The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  As I knocked away more to get a wider view, I recalled the hole in the floor in Rose Villa. The girls had shown me something I hadn’t wanted to know about; whereas my desire to watch Mr. Lewes was quite practical. I slipped white paper over the hole so it didn’t show, and then placed the tile back. It was very little effort, yet I was sweating from the realization of what I’d done.

  Mr. Lewes would be terrribly shocked if he found out about the spy hole. Perhaps shocked enough to dismiss me. It would be my job to make sure he never found out.

  MY DAILY HOURS in the library became complicated by the workmen, who filled the air with the sound of their saws and hammers. Because of them, I barely heard the telephone ringing one morning, but I got it just in time and found Supriya on the line. She reminded me that I had a finished order at the shop. Then she mentioned an upcoming political meeting at which Netaji was rumored to be making an address.

  Thrilled to see the leader in the flesh, I said yes. I would go to Sen Bookbindery first, pick up the finished books, and then stop at the meeting on my way home. Mr. Lewes didn’t ask me to account for how I spent my time; he seemed most interested in the hours we spent together, over the newspapers.

  I met Supriya, Sonali, Ruksana, Lata, and three others by the lush gardens bordering Government House. What a contrast our plain, homespun saris were to the bright flowers spilling through the wrought iron fence. Nevertheless, the guards watched us as if we were some kind of entertainment. Finding them just as funny, Sonali giggled and waved at them.

  “There will be no more waving and joke making,” Lata cautioned as we approached the steps of the majestic, Greek-columned Town Hall. “Our group’s reputation is very important. Hundreds of freedom fighters will be here; we do not want them to think us silly schoolgirls.”

  Supriya made a face at me; I knew she thought Lata was too stern. I winked back at her as we entered the wide marble hall. Supriya led our group up the stairs; the second floor was not as crowded, so we went to take positions at the front of the gallery. As other ladies filled in behind us, I remembered my first Congress meeting in Kharagpur. Only this time I was witnessing history, passing binoculars back and forth with my friends to get an intimate view.

  Onstage, one Congress politician after another came forward, each praising Netaji and calling for the community to unite behind him. And finally, Netaji strode out, his tall, lean figure dressed in a neat tan suit that almost looked like a uniform. When Netaji saluted the audience, the effect was as if a general had taken charge.

  Netaji’s words rang out sharply about the needless division within the Congress Party. He said that history had proven already that India would not find its way to independence without leadership from the citizens of Bengal, a comment that made the audience cheer loudly. He declared it was the duty of every man and woman to fight as never before.

  As Netaji’s voice rolled over me, I became aware that the hairs on my arms were standing. I was in the presence of a tremendous leader. When Netaji gave his blessings on the audience, the room erupted in thunderous applause. People in the hall below rushed the stage, trying to drape jasmine garlands over Netaji’s head. Then a young man began steering Netaji off the stage.

  Something about the young man struck me as familiar. Still throbbing from the roar of applause, I turned the binoculars on his face. The man had spectacles just like Netaji but had a longer, handsome face with black hair waving back from the forehead.

  I had not seen him since I was fifteen, but in the three and a half years that had passed, his features were the same. Here, at last, was Pankaj Bandopadhyay.

  CHAPTER

  24

  KSHATRIYA: a member of the military caste, the second of the four great castes or classes among the Hindus.

  —Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 5, 1933

  Pankaj’s time onstage was too brief. As he guided Netaji away from the audience, I realized how attractive he’d become with time’s passage—or was I looking at him with my experienced woman’s eye? I felt I knew his heart and mind so well, after having written him hundreds of letters—and receiving as many back.

  In the infirmary, Bidushi had told me to take care of Pankaj. I wondered how she would feel about my speaking to him. As I moved through North Calcutta pursuing political activities, I would surely spot him again. But should I try to speak? He’d been angry with me all those years ago in the garden. If he recognized me now as Sarah from Lockwood School, he could ruin everything, and perhaps even have me arrested. But if he didn’t recognize me—it could mean a fresh start. My tasteful, Indian-woven saris, my posh Calcutta manners, and my circle of intellectual friends placed me in a new league. And Pankaj was free; he was unmarried; and he was too great of a temptation not to think about.

  ARVASH, THE SPRING season, was almost done. By day, I worked in the lovely, air-cooled library sorting through memoirs: various soldiers’ and missionaries’ accounts of a happy, exotic India marked by tiger shoots and rajahs’ feasts. But the papers I translated for Mr. Lewes at night were so different; filled with stories of anger, of people being arrested for civil disobedience. Netaji had been reelected as Congress president, which made me happy, but no Congress minister except his own brother, Sarat, would serve in his cabinet. Realizing he could not accomplish anything without friends, Netaji resigned the presidency in April. By May he’d formed a new party called the Forward Bloc, an effort to bring all left-wing elements of the independence movement together.

  Mr. Lewes was very interested in Bengali opinions of the Forward Bloc. As he listened to my translations and made notes, I wondered if he wished this new, angry India would go away. I imagined his job would have been simpler one hundred years ago, when Indians were too frightened of their rulers to speak up and there was no Congress Party, Muslim League, or Communists.

  “A train derailed yesterday. I wonder what the local press are saying about it,” Mr. Lewes said one summer evening as we sat down on the veranda. It was just before the rains arrived, and to stay cool, he wore a white linen shirt and thin cotton trousers, with chappals on his feet. I was dressed in the sheerest cotton sari I owned, one that I would not normally have worn around him, were it not for the heat. Sometimes, I caught Mr. Lewes looking at me a bit longer than was seemly, but what he would say next was always ordinary and businesslike, taking away the nervousness that had briefly surged inside. These were the kind of jitters that I imagined would come when I was able to see Pankaj again, but it had been weeks since the rally, and I didn’t know how to ask where he might be without making Supriya suspicious of my motives.

  I returned my attention to the news story. “Yes, I saw mention of that somewhere. Thirty-seven dead, and more than two hundred injured, wasn’t it?”

  “At the office I heard at least forty dead with the number sure to rise.” Mr. Lewes took a sip from his gin-and-tonic. “Why don’t you read to me what the Star reports.”

  Urdu was not my strongest language, so it took me a minute to locate the story. I read, “The Down Calcutta Mail was thrown off the rails between Chinsurah and Calcutta. Engineers and station workers examining the track afterward found two fishplates had been removed.” I continued translating the article, which reported that railway officials had declared it an act of sabotage.

  “It’s mysterious that this train was attacked,” I mused aloud. “I would understand it if an important English figure was on board. But nothing’s been mentioned.”

  “It could be that particular train wasn’t the target,” Mr. Lewes said. “One train ran those same tracks a few hours earlier that was supposed to be transporting Subhas Bose and his brother. But their plans changed.”

  It was interesting that Mr. Lewes knew this; I hadn’t seen it in the paper. And I wasn’t sure what he was implying. Searching his face for a clue, I said, “No Indians would want to kill Netaji.”

  Lighting a cigarette, he said, “Gandhi supporters couldn’t—because of the nonviolence pledge—but Muslims have no such
boundaries. And there’s no end of trouble in the legislature between the Hindus and Muslims.”

  But not with Ruksana and her non-Muslim friends, I thought. The young women in Chhatri Sangha listened and learned from one another. “What if the English tampered with the line—that is, ordered some Indian railway workers to do it?”

  Mr. Lewes winked at me and said, “Have you tossed aside Tagore in favor of Agatha Christie?”

  Stiffly, I said, “I will never love any writer more than Rabindranath. As for Mr. Christie, who is he?”

  “She is an authoress who concocts very clever detective stories—pleasure reading for trains and sickbeds. But to return to your theory, I find it implausible that our government would order an assassination.” He gently blew out a smoke ring, which hovered between us before disappearing. “Do you think other Indians would believe it?”

  “I don’t know.” I felt it was time to change the topic; Mr. Lewes shouldn’t know that I was well acquainted with the nationalist movement. “We have a very nice dinner coming. For the first course, Manik has prepared a delicious-looking soup from lau squash and ginger. He wanted me to ask if you’d prefer it warm or cold.”

  “Who cares about soup? What’s your opinion of Bose and his Forward Bloc?” Mr. Lewes studied me like a tiger stalking its prey.

  He really wanted to know. Carefully, I answered, “I don’t know enough to have a firm opinion. The book Mr. Bose wrote about his ideas is banned, so I really don’t know what he believes.”

  He nodded. “The Indian Struggle is censored in India, but it was published in England a few years ago. I’ll lend it to you, if you’d like.”

  “What? How did you get it?” I was shocked that Mr. Lewes would own a book decrying his own government.

  “Collectors can find anything.” There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Just don’t take the book out into public or leave it around the flat where anyone might see it.”

  “All right,” I said, because I did want to read it. “And there is little risk with the servants—it’s only Manik and Shombhu who can read and write, and they don’t ever come up to my floor.”

  “As well they shouldn’t!” Mr. Lewes coughed. I wrinkled my nose, because I did not like the smell of his cigarettes. I also didn’t believe something that made people cough could be healthy, no matter what the advertisements pronounced. As if he’d sensed what I was thinking, he stubbed out the cigarette.

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  “I smoke too many of them, I think,” Mr. Lewes said. “And I’ve made up my mind about the soup. Please tell Manik I would like it cold.”

  I READ THROUGH The Indian Struggle three times. I found the book opinionated but magnificently so. Netaji had written the history of India from antiquity through the present, including details of the brutal tortures and killing done to people who had attempted to protest British rule. Mr. Lewes must have read the book closely, for I saw thick underlinings on many pages, particularly those relating to revolutionaries like Bhagat Singh, and every mention of the words terrorism or revolution. He had also drawn question marks and the occasional exclamation point in the margins. I did not have to ask Mr. Lewes the meaning of his defacements. It was clear he did not approve of the book.

  One evening that Mr. Lewes was away in New Delhi, I took up Supriya’s invitation to meet again at Albert Hall. Some guests wanted to speak to the Chhatri Sangha women’s group. The monsoon was on, and my tram stopped due to water on the tracks, but I was determined to keep going. Offering to pay double the usual rate, I caught a rickshaw for the second part of my journey. I was an hour late when I arrived at Albert Hall. Supriya and Sonali, who lived close enough to have walked, were already at the table, looking slightly bedraggled as they waved at me to come forward. Then I saw others I knew: Ruksana, Lata, and some men. Men at the table! It was rare for young Indian men and women to freely socialize. Before taking my seat, I stopped at the corner where people were leaving their wet umbrellas.

  “I hope we’ll get the same umbrellas at night’s end,” a male voice said in my ear.

  “Yes. They’re all black, aren’t they?” I agreed with a laugh.

  “Black as sin! Just as the British say about us.”

  The man’s arch comment made me look up at him as he wiped off his fogged eyeglasses with a handkerchief. It was Pankaj Bandopadhyay. So this was why I’d kept going through the rain; somehow, my woman’s intuition had told me I couldn’t miss the meeting. My heart raced with happiness. Because I’d not expected to see him again so quickly, nor have him speak directly to me.

  “Are you with the Chhatri Sangha group?” Pankaj offered a social smile, clearly not recognizing me as the servant girl from four years earlier. I should have been completely relieved; but the romantic in me wished I hadn’t been so forgettable.

  I told him that I was a group member and my name was Kamala Mukherjee, which led to him introducing himself. I tried to keep a calm demeanor, but inside, I was jumping with excitement. Pankaj and I were on speaking terms.

  “Come, then,” Pankaj said. “Let’s see if we can find seats. I will buy the first round of coffee.”

  “Pankaj-da, you’re all wet!” Supriya said as the two of us came up. I remembered Supriya saying she knew many activists, but I would not have guessed Pankaj.

  “I feel like a bedraggled crow,” he said wryly. “I don’t know how your friend Kamala stays so elegant. Tell me, did you travel by palanquin?”

  “Tram and rickshaw! But I have a good black umbrella.” I sat down between Sonali and Supriya, trying to keep from smiling too much. Did he really think me elegant? The others were introduced: a sallow, middle-aged Bengali man called Bijoy, and Arvind, a curly-haired youth closer to our ages but with an accent from another place. I found it interesting that nobody gave their surnames during introductions, and the females added da, the suffix meaning elder brother, when they addressed Pankaj. Clearly they already knew him in a friendly way.

  “Who else would like chicken sandwiches?” Pankaj asked when the bearer came to take orders.

  I shook my head, remembering I was supposed to seem like a proper Brahmin in public. Lata, who really was a Brahmin, also declined, but the Sen girls ordered chicken, as did young Arvind, and Ruksana, who was the gathering’s only Muslim.

  “What kind of Brahmin eats chicken?” Lata Menon said to Pankaj after the sandwiches came.

  “Freedom fighters need strength to fight,” he laughingly rejoined. “You know the legend of the Kshatriya caste: a king made those Brahmins eat meat so they’d be strong enough to fight for him.”

  “Even though you are presumably hoping to be reborn in your same caste?” Supriya said teasingly. All the girls seemed so familiar with Pankaj; it made me a little jealous.

  “I don’t care about caste; I think of myself as an Indian. I should not even have mentioned Hinduism because religious divisions ruin everything.” Pankaj nodded toward Ruksana and said, “I am honored by your presence at this table. I hope you bring more friends from your community to meet with us.”

  “My group is already here.” Ruksana’s back straightened, and she gestured toward the Sen girls, Lata, and me. “We ladies usually only work with one another.”

  “And what have you been doing?” Pankaj scooped up his sandwich half.

  Ruksana answered, “We raise funds for the independence struggle, and, of course, we debate politics.”

  “Yes, that is something we really enjoy!” Supriya said.

  “Did you know that some years ago, sisters in the movement did quite a bit in cooperation with men?” Pankaj’s quiet voice drew me even closer. “They organized training centers to teach martial arts; they blocked entrances to universities on strike days and spent months in prison. Half a dozen Bengali girls have shot at British officials, including the governor of Bengal himself.”

  “Are you advising us to shoot guns at people?” I exclaimed, unable to hide my shock.

  “We are not i
nterested in becoming bandits!” Ruksana gave him a stern look.

  “I am not suggesting that,” Pankaj replied hastily. “But over the last thirty or so years, Gandhiji has gained nothing from the English but unfulfilled promises. Netaji has explained what needs to be done.”

  “Are you with Forward Bloc, then?” I asked, feeling myself grow warm as he turned from Ruksana to acknowledge my question.

  “I am holding myself aside so I can continue to work as a barrister for activists,” Pankaj said. “I’ve been arrested twice already, and it hampers my ability to keep others free and aid the movement. So I made a vow to help people within the movement make connections with each other—but I don’t hold any official posts.”

  “That is probably the best idea for you,” I said, relieved that he was not at such great personal risk as before. Supriya looked at me strangely, and I wondered if my face was showing my emotions.

  “I represent Shakti Sangha, and we are joining Forward Bloc.” Arvind spoke in a voice that seemed stronger than his age would suggest. “We are delighted that you ladies have agreed to meet us. As Netaji says, if we wage war for equality of Indians in India, we must regard our women as highly as the men.”

  “I agree with you!” Sonali said, and beamed at Arvind. As if embarrassed, he dropped the gaze. When everyone’s attention had returned to Pankaj, he explained that Shakti Sangha had published many pamphlets with quotations from the speeches of Subhas Chandra Bose and other strong nationalists. It all was being done with a printing press that was constantly being moved from one safe house to another to avoid discovery.

  “Something women freedom fighters did in the past was move weaponry to various fighters,” Pankaj said. “What they need help with now is transferring the parts of our printing press. It’s not as difficult as it seems, for each piece is boxed up and covered with something else.”