The Sleeping Dictionary (37 page)

“But the men who will vote whether Netaji stays or leaves are the Congress ministers, not us,” Mashima demurred.

“If you support the left-wing ministers, Netaji will get the votes from them to stay president,” Supriya pointed out. “Please, Ma!”

“I will vote if Ruksana’s mother goes, too,” Mashima answered, beaming with the same dimples her daughter had. “Then both sides are fairly represented. Oh, I hear Baba coming! Now we shall eat.”

Mr. Sen was somewhere in his late forties and the opposite of his wife: rail thin and short. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and dhoti and had a certain formality. The kitchen maid served Mr. Sen first and then came to me and Ruksana before offering everyone else the fragrant fish-head dal, fried eggplant with neem leaves, potato curry, and mutton cooked with onions and rice. She ran around next with chapattis just hot off the griddle and urged me to try the homemade mango and lime pickles. Everyone ate as if such a lunch was an ordinary event. For me, it was a real feast made all the more special by the friendly family group.

Afterward, we washed our hands at the small sink in the room’s corner. Then I laid the books on the clean table before Mr. Sen, who gently examined them, confirming what I’d thought. Several needed sewing, new spines had to be created for others, and for two, new cloth covers were in order.

“When Haresh works, he works well. But I think he has a problem with tea. He is drinking it across the road many times a day. I have a strict policy, no tea in the workroom! It is too much of a risk for the books,” Mr. Sen declared.

“I am very glad to hear it, because my employer’s collection is quite special. It must never be damaged.” I shuddered at the thought of anything going wrong. “Don’t worry, Kamala,” Mr. Sen said, looking at me with kind eyes. “And were you saying that you have more books to mend than these six?”

“I believe there might be as many as three hundred needing repair, but the simple fixes I can try doing myself with a press. To you I might bring two hundred if . . .” I did not want to say,
if your work is as good as I hope.

“I will teach you how to do the easy repairs,” Mr. Sen said. “Supriya knows, too. Anyone who is careful can do it. But you were right
to bring the difficult jobs here. And with such good business coming in the future, I shall offer you a professional discount.”

I WAS EXCITED to give the news about Sen Bookbindery to Mr. Lewes; he arrived home late that evening, though, and bathed before dinner. When I finally saw him in the dining room, he had swapped his suit for a white Indian cotton one and tan cotton trousers. In these unconventional clothes, he looked rather appealing, and then I chided myself for the inappropriate thought. I was wearing, for the first time, the new horn-rimmed glasses that his optometrist had made for me. Mr. Lewes noticed the spectacles straightaway and asked if they had changed my reading comfort.

“Oh, yes. But I must tell you about Sen Bookbindery. I met the whole family, and Mr. Sen is just starting with a few books. He seems trustworthy and will be giving a ten percent discount.”

But Mr. Lewes shook his head. “Oh, don’t listen to that. Indians always say you’re getting a discount, when you’re really just receiving the inflated Ingrej price.”

Automatically, my back tensed. “But I’m not Ingrej, and they are very kind people! I would like to give them the work.”

“You don’t know the number of times I’ve seen Indians walk away with a newspaper for a paisa and I’m charged triple.” Mr. Lewes’s voice was bitter.

“You’re right,” I said, deciding that he needed comforting. “I don’t know what happens to you. But I would be happy to buy your newspapers for you, if you think it would keep you from being cheated.”

“That brings something up I’ve been meaning to ask about.” He cleared his throat. “Would you sit down, please? There’s plenty of food. Tell Manik to bring you a plate.”

I hesitated because the request for me to sit with my employer seemed improper. But the food smelled awfully good. Per his request, I’d
asked Manik to make Bengali dishes. He’d come up with tiny shrimp steamed with grated coconut and mustard seeds; spinach cooked with ginger, cauliflowers and potatoes; and a cholar dal with coconut. On the side were parathas and plenty of rice and, in the end, a frozen milk pudding with pistachios. To my relief, Manik had not considered this menu a nuisance; he’d rubbed his hands together and said the whole staff would enjoy eating whatever was left.

“Please join me,” Mr. Lewes repeated, and I breathed in the table’s aromas with pleasure and sat down in the chair on his right.

“Kamala, you know that I read in the evenings.” Mr. Lewes glanced toward the slim pile of newspapers between us. “I believe you review these same papers the next morning?”

“I enjoy looking at the old papers when I take my meals,” I admitted. “I hope that’s all right?”

“It’s fine! But I would like to learn a bit more about the newspapers printed in local languages. Which ones do you think are the best?”

“
The Hindu
and
Bengal Today
,” I answered, then hesitated. “But there’s also an important Bengali Muslim newspaper called
The Azad
and another Muslim newspaper from Delhi called
The Star.
And of course, most Hindu gentry read
Ananda Bazar Patrika,
the new Bengali paper published by the founders of the English-language paper,
Amrita Bazar Patrika
.”

“As you know, I already take
Amrita Bazar Patrika
as well as the
Times of India
and the
Statesman
. I’d like to add these five other papers you’ve mentioned, but I would naturally need translation assistance. I don’t suppose you’d consider reading the papers to me? In translation, of course.”

It was odd to have such a request rather than a direct order. It also felt strange to be looked at so intently. Still, translating five newspapers was a lot of work. Warily I asked, “But when could you hear the translations? You leave around seven and aren’t usually home before six.”

“You could stay a little longer, perhaps eating dinner with me while we go over the papers. It will save you the cost and trouble of finding a meal near your hotel.” Mr. Lewes’s angular face held an emotion that I’d not seen since leaving Rose Villa: not outright passion but rather a kind of deference that came with asking for their most precious fantasy.

Did Mr. Lewes want me?
Over the past month, he had been cordial but had not touched me or said anything out of order. Perhaps his strange expression was solely because he was in love with the written word, something that was quite understandable and would make me feel all right about sharing more dinners with him. I had no intention of any kind of involvement with an Englishman beyond the professional, especially with the reality of Pankaj alive and well in the city.

But perhaps he yearned for a window into reading Indian languages. I remembered being ten years old and seeing my first books at the Keshiari Mission Hospital; I’d envied the nurses and Dr. Andrews for their ability to read and write. Mr. Lewes was undoubtedly struggling with the same longing, believing that Bengali and Hindi could open truths about India that he didn’t know. And would this be such a bad thing for an Englishman?

“Yes,” I said, smiling to make the uncertainty fade from his eyes. “Of course, Mr. Lewes! That kind of help is something I can easily give.”

CHAPTER

22

APPEASE:
 . . .
2.a. To pacify, assuage or allay (anger or displeasure).

—
Oxford English Dictionary
, Vol. 1, 1933

B
y late 1938, the newspapers became the bookends of my day. A newsboy brought them every morning and I looked them over to decide which to share with Mr. Lewes over the evening meal. I’d become concerned by news of the greater world. In China, the Japanese army had taken control of Canton. In Europe, Herr Hitler had annexed Czechoslovakia and then Austria. Would Mr. Chamberlain’s document of appeasement only lead to Germany taking more countries? Journalists’ opinions were divided. It all seemed so far away, like the mythical stories Thakurma used to tell. But nonetheless frightening.

India had its own brewing war. Verbal battling was on between older congressmen and the young, left-wing party members Sonali and Supriya Sen knew. I translated a dizzying amount of articles and editorials, even some originally in Urdu, which was my weakest
language. Mr. Lewes seemed fascinated, asking many questions and making notations of my translations. Despite my desire to remain coolly professional, I was inwardly proud that because of my languages, I had knowledge and skills that he, a Cambridge-educated ICS officer, could not begin to approach.

As October turned to November, the sun sank earlier, and my transportation to Howrah each evening became chancy. I never knew who might come up behind me on the tram and bus or follow me when I disembarked and ran in the dark toward my shabby hotel. My anxiety grew about walking at night, so one evening, as I’d finished reading
The Hindu
and Mr. Lewes looked poised to ask for more, I said, “Sir, it’s growing quite late, and the buses become scarce. May I please translate that one tomorrow?”

“Goodness—it’s almost ten. How I’ve kept you talking. Please, Kamala, eat something before you go.”

But there was no time to eat the chicken curry and rice that had grown cold on my plate. I stood, telling him that I needed to hurry for the tram.

“Are you still in that hotel?” He frowned. “I’ve hoped you might find a boardinghouse nearby.”

“I can’t be admitted to those places,” I answered, unable to mask my irritation. “Especially not in the White Town. It would be different if I were enrolled in a college with a father who could vouch for me.”

“Why can’t he?” Mr. Lewes’s eyes were keen. “Don’t tell me you had an argument and ran away.”

“Oh, no. He’s deceased.” I was about to add,
in a cyclone,
but cut myself off. If I said that, it might bring him closer to understanding that I was really a peasant. And he would ask me what I’d done with myself for the last eight years.

“I wish I could help you, but I don’t think there’s a chance in hell I could pass as your father.” Mr. Lewes made a regretful grimace. “How much do you pay for your hotel?”

“A rupee a night.”

Mr. Lewes shook his head. “Then you’re spending thirty to thirty-one rupees a month—not counting the other expenses! That’s not prudent. I wish I could pay you more.”

“You’re not Grindlays Bank.”

“Too bad, eh?” He chuckled, and suddenly, I thought back to all the men who had paid for things I hadn’t wanted to do; all those filthy rupees I had earned and lost. My cheeks flushed with shame.

“Sir, I really must go.” I looked toward the library where I kept my shawl and purse. “The trams are less frequent now.”

“I know what to do; I’ll send you in the car with Farouk. He can take you wherever you need.”

“But Farouk has gone home. He knows you are finished for the evening.”

“Damn.” He thrust his hand in his pocket, and came out with two rupees. “Will this cover a taxi? Please take it. Not as an advance, but a gift.”

Any other thrifty person would have taken the two-anna tram ride and pocketed the bounty; but I was tired, and the shadowy figures lurking along the tramlines were a real fear. Mr. Lewes did not want me to take the tram; I should not dishonor his gift. Despite his being English, he had been nothing but kind to me: as kind as an uncle, although far too young and attractive. Simon Lewes was twenty-nine, I knew from the passport he’d once forgotten on his desk. Surely he would marry soon. I wondered what his future wife would think of my working in his house all day and in the evening sitting at the same dining table as him. If he married, I imagined the schedule would change.

“Thank you, Mr. Lewes,” I said. The coins stayed warmly in my palm as I found a taxi at the Chowringhee intersection and took it all the way to where I needed to go.