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a fish,” she said. “You young doctors. You come into a strange house and your liver turns to jelly. Come, Doctor Sahib, they are waiting for you.” Clutching his bag a fraction too tightly, he followed her through the dark teak door.
    … Into a spacious bedchamber that was as ill-lit as the rest of the house; although here there were shafts of dusty sunlight seeping in through a fanlight high on one wall. These fusty rays illuminated a scene as remarkable as anything the Doctor had ever witnessed: a tableau of such surpassing strangeness that his feet began to twitch towards the door once again. Two more women, also built like professional wrestlers, stood stiffly in the light, each holding one corner of an enormous white bedsheet, their arms raised high above their heads so that the sheet hung between them like a curtain. Mr. Ghani welled up out of the murk surrounding the sunlit sheet and permitted the nonplussed Aadam to stare stupidly at the peculiar tableau for perhaps half a minute, at the end of which, and before a word had been spoken, the Doctor made a discovery:
    In the very center of the sheet, a hole had been cut, a crude circle about seven inches in diameter.
    “Close the door, ayah,” Ghani instructed the first of the lady wrestlers, and then, turning to Aziz, became confidential. “This town contains many good-for-nothings who have on occasion tried to climb into my daughter’s room. She needs,” he nodded at the three muscle-bound women, “protectors.”
    Aziz was still looking at the perforated sheet. Ghani said, “All right, come on, you will examine my Naseem right now.
Pronto
”.
    My grandfather peered around the room. “But where is she, Ghani Sahib?” he blurted out finally. The lady wrestlers adopted supercilious expressions and, it seemed to him, tightened their musculatures, just in case he intended to try something fancy.
    “Ah, I see your confusion,” Ghani said, his poisonous smile broadening, “You Europe-returned chappies forget certain things. Doctor Sahib, my daughter is a decent girl, it goes without saying. She does not flaunt her body under the noses of strange men. You will understand that you cannot be permitted to see her, no, not in any circumstances; accordingly I have required her to be positioned behind that sheet. She stands there, like a good girl.”
    A frantic note had crept into Doctor Aziz’s voice. “Ghani Sahib, tell me how I am to examine her without looking at her?” Ghani smiled on.
    “You will kindly specify which portion of my daughter it is necessary to inspect. I will then issue her with my instructions to place the required segment against that hole which you see there. And so, in this fashion the thing may be achieved.”
    “But what, in any event, does the lady complain of?”—my grandfather, despairingly. To which Mr. Ghani, his eyes rising upwards in their sockets, his smile twisting into a grimace of grief, replied: “The poor child! She has a terrible, a too dreadful stomach-ache.”
    “In that case,” Doctor Aziz said with some restraint, “will she show me her stomach, please.”

Mercurochrome
    P ADMA—OUR PLUMP PADMA —is sulking magnificently. (She can’t read and, like all fish-lovers, dislikes other people knowing anything she doesn’t. Padma: strong, jolly, a consolation for my last days. But definitely a bitch-in-the-manger.) She attempts to cajole me from my desk: “Eat, na, food is spoiling.” I remain stubbornly hunched over paper. “But what is so precious,” Padma demands, her right hand slicing the air up-downup in exasperation, “to need all this writing-shiting?” I reply: now that I’ve let out the details of my birth, now that the perforated sheet stands between doctor and patient, there’s no going back. Padma snorts. Wrist smacks against forehead. “Okay, starve starve, who cares two pice?” Another louder, conclusive snort … but I take no exception to her attitude. She stirs a bubbling vat all day