In Good Faith

Zahi

ZahiSome people collect coins. Or stamps, or broken hearts. Zahi collected noses. Whenever she met someone new, she was instantly attracted to the nose on their face. She was fascinated by the variety of shapes and sizes of the noses that she saw, and would immediately file away a new one mentally for future reference, discarding it if it was similar to any of those that she already knew.

She had heard that the nose was a phallic symbol, but her interest, she believed, was devoid of s****l connotations. A pert nose, an aristocratic nose, an aquiline nose, a retroussé nose…there were plenty of apt words to describe noses. Of course, she had her preferences. The nostrils should not flare too much, nor should the centre of the nose dip so low that it covered most of the upper lip. And sometimes a nose that seemed almost perfect in profile, was disappointing when viewed en face. Her own, she privately thought, fitted into that category, although one could never be quite sure what one’s nose looked like in profile. Still, she thought to herself that taking everything together, her face could be called attractive. Being excessively critical of her looks, however, she didn’t seem to be aware that there were those who thought her pretty. But with her grey eyes, which were her best feature, her dark brown hair and strikingly fair colouring, this was really no surprise. And she was tall and slim, so one might say she had it all.

She remembered the guy on the bus yesterday, who had got off at the same stop. He had made his way down the steps from the bridge, presumably towards the local train station, while she had walked home. She had an idea she had seen him somewhere, but she wasn’t sure where. He had a regular sort of face, not really the kind to catch anyone’s attention, but he did have a nice nose, Zahi thought. Longish, but not too sharp. She thought that a classical nose on a guy made him too handsome to be attractive, and she had known a few who were excessively mindful of, or even obsessed with their own looks. That was the thing: it spoiled it if a guy acted like he knew he was good-looking.

Now, however, she wasn’t thinking of noses, or of the guys who possessed them. In fact, at that moment, she very much wanted to hold her own nose and shut out the smells which assailed her nostrils. It was a Sunday, and she had got up early and hurried to the local fish market. She was a good cook, and her signature dish was silver-white pomfret sliced and stuffed with a delicious green chutney and then lightly pan-fried. Sunday was the only day when she could try out new recipes or rustle up an old favourite, because it was the cook’s day off. Zahi could have the kitchen to herself without having to put up with unsolicited advice from the cook, who clearly disliked her territory being usurped by the pretender.

The weather was hot and humid, and fish being a perishable commodity, everything had to be sold as soon as possible. At this time, she would get the best fish, and the smell was tolerable. In fact, fresh fish didn't smell bad at all—or at least not to someone who had been brought up on it. Zahi had a keen nose, and if the fish smelt even slightly off to her, she knew it wasn't fresh. All around her, women in colourful sarees were seated on stone platforms, zealously advertising their wares. These fishwives sold the daily catch brought in by their menfolk, in an atmosphere of bonhomie and cheerful banter.

Zahi was haggling over the price of a pair of pomfrets with one of the women. “How much?” she asked.

“Fifty rupees,” replied the woman.

Zahi clicked her tongue in remonstration and, not to be outdone, countered, “Twenty.” She was prepared to pay a bit more, but had left herself some bargaining margin.

The woman shook her head. “Fifty,” she repeated, and turned to serve another customer.

Feigning indifference, Zahi moved some distance away from the stall, pretending to examine a pile of prawns on the adjacent counter. The seller finished serving her customer, then called out to Zahi, “Do you want those, too? I'll give them to you at a good price.”

“Maybe,” Zahi answered, but not too eagerly. “But I really want the pomfrets. Too bad that you're insisting on overcharging me for them.”

The woman said, “These are the biggest and best pomfrets in the whole market today. Look around, you won't get anything like them.”

Zahi replied, “I know. You get the best fish. That's why I've come to you. Now, are we going to do this deal, or not?”

The woman, mollified, came down some way below the price she'd quoted earlier. “Forty.”

“Thirty-five.”

The fish-seller agreed, but added with alacrity, “And the prawns, take them too.” She figured that she'd make up a bit of what she might have lost on the price of the pomfrets.

Once she got home, Zahi put on an apron and got to work on the prawns. They looked pinkish grey and translucent after she had shelled them, which was the easy part. Next she had to remove the black gut running down the middle of the back of each one, a tedious task. She looked down at her apron. It had pretty red flowers on it, in stark contrast with the crisp white ‘apron’ that she had been wearing all through the past week in college. The past few days had been so hectic. But then the first days of college were bound to be. Books, classes, orientation rounds, new classmates…It had been pretty much like this during her first week in junior college, too. Then, there had been the thrill of being out of school. Out of uniform for the first time. But now, there was a different kind of thrill. The thrill of having finally made it to medical college. She had no doubt at all that this was where she wanted to be. When she saw her name on the admissions list, a feeling of exultation enveloped her. Since getting to know she was in, she hadn’t even had the time to grab a few self-congratulatory moments. And now that she had, typically, she wasn’t sure what she should be feeling. She wished she could bask in a warm contented euphoria, but told herself that would be an indulgence. There was so much to be done.

The pomfrets sizzled merrily in the pan as Zahi finished cleaning the last of the prawns, put them in a plastic bag and popped them in the freezer for later. As she flipped the fish over, her thoughts went to Abhi. He had been a true source of inspiration to her with his placid good humour. He had encouraged her through the gruelling months of preparation, as she wearily memorized facts that had to be learned by rote. And now his faith in her had been rewarded. It was a dream come true, but it hadn’t always been her dream. In fact, in middle school, she couldn’t remember being certain about or even seriously considering medicine as a profession. It was only when she had to choose her course of study after the Class Ten Board exams that the idea of becoming a doctor began to take root in her mind, and she opted for science in junior college. From then on, it was with a strong sense of purpose that she made her preparations, planned her studies and achieved what she had set out to do.

Zahi garnished the platter of fish with lemon quarters and a sprig of coriander, and placed it in the centre of the table, then arranged the other dishes around it. She had made a simple accompaniment of rice and dal to go with the fish. It was on rare occasions like this Sunday lunch that they sat together for a meal, and she had set the table with attractive place settings to complement the appetising food. She stepped back to survey her handiwork, and pleased with the effect, summoned the family to the table.

Zahi’s father was a lawyer who practised in the High Court in Bombay. There was a time when she had thought she would be a lawyer too. She had a good memory and the ability to express herself clearly, which would have stood her in good stead if she were to have studied law as a profession. But she thought she didn’t have the temperament. She wasn’t naturally patient, she had extremely strong opinions and wasn’t very tolerant of the opinions of other people when they contrasted sharply with her own. Her father had never expressed a wish that she should follow him and become a lawyer, for he knew how much she had wanted to become a doctor ever since she finished school. Maybe he remembered, too, that many years ago, Zahi’s mother had wanted to take up higher studies and become a veterinarian. But her parents would have none of it, and so, like the dutiful daughter that she was, she obediently submitted to their decision and married Zahi’s father. After Abhijit’s birth, there was no question of any further studies or career.

Zahi knew that if her father was happy that she had made it to medical college, her mother was overjoyed. Perhaps she saw herself and her thwarted ambitions reflected in her daughter, and was glad that Zahi’s aspirations were on the way to being fulfilled. They were a close-knit family, and when she was younger, Zahi had been used to telling her parents all about the day’s events. Inevitably, though, the process of growing up had had the effect of distancing her from her parents, and in the past two years, her studies had taken precedence over dinner table conversations and indeed, most other social interactions within the family. When that crucial period was over, they realized that they had drifted apart, or perhaps it was just an inevitable consequence of Zahi having grown up and become busy with her life and career. Zahi’s father was increasingly busier in his practice, too, and if her mother missed her daughter’s endless chatter as in earlier days, she never showed it, but continued to take pride in Zahi’s achievements.

“So, how has your experience in college been so far?” asked Zahi’s father.

“Everything is so new and unexpected! Even though I had imagined how the Dissection Hall would be, it isn’t quite like what I had thought,” she replied, and went on to describe everything in detail.

She hadn't had any qualms about dissection. In fact, she had thought she would volunteer to be the first one to pick up her scalpel and forceps if no one else in her batch wanted to be the one to start cutting up the corpse. But one of the boys had begged to be allowed the first chance. He said he had always dreamed of being a surgeon, and he felt it would be memorable for him, the day he started ‘operating’. Put like that, Zahi thought she couldn't refuse him the opportunity, so she stepped back and watched. It wasn't in the least like operating, because there was no blood. She had seen pictures of surgeons operating, and although there were green drapes everywhere, exposing only a small square of the patient's body, everything that was visible was red. Bright red. The redness of blood was what evoked strong responses from people—when they cut their finger, saw their first menstrual bleeding or witnessed the birth of an infant covered in blood. But cadavers in the Dissection Room had no blood at all.

“Zahi, could you get me a glass of water, please?” said Abhi. He had been listening so intently to her stories that he had swallowed something too quickly and had begun coughing. She jumped up at once to get him the water and as she gave him the glass, her mother saw the absorbed happy face of her daughter, and felt glad for her.