The Sleeping Dictionary (29 page)

We reached Dr. DeCruz’s residence-cum-chambers twenty minutes later. The building’s darwan came grudgingly awake when the rickshaw-wallah left me in the carriage and explained my situation. After some discussion, the rickshaw driver returned to me and gave the bad news that Dr. DeCruz was on night duty at the Railway Hospital.

“The Railway Hospital’s a bit far,” I said to my driver. “Are your legs strong enough?”

He shook his head, looking worried. “I could take you—but you cannot go inside the place. It is only for Ingrej and Anglo-Indians.”

“Dr. DeCruz promised he will help,” I said, because at my last appointment, the doctor had adamantly said I was to come to him for the delivery. He assured me that even though my bank account was gone, Mummy would pay to ensure the baby was born in a healthy, safe condition.

With my sharp contractions, the ride seemed interminable. As the baby pushed, I held firm, begging my child to wait. At last, we arrived at the fine white stucco hospital. I disembarked from the rickshaw with the driver’s help and paid him with some of the last coins I had. An Indian guard hurried toward me. In Bengali, he shouted, “Not here! This hospital is not for natives.”

“But Dr. DeCruz told me—” I could not finish because a new contraction threatened, but I kept walking slowly toward the entrance.

“Go away!” the guard shouted, running alongside me.

“I know he is here,” I said, gripping the doorway to help pull myself into the brightly lit building, with its high ceilings and smell of antiseptic.

“But there is no Indian ward. Go away and get a dai now, before it’s too late.”

But the last pain had overwhelmed me, and I sank to the tiled floor that was damp with rain that had been tracked in.

“What is this?” a sharp Englishman’s voice demanded.

“She wouldn’t stop, Dr. Wood, she just kept shouting for DeCruz.”

“That’s the problem with black doctors,” the English doctor said in a voice that was miles away. “You get one, you get his people.”

There were new brisk footsteps and low-heeled cream pumps with matching stockinged legs stopped nearby. I heard an Englishwoman’s voice saying she’d brought her son with a fever. Where was the doctor?

“This way, madam!” the English guard said to the lady, and his boot kicked my shoulder hard, as he departed. I could not hold back a cry of surprised pain, and suddenly, there were two faces near me, those of Anglo-Indian nurses bending to examine me.

“Where did you come from?” the first one asked. “Do you speak English?”

“Dr. DeCruz told me to come.” My voice was weak, but I hoped my good accent would make it clear that I truly was the doctor’s patient.

“Dr. DeCruz doesn’t treat darkies,” said the other nurse.

“In town, he does: darkies and thieves and whores,” the first nurse whispered to the other. Then her voice became loud and slow, as she spoke to me. “You must leave. It’s hospital rules.”

To live, I would have to fight. And the only weapon I had, I realized, was my baby’s white father. “The baby’s father is English,” I panted, “a top officer at Hijli. He wouldn’t like this—”

The second nurse grabbed my left hand and twisted it. “No wedding ring; no engagement ring, either.”

A new nurse came up and spoke sharply to the others. “Stop playing. Chief Howard’s wife just came with their little boy and must be seen for his fever.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” the second nurse said petulantly. “She’s big as a cow! I can’t move her.”

“Get the orderlies to put her on a gurney,” the new nurse said. “Get her out of the building and into some transport home.”

Two Anglo-Indian men in white uniforms came and lifted me onto a gurney. A sheet was thrown over to hide the sight of me. Outside the hospital, the guards loaded me in a tonga. But as I collapsed onto the seat, the driver refused to go without proof of money.

“I have it,” I moaned. As I struggled to pull out some of the coins I’d tied into the end of my sari, one of the orderlies reached in, giving some to the driver and pocketing the rest.

I HALF CRAWLED into the brothel after being dropped off on the corner. The kitchen maid and some of the children were awake by now and helped me back to the storeroom, where a fresh sari was laid out on the cot for me and I was gently placed down. Someone ran to wake Jayshree, who said to send for a dai. Shortly afterward, a young, dark-skinned woman arrived; her homespun clothing was reassuringly like that of Johlpur, but the dirt in her nails made me recoil.

“You will do everything I tell you, and you will be fine.” Her voice was sharp, and the disapproving expression on her face told me she agreed with Jayshree that I thought too much of myself. “The first thing I must tell you is to stop crying so much. The baby won’t want to come if it’s frightened by your cries. A girl your age I once treated could not push out a hiding baby. Both died.”

The dai tucked a rag inside my mouth and wiped my forehead with a cloth. I could no longer speak aloud, so I silently wept and cursed myself for having come to Kharagpur, for having spoken to Bonnie, for having taken the tonga with her to Rose Villa. The dai’s hands touched my swollen belly, and I pushed when she told me. On and on it went, in the hot, dark room, with people coming and going to look at me. Children wept in fear, and their mothers snapped at them to get out and leave me alone.

I felt I’d gone mad with pain; that I could not push, but the baby was doing it, not to help but out of hatred. He didn’t want this life any more than I did. The pushes grew harder and more violent; finally I saw white lights behind my eyes. The end had come, I realized, as I felt my body tear asunder. And then a scream broke the air, one brighter and higher than my own.

“A daughter! You have a blessing.” The dai called out the surprising news first to me and then the women crowding the hallway outside my room. Loud cheers broke out, and I could make out faces crowded at the doorway, eager for a look. The dai called for Jayshree to wash the baby and wrap her tightly in an old sari blouse. Then Jayshree placed my daughter on my chest. All I could see was a bit of
dark hair and mottled pink skin. Her eyes were closed but her rosebud mouth moved like a fish’s. A girl. I was startled, but not disappointed.

The dai put the baby to my breast. “If she gets color, it will be within six months, nah? But even if she turns brown as cinnamon, she will be fine. Look how she already knows to eat. She will take-take-take all you have.”

I could see my baby sucking, but I realized that I could not actually feel her touch because the pain in my lower body was so extreme. I murmured something about it, and the dai said, “You’re all right; I’ll clean you. Thank Goddess Lakshmi for your blessing, and stop the moaning. Your worries are over and the baby must not be disturbed.”

“What is her name?” asked Lina, who had somehow squeezed into the room. She had brought a wrinkled red sari in her hands. I was confused for a moment before realizing she was trying to offer me an auspicious swaddling wrap for the baby, just as my own little brother had been wrapped in red so many years ago. And I suddenly understood that my little brother appearing in my early-morning dream wasn’t trying to kill my baby. Bhai was helping her emerge in the world; to have the chance that he lost. And this child, Lina, was trying to help as well.

“I don’t know a name,” I whispered, because I had only thought of her as a problem or nightmare or millstone. I could not do that now that Lina had brought the red wrap. It reminded me of the joy I’d felt at Bhai’s arrival. Surely my newborn daughter was worth as much as him.

“Jayshree will give her house name and Mummy will choose her good name. That is how it is always done,” Lina said.

Jayshree and Mummy might give my baby any names they wished, but I would not use those names. My baby would have a very good one. As I sank into a bottomless lake of pain, I promised this to us both.

CHAPTER

16

DESTITUTE:
1. Abandoned, forsaken, deserted.

—Oxford English Dictionary
, Vol. 3, 1933

M
y baby was thirsty. She needed me to find her and fill her crying mouth. I had to save her. There was nobody else.

I knew this as I ran through the jungle on the same path I’d taken from the rice fields so many years ago. I was soaked to the bone, and the roots and rocks that pricked my bare feet were powerful enough to send pains shooting up into my belly. Then I felt something cold on my mouth, shocking me. I cracked open my eyes to find I was lying in the brothel storeroom where I’d spent the last five months.

“Didi, Didi!” I heard young Lina’s voice cry out. “You are awake after all these days. Don’t sleep again, take some water!”

“All these days?” I struggled to understand.

“It is five days since your daughter came. You are not well.”

“What does the doctor say?” I asked through the fog that threatened to swallow me. I wondered where the baby was. She was so thirsty.

“No doctor is
here. The dai gave you herbs. You drank a medicine she made, and she put some herbs in there, too, to make it better.” Lina patted the sheet stretched over my body, and I moaned from the deep, strange pain.

I could barely get the words out, I was so tired. “The doctor must come. His office is in Third Avenue. Tell him—” But I was no longer with Lina. Instead, I was walking the red dirt road that Ma and I once traveled with the brooms; it was dusty and hot and every spring and pond was dried up, without water to drink. I walked on slowly until at last, I heard a voice speaking my name.

It was Pankaj. We were standing in the gardens at Lockwood School once again, and he was looking at me with sympathy in his eyes. He knew I was Bidushi’s best friend. He held out the ruby pendant on its chain, and when I did not make a move to take it, he pressed it against my chest. The feel of the cold, smooth jewel shocked me, and I took a deep breath of joy.

“Pamela.” I heard my name and was back in the storeroom, but with Dr. DeCruz holding a stethoscope against my chest. At his side was Mummy, dressed in a bright purple printed dress, with her eyelids painted like bruises. A stand had been set up beside the bed with a drip bag of intravenous fluid, just as had been done for Bidushi.

“Very good, Pamela! You’re with us again.” Dr. DeCruz took away the stethoscope and looked at me closely.

“You should have called the doctor,” Mummy scolded. “This is just terrible, you and the precious baby girl at risk.”

“I was too sick to call. You chose to put me with people who didn’t care to call him, either. If it wasn’t for Lina . . .” My voice faded as I realized how, once again, I had come close to death. But missed it.

“Yes, it’s very good the girl came to me. You have a serious infection, but I think it’s under control.” Dr. DeCruz said that during delivery, my body had ripped, and germs had passed through the torn tissue and ravaged me fiercely. The damage had been so complete that it was unlikely I could ever conceive another child. For the last four days, I’d
been taking medicines through my arm and been treated with special creams. He had stitched me where I’d been torn and given Jayshree instructions not to let the dai come near me.

“And my baby? I haven’t seen her,” I said, realizing that her calling to me in my dreams might have been real cries from nearby.

“Your milk stopped completely, so she has been fed by a wet nurse,” the doctor said. “If you decide to take her back into your care, you must give her a kind of powdered milk that you can mix with water. You must boil the water yourself, if you can’t trust the reliability of the people here. This home is filthy; I didn’t know such places existed,” he added with a strong look at Mummy.

“It was the only place that would house her,” Mummy said evenly.

“It has been difficult, but this dear girl has helped me,” I said, indicating Lina with my head. “Now that I’m awake, may I have my baby?”

At my words, the doctor’s tense expression relaxed into a real smile. “Ah, the beauteous Hazel. Jayshree calls her Chum-Chum but everyone else is saying Hazel because of her golden-brown eyes.”