The Sleeping Dictionary (11 page)

“Who were those dacoits? And why can they move freely about town?” Bidushi demanded as Abbas hit the horse with his crop.

“They are not criminals; they are members of the Congress Party.” Abbas explained that the political party boycotted cloth made outside of India, and we had walked straight into one of their protests. He added sternly, “You were not supposed to go about everywhere, just to the bookshop.”

“Yes, Chacha. I’m sorry,” I apologized. Abbas was my friend: I didn’t think he would tell on us, but I hated his thinking I had disobeyed.

“I understand not buying English salt, but clothing is necessary, and how can we tell where it is from? It is only lucky the tailor mentioned the name of the village.” Bidushi seemed very cross now that the danger was past.

I also was angry about the way the strangers had reached in and soiled my fresh new saris with their touch. I would wash them, but I didn’t know if I could erase the taint the activists had made on my first free afternoon in town.

Dear Pankaj-da,

May I call you by the name of older brother? It might seem funny or impertinent, but I don’t know that I can ever adjust to the English custom of using first names. This is how the English girls refer to each other, and my goodness, what names they have: Amelia and Anne and Emily and Mary. Always so similar and plain! I wonder if their names have deep meanings like ours do. Living with my name, which means knowledge, has been quite a cross to bear, but fortunately my marks are improving. Writing to you in Bengali is a true pleasure, as it is not supposed to be spoken aloud.

You asked what I thought about Gandhiji’s promises of our freedom earned eventually. I sometimes think mistake upon mistake has been made in our freedom struggle, even by one as great as he. I am intrigued by the other nationalist who speaks boldly of confrontation rather than waiting for the British to pronounce their terms. I am referring to Mr. Subhas Chandra Bose, also known as Netaji. I wonder if you ever saw him when you were living in Calcutta, which is also his home, although he has spent many years in prison. I heard that he was released to recuperate in Austria last year and since then has been slowly traveling through Europe, telling many kings and prime ministers of India’s right to freedom. The newspapers do not give exact details on his words, but if you have heard anything about Mr. Bose’s statements, I would be most pleased to learn.

I remain your true and admiring friend,

Bidushi

Despite my desire that Bidushi write her own letters, this one was again written by me. She had pleaded that I help her, just one more time. I had thought of telling about what the Congress protesters had done in Midnapore, but I could not figure out a way to describe the incident without mentioning my role in the outing, which would only confuse things.

Two days later, the tailor’s boy bicycled to school with the package of stitched blouses and petticoats. Bidushi was eager to see me wearing them, but there was no time for changing dress in the middle of the day. So I took the package with gratitude, and the next day slipped into the new blouse and petticoat. Then I wrapped the sari the way Bidushi had taught. Jyoti-ma gave me some pins to help keep the sari in place and said that I looked very nice.

“What nonsense is this?” Miss Rachael shouted when I arrived at the kitchen to get bed tea for the teachers. “Where is your dress? And how did you get that sari?”

“This was given to me,” I said, straightening my back. “Because I am a woman, I must wear longer lengths for modesty.”

“You are impudent!” Rachael shook a finger at me. “Only I can decide what you wear. Answer my question: From where did you steal the sari?”

“It’s a gift from a young memsaheb.” I felt smug, because I knew she could not cross a student.

“I can guess which one: Mukherjee-memsaheb, who seems to have forgotten everything about caste. Give that sari to me for safekeeping and wear your old dress.”

“The dress is gone.”

“What do you mean?” She had moved so close that there was nowhere to step back.

“The dress was fraying badly. I gave it to Jyoti-ma, and it has already been cut for rags that she needed.” I kept my voice steady, despite the quaking inside.

“Without permission? You have defiled school property.” Her
breath, a poisonous mixture of mustard and garlic, made me wince. “I will tell Miss Richmond what you did on your trip to town.”

I relived the scolding in my mind as I slogged through delivering tea and all my other morning jobs. Miss Rachael’s words had worked their poison; now I felt shy and awkward. In class, I could hear whisperings from the girls about Sarah Going to a Party and Green Parrot Girl and so on. I had turned from Cinderella the scullery maid to a young lady in a ball gown, with too many wicked stepsisters nearby.

“It’s not too fancy,” Bidushi whispered from her desk next to mine. “Don’t feel badly. They are only jealous that you can wear a pretty color when they are buttoned into their ugly uniforms.”

After class, Miss Richmond called for me to wait. When the girls were all gone from the room, she asked in a serious-sounding voice if I’d used her money to buy the new clothing.

At these words, I was so shocked that for a moment I forgot my English. In a faltering voice, I said, “No, Miss Richmond. It was a gift from Miss Bidushi. I gave the leftover annas to you Saturday evening.”

“All of them?” she asked quietly. “Miss Rachael said she thought you two girls spent a suspicious amount of money.”

It must have been Miss Rachael who’d persuaded Miss Richmond into thinking me dishonest. Sweat broke out under the fine new cotton as I scrambled to think of how to save myself. Then I remembered. I went to Bidushi’s desk, where I’d last placed the book, and put it in her hands.

“Memsaheb, inside the front pages is a small paper the merchant gave me, which has the price of the book listed, so you can be certain of the change. As for the saris, they cost a bit over five rupees, and Miss Mukherjee paid with her own pocket money. It is possible she still has such a paper from the tailor shop—what is it called, the recept?”

“Receipt.” She pronounced it clearly, and I remembered it from my mind’s dictionary, spelled almost like deceit. Which was what she thought of me.

“Yes, here it is,” Miss Richmond said after she’d opened the book. “All clear. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, Sarah.” Her white face had pinkened, as if she felt badly. “However, Miss Rachael is quite hot over the situation and would prefer you not to continue helping Bidushi in my classroom. I told her that it will only be for a few more months’ time, but still—”

“Why only a few months?” I was utterly puzzled, for Bidushi was a year and a half from taking the Senior Cambridge examinations.

“I’m disappointed about Bidushi’s leaving, too, but I understand a traditional wedding is being planned for the autumn.” Miss Richmond paused, then added, “You are so close. I thought she’d told you.”

I was so upset that I could not respond other than to bob my head and hurry away, lest she see the tears that were starting. The rest of the day I thought, How could she? How could Bidushi not have mentioned that this would be her last term at Lockwood? If she left, I would never again run through the trees with my companion, or sit at a desk beside her like a real student. I would be out of Miss Richmond’s bright universe and back in the small, mean world ruled by Miss Rachael.

“WHY SUCH A heavy face?” Bidushi asked when we met in the uncultivated forest just past Lockwood’s manicured gardens, the only place private enough to speak Bengali without being caught. We had to watch for snakes, and the insects were fierce, but this seemed a small price to pay for being away from the rest of Lockwood’s population.

“I know the saris were a good-bye present,” I said, watching my friend’s eyes widen in surprise. “Don’t think that they can make up for your leaving.”

Bidushi spoke fast, her words tripping over each other. “I didn’t do it for that reason. I gave them to you because I love you. But it is true that I have to go.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I cried. “The teachers know, but not me!”

“It pains me to leave you!” Bidushi put her soft, fair arms around me. “You know that I could not have borne this school without your help. It would have killed me.”

“But you
shouldn’t
leave,” I said, trying a new tactic. “Pankaj wants you to take the Senior Cambridge examinations. He will not marry an uneducated wife.”

“It was Pankaj who wanted me sooner,” Bidushi said quietly. “I did not show you the letter that came before the last one because I knew it would make you sad. He said that he had passed the London bar examination and thought the best way to celebrate was by beginning our life together.”

He was in love because of the letters I’d written to him. My very best efforts had hastened the future for Bidushi—the future that I had longed not to come. I was suddenly filled with despair, knowing that I’d braided an escape rope for my princess but not for myself.

“Didi, I can’t bear to leave you!” Bidushi said. There were tears in her eyes, too: real tears of love and sadness. Suddenly, I felt guilty, because I did not want her to suffer.

“Don’t cry,” I said, laying my own damp cheek against hers, which smelled of the sweet dormitory soap. I would make the most of every last minute; that was all I could do.

“I cannot have a happy wedding knowing that my dear friend is in misery,” Bidushi wept on.

“Won’t you take me?” I whispered, remembering the happy ending of
A Little Princess
, where poor Becky is invited to become Sara’s personal attendant. “You said there were many servants in Pankaj’s house. They will want you to have your own ayah. Why not me?”

Bidushi drew in her breath. “But you are so intelligent! I could not possibly order you to brush my hair or dress me as I would a common ayah.”

“After you leave here, all I will do is scrub floors,” I protested. “If
I’m lucky, I will get a few hours pulling the fans in the classrooms, like I used to do.”

“If you came to Calcutta with me, you would never scrub floors. Pankaj’s family has sweepers for that. But . . .” Bidushi hesitated. “If you were my ayah, we could do some other nice things. A lady’s ayah sometimes accompanies her outside for shopping and so on.”

“Nothing on this earth could make me happier.” A small bright hope flamed within me; it was as if Bidushi held one of the small clay lamps that Hindus light at Diwali in order to push away darkness and bad luck. “There is so much in the City of Palaces we could see together! Victoria’s Memorial, Chowringhee, the Kali Temple! Please tell them I don’t want money. Just a place.”

“I want you to come, but I don’t know whether Pankaj’s parents will allow me to choose my own ayah.” Bidushi fell quiet after that and sat very still; so still that I had to reach out and slap a mosquito settling on her leg. “I shall ask Pankaj myself, but I will wait until after the first engagement ceremony. Otherwise his family might think me improper.”

“Nobody would ever think you are improper,” I said, feeling a rush of gratitude at her promise. “And we will not behave like sisters before anyone’s eyes, I swear to you.”

If anyone could get what she wanted, it was my sweet Bidushi. I told this to myself as we slowly walked back between the red and orange rows of geraniums and marigolds, back toward school and our uncertain futures.

CHAPTER

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