The Sleeping Dictionary (64 page)

“They’ve brought us tea!” I began pouring her cup.

“No tea for me.” She looked away.

“A biscuit then?”

“No thank you, Mrs. Lewes.”

I was surprised by her fierce refusal, and the way she would not meet my eyes. I said, “When we first met in Calcutta you called me Auntie—it was so much friendlier. Is something wrong, dear?”

Kabita wrapped her arms around herself, and with her head tucked down, mumbled, “Why didn’t you come last week?”

“Darling, I sent a telegram explaining, didn’t you receive it? The regular train was canceled, some sort of trouble with political protesters. I couldn’t take a later one and be home in time to—” I broke off,
leaving unsaid
in time to convince Simon nothing was amiss.
“But I’m here now, and we have lots of fun ahead of us.”

Kabita shook off my promise with a scowl. “We shouldn’t be apart. Why did you buy me if you don’t want to be with me?”

How I wished she had never seen the money go from my hands to Rose’s. Awkwardly, I said, “I was not buying you. I was saving you, bringing you back to me—”

“Back to you? I’d never seen you before in my life!”

I could have kept lying to her. But if I lied now, how could I ever tell her later? I remembered all the mistakes I’d made lying to Simon. I began cautiously. “I believe you know that Hafeeza and Abbas cared for you from a very young age.”

“So it’s true what Mummy said?” As she spoke, her lips trembled. “That I wasn’t born to them?”

If I lied to her, I could have soothed her mind forever; but I would not have been able to live with another lie. Hedging for time, I said, “Tell me what Mummy said about it.”

“Mummy said that my mother was a very naughty lady who wouldn’t keep me.” Kabita paused. “But I think she had a good heart. The lady sent Ma letters with lovely things like hair ribbons and shoes and money. Ma said she loved us both.”

I coughed and said, “Did you know, I have a story, too?”

“What?” Her face relaxed slightly, because she was used to me telling her fairy tales and reading books aloud during our visits.

“I was born a poor little girl from the countryside. My whole family died and your baba saved my life. He helped me find work at his school where I was a servant who cleaned floors and pulled fans.”

“You were a servant?” Kabita’s eyes were incredulous.

“Yes. They called me Sarah. Later on, others called me Pamela. Kamala is the first name I chose for myself.”

Kabita shook her head. “But your parents must have named you when you were born! That is your name. What’s that?”

This startled me so much I almost couldn’t respond. In a rush, I said, “Oh, I’ve
grown so accustomed to being Kamala that I’ve no need for another name. I’ve had to make many changes throughout my life; more than any woman should have to do.” I swallowed down the sob that threatened and said, “The hardest change, of course, was giving you up.”

Kabita shook her head disbelievingly. “What?”

“I mean . . . I was your first mother.” I put down my cup, because my hand was shaking so hard. “I kept you with me for the first month and a half in a horrible, hot little room. Mummy knew about you. She wanted to keep you for her own selfish reasons, and the doctor wanted you sent to an orphanage. Because I had no home to shelter you, nor money to feed you, I brought you to Hafeeza and Abbas, the best people I knew.”

Kabita seemed to shrink into herself, like a young butterfly crawling back into its cocoon. In a muffled voice, she said, “But you are rich. You live in a mansion. You should have taken me, if I really am yours.”

She was right, absolutely right. Tears started in my eyes as I confessed, “My husband would throw us both out if he knew.”

Kabita’s head shot up, and she looked at me with eyes full of hate. “That’s a lie.”

“No, really, he thinks I’m—I’m better than I am—”

“No, you’re lying. You have told too many lies. I don’t want you to be my mother.”

With that, she had done me in. I had fooled many people, but this girl, nearly eight years old, could read me like a book. Tears flowing freely, I sobbed, “You make me feel that I should never have come.”

“You’re right!” Kabita cried. “And I don’t want to know your first name or anything more about you! I hate you now and will forever!”

I WEPT ALL the way home on the train. A worried-looking woman offered me a crusty shingara as consolation. It filled my mouth with
a taste like paper; I knew nothing would ever taste good to me again. Automatically, I thanked her and ate it, but I could not taste any flavor.

I had calmed down, but when I got into the flat and saw my reflection in the mirror, my eyes were red and my face puffy. I turned to see Simon, who’d come from the dining room with a drink in one hand. His gin-lime; he’d been drinking more of them in the past few months. With an off-kilter smile, he said, “Sorry—I started eating dinner. Where have you been?”

“The orphans’ home.” This was a project with which I’d helped Reverend McRae right after getting married, when I was looking for useful things to do. I used the orphanage as my regular excuse for Friday afternoon visits to Kabita.

“The air must be bad outside; you look wretched. At least you made it back in one piece. We will have our anniversary celebration another time, I suppose.”

I’d forgotten that this date was the anniversary of one year of marriage. Now I was filled with guilt on top of my existing misery. “Simon, I’m so very sorry! I was so busy with the volunteer work I simply forgot.”

“Never mind that. I have something for you.” Simon handed me a smallish rectangle wrapped in silver paper. Not a jewelry box; good, because I was still feeling guilty about the rings. Inside the pretty paper I discovered a book bound in plain red morocco. Inside was a sea of empty pages. The only words were stamped on the corner of the front endpaper: Sen Bookbindery and Publishing, College Street, Calcutta.

“Paper is the first anniversary gift, isn’t it?” I smiled mistily at him, remembering what I’d learned from the English book about wedding planning.

“Yes. It’s a diary,” Simon said. “I visited their shop and saw they had quite an assortment of specialty books. I thought an empty book to write in is what you need.”

“Important men write about their lives in diaries: I hardly have
anything to record.” I could not say that I was afraid to put down a single honest word without crying.

“But women have kept diaries, too: There’s so much that you hold within: it’s my hope that this diary may help you find your voice.”

I thanked Simon and said how happy I was he’d finally met the Sens—for this, at least, was true. As I began a stumbling apology for not having his gift ready, he waved it off.

“You don’t need to give me anything.” He paused. “Well, the one thing—but that’s up to the doctors and God, isn’t it?”

He would not get his newborn baby. I would not have the love of my daughter. The marriage I’d run to, because I wanted to follow my heart, would never result in a family. It would not be a happily ever after. All this I thought about as we lay back-to-back, instead of in each other’s arms.

CHAPTER

43

REVELATION:
1. The disclosure or communication of knowledge to man by a divine or supernatural agency.

—
Oxford English Dictionary
, Vol. 8, 1933

I
went back to Chandernagore the next week with the hope that Kabita had softened. But Mother Superior said she refused to see me, even though she was being punished for the rudeness of it. I asked the nun to please release her from detainment and returned to Calcutta feeling sad yet still determined to keep visiting until my daughter’s anger faded. It was a wretched holiday. But for every Friday that I made sweets and traveled to her school, I had another rejection. And in between each visit were six long days in Calcutta, a city besieged by its own unhappiness.

1946 brought the long-awaited trials for the Indian National Army. The British had decided not to press charges against soldiers who’d joined, but to bring to trial a few INA officers whose actions were considered treasonous against the Government of India or who’d
committed war crimes. The first officer to face charges, Abdul Rashid, was sentenced to seven years’ labor for physical atrocities against his own troops. Students in Calcutta reacted to the decision by rioting, which led to a violent police counterreaction. A day after the Calcutta riots Bengal’s Chief Minister H. S. Suhrawardy gave a powerful speech about injustice. His audience became so inflamed that they rushed straight at the police cordons and more blood flowed. It did not matter what Mr. Rashid had done to the soldiers under him; it mattered only that he was Indian and that those who had convicted him were British.

The morning after the second riot, I sat at the dining table having breakfast and reading the papers with Simon. At the end of my translation of the article about the events, Simon sighed heavily.

“What are you thinking, darling?” I asked.

“That I don’t believe in happy endings anymore.”

“Certainly not after reading something like that,” I said. “And to think there are still two trials left to go.”

Jatin walked in with a silver tray holding two more pieces of toast, each browned to our individual tastes. He smiled as I took mine and waited for Simon to take one; but Simon pushed his plate away. Jatin looked at the uneaten eggs on the plate in consternation.

“Go,” Simon said to him; unusually short, I thought. When Jatin had departed, Simon turned his tense gaze on me. “You were out of town last Friday. Where were you?”

It wasn’t like him to question my activities. Keeping my eyes on the newspaper, as if the articles were very fascinating, I said, “Last Friday? The orphans’ home, as usual. Why?”

“Think again.” Simon pulled the newspaper from me. “You never work there on Fridays.”

Now I looked into his face; from the intensity of his eyes, I could tell that he knew. Simon said, “You were seen at Howrah Station last Friday afternoon. One of our agents followed you again to Chandernagore, the place you’ve visited the last five Fridays.”

“You spied on me?” I was suddenly cold.

“It was Weatherington’s operation. He gave me the report.” Simon steepled his fingers and looked at me over the top. “Never my idea; but it was worth it to have the truth at last.”

It was so very quiet in the dining room. No noise from the kitchen, garden, or street. It felt as if the world had stopped and all that existed was the blood pounding in my head. I began, “There are orphans in Chandernagore.”

Simon held up a hand, stilling me. “As you know, Chandernagore is still French territory, outside the reach of our government and police. Radicals hide there. You are always seen carrying a tiffin box to Chandernagore and back; obviously there’s something else inside.”

“It’s just food—Manik can tell you, he washes it each time. I don’t know how you can look me in the face and accuse me of such nonsense!” Despite the confident words, I felt my stomach churn.

Simon looked at me steadily. “I know about the second desk key you carry; I found it on the key ring, that time I helped you with the rice kitchen. That’s why I went away. I needed time to collect myself.”

I’d given him the key ring so he could go into a kitchen cabinet; and then, after he’d left to stay at his club, I’d found he had cleaned out his desk. He had taken the papers to protect them from me. Slowly, I said, “I remember that day. I thought you went away because you were afraid of the emotion you felt.”

“Emotion brought me back,” he said, his eyes shining as if they were on the brink of tears. “I was helpless in my feelings for you. You fell into my arms when I returned; you said that you loved me. I told myself this meant my fears were wrong. But bad memories keep surfacing. You knew that I’d written the governor’s letters. And you’ve always been frank about your political feelings.”

I was silent for a minute, realizing there was no way the story could come out well. “I’m sorry, Simon. I have looked inside your desk, but not for several years. And things have changed. India’s becoming free. There’s no need to punish freedom fighters.”