The Sleeping Dictionary (17 page)

I was walking in a groomed, wealthy section of town, and as I turned from one brick-paved avenue to another, I came to a large, lovely garden dotted with plants and trees. People sat on benches, and children sailed back and forth on swings. A short metal ladder stretched up and from it spread a diagonal length of metal that children slid down, laughing with delight. What was this thing?

I found a bench in the shade, where I rested my tired feet and slowly ate a ripe mango I’d picked up from the garden of one of the schools that had rejected me. I sat for a long time, my eyes half closed, longing to be one of the playing children with a watchful mother. But in truth, I knew I was old enough to be a mother myself. I didn’t deserve comforting.

Through my tears, I watched families eat, play, and depart. Then came a young Anglo-Indian woman with an English soldier. The soldier carried a blanket that he spread on the grass, and then the young lady opened a basket, from which she brought forth a tall green glass bottle with a cork that popped off with a burst of smoke. As bubbles spilled over the top of the bottle, the man rushed to thrust it in the girl’s open mouth.

I watched raptly as the two exchanged the bottle to share in its drinking, lavishing long kisses and caresses on each other in between. I had never seen such physicality; I was shocked but wanted to see what might happen next. The Indian men sitting nearby in the park pointed and made loud, rude comments; the mothers with children turned fiercely away. I eyed the couple’s bottle, wondering if it was like the toddy the Lockwood stable workers drank on occasion. Then the girl opened up a newspaper bundle to reveal shingaras, the crisp horn-edged pastries stuffed with vegetables or mince, and my stomach growled with hunger. Under the warm sun, I fell into a half dream; I was feeding Pankaj, and he was looking at me just as adoringly as the soldier did his girl.

THE DREAM BROKE when I heard loud English voices. I opened my eyes to see an English military officer shouting at the couple. Swiftly, the soldier got to his feet and put his cap back on. The girl rose in a more leisurely fashion, her skirt rising to expose her thighs before she brushed it back into place. The two went off in different directions, leaving the crumpled newspaper and bottle behind.

Was there food left? I rushed toward their leftovers but discovered the shingaras were all eaten and nothing remained in the large bottle. Dejectedly, I took the newspaper for reading and the bottle to use later on for collecting water. As I put the bottle in my bundle, I felt the nearby people looking disapprovingly, and I realized I must appear like a lost soul.

Quickly, I left the park and walked into a warren of busy shopping streets. I did not have enough money to feed myself through the next two days. What would I do? As my mind slowly turned from hope to panic, I found another bench; this one along the street. Trying to look like I wasn’t loitering, I opened the newspaper that I’d saved and began reading.

After a few minutes, a fashionable Anglo-Indian seated herself on the opposite end of the bench. I realized she was the girl from the park. She was only a little older-looking than me but was so different, with a milky complexion, shoulder-length golden-brown curls, and a silk dress with a fluttering hemline that just covered her knees. She wore such thin silk stockings it almost appeared that her legs were bare as they disappeared into high-heeled pumps. She caught me looking and her pink lips spread into a charming smile.

“Excuse me, but do you know if the tram has already passed?” she asked in fluent Bengali.

I was not accustomed to Anglo-Indians speaking to me politely, so I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think so, Memsaheb. I have been waiting here almost half an hour and not seen one, although my head has mostly been in the newspaper.”

She switched to English then and asked if I could read all the words in the
Statesman
.

“Of course,” I answered in English, my reserve going up. Was she going to tease me?

“Can you read that?” A fingernail, pink as a rose, pointed at a review for the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film,
The Gay Divorcee
. Dutifully, I read to her the details of the “frothy comedy” starring the “king and queen of carioca.” I didn’t understand the words
carioca,
nor
divorcee
, but I was not going to volunteer that.

“I know the big song from it already—‘The Continental’—and ‘Night and Day,’ which is simply lovely. Your accent is—” She shook her head, so the glorious brown curls bounced. “Where did you go to school?”

I dared not name Lockwood, in case there was anything about me in the newspapers. I decided to use Bidushi’s story. In the poshest voice I could muster, I said, “Since early childhood, I had a governess.”

“Really?” From her expression I could not tell whether she believed my lie. She said, “My father skipped back to England when I was six, and my mother could afford to send me to school only two more years. Wasn’t ever good at it, either. So what’s your name, Miss Excellent English? Who are your family and are you already married?”

I scrutinized my interviewer. With her pink fingernails and low-cut dress, she did not appear connected to the police. In fact, she had gotten into trouble in the park for her behavior. Softly, I said, “I’m not going to be married, because I have no family to give dowry. They all died some years ago in a cyclone.”

“So sorry!” Her eyes widened in sympathy. “And what’s your name, then?”

I hesitated, because I didn’t want to give any name that could connect me to Lockwood School. Finally, I said, “Pom.”

“Pam!” She nodded with approval. “I have a cousin with that name, but she isn’t half as pretty as you are. I’m Bonnie. How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” I answered, deciding to ignore her mispronunciation of my name. In a few minutes, I would never see her again.

“Oh, quite grown up! And where are you from, Pammy?”

I decided to confide partial truth. “I come from the south, near the sea. My family died in a tidal wave that hit some years ago. I came here by accident; I was looking for Calcutta. But now I’m searching for a teaching job, although it may be impossible for someone of my background.”

“Oh, dear. I live with my mummy and sisters not far from the Railway School, but I’m sure they only take European or Anglo-Indians to teach.” She glanced at her wristwatch that sparkled with little crystals where the numbers should have been. Could they be diamonds? “It’s already half five. Even if that damn bus comes in the next minute, I shall miss the opening. It’s too late now; I will have to go another day.”

Quickly, I said, “I’m sorry for your misfortune, Memsaheb.”

“Remember, I’m Bonnie,” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Come along. It’s only a short rickshaw ride home for tea.”

“I’m sorry?” I bristled at the unexpected touch and her strange words.

“Come with me for tea, Pam. You’re invited.” Gently, her fingers stroked my arm, and a shiver went through me because this was so very different from any touch I’d ever felt. Bonnie’s caress was a strong, pleasing sensation that made me feel alive.

Bonnie squeezed my hand and pulled me toward a waiting rickshaw, just the way I would have led my young sisters when they needed guidance. I had no words, because I could not believe this wealthy Anglo-Indian girl was bringing me home. But how would I manage tea, having never eaten anywhere but seated cross-legged on the floor?

“But I can’t,” I said. “I’m bound for Calcutta and a teaching position.”

“You can do that later. It’s just a cup and a bite, Pam,” Bonnie said, as if reading my nervousness. “And don’t forget to bring that news-paper. I want to show the other girls how beautifully you read!”

CHAPTER

10

Another element in this population is the Eurasian—a mixture of European and Asiatic blood, representing every degree of intermingling, from almost pure English to almost pure native. This class numbers a hundred thousand souls. They almost invariably adopt the customs of the Europeans and many of them are highly cultured and refined.

—Margaret Beahm Denning,
Mosaics from India,
1902

B
onnie’s home reminded me of the fortress pictures I had seen in history books at Lockwood School. The tall, rectangular bungalow of golden brick had curved iron grates on all the windows and curtains behind that, masking what I guessed immediately were riches inside. She led me through the gate and past a small garden filled with circular beds of rosebushes in many colors: red, pink, white, yellow, and even orange. It was quite a hodgepodge that did not seem to fit the house’s stern design, but as I walked up the path behind Bonnie, the sweet and spicy smells of the roses were enticing.

Someone must have been watching our approach because the door opened just as Bonnie set her foot on the top step. “Are we busy?” Bonnie asked a tall chowkidar who was dressed in red livery. He had ushered us into a cool, dark hallway lit by a few sconces in between portraits of beautiful European ladies and Indian maharanis.

“Not at all. Right now, only Mr. Williams has come.” The chowkidar took Bonnie’s hat and placed it on a shelf in the hall cupboard.

“Tell Mummy I have a new friend, Miss Pamela. She’ll be staying to tea.” Bonnie stepped out of her shoes, and I did the same, glad for Hafeeza’s chappals. If I’d been barefoot, Bonnie wouldn’t have considered me worthy of any invitation.

“Where is your mother?” I asked, as it was unusual for a housewife not to greet her guests.

“You will soon meet Mummy—but we must freshen up first. You can bathe in my quarters, and I’ll have Premlata, one of our servant girls, bring up a drink. Sweet lime or salt?”

Running my tongue over my dry lips, I asked for salt. Bidushi had bought the special drink for me during our trip to the Midnapore bazar. I wondered what she would think of this fancy house. And then a startling realization came: perhaps Bidushi
was
with me. Her cremation was surely done; what if she had been reincarnated into Bonnie? Bonnie’s invitation made it seem as if Bidushi’s generous soul had jumped inside, because why would a rich Anglo-Indian ever bring a shabby stranger home for a meal?

Bonnie had a pretty bedroom with a large, four-poster bed covered in a pink-flowered quilt, with white pillowcases trimmed in the same pink. There were two almirahs; hers held a rainbow of beautiful Western clothes. There was a wireless radio on her dressing table and many bottles and pots of cosmetics. On the wall was only one picture: a framed photograph of the starlet Merle Oberon, whom she said was an Anglo-Indian from Calcutta.

I had never heard of Merle Oberon; I had never even seen a film. All these exciting, glamorous ideas whirled through me as Bonnie
showed off her very own bathroom, which had a tub set into a tiled floor and water that flowed right into it from a silver spout. The bath and sink water was heated by turning on a geyser mounted high on the wall. Bonnie showed me how to work them and also explained the correct seating for the white porcelain privy similar to ones I’d seen in the students’ lavatory at Lockwood School.

Bonnie left me in this lavatory of wonders. When I came out wrapped in towels, she was sitting comfortably on her bed listening to the wireless. Next to her was a folded gold-and-orange-patterned silk sari and a very small matching gold blouse.

“I thought you might like this sari for dinner tonight,” she said, smiling prettily. But my senses were on alert. She might have examined my bundle and decided that the two cotton saris within were too worn for me to wear before her family. As I did not want to embarrass myself any more that day, I allowed her to wrap the silk sari and let her comb my hair and place a few bangles on my wrists. I felt shy to be waited on by her, but I sensed there was no way to resist. When she led me to the long mirror set into her door, my reflection was that of a stranger with large eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips, with a woman’s body clearly revealed by the sari she had wrapped low around my waist.

“Not bad,” Bonnie said, clapping her hands. “If they fit, you may borrow my slippers tonight.”