The Sleeping Dictionary (60 page)

“People have been saying that what we did was hard.” Supriya’s clear voice, amplified by a megaphone, finally silenced the crowd. “But it was not. Each day we spent training under the hot Singapore sun and then trekking into Burma was a beautiful one for us. We worked together, every woman bearing the same load as a man. Muslims and Hindus broke bread together. We spoke the same language, and because of this, we became a family. We did not fight each other, because there was only one battle that mattered: for India’s freedom.”

My eyes became moist as Supriya, standing straight and proud, declared that even though the INA had not freed India as planned, the support for them shown by almost every Indian, including those working for the police and government, proved the British had lost their hold.

“The liberated India Netaji promised us is here; our minds are free!” Supriya’s joyful words were followed by thunderous applause. Ironically, Pankaj Bandopadhyay escorted her offstage, just as he’d done for Netaji all those years before. Then he returned and put the megaphone to his lips.

“Our sister Supriya is as brave as Durga and Kali put together,” he shouted to the audience. “I would have gone myself were it not for my commitment to keeping so many of you out of jail. During this time, the INA entrusted me with a radio receiver that allowed me to spread her broadcasts from Singapore and then Rangoon. I can tell you with all certainty that she has been only too modest about her accomplishments . . .”

It had been almost a year since we’d had our upsetting good-bye. I watched Pankaj, feeling strangely unemotional. I would have thought I’d tremble to see him again—either with anger or with awakened
heartbreak. But the famous lawyer-activist didn’t seem as attractive as I recalled, and his speech wasn’t as compelling as Supriya’s. I didn’t like the lecturing tone when he told everyone to remember how well the INA soldiers cooperated, and that this should be used as a strategy for further freedom fighting. Supriya had already shared the same message, albeit more powerfully. Furthermore, Pankaj’s stress on continued Hindu-Muslim unity didn’t suit the crowd. Some Hindus spat, and a rumbling grew in the Muslim League section. I knew from talking with Simon, and reading the papers, that Muslims wanted to have their own country when independence was granted. I wasn’t happy about this, because I wanted one India with everyone included, but it was clear that they didn’t share my hope—and with Lord Mountbatten having close Muslim advisers, it seemed likely their view would be respected.

After the speeches were done, I flowed out to the street with thousands of others. I thought about how I’d been so sure that I loved Pankaj. As I’d thought before, it was more like a schoolgirl fascination with a flamboyant actor. And while I’d spent a lot of time at the Minerva and the Metro cinemas during my spying days, I had come around to feeling that I liked books better than films. Simon was safe and solid: a long novel that I was in no hurry to finish.

Open cars holding freedom fighters and the INA veterans were slowly passing; I saw Supriya, but she was looking the other way, stretching out her hands so people could touch them. I wanted to speak to her, but I imagined it was unlikely to happen in such a crush. Then, all of a sudden, Sonali Sen Israni was at my elbow with her husband, Arvind.

“Didi!” she said, tucking my arm into hers. “I’m so glad to find you. You must come to the party at my parents’ house.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Your father—”

“Baba isn’t angry anymore. He is so proud of Supriya that he tells everyone that he sent her off with his blessings! Please forgive him for being so cross with you! Won’t you please come back with me?”

“Yes, we can toast to your marriage as well. I’m very happy about it,”
Arvind said, with a grin that made his young face look even more boyish.

“You know?” I asked, not understanding his reaction.

“Yes, Pankaj told me some time ago. He hadn’t known that your husband did so much to shake up the viceroy and government about the famine. Mr. Lewes cared so much that he even sent a very long letter that was published in the
Guardian
.”

“The Manchester
Guardian
?” I stopped dead, causing some people behind us to bump into me.

“Yes, apparently his letter was quoted at a Parliament hearing in which some Labor politicians argued that Britain hadn’t effectively governed India.” Arvind gave me a pilot’s thumbs-up. “Congratulations, Kamala. You married your own freedom fighter!”

“All you ever spoke about were his books!” Sonali added with a laugh. “You kept quite a secret about his character, didn’t you?”

As I clasped her hand, I thought about whether Simon really had changed. Could this act, so quietly performed, exonerate his past doings with the Indian Political Service? I recalled how he’d confessed that he’d been passed over for a promotion. Perhaps his sending the letter was why. I was touched that he had not boasted to me about the letter. Maybe my husband was like a jasmine flower: tightly closed all day, but blossoming at night.

SEN BOOKBINDING OVERFLOWED with well-wishers, and their table groaned with sweets, luchis, and so many curries. It was almost a prewar spread; I could only imagine that many friends had pooled resources for Mrs. Sen to offer such a feast. I was anxious, though, that the lady might not want me to take anything, because she might still be angry at me for not warning her about Supriya’s defection.

Supriya was laughing and chattering with a circle of admirers when I came in; but she rushed over to me and said, “If it wasn’t for this woman, I would never have served.”

Her words warmed me, but I shook my head. “That’s not at all true!”

“Oh, but it is! Nobody in my family can keep their mouth closed; I could not keep a secret about going, so I told it to Kamala. If she had told my family, they would have shouted about it from the rooftops, and I would have been arrested at Howrah.”

Pankaj always said that he would not have asked Supriya to do intelligence work; he’d said that the Sens could not keep secrets. The irony was that he would never know that keeping too many secrets had trapped me in a place I could never exit. As I thought about this, Mrs. Sen came out of the kitchen, wearing her usual white sari with a red border. Supriya’s mother had her eye on me and hurried over to catch me in an embrace.

“We have missed you,” said Mr. Sen, coming alongside his wife and nodding at me. I saw he’d become grayer over the war years; what worry he had endured. “There are too many people about this place today, but you must come next week for lunch. No need to bring books.”

“Masho, that is kind of you.” I felt myself tearing up because I was so relieved to be accepted by both of them.

“Kind, nothing! I want to know how you like marriage.” Mrs. Sen twinkled at me. “And your mother-in-law? What does she expect of you?”

“I like marriage,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. “And as of now, there is no mother-in-law. She’s in England, and we’ve never met.”

“Perfect marriage!” laughed Sonali.

Mrs. Sen pinched Sonali’s cheek. “Don’t let your husband hear you!”

“He won’t. He’s chatting up Pankaj.”

I had noticed Pankaj holding court across the room when I’d arrived; he had nodded toward me, and I had nodded back, but certainly not made any effort to speak with him. But now I saw him weaving his way through people toward our group.

“Hello, Pankaj.” My heart was beating fast; I had no idea what he intended to say to me.

“My dear Kamala!” Pankaj’s tone was solicitous. “I’ve been meaning to tell you I’m so very sorry about the last time we spoke. I didn’t know the whole story.”

Was Pankaj sincere? It didn’t even matter, because I now viewed him as someone fettered by his mother and social obligations. Pankaj was brave when it came to incarceration, yet he seemed terrified to follow his heart’s desire. He was so very different from Simon—who really was the perfect husband for me, as Sonali had suggested. Feeling generous, I said to Pankaj, “That’s all right. Do not think about it any longer.”

“How well you’ve been keeping.” His eyes glanced over my figure, and I wondered if he was looking for a sign of pregnancy. “You are still enjoying Calcutta?”

“And what about me?” Supriya interjected. “Nobody asks me in that tone: How was Singapore? How was Burma?”

“Ha-ha!” Pankaj said, his expression becoming livelier. “Do you mean you didn’t lounge under a coconut palm, Captain Sen, with a battalion of men serving you tea?”

Supriya blushed and said, “Don’t be silly. I was a captain in the women’s regiment. We trained in both combat and defense missions. Netaji was most impressed with our unit—but the bloody Japanese would never let us get off the ground!”

“What was it like working with the Japanese?” I asked, and then the conversation was off in a diverting direction. Supriya talked about how an armed women’s unit had arrested some robbers during a street incident in Burma; and how they had escaped the bombing of their dormitory by minutes. And Supriya had marched for almost a hundred miles on the retreat from Burma. Pankaj seemed to hang on to Supriya’s every word, as did the others. Supriya must have been an excellent officer, for her manner of speaking was both friendly and inspiring.

I left the party shortly afterward with good wishes all around. The political talk left me somewhat encouraged, although Simon had told me that Britain would not give up India until the INA trials had been completed.

As I turned into our street, I looked toward Middleton Mansions with pleasure. The rainy season had turned the new grass a rich emerald green, and the borders of striped crotons and cascading bougainvillaea showed the garden was truly being restored to its lovely former condition.

I knew that Simon and the reverend were planning to see a long American film, so I was surprised to see someone standing near the front door. As I drew closer, it was apparent he was a tall Indian. His profile seemed vaguely familiar; then, as he moved slightly, I saw the back of a lady, much shorter and stout, wearing a pink day dress with a matching fancy hat. The lady’s shoulders were bent as if she were leaning down to speak to someone much smaller.

They must have heard me open the gate, because the man and woman whirled about to look at me. And then I had to steady myself, for I recognized the woman’s plump face with its heavily rouged cheeks and small, mean eyes.

It was Rose Barker from Kharagpur. And the man with her was Hari, one of the Rose Villa darwans. They had come to my house. And even if I ran from them, they would find me again.

My hands gripped the gate so tightly that the wrought iron spikes cut into my palms. I was so terrified that I could not bring myself to go forward, nor were my feet able to run. As I stood helplessly tied to the gate, the third visitor spun around to look at me. She was a child.

A young girl.

Suddenly, my hands weren’t frozen anymore. I pushed forward on the gate and walked toward the girl; it was as if there were a cord between us, pulling me to her. The child looked about nine; but I quickly realized that was because of what Mummy had done. Her hair had been rolled into big curls, and her tiny mouth was painted pink. Heavy mascara and kohl rimmed her eyes, which were lotus-shaped like mine, but an unusual greenish brown. I had never forgotten those eyes.

She was Kabita.

CHAPTER

39

All power on earth waxes great under compact with Satan. But the Mother is there, alone though she may be, to contemn and stand against this devil’s progress.

The Mother cares not for mere success, however great—she wants to give life, to save life. My very soul, today, stretches out its hands in yearning to save this child.

—Rabindranath Tagore,
The Home and the World
, 1919

G
ood afternoon.” My words flowed mechanically as I inclined my head toward her darwan. “Hari. It has been a long time.”

There was no point in pretending I didn’t know them. They had seen the way I gripped the gate and come forward as if in a dream. Behind my cold face, though, was the secret place where my joy had surged. Kabita was alive and standing in my garden. And she was regarding me with such curiosity, the way I used to gaze at Bidushi’s elegant mother.