The Sleeping Dictionary (14 page)

“We don’t know what they think.” The jamidar-uncle sounded more tired than anything. “They are a good family with a long link to ours. Over the generations, there have been many Bandopadhyay-Mukherjee marriages. Remember that.”

“She never should have come to this place,” his wife hissed. “If she’d been kept in purdah at home none of this would have occurred.”

It was because of Pankaj’s request that Bidushi had come to school; I wondered if he was thinking about that, too. Later that morning, I glimpsed Pankaj seated in the chair closest to Bidushi’s pillow. There were no indications any conversation was taking place between them, and I felt dejected about how sickly Bidushi looked. I hoped that would not deter Pankaj. If he kissed her brow, perhaps she would come back to life like Sleeping Beauty in
The Arthur Rackham Fairy Book
. Bidushi had said that if she died, I would have to watch over Pankaj; but how could that be, with me a lowly servant he clearly hadn’t recognized as his companion of letters? The request was impossible. The only way I could care for him—and for her as well—would be for her to survive this terrible turn of events and get away to Calcutta.

I worked in the kitchen that afternoon, chopping fish for a curry that would be served to all the Indian visitors. A special table had been created for them near the headmistress’s. According to Lalit, the new Indian table had triggered unrest among the English girls. Upon seeing the Bengali dishes spread elegantly on the table, some students were demanding the same instead of boiled meat and potatoes.

It was a struggle to concentrate on Lalit’s conversation. I could only think of Bidushi slipping away and my future burning up alongside her on the cremation pyre.

In the late afternoon, I begged to bring the tray of tea and sweetmeats for the visitors to Miss Jamison’s parlor, in order to overhear any possible news. Lalit was uneasy, for what I’d volunteered to do was typically a male bearer’s job, but he finally agreed to let me bring in the freshly ironed tablecloths and napkins to set the table at which everyone concerned with Bidushi would take their tea.

I walked with my arms full of fresh-starched cloths to the empty study, wishing for a way to make the job last longer. I had an idea. I’d slip into the garden and see if the mali would allow me to cut some
roses. Then I would arrange a vase for each table. The fragrance would revive the visitors after the harsh smells of the sickroom.

As I walked through the school’s flower garden looking for the freshest open roses, I noticed that Bidushi’s fiancé was walking, too. As Pankaj drew near, I saw his head was bowed and tears were streaming from beneath his spectacles. He half-fell onto one of the marble benches and then buried his face in hands.

I had grown up believing that tears were a sign of womanly weakness. Yet here was the man Bidushi and I had both dreamed about in uncontrolled despair. How moved I was by the sight of him; his tears made me love him for everything he was and for how deeply he adored my only friend. Now I regretted not having written the final letter Bidushi had asked me for. I could have overlooked propriety and confessed her deepest love. I would not have tried to be funny or clever, just said the words that came from my heart. And maybe I could have added a postscript saying that the letters he treasured had always had a coauthor, another Indian girl at the school. She was the one who had made the jokes he liked and had political opinions he respected. She could still write to him, if it was what he desired.

As I thought this, I was filled both with sorrow for Bidushi and a flash of something else—guilt—at thinking I could remain part of Pankaj’s life. I tried to choke back a sob, but was unsuccessful, for Pankaj looked up. He took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

“Sorry, I have bothered you . . .” I trailed off, feeling ashamed.

“You speak fluent English,” he said tightly. “And when you came to meet our car, you already knew I was expected to visit. What kind of staff does this school have? Are you a servant—or a spy?”

He questioned me roughly: the way an aristocrat typically did to a lesser. And I knew that I didn’t look quite like the other servants, dressed as I was in the good pink sari with a rose tucked in my hair. Now I understood that my wistful dream about confessing my
existence in a last letter was wrong. I couldn’t risk his learning how close I was to Bidushi.

I switched back to the soft, regional Bengali I’d grown up speaking. “I’m very sorry, Saheb. I only spoke English because I am accustomed to using it here with my betters—I mean, my
English
betters. Not that the Ingrej are better than Indians,” I added hastily, remembering our political exchanges.

Pankaj put his glasses back on and squinted through them at me. “Go on, speak English. It seems to be your preference.”

My heart beat triply as I struggled to think of what to say to extricate myself from the situation. I had invaded his sorrow, embarrassed him by catching him weeping—and for this he was angry. Trying again I said, “No, no! I am making mistake upon mistake because I am torn with grief, too—”

“Mistake upon mistake. Who taught you that phrase?” There was a strange light in his reddened, sorrowful eyes, something that made me afraid that I couldn’t stay a moment longer without giving away the truth.

“I’m very sorry, sir. For reasons of work, I must leave!” I blurted, and once again, I ran from him, stumbling along the stone path, roses all but forgotten.

Mistake upon mistake
. I had written those words to him in English, in one of the letters, liking the way the
M
s sounded so close together. But the phrase could be my undoing, if Pankaj continued to remember.

INSIDE THE SCHOOL, I wiped my sweating face and hands before proceeding at a normal pace to the infirmary. As I drew near, I heard a surprising amount of noise. As I entered the sickroom, I found Mr. Bandopadhyay was softly chanting a prayer. Instead of participating, the jamidar-uncle was arguing with Dr. Sengupta, who was looking
downcast. I imagined how sad she was that Bidushi hadn’t improved. The jamidarni-auntie was wailing and being held by Pankaj’s mother. So much noise was not good for Bidushi; I was shocked that Dr. Sengupta was allowing it.

With misgivings, I looked toward Bidushi’s bed. A sheet had been pulled from bottom to top, covering the small mound of her body. The medicine stand had been disconnected and pushed to the other side of the room. And with all of this, I finally understood why Pankaj had fled outside to weep in private.

Bidushi was gone.

CHAPTER

8

Hissing serpents poison the very air.

Here fine words of peace ring hollow.

My time is up; but before I go, I send out

My call to those who are getting ready in a

Thousand homes to fight the demon.

—Rabindranath Tagore, “Hissing Serpents,” (“Number 18”), 1937

I
t is impossible for a servant to take time for grief. Everywhere, people have their needs. For the rest of that afternoon, I ran dishes from the kitchen to the dining hall with a face that said nothing, although my hands would not stop trembling. I struggled to remember Bidushi’s final words. She’d said that she felt cold. Now I wished I had lain down to warm her. It would have been better for her than the bath.

Everyone knew. In the kitchen and hallways, I overheard the other servants debating whether the cremation would be done by a Hindu priest in nearby Midnapore or if the Mukherjees would bring
her home. Timing mattered. A corpse should be burned within the day for the soul to escape into the next life.

Miss Rachael was watching me with hard eyes through all of this, and then she came up, smiling with false sympathy, saying that Miss Jamison wanted me in the infirmary. I went quickly, wondering if this would be a chance to pay my last regards to Bidushi. Or maybe the headmistress wanted me to wash Bidushi’s body, as that work might be considered too gruesome for Nurse-matron and the jamidarni-auntie.

Upon entering the infirmary, I saw Bidushi’s bed was already empty and stripped of sheets. I bobbed my head for Miss Jamison and made a respectful namaskar with my hands toward the Bandopadhyay parents and both Mukherjees.

“I have a question for you about Miss Mukherjee’s possessions.” Miss Jamison spoke to me in clear, loud English, as if she wanted the others all to understand. “Her fiancé wished for the return of a sentimental gift he made to her. Perhaps you know it?”

During this address, Bidushi’s aunt was leaning forward, her bangles tinkling against one another like little bells of warning.

“Yes, there was a ruby she always wore on a gold chain.” My speech came slowly, while my mind raced. Since she was deceased, she could not get in trouble. But I could for having known about it.

“Nurse-matron noticed it and offered to put it in the cabinet for safekeeping. Miss Mukherjee refused, and because the girl was doing so poorly, Nurse-matron let her keep wearing it. But now it is no longer with her.” Miss Jamison’s words dropped hard, like stones in a river.

That morning, I had been desperate to put Bidushi into a state of decent cleanliness. I had stripped off my friend’s soiled nightdress without noticing the necklace. Had it been on then? How could it have been lost?

“Maybe the chain broke in the sheets,” I ventured, thinking that if a dhobi had found a ruby pendant within his washing bundle, he would not likely bring it forward. But who would be depraved enough to steal from someone who’d died?

“In that case, there would be evidence: a remnant of the chain. It appears that the entire necklace and the pendant were removed by someone,” Mr. Bandopadhyay said in the precise English I imagined he used in the court.

“Nurse-matron locked the infirmary door last night at Mr. and Mrs. Mukherjee’s request.” Miss Jamison moved toward me, slowly, and I had to hold myself from running. “But Nurse-matron found you inside this morning; however did you enter?”

“I came through the window. I did it because I needed to speak to Bidushi and give her a bath.” I tried to speak evenly, but the trembling that had affected my hands earlier had spread to my whole body.

“The girl was unconscious,” Miss Jamison said. She towered over me, so I had to put my head back to look up at her.

“With respect, Burra-memsaheb, she was a-awake,” I stammered. “She heard me announce the arriving people, and she told me she was feeling cold.”

“Speak Bengali. I want to hear the lies for myself!” Bidushi’s uncle grumbled after his wife whispered something in his ear.

“The jamidar-saheb requests translation,” I murmured in a rush.

“Then do it!” Miss Jamison raised her voice. “And, Sarah, I can hardly think of any situation so urgent that you would have broken through a window instead of going to Nurse-matron.”

“It was so early that I dared not wake her. Our visitors had arrived outside the school and asked to come inside.” I gestured toward the Bandopadhyays, wishing them to nod or somehow acknowledge that I’d helped them, but they remained stonily in place. “I spoke to the men in the stables and the chowkidar who guards the school entrance. Then I went to Bidushi.”

“To think this wretch was sleeping in the room with her so many nights, pawing through her ornaments!” Bidushi’s aunt said in sharp Bengali.

I could not bring myself to translate those terrible words, so the
jamidar, in his stilted English, repeated it verbatim for Miss Jamison, whose face blanched even paler than its normal color.

“Such an incident has never happened here,” she answered stiffly. “But I have just learned from the housekeeping directress that Sarah may have coerced your niece to spend money on her before. This likely motivated her misbehavior.”

“Misbehavior is not the proper term,” Mr. Bandopadhyay shot back in his perfect English. “It is a crime.”

“Yes, Mr. Bandopadhyay. Of course you are right.”

“It is my son who I grieve for, because he is rather sensitive,” the elderly lawyer continued. “He said he sent the ruby as well as some letters. Many letters were found in the dormitory by your Nurse-matron.”