The Sleeping Dictionary (38 page)

I CONTINUED TO read for Mr. Lewes in the evenings and take car rides home from the driver, Farouk, as the winter holidays came. I knew the Durga and Kali celebrations well, but Christmas in Calcutta was something new to me. Everywhere street posts were swathed with garlands, and lights twinkled around windows and doorways of Christian-owned shops and houses. Fluffy-branched trees from the coast were shipped to Calcutta and decorated with colored balls, candles, and sweets. Many European homes displayed beautiful trees shining in the windows as I rode past them in the evenings.

I thought a Christmas tree would have been nice in Mr. Lewes’s flat, but he did not get one, nor did he ask Shombhu to put up tinsel or garlands or decorations of any sort. When I asked him why, he said that he would spend his holiday looking for books in Bombay.

“Actually, Kamala, I’d like to ask a favor whilst I’m gone. Are you able to stay not just the days but overnight in the little room on the third floor? I don’t like to leave the place unoccupied, and you might enjoy the convenience of not having to travel and the financial savings.”

“I know that room,” I said, playing for time while I thought over this proposition. “It even has bedroom furniture. I always wondered who was there before.”

“It was left from the last people here. I’ll ask Shombhu and Jatin to air the mattress and give you fresh linens; that is, if you’re willing.”

I liked the idea of staying in the flat. Mr. Lewes thought I was helping him. But I worried that the others would be resentful of my staying inside the house, while they lived in the garden house. I said, “What would Shombhu and the others feel about one of their kind staying inside?”

“You are not the same as them,” Mr. Lewes replied sharply. “I shall tell them to treat you as a memsaheb. If I hear otherwise, there will be repercussions—”

“Please don’t do that!” I was horrified at the thought I should be treated like a British lady. “I will speak to them about the change myself.”

“By all means,” he said, looking at me with something new in his expression. “And might you oversee more of the household responsibilities—paying for the groceries that come, the dhobi, and so on?”

“Yes, I’d be happy to, because I’ll have no travel time to worry about.” I smiled, thinking that while it might appear to Mr. Lewes that he was giving me more work, his absence was granting me time to explore the city, perhaps finding Pankaj, and certainly continuing relations with the Sen family. I had become very friendly with Supriya, and she had invited me to dine with her family for both Durga and Kali Puja celebrations.

Mr. Lewes looked as pleased as I felt, and the day before his departure I moved my possessions out of the dingy hotel and into Middleton Mansions. The small room was very pleasant and already furnished with a narrow iron bedstead and a chest of drawers. I set up a little shrine to Lakshmi, arranged my collection of books, and slept better than I had in years.

Before going away, Mr. Lewes distributed everyone’s Christmas bonus: a half month’s extra pay. After sending ten rupees to Abbas for Kabita’s expenses, I treated myself to a delightful novel by Daphne du Maurier and also a new Bengali-English dictionary, intending it as a gift for Mr. Lewes upon his return. I’d noticed that he hadn’t a contemporary dictionary in his collection, and maybe he could use it to learn to read at least the news headlines for himself.

For the first time, I felt independent yet secure. Life became pleasantly casual with Mr. Lewes so far away. Now the radio was kept on all day and evening, and Shombhu felt comfortable enough to sing as he went about his household cleaning. One day, he was crooning an Oriya folk song that was easy to follow as he dusted the furniture. I sang out the next bar; Shombhu was silent with surprise but then joined in. When I came out of the library, he gave me a real smile, and I knew from the spicy shingara pastry Manik sent with my afternoon tea that both of them were relaxing.

I’d also resolved not to ask the servants to do anything extra for
me. If Jatin didn’t wash the floor one morning, or Manik served leftovers for lunch, or Shombu lounged for two hours with a Bengali newspaper, the house would still be in a fine state. After a week I asked Shombhu whether he agreed that Mr. Lewes’s sofas might look better placed facing each other in the room’s center; and if the china cabinet in the dining room could be moved to a different wall. And so, without anyone feeling imposed upon, the drawing and dining rooms finally became less cluttered and finally reflected the grace of the flat’s architecture.

At Christmas, I gifted Shombhu with a record of popular Bengali songs to play on the Victrola. Manik received a handsome bowl from me, and his assistant, Choton, his very own chopping knife. Jatin was the youngest, so I gave him a ball to throw to his young friends in the evenings when he played with them out on the street. In thanks, Manik and Choton made me my favorite milk sweets; Shombhu gave me a pencil with eraser attached; and Jatin gave me a big bunch of flowers from the garden that I arranged in a glass vase and set on the dining table. We were becoming friends, if not family.

Mr. Lewes was still away in Bombay in early January, so when Supriya asked me to come with her to a young women’s political meeting at a place called Albert Hall, I was excited to go.

“Your sari should be made of khadi; either plain with no border at all, or with a slim green or orange border, the colors from the freedom flag,” she coached me. Then with a twinkle she added, “And don’t wear gold jewelry lest you be pushed to give it up to the cause!”

Khadi was the rough homespun Thakurma used to weave because we were too poor to buy cloth. How pleased my grandmother would be to know that smart city women sought it out. But to me, it felt like wasting money buying something so plain.

I met the Sen girls and Ruksana at their home and together we set off to Bankim Chatterjee Street. Albert Hall was a narrow sliver of a building that didn’t look like anything; but up a steep staircase lay a high-ceilinged room filled with more tables than I could count. The
women had clustered at four tables in the back of the room, where Sonali, Supriya, and Ruksana led me. I felt a mixture of excitement at being part of this political women’s group but also some apprehension they could see through to my lack of schooling.

Because Calcutta’s fine colleges attracted students from all over India, I found myself meeting young ladies from faraway provinces like Punjab, Madras, and even the royal kingdom of Travancore. All of the women had high-caste surnames and studied at either Bethune or Loreto College. We spoke a mix of Hindi and English because of all the regional differences, and to my surprise, my English was still crisper than anyone’s. When asked about where I’d studied, I spoke briefly about a small boarding school in Darjeeling that had recently shut down.

“No money for college, I’m afraid,” I said at the end of it. Smiling, I added, “How envious I am of you all!”

“But she’s working at a real job! I’m the one who’s sick with envy,” Supriya said, flashing me a smile.

“Pakoras are coming and coffee for all. Will you take coffee, Kamala?” Lata Menon, the group’s leader, asked me with a warm smile.

I had never tried coffee, but I nodded. It was supposed to be strong, and wasn’t that what these intellectual young women were?

“Very good, then. We need to get word out about Netaji. Please will you help us?” Lata leaned toward me while her sari’s starched pallu remained perfectly in place. What control she had!

“Of course I shall—but why does he need help from young women? As president of the Congress Party, he is known by all.”

Lata’s voice was somber. “There’s a movement afoot to have Netaji lose the Congress presidency. The old members think he’s moving away from the party’s ideals. He could be thrown out in this month’s elections. And my goodness, he welcomes the participation of women patriots. He wants equality for us in every way.”

“That’s a bit controversial, isn’t it? And I’ve read in the papers that some people don’t believe India’s able to carry off the civil unrest
campaign that Netaji advises.” I sipped the coffee. Even with milk and sugar it tasted much darker than tea: dark and dangerous.

“People like me!” Ruksana said, causing every head to turn in her direction. “If we disregard Gandhiji’s feelings about giving the British another chance, we show disrespect for him. And how can we do that? He is the heart of the movement, the only Hindu activist Muslims tolerate.”

“Ruksana has a point,” Supriya said, getting everyone’s attention with her firm tone. “Perhaps we should make a resolution taking this into account but not disregarding Netaji entirely.”

The resolution was made. Like Supriya and Ruksana, I felt the conundrum. I wondered if Pankaj still believed military action was needed to free India. After reading about the impact of violence on Europe, I wasn’t sure that patriots using force against the British in India would result in freedom. Still, I kept listening; and it seemed the coffee put vigor in my mind where it had not been before. I did not know the correct answer to reaching independence; but I wanted to work toward finding it. When I agreed to join the Chhatri Sangha group, a cheer went round.

Supriya linked arms with me as we left Albert Hall an hour later. In my ear, she whispered, “I knew you would like them and they would like you! Everyone was most impressed to have a working woman join us.”

“I’m just happy you befriended me,” I said, swallowing the lump that had come up in my throat. If I hadn’t gone to Sen Bookbindery at exactly the time Haresh was out drinking tea, I would not be living this new and exciting life.

CHAPTER

23

A well-known Brahmin doesn’t need to wear a sacred thread.

Bengali proverb

W
hen Mr. Lewes returned, he was pleased that I’d saved some money overseeing the household expenses; and even happier about the flat’s redecoration. He walked around the drawing room’s wide-open spaces, admired the flowers, the polished silver, and Indian prints that I’d had framed and hung.

“Kamala, you have made it a home! I can’t imagine how you did so well, but I don’t want it to stop. Please don’t go back to your hotel.” His blue eyes looked deeply in mine.

In truth, I was relieved by the invitation, because I hated the idea of ever returning to unsafe lodgings. And with free housing, I could save much more for my future and contribute to Kabita’s upbringing.

After accepting Mr. Lewes’s generous proposal, I felt shy offering up the pocket-size Bengali-English dictionary I’d bought as his gift. I handed it over, anyway, with a gilt-edged card offering him wishes
for a Happy New Year. He read the card with a smile, but when he opened the book, it faded.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, paging through the book. From his odd expression, I realized he might not like it. After all, he owned a mint 1827 edition of William Carey’s Bengali-English dictionary, and the 1868 edition of
Hobson-Jobson.
He’d once shown me an essay he was working on about English words that had been invented because of the experience in India:
kedgeree, box-wallah
, and the like.

“I chose it for you because it’s
different
from the antiquarian dictionaries,” I said. “The pages are strong enough to be turned and in the back are cross-translations of Bengali proverbs and English ones, too. You may want to write about Indian proverbs someday.”

Mr. Lewes looked strange; I realized, after examining the way he was working his hands, that he was flustered. “Thank you. It’s most considerate. But, Kamala, you mustn’t spend money on me again. I can’t pay what you’re worth.”

The dismissive apology fell away from my ears. Thinking about his vast collection, most of which were first editions, I realized he might be someone who cared more about dust jackets and copyrights than contents. Maybe that was why he’d praised the way I arranged his rooms; he cared for the look of things, not substance. And perhaps I’d acted above my station by giving him something. He was not a friend, but a saheb.

As I stood, regretting my choice of the gift, Mr. Lewes closed the dictionary and said, “I know you’ve made a section for all the dictionaries. Why don’t you catalog this and add it to the collection?”