The Sleeping Dictionary (68 page)

“Yes!” His expression relaxed slightly. “I was working on some very important folios for the Asiatic Library.”

“I mean things of your family’s: money, bank books, important documents. The library will understand that its books should not come before your family’s life.”

“But they are hand-painted poems from the time of Emperor Akbar! This is an irreplaceable part of India’s history. We must protect it with our lives because without it—” As Masho spoke, thick tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks.

I knew what he was thinking. Without India’s history, we would not remember what we once had been; we would become shells of beings like the savages outside. I understood that Mr. Sen loved books the way that I did; for him, these ancient books were a form of human life.

“Masho, I will be very careful with the folios. Please come.”

Nishan came bounding down the steps. “The men are coming back down the street, and they have torches. Guess who is with them? Our darwan, Ali! He must have told them that we are hiding inside.”

“Give me the folio,” I said to Mr. Sen, who appeared to have gone numb. His fingers shook as he handed me a cracked red cover with a bundle of papers inside. I spied a burlap bag in the corner, wrapped it around the book, and followed him and Nishan upstairs just as the men bashed through the front door’s grille.

CHAPTER

47

Calcutta has earned a bad repute of late. It has seen too many wild demonstrations during the past few months. If that evil reputation is sustained for sometime longer it will cease to be a city of palaces; it will become a city of the dead.

—Mahatma Gandhi,
Harijan
, August 24, 1946

A
s we reached the roof, Supriya shifted into commander mode, ordering us to creep low along with the suitcases toward the Dutta Publishing building. I should have been relieved that we were finally on our way, but a nauseous feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. So many men were massed below us, working on the grille; any one of them could look up and notice us. I told Supriya that instead of moving, we might be safer lying flat in the roof’s center behind the washing line still draped with saris until they’d gone.

“If we linger, I could shoot one of them,” Supriya mused. “That could scatter the crowd—”

“Or show them exactly where we are!” I retorted. “Tell everyone to lie down.”

“No, you must listen to me,” Supriya whispered emphatically. “There can only be one commander.”

“Daughters, do not argue,” Mrs. Sen interjected; she was lying awkwardly on her belly. “Let’s do as Kamala says and hide behind the washing. Then we can follow Supriya’s guidance to the next place.”

The way she’d included me as a daughter reminded me of Sonali. I’d heard her in-laws’ fine house was in the predominantly Muslim area near Nakhoda Mosque. I whispered to Supriya, “Have you heard from your sister?”

“Fortunately, they all went to a wedding in Sindh,” Supriya answered. “She will be worrying, when she hears about this.”

“Ruksana lives near Park Circus,” I said. “They have many Muslim neighbors. I suppose it’s unlikely they will be targeted.”

“But there are Hindus nearby. I worry for them.” Supriya fiddled with her rifle and muttered, “There’s something you should know; in case I die today and you survive.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense!” I began.

“Pankaj is in Delhi for the INA trials. Before leaving he asked me to marry him, but I didn’t know how to answer. Now I have made my decision. Will you please tell him that I would have done it?”

A shiver ran through me at her words. How ironic that the man who’d almost married Bidushi had decided on Supriya. But I could understand why. The two had always had a comfortable, teasing relationship; and he was very proud of her for serving with the INA. And I was sure that his mother also approved of Calcutta’s political darling.

“Didi? What do you think?” Supriya’s eyes were focused on me.

“Pankaj will be yours, if you want him,” I said. At least I’d never confessed my long-ago crush or the anger I’d held against him for his cavalier treatment of my emotions. If I had told all to her, her loyalty to me might have kept her from the man she’d always secretly wanted.

“His mother already spoke to my parents. Ma and Baba are a little worried that he wants me for the wrong reason—the political
advantage. You see, he plans to run for Parliament after Independence,” Supriya said. “But I don’t care about his ambition. There is not another man in Calcutta like him.”

“Yes, you’re right about that,” I agreed. Marrying an INA heroine would be like gold for Pankaj. But he admired her, too. I hoped the marriage would be a happy one. While I honestly wished her happiness, I was very glad not to be in her position.

“You are talking of romance, when death is stalking! Daughters, don’t be foolish,” Mrs. Sen hissed from the other side, letting us know she hadn’t missed a word.

“All right, Ma. Watch this.” And then Supriya was sliding forward like a lizard toward the roof’s edge. She sighted along the rifle and pulled the trigger. The resulting blast was strong enough that I clapped my hands over my ears while her mother and Nishan screamed.

“They’re running!” Supriya rose into a crouch and shot again at the retreating group. I joined her at the edge to see one man wailing and holding his arm; the other lay motionless. But there was no time to feel victory, because thick flames were licking their way up the Sens’ storefront.

“We must go over to the Dutta building,” I shouted at the Sen parents, who were still lying behind the washing line. “Get up.”

Supriya, Nishan, and I led with the suitcases and folios. Mrs. Sen was too weakened by fear to carry anything, so her husband was consumed by supporting her, step by step toward the side of the roof. There was about a three-foot gap between the roofs. The jump had not bothered me, but this time, as I approached the edge and looked down, the three-story drop was dizzying. I tossed the suitcase hard to the other side; then I tucked my sari higher at the waist, ran a few steps toward the edge and leaped. I fell forward as I landed on the Duttas’ roof, with the Akbar-period folio clutched securely against my chest. Supriya coached Nishan to follow, and he leaped with a squeal of excitement and was caught safely by me. Then Supriya threw the remaining suitcases and leaped herself.

I looked back to the other roof and saw the Sen parents standing at the edge. Mrs. Sen was crying as she looked past the rain gutters at the faraway street. With a wave of her hand, she indicated for him to go forward; she would remain. And now it was raining in earnest, though I doubted that it was enough to kill the fire.

“Ma, come on! There is no time to waste!” Supriya called. She was busy hauling suitcases toward the Duttas’ trapdoor.

“I won’t make it,” her mother called back. “Go on yourself.”

“Take Nishan down,” I advised Supriya. “Don’t look at them on the first floor. I’ll help your mother.”

“Not yet. I’ll help her first,” Supriya said.

For some reason, my knees had become weak; I had to steady myself before I jumped back to the Sens’ building. I landed shakily but righted myself and smiled encouragingly at Supriya’s mother as Supriya bounded over to join me. “See, Mashima, it’s not hard,” I said. “Your husband can pull you across with him! And Supriya can catch you on the other roof.”

Mrs. Sen vehemently shook her head. “I have not jumped since I was a schoolgirl. I’ll make him fall if he holds my hand—”

Her words were drowned out by the roar of motors below. I looked down and saw an army lorry had arrived. If only the army had arrived earlier, there would never have been a fire. But then I saw, pulling up behind, a massive fire engine. I felt faint, as if I were dreaming. Father McRae’s angels had come together and saved us.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I said to the Sens, who were still teetering at the divide between the buildings. “Come look!”

The firemen jumped out, aiming the hose at the Sens’ doorway, while others doused the burning Red Cross van with buckets of water. At the same time, soldiers ran down from the lorry bed and rushed into the Duttas’ building, calling for them to come out.

Just one worker remained outside: a European in civilian clothes who kept circling the van as the firemen lashed it with water. When the flames had faded, the man looked inside the van; he came out
coughing and sat down on the curb, putting his head in hands. I did not know any Europeans at the Red Cross who looked like this fellow; but I recognized the slump of his shoulders. It was Simon.

“We’re here!” I called down to him, my heart swelling with the realization that he’d loved me enough to find me. But the noise of the fire hoses drowned out my voice. Simon hadn’t heard; he was dejectedly standing up and turning away from the van. He wiped his hand across his eyes, and I guessed he thought that I’d been killed.

“Look up! We’re here!” I shouted in English and then in Bengali; finally a soldier looked and gave a loud cry. What a sight we must have been: one woman in a bedraggled white sari and another dressed in an INA uniform. Behind us, Mr. and Mrs. Sen clapped and cheered.

“Captain Supriya!” one fireman called in excitement and another echoed his cry.

With all the commotion, Simon finally looked our way. I was too far to see his face, but I knew he recognized me because he held up his arms outstretched toward me. The embrace I had longed for earlier in the morning was finally almost mine.

As the group quieted, I called out that Supriya would bring down her brother through the Duttas’ building, and the Sen parents would like to proceed through their own building, if the fire was out. After a fireman gave approval, we descended rapidly. I felt such a spring in my step that it was like flying.

But the strength was temporary. When we emerged on the street, my knees buckled and Simon caught me up in his arms.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked as he pressed his wet face against mine. He held me as if the past had never happened; as if he loved me like a newly wedded husband.

“Kamala, I am so thankful you left the note. Shombhu read it and came straight to the Control Room to tell me.” Simon put his warm, dry jacket around my shoulders.

“You brought the army and a fire engine. How did you manage that?”

“Actually, it’s the best way to get around,” he said cheerfully. “And I had a feeling we’d save more than your skin. Now, let’s go. We’re quite safe in the army lorry, but they want us back in the European Quarter.”

I could not go to safety without my friends. I began, “About the Sens—”

“I hope they’ll come to stay with us! Shombhu and Jatin can prepare every room they might need.”

He had thought of this already, without being asked by me. Tears of gratitude and love welled up in my eyes.

“But you’re crying,” Simon said, touching my cheek. “Don’t you want them to come?”

CHAPTER

48

ILLUMINATION:
 . . . . 2. Spiritual enlightenment; divine inspiration; baptism.

—
Oxford English Dictionary
, Vol. 5, 1933

T
he slaughter did not end that day, nor for some time thereafter. As the Week of Long Knives continued with sporadic killings and burnings, we remained safely nestled in Middleton Mansions. Mrs. Sen moved into the kitchen, spending hours attempting to teach an annoyed Manik proper Bengali cooking. Schools were closed, so Nishan spent hours on the carpet, lost in a chess game with Simon. Mr. Sen bided his time in the library, reading through the collection. Supriya held court in the drawing room, where she gave interviews to journalists wanting a firsthand account of how the female INA veteran had cleared a riot with two shots.

“The
Times of India
reporter told me the government says only seven hundred and fifty died in Calcutta. It can’t be,” Supriya said when she and Simon and I were sitting in the garden having tea one evening.

“It’s obviously false,” Simon agreed. “I can tell you that more than five thousand corpses have been collected, and who knows how many others had been burned to nothing or swept from the gutters into the Hooghly River?”