Yet outside in the sun, after I’d been walking for ten minutes, I was able to restore myself. I’d failed to find work within the Writers’ Building, but it was just the second day of looking for work in the city where Rabindranath Tagore wrote, Netaji had crafted his plans for independence, and Pankaj was practicing law. They didn’t work for the British; they worked for themselves.
For me to come here, I’d given up Kabita. Failing to find work would mean failing her, for I had it in mind to send as much money as I could spare to Abbas and Hafeeza. So the next day, and the day after that, I began searching for work at Indian businesses, this time wearing a sari and a forced smile on my face. And again I was rejected; sometimes for my gender or lack of credentials or known family, but most often for no reason at all.
It was only at night that I allowed myself to feel hopeless. A week into my stay, as I tossed and turned in the narrow hotel bed, I wondered what Bidushi would suggest. And it seemed that, with a rush of wind clattering the window, I heard a name.
Pankaj. Find him for both of us.
CHAPTER
19
POSH: The suggestion that this word is derived from the initials of “port outward starboard home” is referring to the more expensive side for accommodation on ships formerly travelling between England and India is often put forward but lacks foundation. . . . Smart, “swell,” “classy,” fine, splendid, stylish, first rate.
—A Supplement to the Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 3, 1933
Number 27 Lower Circular Road, Ballygunge.
This address had lived in my mind since Bidushi had spoken of it years ago. This was the house where Bidushi and I were to live in peace and enjoyment forever. But when I went to Pankaj’s residence the next afternoon, it was not exactly as I’d hoped. I had expected a shining white palace: instead, it was a graciously proportioned, lemon-colored bungalow the same size as its neighbors. But it was a very pretty house, with many long windows shielded by ornate grilles. Tall mango trees stood on either side of the front walk that was guarded by a Sikh chowkidar sleeping in a chair.
I walked close enough to read BANDOPADHYAY AND SON, PARTNERS AT LAW inscribed on a brass plaque attached to the fence. I gazed up to the guarded windows, remembering how Bidushi had asked me to take care of Pankaj. It had been my dream, too. But approaching him now? How could I possibly do this? He or his parents could remember me from that awful last day at Lockwood School. Perhaps they’d still think of me as a thief at large and would shout for their chowkidar to fetch a constable. I should not have visited their street at all; but I felt such a longing to see at least a bit of the dream that Bidushi and I had shared in our lost girlhood days.
A long car drew up and stopped at the house. Hearing the motor, the chowkidar I feared came awake in his chair. I walked down the street a bit farther and casually turned at the sound of the opening car door, hoping against hope to see Pankaj.
The car’s occupants were three men wearing white Congress caps. Sunlight sparked off the edge of the round glasses worn by the tallest gentleman, who was too old to be Pankaj. In fact, he strongly resembled Subhas Chandra Bose, the new president of the Congress Party. It couldn’t be, I told myself; but when I saw his moon-round face, I recognized it from the newspapers. This man was the legend: the honorable Netaji, who had been an important topic in letters between Pankaj and me.
At this point, I lost all pretenses of continuing to walk. I stood there gaping as Netaji walked through the gate the chowkidar opened for him, followed by the others. If I’d been braver, I would have run up and said how much I admired his words and deeds; that he had given me strength during my darkest times. But before I could do anything, a bowing servant boy opened the front door, and they vanished inside.
The car in which the men had traveled moved on to park at a slight distance, underneath a shade tree. I watched it, thinking about whether I dared approach the chauffeur. I walked the few extra steps and leaned in the window where the driver sat reading a newspaper.
“Was that Netaji who went inside?” I asked, still excited from the surprise. The driver looked at me a bit cautiously, so I said, “I admire him so.”
“Yes, it is Netaji,” the driver said after a pause.
“Why is he in the Bandopadhyays’ home? I live in the neighborhood,” I added to make my inquisitiveness seem reasonable.
“Strictly a business matter! Bandopadhyay-babu aids with matters for the party.” His tone was as starchy as if he himself had picked up fame by associating with the leader. Still, I noted the respectful title he had attached to the surname of the family his employer was visiting. It made me wonder which Bandopadhyay, Esquire, he was talking about. “Do you mean the old gentleman?”
“No, the young one. The old gentleman is dead—died of heartbreak while his son was in the Andamans.”
I found this very sad but believable. “And the son is back now, living at home? Married with children?”
“Not that I know about.” He scowled at me. “But if you live in this neighborhood, you should surely know all of this.”
Pankaj was still alive, free from prison, and working with Netaji! And maybe not yet married. As I walked home, these morsels of information filled me with as much happiness as if I’d had a decent meal.
MY MODEST FUNDS were declining more rapidly than I’d expected. Regretfully, I decided to vacate the hotel because Mr. Jones was asking me to make payment every second day, as if he sensed something was wrong. He had given me directions to many of the schools that I had found listed in Thapar’s Calcutta Guide. But it was obvious to him—and to me, too—that the job search was not fruitful.
“Why not try the telephone company?” he suggested the day I was leaving. “Many of our girls are becoming operators.”
The hotel receptionist still believed that my background was Anglo-Indian and that I could find work based on my fictitious name and accent. But I had learned over the weeks that I was too dark, too shy, and too unsophisticated for any of the teaching and saleslady and secretarial jobs. I understood it, but it made me angry, this haughty professional world with the whites on top, Anglo-Indians next, and sycophantic Indians trying to catch up. I was sick of aping the English. I was in a blue-and-pink-printed sari, with bangles on my wrists and chappals on my feet when I checked out.
“Miss Smith, are you all right?” Mr. Jones’s thick silver brows crept together. “Dressing in native garb will not help you in your search. Not unless you intend on being an ayah.”
I shook my head. The many memsahebs in the city ensured a steady demand for baby ayahs. But my milk was long gone; I could not be a wet nurse. Nor could I bear to spend time with little children when I had given up my own daughter.
“Perhaps it’s best to go back to your own family.”
I nodded, letting him take comfort in the illusion. By day, I walked the streets of residential neighborhoods and plucked fruit from gardens for my meals. I drank water from the taps that were on some street corners and, with the funds I had left, I bought chapattis or parathas to eat very slowly. But the nights were awful. I was staying in the Howrah Station ladies’ lounge, barely getting any sleep with all the noise and movement around me. And there was the matter of my luggage. I could not safely leave it in the ladies’ waiting room while I went about the city looking for jobs; nor did I like taking it with me, even though I’d paid a cobbler to add wheels and a pulling strap. I was beginning to worry that the reason I was not being hired was because of the way I looked lugging the trunk.
The morning after my third night sleeping in Howrah, I looked at my suitcase with loathing. Inside were three saris, two dresses, and a dozen books. I also had some grooming necessities, a waning purse of rupees, and Kabita’s birth certificate. The heaviest weight in the suitcase was the books; they were the sole reason I still needed to keep the suitcase. I knew it was time to leave them behind, just as I’d stopped showing my false letter of reference.
To put away the crumpl
ed reference letter was simple, but to say good-bye to my collection of books hurt, for they had been my steadfast companions through everything. If I sold a book, I would no longer have it to retreat into, to allow forgiveness and forgetting. In the end, I determined that I would not let go of the Tagore poems but I would forsake the others—and I had an idea where. That Saturday morning, I took the tram into Chowringhee, disembarked, and walked to Bilgrami’s Classic Books of Asia and Europe: a business I’d always longed to enter. Inside, I inhaled with pleasure a delicious odor I recognized as old paper. The shop was small and made even tighter by towering bookcases barely two feet apart. Customers of all races perched on low stools between these bookcases, reading. At the front of the room was a high counter, and behind it sat a very wrinkled old man who was lost in his reading. I had to ring the bell on the counter to get his attention. Out of habit, I asked him whether he had need of anyone to work; he said he did not, but in a kind way that led naturally into my request that he consider buying my books.
“Yes, we do take used books.” The old man scratched his chin. “But the condition must be excellent. Perhaps it is best if you give me a list of your titles and their condition.”
“The books are already here.” Feeling short of breath from excitement, I bent to open the case. In less than a minute, all my remaining life treasures were before him.
He looked at them without touching. Finally, he said, “Show me that leather-bound one.”
It was the Tagore volume that Miss Richmond had given me to keep. Now I wished I had already moved it to the purse, so he wouldn’t have seen it. He made a slight face as he paged through it and said, “The pages have markings and there is a musty smell. Mold is already there.”
“The place I stayed was quite hot.”
“Books should be aired regularly and dusted. Otherwise all is lost.” He surveyed the shop, where fans whirred quietly, and I followed his gaze. A white man was standing several feet behind me with a heavy book in his arms. The bookseller said, “First, I must help the other customer.”
“Of course. Just tell me—are you interested in any of the other books?” I took back the Tagore that I hadn’t wanted him to have. “They are quite good books, some in English, the others Bengali.”
“I can take them, but not for resale.” He waved a hand at the stack I’d made. “There is always a need for paper, to be used in packing or as wrapping. It will be only a few annas, I am afraid.”
“You would tear my books apart?” I couldn’t hide the alarm I felt.
“Of course. But now, I must help this gentleman.”
He would not get my books; they had served me too well to earn such mistreatment. With fumbling fingers I repacked them into the suitcase while the Englishman paid for his book. I felt his glance but did not look up. To him it must have been a joke: a young native woman trying to peddle old books.
I packed up my suitcase, locked the case, and turned it on its side so I could wheel it to the bookshop’s doorway. Then I heard fast steps from behind and a voice saying to wait.
The Englishman had his new book in one hand and was reaching to hold open the door. I assumed that he wanted to get outside ahead of me, but then I realized he was only trying to ease my passage. It was an unusual courtesy for a European to extend to an Indian, but I was too upset to acknowledge it with more than a nod.
“Aren’t you the one who came to the Writers’ Building last week?”
On the pavement outside the shop, I turned around in surprise. The customer in the shop was the second man who’d been with Mr. White; I hadn’t recognized him this time dressed casually in an open-necked white shirt and light cotton trousers.
Quietly, he said, “I could never give up my books. Actually, I’m seeking someone to help me with them.”
Such problems the wealthy have! I was not interested in engaging in small talk, so I pulled at my suitcase to show him I needed to go.
The man continued, “I transferred here two years ago with a decade’s worth of books still in boxes. My book collection needs to be taken out, aired, cleaned, and shelved in some sort of sensible arrangement. It’s hard to find someone to do that.”
“Why are you telling me this?” My question came out sharply, because I was tired of hearing about good jobs for white people only.
A nervous-looking smile creased the man’s angular face. “It seemed you were looking for employment the other week. Unless you are otherwise engaged, this might be something for you.”
“But Indian women cannot work in the Writers’ Building. That was made clear to me.” Remembering how I’d been dismissed, my words came out as small and hard as gravel.
“My library is not there. It’s actually housed in my personal residence—”
“Good-bye, sir.” I yanked my suitcase and began walking, furious that he thought I could be lured to his dwelling. I had changed my clothes, taken away the cosmetics, put my hair in a proper braid. How could he tell what I’d once been?
“No, no, don’t look like that—it’s a household position but with no cleaning, just library responsibilities.” The man was hurrying after me. “I have been trying to find someone for the last three months. The educated babus all desire their own desk in a proper office, and the servant types don’t know the first thing about organizing books. And you can type; isn’t that what you told Mr. White?”
At this, I stopped. His eyes were a clear blue, but he had good color to his face; he did not look very much like the white devils I’d feared in childhood. My woman’s intuition was telling me to stay. “Yes, I can type. But I don’t know why you recognized me—”
“Not many Indian women come to the Writers’ Building. Your accent is distinctive. But let me introduce myself properly; I’m Simon Lewis.” He reached into his pocket, took out a silver case, and withdrew a card for me. I immediately discovered that his surname was not spelled like it sounded: it was spelled Lewes, just like the name of an English poet whose work had been discussed briefly in Miss Richmond’s class.
“Like George Henry Lewes?” I asked.
He smiled, revealing even white teeth. “You know poetry. He was a very distant illegitimate relation, and unfortunately passed on no talents to me. And what is your name again, miss?”
While inside the Writers’ Building, Mr. White and Ranjit had both read the false letter of reference with an Anglo-Indian name. But I had a feeling Mr. Lewes didn’t care if I was Indian or Anglo-Indian or Chinese, as long as I could type.
Swiftly, I said, “I’m called Kamala. Kamala Mukherjee.” The surname came from the girl I’d once wanted to be, and Kamala was a dignified Hindu name that sounded like Camilla, which he had heard. It had a good meaning, too: lotus, reminding me of what Ma used to say about my eyes.
“Miss Kamala Mukherjee, I’m very pleased to know you.” He held out his hand to me, and, gingerly, I took it. “I’ve got the Buick waiting just down the street. Would you consider coming to look at the library, at least?”
Trying to act as if I rode in private cars all the time, I nodded.
I HAD NEVER been in a car before, and the scent of the leather seats and cigarette tobacco tickled my nose, even though the windows were open. The driver he introduced as Farouk loaded my suitcase into the boot, alongside Mr. Lewes’s purchases. I was too frightened by what I was agreeing to do, so I sat as far apart from the man as I could.
Mr. Lewes explained his residence, Middleton Mansions, was not a private bungalow but something called a mansion block. The ground floor flat was occupied by an army officer he called the Infernal Mr. Rowley for the many annoyances that were part and parcel of his behavior. The first and second stories were Mr. Lewes’s rented space. He had two and a half bedrooms, the library, a dining room, a parlor, and kitchen, and there was a bathroom on each level. His staff consisted of four male servants, all of whom excepting Farouk lived in a garden cottage.
“What about your wife and children?” I would have expected some female se
rvants to tend to their needs.
“No family yet.” He sighed. “It’s a good thing. No ayah work for you!”
My forehead broke out in sweat, for the situation was more dangerous than I had thought. No ladies in the house! I would try to schedule my hours for the time when Mr. Lewes was at his job; that would be the only way I could feel secure.
“And where do you live in Calcutta?”
“Right now I am staying near Howrah,” I said, for I had reasoned that I could not afford to leave the station for a rooming house until I’d had my first week’s pay.
“Oh, that’s quite far.” He sounded disappointed. “It will be hard for you to report for work during monsoon, when there is flooding everywhere. Well, maybe you can shift closer.”
“I thought this was a temporary job,” I said. “Unpacking and arranging, isn’t it?”
“Oh, the work will likely take you through the end of next year, if you do it properly. Maybe longer, even.”
Number 9 Middleton Street was a tall, pure-looking white stucco building; my heart beat faster as I realized it was rather like the fairy-tale bungalow I’d dreamed of for Kabita and myself. No, I told myself. She had her new home, and this was only a place for me to spend days working. Two similar white mansion blocks stood nearby, with green gardens all around. A gardener was on his knees cutting the lawn with scissors. I stepped out, inhaling this smell of fresh grass mixed with flowering jasmine vines.
As I emerged from the Buick, the rest of Mr. Lewes’s staff came out of the house. Shombhu, a thick-bodied Bengali man of about thirty, was the chief of the household staff. His round face seemed to collapse at the sight of me. Behind him came Manik, a thin, sharp-eyed cook from Orissa with a teenaged assistant, Choton. There was an even younger houseboy, Choton’s cousin Jatin. Only after all were introduced to me did Mr. Lewes reveal that I was Memsaheb Kamala Mukherjee who might be coming to organize the library. He turned to me, as if I were expected to say something to them: but I was too shy to do anything more than croak hello and put my hands together in namaskar.
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 22
