The Passions of Dr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  “Underestimating the worth of a woman will not be a fault of his for long.” George resumed his place on the chair and stretched his bare legs across to a terra-cotta planter, casually crossing his ankles on the wide edge. “He sees you trounce me at chess often enough to know women have keen intellects.”

  “Winning a game of chess with you is not all that difficult.”

  “Oh ho ho! Methinks I detect an insult and challenge in those words, Mrs. Ullas! I believe a rematch is in order!”

  “Are you sure your pride can take such a hit twice in one day, Dr. Darcy?”

  “Probably not, so it is fortunate for my bruised ego that I will not be able to test myself until tomorrow. I am due to meet your husband in an hour,” he explained when she looked up from the plate she was painting, teasing eyes asking a silent question. “We are performing the surgery on Bai Dalmiya. That will take all afternoon and part of the evening, but tomorrow I should have time to redeem myself and prove my superiority. Be warned.”

  “Noted. So that is why you feigned exhaustion and quit the cricket field?”

  “Partly feigned. They do possess a stamina I wish I could bottle in some way.” Pausing for another deep drink of the sweet juice, George smilingly observed the playing youths for several minutes. “I have decided that my favorite sound in all the world is that of children laughing. Remember when we were discussing that and you suggested I discover it?”

  “I do.” Jharna sat the paintbrush aside and turned her attention to her companion. “It was nearly three years ago. You said you had to think about it, which is wise. One’s favorite sound above all others is not to be hastily decided, although it may change as one grows older. Why children’s laughter?”

  George shrugged. “Oh, I could name a hundred reasons, but the simple fact is that no other sound gives me such joy.” He met her thoughtful stare. “Now I have told you. What is your favorite sound in all the world, Jharna?”

  Smiling smugly and cocking her head, she replied, “That is my secret.”

  “Hey! Not fair! I told you!”

  “I never asked you to tell me. I recommended the exercise as part of your life journey. Whether you share the revelation or not is your prerogative. I choose not to.”

  “You are a damned infuriating woman, Jharna Ullas. Do you know that?”

  “I am a woman,” she stated simply, smug smile intact.

  George glowered for a few more seconds then chuckled and shook his head. Conversation with Kshitij’s wife was never boring. No wonder his mentor and friend loved her so profoundly. Nimesh and Sasi were blessed with incredible parents, a fact borne true by the boys’ fine characters and delightful personalities. Daily, George counted his blessings at the honor of being an adopted member of their family.

  In the four and a half years they had traveled together, George never once regretted his decision to leave Bombay.

  The first two months after Dr. Ullas enticed Dr. Darcy away from his comfortable post were passed on Salsette Island as they gathered supplies and finalized their plans. Guides and servants were hired, and medical personnel interested in the excursion were interviewed along with British soldiers, the numbers swelling their party to over thirty before they departed. That number grew when reaching Thana to retrieve the Ullas family and personal servants. Since then the company varied, as some chose to return home or tarry behind while new recruits joined in along the way. Upon occasion, it was only the Ullas household and George with Anoop.

  Mysore was always part of the agenda. Partly that was Kshitij’s desire to reacquaint himself with his estranged kinsmen and to share his past with his current family, but also due to the busy hospital and school of Ayurvedic medicine in Mysore City. George had desired this since the beginning of their association, but with the third war between Tipu Sultan of Mysore and the British having reached a peace agreement the same year they set out, it was judged sensible to wait for matters to calm. They left the western coast to press east as far as Hyderabad Deccan before veering south two years into their journey, opportunities to practice medicine and learn presenting themselves as they kept moving.

  Their longest stay in one place was Madras. The booming city, established as the administrative headquarters of the British East India Company, offered vast educational experiences for all of them. The physicians zealously launched into the work available among the British and native peoples. It was an exciting time, even Kshitij supplanting his personal irritation at the exalted, imperialistic attitude of the British with the positive aspects present in the region. They might have dwelt longer if not for Jharna’s yearning to study the famed painting techniques of the Tanjore in Tamil Nadu. That movement further south led to a brief voyage to Ceylon, the physicians heeding a summons to assist the Dutch for a handful of months in early 1796 while Jharna and the boys remained in Tanjore. It wasn’t the first time they had embarked on missions of a limited duration away from the others, Kshitij opting to leave his family where it was safe if they were entering an unstable or unknown environment. The jaunt to Ceylon gave George a taste of the unique culture and was not nearly long enough to satisfy his hunger to learn all that was possible, but it was better than nothing.

  From Tanjore they diverted west, rather than further south to Cape Comorin, as originally intended. The waters surrounding Tipu Sultan were far from calm, but after four years, the pull of Mysore proved too great to resist. For the past four months, they had resided in Saliom. Kshitij and Jharna dwelt in the residence of his youngest brother and family. George rented a modest bungalow on the banks of the tiny river running to the north, preferring the solitude, although the walk to his friends’ abode was less than ten minutes.

  “You do intend to wash and don clothing more respectable before you perform surgery, do you not?”

  Jharna’s query broke into his reverie, George looking over at her with eyes wide with false shock. “Are you implying that this lovely kurti is not fit for surgery?” He tugged on the dirt-stained multicolored cloth of the tunic covering his chest. “Or is this an implication that my legs are a problem?” He raised one of the extremities in question off the pot’s edge, the hem of the knee-length lungi slipping to reveal an inch of thigh. “Admit it, these are fine looking legs. Manly and muscular. All the way around excellent examples of how a man’s legs should be.”

  Jharna quirked one brow over her glittering, dark eyes but said nothing.

  “Fine. I’ll change.” He groaned. “Besides, your husband would skin me alive if I wasn’t presentable before getting drenched in blood and yuck.”

  Not that he disagreed or would do otherwise, as they knew, Jharna laughing and shaking her head. “When are you going to wear the shalwar kameez that Vani sewed for you?”

  “How did you know of that?” he blurted, truly surprised this time.

  “She showed it to me before she began,” Jharna answered calmly, daubing her brush into the pot of paint and ignoring his expression. “She was afraid the colors were too bold, which I assured her was impossible for you. I assume it fit well?”

  “Yes,” he spluttered after a moment, “quite well.”

  “It should. She does know your size, after all.” She glanced upward then chuckled. “Oh, George! Why the embarrassment? You should know by now that personal affairs never remain secret in a close-knit community like Saliom.”

  “I do. It is just… Well, it is Vani, and I was not sure how… Does Kshitij know?”

  Jharna flashed him a look that cleared that redundant question. George winced. “Don’t be ridiculous, George. As if Kshitij would care who shares your bed as long as no one is being harmed.”

  “Yes, but Vani is his daughter—”

  “And she is a grown woman, a widow with her own life and the ability to make choices, all of which she has done without her father’s influence or permission. You two are good together. Vani is happy and fond of y
ou.”

  “How fond?”

  “You have no cause for concern, mitra. As I said, Vani is a grown woman. She understands how it is with you, that we will be leaving in time, and she is content with the situation. Honestly, not to further bruise your fragile ego so soon after a cricket and chess defeat, but Vani would probably not have you permanently if you offered.” She burst out laughing at the abrupt wounded cast to his face. “Men! All the same no matter where they hail from. Please do not take it personally, George.”

  George opened his mouth and shut it without speaking. Few things flustered him and he was not sure if it was the fact that his liaison with Vani was common knowledge—and to her father no less—or that he was discussing it with Jharna! Either way, it was best to close the topic right now. Fortunately, two interruptions served as perfect diversions.

  “Vaidya! Come play with us. Komali’s team is winning and we need your help!”

  “Please, chacha-jee!” Nimesh and Sasi pleaded in unison, drowning the three other male voices begging for delivery from the girls. “You are our best player!”

  “That is because I am taller than all of you combined.”

  The drama may have gone on indefinitely if not for the appearance of Dr. Ullas, his soft tones cutting through the tumult.

  “Dr. Darcy, we have another case of hydrophobia, so I have just been informed, and I am questioning why you halted the smallpox inoculations.”

  Kshitij shooed the children away. They left with hanging heads and shuffling feet until reaching the edge of the lawn, whereupon they dashed back into the fray on the field, apparently having decided that girls were not going to win. George leaned his head back to peer up at Kshitij. Whenever addressed as “Dr. Darcy” among family, George knew it was a sign that he was in trouble.

  “Chapal and Loy took ill after their doses, more so than normal, and the inoculation sites are inflamed and ulcerated. I do not think they will die but judged it wise to wait until we know they are well. In the interim, I have Partha and his team concocting fresh inoculant, just in case there was a contaminant or miscalculation. It isn’t an exact science, as you know, and that bothers me. The whole idea of inoculation bothers me, as you also know. I definitely want to be as certain of the safety of this batch before we start with the children.”

  “The risks with inoculation outweigh the outcome of smallpox.”

  “Usually,” George amended. “I concede that it is a principle that has merit and data to support, but there are cases proving otherwise. I haven’t forgotten Chittoor. Eight people dead and a dozen infected with the very disease we were trying to prevent. And the scarring?” He brushed his fingertips along the inner surface of his upper left arm where a sovereign-sized silvery mark was the sign of his smallpox inoculation done years ago. Barely visible on his fair skin, the same scar on darker skin was typically more pronounced. In a tiny percentage of individuals, the reaction to the serum containing live smallpox cells increased, with resultant scarring that was unsightly and ofttimes painful and debilitating.

  “Scarring from smallpox, if one survives, is far worse, Dr. Darcy. In India we have inoculated for a thousand years.”

  “Stop ‘Dr. Darcy-ing’ me, Kshitij. You know I agree with all you say. Still, you can’t argue that there are risks. Besides, we have exerted caution before in circumstances like this. At the present, there aren’t any cases of smallpox here, so we have time. I’ll make sure it gets done, Kshitij. Trust me. Now, what about the case of rabies?”

  Kshitij grudgingly conceded, reaching for the pitcher of juice and pouring a glass. “A man was bitten by a wild dog while hunting. Three weeks ago. Fool dressed the wound on his hand with some homemade poultice and did not seek medical care because he feared amputation. Sadly his gamble has been lost. Losing a limb is unfortunate, but it is a cure. Maybe draining or cauterizing the wound would have sufficed. Now he is symptomatic and we know the probable outcome.”

  Kshitij sat on the divan beside his wife, a light caress over her knee the first and only gesture indicating he was aware of her presence. Jharna carried on with her painting. George barely noticed the exchange and spared not a moment’s thought to their reserve. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen the Ullases kiss, and those had been swift presses of closed lips. Long ago, his gift for reading people helped him discern the love they shared, just as he discerned that Jharna placidly accepted her husband’s inhibitions, following his preference, though her wish was to be more demonstrative. Curiosity at the relationship between his mentor and wife had once sparked George to observe closely and ask subtle questions, but now they were his adopted family and that was enough.

  “We can examine him before we begin Bai Dalmiya’s eye surgery,” Kshitij continued. “It has not been long since the initial infection, and his symptoms are mild so perhaps we will have luck with the salix leaf and silene root.”

  “Maybe a stronger dosage this time.” George offered a handful of additional suggestions, the physicians discussing the merits of possible treatment plans with cool, clinical detachment. Underneath, the hint of doubt was audible, neither holding much hope of a positive outcome. Rabies was fatal almost one hundred percent of the time.

  Kshitij stood. “We should leave soon. You will be washing and changing clothes, yes?”

  George lifted a brow at the question that was not a question at all but a command. “What is it with you two and my attire? Never have I seen two people so concerned with the garments one wears.”

  Jharna coughed loudly at that nonsense. Kshitij’s expression did not alter. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared pointedly.

  “Very well. If I must don a new suit, I will.” George sighed and rose to his feet.

  “Don’t wear the outfit Vani sewed for you though. That one is too fine. Save it for dinner tomorrow at Sahib Rettadi’s house. Wear one of your usual gaudy tunics. That will restore Bai Dalmiya’s sight as well as our skills.”

  And with the same inscrutable expression, Kshitij pivoted and entered the house, leaving a stunned George with mouth wide open and Jharna shaking with laughter.

  ***

  The surgery to remove the shard of metal from Bai Dalmiya’s eye was a success. A week after the delicate procedure, the bandages were removed for the final time and the warrior who had received the wound while practicing battle drills was allowed to open his eyes. His vision was blurred, but the orb was healing nicely. Both doctors were confident that his eyesight would improve, and as the days passed, this proved to be true.

  Unfortunately, the outcome for the man with rabies was not as kind. Weeks of treatment with every known medicine only prolonged the man’s torture.

  George left the hospital at dusk on the evening of his death. Weary, dirty, and heartsick, he opted to walk rather than accept the offer of a horse-drawn cart. Diverting to the sandy trail skirting the edge of the trees and bank of the creek, George breathed deeply of the clean air as he walked at a moderate pace. At times like this, on shady paths covered with moldering leaves and the only sounds those of nature and the dim murmur of laughter and voices from the distant houses, George could almost imagine he was in Derbyshire, strolling along one of the numerous trails cutting through the woods. It was far warmer than in England, the air moist and heavy with tropical smells alien at home, and of course, the vegetation was nothing that would grow in the cool climes of the north. Yet like in Derbyshire, George found solace in the out-of-doors. Perhaps the simplicity of life among the plants and animals that existed without the troubles that beset humans spoke to a hidden need within his soul.

  Veering off the path at an unmarked point, George parted the low-hanging branches of a copse of tamarind trees, several of the long, bean-shaped pods yanked off as he passed through and stuffed into the bag hanging over his shoulder. The medicinal qualities were numerous, and although he grabbed handfuls every time he wa
lked this way so that a huge pile of tamarind pods and seeds covered one end of the herb table in his bungalow, it had become a habit. Weaving through the fragrant leaves, George unerringly followed the foot-wide rut in the dirt that feebly passed for a trail until reaching an area of the creek where an ages-past dead tamarind had fallen over to form a dam, the water backing up and eroding the spongy soil until a shallow pond resulted. It wasn’t much, especially for a broad-shouldered man three inches over six feet, but enough to lie down in while the steady stream of water cooled by the thick trees flowed over his skin. Dropping the bag to the ground, George stripped and entered the water with a sighing groan. Anoop would be at their bungalow waiting with a washbasin, buckets of fresh water for rinsing, soap, and clean towels. Cleanliness was not attained in a slow running creek, but the refreshment found when floating in water and staring at the stars was unmatched.

  George frequently diverted to this secluded spot after a long day. Years of living among Hindus had taught him to relish these opportunities to sink into a relaxed state, where his mind could rest and body rejuvenate. Practicing the deep breathing exercises of yoga, he allowed his brain to grow quiet. He dwelt on nothing in particular and opened his senses to the calming sounds of nature and his heart to the gentle whispers from heaven. Through these processes, George had deepened his faith over time, forging a communion with the God he had always believed in but largely taken for granted. He sensed His presence, not talking to him in a defined way but touching his spirit with a loving, soothing Hand. Disconnected yet strangely attuned to everything, peace fell like a cleansing flood to wash away the bulk of his weariness and heavy heart.

  Death of any patient was never easy for him. He knew he took such realities of life too personally. Dr. Ullas was constantly reminding him that, at best, physicians could only serve as helpers to the gods but would never have the final authority on how one’s fate was decided. That philosophy wasn’t far off the Christian perspective, and logically, George accepted it. However, logic and emotion conflicted, the chaotic aftermath assuaged while floating in the pond. George was able to walk through the door of his bungalow with a consoled heart.