The Sleeping Dictionary (40 page)

“A train derailed yesterday. I wonder what the local press are saying about it,” Mr. Lewes said one summer evening as we sat down on the veranda. It was just before the rains arrived, and to stay cool, he wore a white linen shirt and thin cotton trousers, with chappals on his feet. I was dressed in the sheerest cotton sari I owned, one that I would not normally have worn around him, were it not for the heat. Sometimes, I caught Mr. Lewes looking at me a bit longer than was seemly, but what he would say next was always ordinary and businesslike, taking away the nervousness that had briefly surged inside.
These were the kind of jitters that I imagined would come when I was able to see Pankaj again, but it had been weeks since the rally, and I didn’t know how to ask where he might be without making Supriya suspicious of my motives.

I returned my attention to the news story. “Yes, I saw mention of that somewhere. Thirty-seven dead, and more than two hundred injured, wasn’t it?”

“At the office I heard at least forty dead with the number sure to rise.” Mr. Lewes took a sip from his gin-and-tonic. “Why don’t you read to me what the
Star
reports.”

Urdu was not my strongest language, so it took me a minute to locate the story. I read, “The Down Calcutta Mail was thrown off the rails between Chinsurah and Calcutta. Engineers and station workers examining the track afterward found two fishplates had been removed.” I continued translating the article, which reported that railway officials had declared it an act of sabotage.

“It’s mysterious that this train was attacked,” I mused aloud. “I would understand it if an important English figure was on board. But nothing’s been mentioned.”

“It could be that particular train wasn’t the target,” Mr. Lewes said. “One train ran those same tracks a few hours earlier that was supposed to be transporting Subhas Bose and his brother. But their plans changed.”

It was interesting that Mr. Lewes knew this; I hadn’t seen it in the paper. And I wasn’t sure what he was implying. Searching his face for a clue, I said, “No Indians would want to kill Netaji.”

Lighting a cigarette, he said, “Gandhi supporters couldn’t—because of the nonviolence pledge—but Muslims have no such boundaries. And there’s no end of trouble in the legislature between the Hindus and Muslims.”

But not with Ruksana and her non-Muslim friends, I thought. The young women in Chhatri Sangha listened and learned from one another. “What if the English tampered with the line—that is, ordered some Indian railway workers to do it?”

Mr. Lewes winked at me and said, “Have you tossed aside Tagore in favor of Agatha Christie?”

Stiffly, I said, “I will never love any writer more than Rabindranath. As for Mr. Christie, who is he?”

“
She
is an authoress who concocts very clever detective stories—pleasure reading for trains and sickbeds. But to return to your theory, I find it implausible that our government would order an assassination.” He gently blew out a smoke ring, which hovered between us before disappearing. “Do you think other Indians would believe it?”

“I don’t know.” I felt it was time to change the topic; Mr. Lewes shouldn’t know that I was well acquainted with the nationalist movement. “We have a very nice dinner coming. For the first course, Manik has prepared a delicious-looking soup from lau squash and ginger. He wanted me to ask if you’d prefer it warm or cold.”

“Who cares about soup? What’s your opinion of Bose and his Forward Bloc?” Mr. Lewes studied me like a tiger stalking its prey.

He really wanted to know. Carefully, I answered, “I don’t know enough to have a firm opinion. The book Mr. Bose wrote about his ideas is banned, so I really don’t know what he believes.”

He nodded. “
The Indian Struggle
is censored in India, but it was published in England a few years ago. I’ll lend it to you, if you’d like.”

“What? How did you get it?” I was shocked that Mr. Lewes would own a book decrying his own government.

“Collectors can find anything.” There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Just don’t take the book out into public or leave it around the flat where anyone might see it.”

“All right,” I said, because I did want to read it. “And there is little risk with the servants—it’s only Manik and Shombhu who can read and write, and they don’t ever come up to my floor.”

“As well they shouldn’t!” Mr. Lewes coughed. I wrinkled my nose, because I did not like the smell of his cigarettes. I also didn’t believe something that made people cough could be healthy, no matter what the advertisements pronounced. As if he’d sensed what I was thinking, he stubbed out the cigarette.

“Thank you very much,” I said.

“I smoke too many of them, I think,” Mr. Lewes said. “And I’ve made up my mind about the soup. Please tell Manik I would like it cold.”

I READ THROUGH
The Indian Struggle
three times. I found the book opinionated but magnificently so. Netaji had written the history of India from antiquity through the present, including details of the brutal tortures and killing done to people who had attempted to protest British rule. Mr. Lewes must have read the book closely, for I saw thick underlinings on many pages, particularly those relating to revolutionaries like Bhagat Singh, and every mention of the words
terrorism
or
revolution
. He had also drawn question marks and the occasional exclamation point in the margins. I did not have to ask Mr. Lewes the meaning of his defacements. It was clear he did not approve of the book.

One evening that Mr. Lewes was away in New Delhi, I took up Supriya’s invitation to meet again at Albert Hall. Some guests wanted to speak to the Chhatri Sangha women’s group. The monsoon was on, and my tram stopped due to water on the tracks, but I was determined to keep going. Offering to pay double the usual rate, I caught a rickshaw for the second part of my journey. I was an hour late when I arrived at Albert Hall. Supriya and Sonali, who lived close enough to have walked, were already at the table, looking slightly bedraggled as they waved at me to come forward. Then I saw others I knew: Ruksana, Lata, and some men. Men at the table! It was rare for young Indian men and women to freely socialize. Before taking my seat, I stopped at the corner where people were leaving their wet umbrellas.

“I hope we’ll get the same umbrellas at night’s end,” a male voice said in my ear.

“Yes. They’re all black, aren’t they?” I agreed with a laugh.

“Black as sin! Just as the British say about us.”

The man’s arch comment made me look up at him as he wiped off his fogged eyeglasses with a handkerchief. It was Pankaj Bandopadhyay. So this was why I’d kept going through the rain; somehow, my woman’s intuition had told me I couldn’t miss the meeting. My heart raced with happiness. Because I’d not expected to see him again so quickly, nor have him speak directly to me.

“Are you with the Chhatri Sangha group?” Pankaj offered a social smile, clearly not recognizing me as the servant girl from four years earlier. I should have been completely relieved; but the romantic in me wished I hadn’t been so forgettable.

I told him that I was a group member and my name was Kamala Mukherjee, which led to him introducing himself. I tried to keep a calm demeanor, but inside, I was jumping with excitement. Pankaj and I were on speaking terms.

“Come, then,” Pankaj said. “Let’s see if we can find seats. I will buy the first round of coffee.”

“Pankaj-da, you’re all wet!” Supriya said as the two of us came up. I remembered Supriya saying she knew many activists, but I would not have guessed Pankaj.

“I feel like a bedraggled crow,” he said wryly. “I don’t know how your friend Kamala stays so elegant. Tell me, did you travel by palanquin?”

“Tram and rickshaw! But I have a good black umbrella.” I sat down between Sonali and Supriya, trying to keep from smiling too much. Did he really think me elegant? The others were introduced: a sallow, middle-aged Bengali man called Bijoy, and Arvind, a curly-haired youth closer to our ages but with an accent from another place. I found it interesting that nobody gave their surnames during introductions, and the females added
da
, the suffix meaning elder brother, when they addressed Pankaj. Clearly they already knew him in a friendly way.

“Who else would like chicken sandwiches?” Pankaj asked when the bearer came to take orders.

I shook my head, remembering I was supposed to seem like a proper Brahmin in public. Lata, who really was a Brahmin, also declined, but the Sen girls ordered chicken, as did young Arvind, and Ruksana, who was the gathering’s only Muslim.

“What kind of Brahmin eats chicken?” Lata Menon said to Pankaj after the sandwiches came.

“Freedom fighters need strength to fight,” he laughingly rejoined. “You know the legend of the Kshatriya caste: a king made those Brahmins eat meat so they’d be strong enough to fight for him.”

“Even though you are presumably hoping to be reborn in your same caste?” Supriya said teasingly. All the girls seemed so familiar with Pankaj; it made me a little jealous.

“I don’t care about caste; I think of myself as an Indian. I should not even have mentioned Hinduism because religious divisions ruin everything.” Pankaj nodded toward Ruksana and said, “I am honored by your presence at this table. I hope you bring more friends from your community to meet with us.”

“My group is already here.” Ruksana’s back straightened, and she gestured toward the Sen girls, Lata, and me. “We ladies usually only work with one another.”

“And what have you been doing?” Pankaj scooped up his sandwich half.

Ruksana answered, “We raise funds for the independence struggle, and, of course, we debate politics.”

“Yes, that is something we really enjoy!” Supriya said.

“Did you know that some years ago, sisters in the movement did quite a bit in cooperation with men?” Pankaj’s quiet voice drew me even closer. “They organized training centers to teach martial arts; they blocked entrances to universities on strike days and spent months in prison. Half a dozen Bengali girls have shot at British officials, including the governor of Bengal himself.”

“Are you advising us to shoot guns at people?” I exclaimed, unable to hide my shock.

“We are not interested in becoming bandits!” Ruksana gave him a stern look.

“I am not suggesting that,” Pankaj replied hastily. “But over the last thirty or so years, Gandhiji has gained nothing from the English but unfulfilled promises. Netaji has explained what needs to be done.”

“Are you with Forward Bloc, then?” I asked, feeling myself grow warm as he turned from Ruksana to acknowledge my question.

“I am holding myself aside so I can continue to work as a barrister for activists,” Pankaj said. “I’ve been arrested twice already, and it hampers my ability to keep others free and aid the movement. So I made a vow to help people within the movement make connections with each other—but I don’t hold any official posts.”

“That is probably the best idea for you,” I said, relieved that he was not at such great personal risk as before. Supriya looked at me strangely, and I wondered if my face was showing my emotions.

“I represent Shakti Sangha, and we are joining Forward Bloc.” Arvind spoke in a voice that seemed stronger than his age would suggest. “We are delighted that you ladies have agreed to meet us. As Netaji says, if we wage war for equality of Indians in India, we must regard our women as highly as the men.”

“I agree with you!” Sonali said, and beamed at Arvind. As if embarrassed, he dropped the gaze. When everyone’s attention had returned to Pankaj, he explained that Shakti Sangha had published many pamphlets with quotations from the speeches of Subhas Chandra Bose and other strong nationalists. It all was being done with a printing press that was constantly being moved from one safe house to another to avoid discovery.

“Something women freedom fighters did in the past was move weaponry to various fighters,” Pankaj said. “What they need help with now is transferring the parts of our printing press. It’s not as difficult as it
seems, for each piece is boxed up and covered with something else.”

“Why do you need women?” I asked, wishing I could be part of it and admiring the term he had used.
Freedom fighter
sounded much better than the word the English press used:
terrorist
.

“Lately, the police have randomly stopped men with packages. That is why we hope to shift some of our burden on strong female shoulders,” Pankaj said, looking directly at me in a way that made my stomach flutter.

“First, I would like to see what these pamphlets say.” Ruksana’s expression was serious.

“Certainly, you must see! Unfortunately, we were not carrying materials today; there was too much risk with so many police around the Town Hall. If we meet again, I’ll have something for you.”

There was silence for a moment, and then a girl called Sulekha spoke in a timid voice. “I am quite interested to participate, but I must first write to my parents about it and receive permission.”

Pankaj shook his head. “Letters can be opened by the police. In your situation, it’s probably best not to volunteer. And whoever does this would need freedom to move about in the day and sometimes evening, mostly in North Calcutta.”