The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  Good-bye, Sarah, they had told me, with tears in their eyes.

  I didn’t know it, but that would be the last time anyone addressed me by that tarnished, unlucky name. As years passed, I would meet many other Sarahs, and I always wondered if they felt their name to be a blessing. The servant girl Sarah was someone I was eager to abandon, although I did not yet know who I would become. For this reason, I was relieved not to be asked for any name when I bought the train ticket, just for the money.

  I should have been excited about going to Calcutta. But as the monstrous steam locomotive approached, I felt myself shrinking away from it. The engine was almost the height of Lockwood’s buildings and roared like a cyclone. The long black snake made of giant metal compartments settled along the platform, and the crowd on the platform surged forward, taking me with them. As I lifted my foot to the first high step, I lost my sandal. I bent to catch it, and this created a jam. Amid complaints and shoves, I managed to clamber aboard and make my way to a third-class compartment with a tiny gap wide enough for me to sit.

  An Anglo-Indian man wearing a dark blue suit decorated with brass buttons strode into the compartment as if he did not feel the fierce movement of the train. The many conversations that had filled the compartment were now replaced by shouts from wife to husband for their tickets to give Conductor-saheb. He tore my ticket and placed part of it in his satchel before giving the remainder to me.

  After the conductor left, people relaxed and opened tiffin boxes of food and flasks of tea. Bananas were peeled and given out to children. The smell of chapattis and parathas made my stomach rumble, because I had not eaten since midday. A Muslim woman feeding her family gave me a paratha: I thanked her with the Urdu word, shukria, and devoured the flaky, spicy bread. As the paratha filled my stomach, my fears lessened slightly. Finally, I was on my way to the City of Palaces. I would find good work—ideally a teaching job like Miss Richmond’s, but teaching Indian girls or boys, of course. And one day—if I made something of myself—I would see Pankaj again and let him know me for who I’d become. And if he had never married, the story could end happily, perhaps as romantically as that of Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, who had weak eyesight, just like my beloved Pankaj.

  The sun went down quickly, and it was harder to see outside the train, except for dots of light that I guessed came from huts with lamps lit inside. After some time, these glowing huts became more frequent, and then many lights shone from overhead as the train slowed and stopped between two very long cement platforms. I was surprised how fast we’d reached Calcutta.

  As many passengers stood and groped at the luggage racks for their possessions, I slipped out the doorway. Looking at the platform, I was stunned to see so many Anglo-Indians and Europeans. There were plenty of Indians, too: travelers, friends, and relatives greeting new arrivals, porters, and groups of beggars. What a large city; I felt lost already.

  As I disembarked, a one-armed wraith clutching a baby to her hip came right up to my face and called out bibiji, the polite address for a Muslim gentlewoman. I tried to ignore her, but it was impossible; the tears in her rheumy eyes and the sickly baby made me feel sorry. Here was someone worse off than I, and I remembered what Ma said we must always do for lost souls. Reaching into my bundle, I withdrew a paisa that she clutched to her forehead as she murmured a blessing.

  “Thank you, bibiji. And do not go with those bad porter men!” the woman said as I glanced about, trying to decide where to go. “I will find a trustworthy rickshaw driver for you.”

  “No, I’m staying in the ladies’ lounge tonight,” I said, remembering Hafeeza and Abbas’s instructions. “You see, I’ve only just arrived here in Calcutta, and I know nothing about the neighborhoods.”

  “Calcutta?” She laughed, revealing a mouth with only a few diseased teeth left. “This is not Calcutta.”

  “What?” It felt as if all parts of my body had jumped into my stomach—hands and feet included. I was not just shocked but horrified I’d made such a mistake.

  “Bibiji was on the train from Midnapore, isn’t it? People change here for another train to Calcutta. The train just leaving on the other side is Calcutta Mail, bound for Howrah Station. This is Kharagpur; the Ingrej cannot pronounce, so they say Khargpur.”

  I fought against my paralysis and turned, intent on reaching the train she mentioned, but the doors were now latched, and a uniformed man on the platform blew a whistle. The train’s wheels turned, and a horn blew. In no time, the train pulled away from the platform with a few daring men racing up to cling to the doorway. I could not race to catch it in my difficult sandals. There was enough space on the platform for me to clearly see the sign hanging from the station’s roof that said KHARAGPUR.

  “But this is not the place I should be!” My shock was turning to panic.

  “What? Kharagpur is a good place,” the beggar-granny said, jouncing her baby. “Here is the longest railway platform in India and, they say, maybe the world!”

  I shook my head. This was not the City of Palaces, where I could vanish into safety and a new life. Instead, it was an unknown place in which anything could happen. Already I saw a pair of young, oily-looking men appraising me, a young woman alone with no relatives to greet her.

  “Don’t cry. Tell the ticket-wallah about your troubles. I will show you his office.”

  THE RAILWAY’S TICKETING manager was Anglo-Indian, just like the train conductor. But he was not as jovial as the fellow on the train. His mouth turned down as I stumbled through my explanation of the ticket I’d bought in Midnapore. When he asked to see my receipt, I tore my bundle apart, but could not find it. Dimly, I remembered the scrap of paper I’d used to wipe my fingers after eating the paratha. I did not have it anymore; likely it had fallen to the train compartment’s filthy floor.

  The cost of a new third-class ticket was far greater than the amount of rupees I had left over from Abbas and Hafeeza. Feeling like death, I left the ticket window and found that the beggar-granny was still waiting. She had an idea that I should beg alongside her in some rags she would provide. Within a few days I would have enough money earned for the Calcutta ticket; she swore it on her granddaughter’s head.

  “It’s kind of you, but I can’t do that. I’m going to be a teacher. I’ll start looking for work tomorrow morning.” My words were braver than I felt. But I could not think of any alternative.

  The granny sighed and thrust at me a scrap of a ticket she’d found on the platform earlier that day. It would allow admission to the ladies’ lounge, which only documented passengers could use. I was touched by her generosity, but once inside the lounge, I realized staying overnight would be very unpleasant. On a wooden bench in a hot, smelly room, I found a spot to squeeze in amid many women and children who’d settled in to wait for their connecting trains. I was tired but could not sleep, my thoughts flashing between the losses of Bidushi and Pankaj, my humiliating expulsion from Lockwood, and the terrifying future.

  When dawn arrived, I could bear the bench no longer. I went into the horrifying lavatory and used it all the while trying not to breathe. Then I removed the sweat-drenched salwar kameez. The fine sari I’d worn over it was not too badly wrinkled, so I rearranged it in the draped fashion Bidushi had taught and put on my own green blouse and petticoat underneath. Dressed like this, it would be easier to find work and survive.

  After I’d splashed water on my face and combed and braided my hair, I went out to the platform. Here, the beggar-granny reappeared. She brought me a cup of tea at no cost and recited a list of the names of Kharagpur’s various schools that she had gathered from her rickshaw-driving friends. There were so many school names that I left the station feeling hopeful. I would become a teacher in this strange city. But no matter how many schools I visited, very few of their tall iron gates parted. Of the two schools that did, my lack of diploma and references sent me straight out again. Each time I walked away from a school, I felt the eyes not only of the curious children and the stern chow
kidars but also of others from my past. I could feel Miss Rachael reminding me that I’d overstepped and Miss Jamison telling me I was bound for hell. I even sensed Thakurma’s reproach. If I had stayed with my family, I would not be in such trouble.

  I was walking in a groomed, wealthy section of town, and as I turned from one brick-paved avenue to another, I came to a large, lovely garden dotted with plants and trees. People sat on benches, and children sailed back and forth on swings. A short metal ladder stretched up and from it spread a diagonal length of metal that children slid down, laughing with delight. What was this thing?

  I found a bench in the shade, where I rested my tired feet and slowly ate a ripe mango I’d picked up from the garden of one of the schools that had rejected me. I sat for a long time, my eyes half closed, longing to be one of the playing children with a watchful mother. But in truth, I knew I was old enough to be a mother myself. I didn’t deserve comforting.

  Through my tears, I watched families eat, play, and depart. Then came a young Anglo-Indian woman with an English soldier. The soldier carried a blanket that he spread on the grass, and then the young lady opened a basket, from which she brought forth a tall green glass bottle with a cork that popped off with a burst of smoke. As bubbles spilled over the top of the bottle, the man rushed to thrust it in the girl’s open mouth.

  I watched raptly as the two exchanged the bottle to share in its drinking, lavishing long kisses and caresses on each other in between. I had never seen such physicality; I was shocked but wanted to see what might happen next. The Indian men sitting nearby in the park pointed and made loud, rude comments; the mothers with children turned fiercely away. I eyed the couple’s bottle, wondering if it was like the toddy the Lockwood stable workers drank on occasion. Then the girl opened up a newspaper bundle to reveal shingaras, the crisp horn-edged pastries stuffed with vegetables or mince, and my stomach growled with hunger. Under the warm sun, I fell into a half dream; I was feeding Pankaj, and he was looking at me just as adoringly as the soldier did his girl.

  THE DREAM BROKE when I heard loud English voices. I opened my eyes to see an English military officer shouting at the couple. Swiftly, the soldier got to his feet and put his cap back on. The girl rose in a more leisurely fashion, her skirt rising to expose her thighs before she brushed it back into place. The two went off in different directions, leaving the crumpled newspaper and bottle behind.

  Was there food left? I rushed toward their leftovers but discovered the shingaras were all eaten and nothing remained in the large bottle. Dejectedly, I took the newspaper for reading and the bottle to use later on for collecting water. As I put the bottle in my bundle, I felt the nearby people looking disapprovingly, and I realized I must appear like a lost soul.

  Quickly, I left the park and walked into a warren of busy shopping streets. I did not have enough money to feed myself through the next two days. What would I do? As my mind slowly turned from hope to panic, I found another bench; this one along the street. Trying to look like I wasn’t loitering, I opened the newspaper that I’d saved and began reading.

  After a few minutes, a fashionable Anglo-Indian seated herself on the opposite end of the bench. I realized she was the girl from the park. She was only a little older-looking than me but was so different, with a milky complexion, shoulder-length golden-brown curls, and a silk dress with a fluttering hemline that just covered her knees. She wore such thin silk stockings it almost appeared that her legs were bare as they disappeared into high-heeled pumps. She caught me looking and her pink lips spread into a charming smile.

  “Excuse me, but do you know if the tram has already passed?” she asked in fluent Bengali.

  I was not accustomed to Anglo-Indians speaking to me politely, so I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think so, Memsaheb. I have been waiting here almost half an hour and not seen one, although my head has mostly been in the newspaper.”

  She switched to English then and asked if I could read all the words in the Statesman.

  “Of course,” I answered in English, my reserve going up. Was she going to tease me?

  “Can you read that?” A fingernail, pink as a rose, pointed at a review for the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film, The Gay Divorcee. Dutifully, I read to her the details of the “frothy comedy” starring the “king and queen of carioca.” I didn’t understand the words carioca, nor divorcee, but I was not going to volunteer that.

  “I know the big song from it already—‘The Continental’—and ‘Night and Day,’ which is simply lovely. Your accent is—” She shook her head, so the glorious brown curls bounced. “Where did you go to school?”

  I dared not name Lockwood, in case there was anything about me in the newspapers. I decided to use Bidushi’s story. In the poshest voice I could muster, I said, “Since early childhood, I had a governess.”

  “Really?” From her expression I could not tell whether she believed my lie. She said, “My father skipped back to England when I was six, and my mother could afford to send me to school only two more years. Wasn’t ever good at it, either. So what’s your name, Miss Excellent English? Who are your family and are you already married?”

  I scrutinized my interviewer. With her pink fingernails and low-cut dress, she did not appear connected to the police. In fact, she had gotten into trouble in the park for her behavior. Softly, I said, “I’m not going to be married, because I have no family to give dowry. They all died some years ago in a cyclone.”

  “So sorry!” Her eyes widened in sympathy. “And what’s your name, then?”

  I hesitated, because I didn’t want to give any name that could connect me to Lockwood School. Finally, I said, “Pom.”

  “Pam!” She nodded with approval. “I have a cousin with that name, but she isn’t half as pretty as you are. I’m Bonnie. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen,” I answered, deciding to ignore her mispronunciation of my name. In a few minutes, I would never see her again.

  “Oh, quite grown up! And where are you from, Pammy?”

  I decided to confide partial truth. “I come from the south, near the sea. My family died in a tidal wave that hit some years ago. I came here by accident; I was looking for Calcutta. But now I’m searching for a teaching job, although it may be impossible for someone of my background.”

  “Oh, dear. I live with my mummy and sisters not far from the Railway School, but I’m sure they only take European or Anglo-Indians to teach.” She glanced at her wristwatch that sparkled with little crystals where the numbers should have been. Could they be diamonds? “It’s already half five. Even if that damn bus comes in the next minute, I shall miss the opening. It’s too late now; I will have to go another day.”

  Quickly, I said, “I’m sorry for your misfortune, Memsaheb.”

  “Remember, I’m Bonnie,” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Come along. It’s only a short rickshaw ride home for tea.”

  “I’m sorry?” I bristled at the unexpected touch and her strange words.

  “Come with me for tea, Pam. You’re invited.” Gently, her fingers stroked my arm, and a shiver went through me because this was so very different from any touch I’d ever felt. Bonnie’s caress was a strong, pleasing sensation that made me feel alive.

  Bonnie squeezed my hand and pulled me toward a waiting rickshaw, just the way I would have led my young sisters when they needed guidance. I had no words, because I could not believe this wealthy Anglo-Indian girl was bringing me home. But how would I manage tea, having never eaten anywhere but seated cross-legged on the floor?

  “But I can’t,” I said. “I’m bound for Calcutta and a teaching position.”

  “You can do that later. It’s just a cup and a bite, Pam,” Bonnie said, as if reading my nervousness. “And don’t forget to bring that news-paper. I want to show the other girls how beautifully you read!”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Another element in this population is the Eurasian—a mixture of European and Asiati
c blood, representing every degree of intermingling, from almost pure English to almost pure native. This class numbers a hundred thousand souls. They almost invariably adopt the customs of the Europeans and many of them are highly cultured and refined.

  —Margaret Beahm Denning, Mosaics from India, 1902

  Bonnie’s home reminded me of the fortress pictures I had seen in history books at Lockwood School. The tall, rectangular bungalow of golden brick had curved iron grates on all the windows and curtains behind that, masking what I guessed immediately were riches inside. She led me through the gate and past a small garden filled with circular beds of rosebushes in many colors: red, pink, white, yellow, and even orange. It was quite a hodgepodge that did not seem to fit the house’s stern design, but as I walked up the path behind Bonnie, the sweet and spicy smells of the roses were enticing.

  Someone must have been watching our approach because the door opened just as Bonnie set her foot on the top step. “Are we busy?” Bonnie asked a tall chowkidar who was dressed in red livery. He had ushered us into a cool, dark hallway lit by a few sconces in between portraits of beautiful European ladies and Indian maharanis.

  “Not at all. Right now, only Mr. Williams has come.” The chowkidar took Bonnie’s hat and placed it on a shelf in the hall cupboard.

  “Tell Mummy I have a new friend, Miss Pamela. She’ll be staying to tea.” Bonnie stepped out of her shoes, and I did the same, glad for Hafeeza’s chappals. If I’d been barefoot, Bonnie wouldn’t have considered me worthy of any invitation.

  “Where is your mother?” I asked, as it was unusual for a housewife not to greet her guests.

  “You will soon meet Mummy—but we must freshen up first. You can bathe in my quarters, and I’ll have Premlata, one of our servant girls, bring up a drink. Sweet lime or salt?”

  Running my tongue over my dry lips, I asked for salt. Bidushi had bought the special drink for me during our trip to the Midnapore bazar. I wondered what she would think of this fancy house. And then a startling realization came: perhaps Bidushi was with me. Her cremation was surely done; what if she had been reincarnated into Bonnie? Bonnie’s invitation made it seem as if Bidushi’s generous soul had jumped inside, because why would a rich Anglo-Indian ever bring a shabby stranger home for a meal?