... My Chullu. I must feed him.”

She looks down at my blouse, stricken, as if she’s just remembered that I’m still breastfeeding.

“Oh, Nimmi. I’m sorry. Of course! Why not bring Chullu and Rekha to work from now on? Maybe we can get Rekha to help water the plants.” She raises her brows. “But we would have to be careful around the clinic. Most of what the patients come in for isn’t infectious, but we want your children to stay healthy, hahn-nah?”

I return to the clinic in an hour, Chullu on my back and Rekha at my side. At home I changed into a homespun skirt, and a sweater blouse my sister-in-law gave me. I’ve cinched the blouse with the wool belt where I keep my husband’s knife. I’ve covered my head with a patterned shawl that holds my hair back.

Lakshmi comes with us to the garden carrying a clipboard, and we talk about the healing plants we need to sow. She makes notes and says she might forget unless she writes down what she’s thinking. As I watch her write, I think about the vendor who twists balloons into the shape of animals. The letters formed in Hindi are something like that, except, instead of animals, they make swirls and dots, circles and slanted lines. Lakshmi’s writing is even and neat, but what I find more beautiful is how her henna-decorated fingers move in rhythm with her pen. The henna’s cinnamon color is richer today than it was yesterday, and the contrast of cinnamon against the white page is striking.

When she sees me watching her, I look away. From the corner of my eye, I see her tap her lips with her fountain pen.

“Since Rekha will be coming here so often, I’d like to teach her how to read. If that’s all right with you. She’s four now, isn’t she? A perfect time to get her interested. We’ll practice during breaks, and you can sit in if you’d like.”

My daughter is drawing circles with her fingers in the loamy soil. I’m thinking of the possibilities. Might she become a padha-likha, or even a doctrini like Mrs. Kumar? Imagine! A tribal girl writing on paper, just like Lakshmi!

“Eventually, you’ll need to make lists of plants and supplies. For now, you can draw what the leaves of the plants look like.” With a few quick strokes, she draws a leaf on the edge of her clipboard. “Like this.”

“Moonseed!” I grin.

“Quite right.” She offers me the fountain pen.

I’ve never held a pen before. It’s smooth. And slick. I clutch it in my fingers, trying to hold it the way she does. I push hard. There’s a dark blot on the paper now, like a drop of blood. I look at Lakshmi, the way Rekha looks at me when she’s done something wrong. Lakshmi puts her hand on mine and lifts my fingers ever so gently. “Not so hard,” she says.

I ease up on the pressure. I draw a line, and the ink flows more smoothly. I draw another line, then another.

“Toothache plant?” she asks.

I nod.

“Shabash! You’re going to get along just fine, Nimmi!”

I’m not used to compliments. My face is warm, whether from embarrassment or gratitude, I can’t tell. She is being so kind. It’s not what I expected. I feel my eyes get moist.

She looks away and removes the rolled-up papers from her coat. “Let’s get this taken care of, shall we? But first, I want to check the fungus on that leaf.”

Lakshmi stands and walks in the direction of the wild senna, leaving me time to wipe my eyes.