The Sleeping Dictionary (31 page)

As I’d expected, Dr. DeCruz immediately asked for Kabita when I stepped into his chambers. After I assured him she was only home due to a cold, he bade me to his table and swiftly removed the stitches that he had placed. “I did something for you,” he said briskly. “I stitched in a way that it appears your hymen is still intact. You can make your debut again before returning to your profession.”

I stared at him, not believing it. How could I pretend to be a novice after all that had happened? I was a woman of eighteen years, and my face was not that of a child anymore. Nor did he understand that the baby had changed me, and I had finally gained the strength not to return to Rose Villa. He had thought prostitution was not the life for Kabita: why would he recommend it for me?

Dr. DeCruz was talking about Hazel again and holding out a certificate of relinquishment for me to sign and date. Dutifully, I signed Pamela Barker but marked it for the next day.

“That’s a bit of a delay.” When the doctor frowned, the edges of his mustache drooped. “You see, I have a nun waiting to escort the baby tonight.”

I tried to look sorry, and I said that the brothel would be very busy that evening with many drunken customers, and that Jayshree and Tilak could easily enlist some of these ruffians to prevent Hazel’s departure. In a respectful tone, I said, “Could you please come for her tomorrow before noon, when the customers and ruffians are gone? It will be quiet and safe, and I can leave at the same time for Rose Villa.”

Dr. DeCruz didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “Very well, then, I’ll come tomorrow around ten in the morning. With the nun.”

As the doctor stepped out of the room so I could dress privately, he left his instruments on a tray and the folder of papers next to it. I opened the folder, seeing notes about the birth and my health condition going back to the time I’d come to Kharagpur, the relinquishment statement I’d just signed, and underneath it, my baby’s birth certificate. The relinquishment I would later tear to bits, but the birth certificate was a different matter. It proclaimed my baby the daughter of an Englishman, something that would give her chances at many schools and jobs: a life better than my own.

Slipping both papers into my bag, I finished dressing and left the room. In the front reception area, I said a polite good-bye to his nurse-receptionist. I had been a model patient. I doubted that Dr. DeCruz would look for the papers until it was too late.

THAT AFTERNOON, I went into the Gole Bazar and bought baby frocks in larger sizes, another bottle, and more milk powder. Then I went to a sari shop, where I found two durable cotton saris suitable for
an ordinary housewife. Then, in a Muslim shop, I ignored the curious expression of the shop owner and purchased a black burka. I could think of no better disguise for the task I had ahead.

When I returned to my room, Kabita was screaming. Lina handed her to me with apologies, but I told her not to worry. Inside, I felt more confident than I had in years. After I’d settled Kabita, I slid out the suitcase I’d brought from Rose Villa. I packed all the books I still had and the few European dresses and saris that did not seem too gaudy for my future life.

As I’d told Dr. DeCruz, it was a busy night at the brothel: the end of a pay fortnight for the men who worked in the railway yards and workshops. I kept out of sight but heard them laughing as usual. The men trouped upstairs with the women, and it always seemed just as one pair were settled, someone new would announce his entry with shouts at the door. Matters were complicated when Jayshree demanded use of my room for the customer overflow, as she did from time to time.

Kabita and I were banished to the children’s sleeping room. I asked Lina and her brother to take my suitcase out to the hallway and hide it under a table with a long cloth. They easily accepted the story I told them about wanting to keep my things safe from the strangers in my room.

I stayed in the room that Lina and the other children shared, telling them stories until they all slept; my words were calm, but inside I was not. Not until four in the morning did I tiptoe downstairs with my baby and her bundle of things. My suitcase was still under the table. I unlocked it to take out the burka I’d bought, and put it over my simple sleeping sari. Now that I was dressed, I went outside with Kabita and the suitcase, closing the door softly behind me. My heart pounded fiercely, for the journey had begun.

The man who had taken me to the hospital was sleeping in his rickshaw as usual, but I decided that I could not risk his recognizing my voice through my disguise. So I waited in the shadows with Kabita
strapped to me with a scarf under the burka. When a tonga stopped at another brothel to drop off an early customer, I hurried out and negotiated a fee for a ride to the station. As I rode off, I looked through the narrow slit in my black veil at the slum to which I would never return. How ugly it was: full of women’s and children’s misfortunes.
But not ours.
I whispered to Kabita that now her real life would begin.

AT KHARAGPUR STATION, things were more complicated than I thought they’d be. To reach the platform for Midnapore, I had to climb steps to an overhead walkway, all the while managing the baby and my suitcase. I couldn’t manage it without the help of a coolie, who took the case and also saved me a seat inside the crowded third-class compartment.

Even though I could see little outside the small window the burka offered me, I had the sense everyone was looking at me and wondering about my situation. Only after the stationmaster blew his whistle and the train moved did I feel safe enough to uncover Kabita from the heavy burka. Because she was out of her quiet, dark hideaway, she promptly awoke, wet herself, and wailed. I was beset with annoyed looks and criticism from the rest of the compartment while I changed her. When I heard the conductor call for Midnapore, I was very relieved to get away from them.

At the small railway station, I stored my suitcase and took another tonga straight to the mosque, which I thought was vague enough that my path could not be tracked. Outside the tremendous white building decorated with many minarets, I asked the driver to stop and wait until I returned. I disembarked with Kabita, walking around the mosque with a group of women and then melting away from them into a maze of small streets, eventually coming to the one I remembered. A few steps down the street, and I spotted the small walled compound that belonged to Abbas and Hafeeza.

Since the night before, I had been mentally composing the letter I’d leave with Kabita. I dared not write anything down at the brothel that might be discovered; and on the train my hands had been too full with Kabita to write. Now at last was the time to bring out the paper and pen I had tucked into Kabita’s bundle. In Bengali script I wrote:

Honored Uncle and Aunt:

Aadab; my most respectful and loving greeting. This beloved girl of mine was born on May 15th of this year. Her father is unwilling to take responsibility. I have no roof over my head to give her, and no means to feed and clothe her. I have brought her to you in the hopes you may raise her as your own.

As you can see, she is in good health. I believe that she will be a pleasant, helpful, and grateful child. She comes with some money I have left for her expenses and education. It is my sincere wish that she might attend school.

I have called her Kabita, but you should give her any name you would like. She takes her bottle six to eight times daily, three spoons of milk powder and the rest boiled water. Your beloved Allah will bless you many times for your kindness to a child whose only crime is being born in a dangerous place to a wretched mother.

I did not sign. I was ashamed of how I’d turned out, even after the help Abbas and Hafeeza had given. And for this reason, I decided not to leave the birth certificate. It was better for them to believe the child was merely fair. I looked down on Kabita’s sweet, sleeping face and thought how long it might be before I saw her again. Then I whispered to her the words that I left out of the note: that I loved her. No person would believe it of a woman giving up her child; and I didn’t care to try to convince them. Kabita knew my voice, though, and as I whispered it, I hoped she would at least have a brief feeling of comfort.

The property’s gate was locked, so I could not bring her in. For a moment, I panicked, but then I noticed a broken-down crate a bit
farther down the lane. I retrieved it and climbed up and found that now I could reach over the top of the gate. I hung Kabita in her little sling over the top of the gateposts, so she remained safely on the inside where the right people would discover her. Through all of this, Kabita slept quietly on.

I carried the crate away and sat on it in the shadows of another house, which was higher up the hill, allowing me a good view into Abbas and Hafeeza’s home. How quiet it was there. Kabita still slept. The sky continued to lighten, and vehicles, people, and animals came into the street. Finally, a woman emerged from the hut to light a cooking fire.

I barely breathed as the woman turned away from the fire and toward the gate. She moved slowly toward the bundle and then more rapidly; I could see now that it was Hafeeza, under the rough shawl’s cover. Tenderly, she picked Kabita up out of the sling, and I heard her croon some words. And suddenly, I felt robbed.

I told myself that I should not feel this way, that I was the one who had willingly left my child for her. Tears still rolled down my face, dampening the inside of the burka. I knew this was the safest place in the world for Kabita. But I couldn’t leave; my feet felt as if they’d been buried in sand. In fact, I stayed on the box, quietly crying, until a louder sound broke through: the Imam’s voice, through a megaphone atop the mosque. He was calling people to the ten o’clock prayer. This reminded me that in less than a half hour, the train to Calcutta would leave.

As the Arabic prayer finished, I started walking away. As my feet moved, I silently prayed that Kabita would embrace her new life as tightly as I had once embraced her. But for me, it was time to go.

BOOK FOUR

CALCUTTA

1938–1947