The Sleeping Dictionary (51 page)

IT WAS A journey I thought I’d never take again: three hours to Kharagpur before switching to the smaller train for Midnapore. I booked a window seat in a second-class compartment, and I stared out at the rice fields, wondering again about the rice shortage. Mr. Lewes, after being initially so defensive about the famine, was now blaming himself. It was obvious that he didn’t personally have involvement with supply policies, but he wore the shame of his country on his back. And this made me respect him a little more.

In Midnapore, I was anxious that I might not remember the way to Abbas and Hafeeza’s place, but after seeing the mosque, the memory in my feet took over. I turned down this lane and the other one, seeing that the grimy buildings and landmarks had not changed. Even the bits of glass on top of the wall surrounding Abbas and Hafeeza’s small compound had remained. But the name painted on the gate had changed to Khan.

It was unlocked, so I took a deep breath and passed through and on to the main hut. A weary-looking young woman answered, one hand holding a baby on her hip.

“
Salaam Aleykum, Bibiji
,” I said, using the polite Urdu words of greeting. “I am looking for my friends Abbas and Hafeeza.”

“Oh! I live here now; they have been gone four years,” she said, tenderly stroking the baby’s hair. “Letters still arrive for them now and again, but I just send them back to the post office.”

My letters had never come back; perhaps because they’d been opened by someone at the post office who took the money and gifts. Now I had an answer for the lack of news. In a subdued voice, I asked where they’d moved.

She bowed her head a moment, then said, “I am very sorry to tell you that Abbas-babu is dead. He was so kind. May Allah grant him a place in Paradise.”

“Dead?” The word choked my throat. Abbas could not have been much older than forty when we parted, and he was a vigorous man.

“He was mortally injured at the mill where he worked. It has happened there before—the British owner pushes the men to the breaking point. When workers are tired, they move more slowly. He stumbled and fell—”

“But that can’t be him.” I felt a flicker of hope. “The man I’m seeking worked as a chauffeur at a school.”

“Abbas-babu lost the driving job after some trouble with the school. He worked at the mill because nobody else would take him.” She interrupted herself to shush the whimpering baby.

I felt numb, realizing the unauthorized transport Abbas had provided for me to escape Lockwood might have been the reason he’d lost his good position. “What of his wife and child?”

“Don’t worry, they went to live with relatives in the countryside. I don’t know where exactly.”

At least she had said
they
. It meant that Hafeeza had kept Kabita.

“Can you tell me which of the neighbors were closest to her?”

“I think the ones next door. You can ask.”

But nobody on the street remembered Hafeeza saying which town she was going to. She’d sold the hut and almost everything she owned
for too little money, as she was deeply distracted over the loss of her husband. But she still had the daughter, called Zeenat, who was both fair and intelligent. I was not the first one who had come looking for them, the lady next door said with a curious expression, as if wanting me to explain myself.

I did not do that. I asked my questions up and down the street, sharing a little rice with each household. I received gratitude, but no useful information. I felt like a hole was opening up inside me, knowing that the money and gifts I’d sent had not been enough to keep them in their home. Now I could only hope that they had survived.

CHAPTER

32

A poor person seeks food, and a rich person seeks appetite.

Bengali proverb

I
was too distraught to remember much about my trip back to Calcutta, but as I tiptoed into the flat close to midnight, Mr. Lewes stepped out of the library, rubbing his eyes.

“How are your relatives?”

Too upset to fabricate anything, I shook my head and went to my room. In my bed, with the covers pulled up over my head, I finally let myself weep. I cried for Abbas, who had saved my life twice over and taken in my daughter. And now Hafeeza and Kabita were gone; whether they were dead or alive, I could not know. All the old feelings of losing my family in Johlpur came back to me. I no longer felt like competent, confident Kamala Mukherjee; instead I was poor, broken Pom.

But as I’d learned long ago, a servant had no time to grieve. I did my best to mask my raw emotional state the next morning. It helped
that Mr. Lewes left early for work, so I did not have to respond to any more of his concerns. I ate alone, worked on some book repairs in the library, and after lunch, tutored the reverend in Bengali. Then I went out to the streets, walking for blocks, looking closely at every pair of female refugees. My mind returned to the shrunken woman and daughter who had disappeared from Little Russell Street before I could help them. What terrible irony if they had been Hafeeza and Kabita, coming to my address for help. The little girl’s hair was reddish brown; maybe it was not just from malnutrition but from Anglo-Indian coloring. If her eyes had opened, I could have seen whether they were specked with green like my baby’s. Would I have known my girl? Could I ever know her, with so many years between us?

The next morning, Mr. Lewes stopped me in the hallway. “Kamala, we must speak. Obviously, something has been quite wrong since the time you went on leave.”

“I’m fine,” I protested, although I’d barely slept. “It’s the others who aren’t.”

“Which others?” He kept his eyes on me.

“Throughout this city, scores of thousands are dying from famine.” Irritation at his lack of understanding swelled inside, made me bold. “Haven’t you noticed?”

He nodded. “The government can’t admit there’s a famine, because then they’d have to provide relief. And they say there is no rice to give.”

“That is absurd!” I snapped. “Rice is being loaded on ships to soldiers. And the Bengalis in the countryside who grow it can’t take a handful home for themselves and their families!”

Mr. Lewes leaned against the library’s doorframe, studying me. “It’s always so difficult. I’ve been in India over a decade now and have seen malaria, cholera, flooding come again and again to devastate the people. Misfortune strikes India, time and time again.”

But he had not really seen it. He had not clung for his life in a tree and watched corpses float by. He had not suffered cholera twisting his
gut, nor dissolved into malarial shaking and delirium, nor seen anyone he loved die helplessly. He could display compassion, but he could not understand.

Abruptly, I asked, “Has your driver arrived?”

“Of course. Do you need to go somewhere?”

“You have always said you like to see all the sights of India. Won’t you let me show you some places in Calcutta?” I spoke in a firm voice, making my question not really sound like one.

“I would be happy to go about with you. But I hardly think now’s the time—”

“There’s no traffic now. It will be easy.”

Mr. Lewes looked at his watch and said, “As long as I’m to Lord Sinha Road by half ten for a meeting.”

How had I dared to give orders to Mr. Lewes? A demon must have invaded me. But Mr. Lewes would not fight. In short order, we were in the car. This time, Mr. Lewes settled against the far left side, his face resolutely turned toward the window. It reminded me of how I’d been on my first car ride with him to Middleton Mansions, trying to separate myself from him as much as possible.

In Hindi, I told Sarjit to drive us to the section of the Maidan where the refugees had planted themselves. More than a thousand were there; the green lawn had become a sea of distended brown bodies.

When we arrived, the chauffeur came around to open Mr. Lewes’s door; my employer made no movement to leave.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. I felt angry that we had come into the midst of the people yet would remain spectators.

“I understand that you wanted me to see that starving people have filled the grounds. I have noticed. It’s a wretched vision.” His voice was clipped.

“I’d rather we didn’t remain behind glass looking at them like an exhibit!” I got out of the door Sarjit had opened for me and walked around to stand by the left passenger door. Reluctantly, Mr. Lewes
emerged. I pointed toward the white wedding cake of a building that was the Victoria Memorial and said, “Let’s go this way.”

Today, nobody gawked at the oddity of a white man and brown woman walking together in public. Those who huddled under ragged blankets were too locked in their own misery to look at anything. As we came closer to the people, an unmistakable smell wafted toward us. Mr. Lewes held a handkerchief to his nose as I spoke quietly, pointing out the signs of starvation. So many bellies were distended, rounding up tightly against gaunt rib cages. And the eyes were the worst, lost deep in their sockets, looking out at the world without a bit of hope or expectation.

When we were in the car again, I directed Sarjit to take us up Central Avenue and then into North Calcutta, over to the Howrah Station area and finally, east to Entally. At this hour of the morning, traffic was still light; the car moved swiftly, revealing block after block filled with collapsed corpses and near-corpses wandering in vain.

As we pulled up to Lord Sinha Lane, Mr. Lewes finally spoke. “Thank you for the tour. I agree that it’s awful. I wish the government had money to do something more.”

“Money won’t help them,” I said. “All they need is rice. But none of them have the sticks to build a fire, nor the pot to boil water in.”

“Of course rice can be distributed. There must be some people giving aid—”

“No feeding kitchens have been organized yet by the government or English citizens.” Unable to hide the sentiments of most Bengalis, I said, “Is Mr. Churchill trying to punish Bengal for the Quit India movement, or does he think that if the population shrinks, it will be easier to rule?”

“That isn’t fair,” Mr. Lewes said sharply. He pulled out a cigarette, and struck his lighter uselessly against it. “The governor is considering relief measures, but they will be hard on everyone. I know that even
our
household has been hoarding maunds of rice—which is exactly the problem.”

I swallowed and said, “Yes. I’ve come to understand that my buying so much rice last month was wrong. I want to do something to make up for it.”

Mr. Lewes’s cigarette finally caught light. He took a deep inhalation and then said, “Perhaps we can donate some of our rice. I can look into the official channels.”

“How many hundreds will die today if we wait for official channels? These people need to drink phan today. All I can think of doing is serving phan to anyone who comes to the garden. Manik could help me with the cooking.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “If you serve thirty people today, they will tell others, and tomorrow there will be two hundred. The day after, five hundred.”

“Phan is made with eight parts water to rice,” I said, remembering the recipe my grandmother had taught me. “A maund weighs eighty pounds and will stretch for several days. And in those days, we will certainly save some lives.” I paused to ensure he was still paying full attention. “Have you ever saved a life before, Mr. Lewes?”

After a pause he said, “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, I haven’t, either. Here is our first chance.”

THE REST OF the day, I was busy. I instructed Manik to use our two tallest pots for boiling rice and convinced Mr. Rowley’s servants to lend me a third. Then I had Sarjit drive Jatin to the wholesale market to load up the car with as many clay cups as he could buy, and I telephoned the Sens.

Mrs. Sen did not have a pot to spare because she was making phan daily as part of an effort organized by the women’s section of the Communist Party. As usual, though, she had some controversial political news. “Netaji sent a message to the government, offering to drop one hundred thousand tons of Burmese rice over Bengal. But the
Britishers would rather see half of Bengal die than accept help from the enemy!”