“Oh, it doesn’t matter! I found something in my bungalow. Do you have time to look?” I handed Pankaj the album. As he saw the first page of photographs, his eyes widened. He turned another page and then said, “Just a moment. I will fetch gloves to prevent fingerprints.”
“I didn’t think of fingerprints!” I put my hand to my mouth. “I touched everything.”
“Don’t worry. I’m guessing that you have not been arrested before and your prints have not been recorded by the Bengal police.”
As Pankaj examined each picture, I wondered what tortures he had undergone in the Andaman Islands. And what sort of a person would keep working for his movement when he could easily be arrested again? The answer came to me: the same kind of man as Gandhiji and Netaji and Jawaharlal Nehru. I gazed at Pankaj, and as each second passed, he seemed to be even more impressive. Still, I could not understand why he hadn’t recognized me from the garden at Lockwood; Mr. Lewes had been able to recognize me easily that day at the bookstore, although I’d been masquerading as an Anglo-Indian the first time. Well, perhaps that was because Mr. Lewes was a spy by training.
Pankaj finally spoke. “Did your father collect these pictures?”
I felt that I couldn’t mislead him any longer. “These pictures have nothing to do with my father. Actually, he is deceased like your own.”
Pankaj’s eyebrows rose. “But you spoke of your father’s position with the ICS—”
“You and Supriya did. I am not free to speak publicly.” Taking a deep breath, I explained that I worked as a library clerk for an English ICS officer called Simon Lewes. Behind the spectacles, Pankaj’s piercing eyes appeared more interested than shocked, giving me encouragement to continue. I described the conversation I’d overheard between Mr. Lewes and Mr. Pal, and the list of suspected Communists collected at a Forward Bloc rally, and how looking for it had led me to the album.
“Some of these pictures are from Bombay. This fellow looks like M. N. Roy, don’t you think?” Pankaj looked up at me.
I moved closer to look at the picture, trying to ignore the enticing scent of sandalwood that came from Pankaj’s body. “I have never seen Mr. Roy, so I can’t tell you. I don’t know much about the movement at all.”
“I don’t know any of these faces, either,” Pankaj turned the page. “All that seems obvious is that they are being watched by the government. Did you find the negatives?”
“No. Mr. Lewes does not have a darkroom or anything like that,” I said. “I don’t even know that I noticed a camera in the house.”
“Then he is likely not the one who took the pictures. Someone else might have delivered them to him. What is your boss’s position with the government?”
“His card states he is in the Indian Civil Service. But some of the papers in his desk were on a letterhead saying Indian Political Service.”
At this, his eyes lit up. “There are rumors of a spy agency within the ICS. Perhaps they are whom he works for. Can you copy the text of any recent letters he’s written?”
“I think so, but—are you going to do something to Mr. Lewes?” Although disenchanted with Mr. Lewes after the encounter in the library, I did not want him harmed.
“I would not dream of it!” Pankaj said. “He is quite a valuable source to us; we want him to stay well and continue working, so we can read his materials. Tell me, is Mr. Lewes already at work today?”
“He’s in Delhi, but I’m not sure for how long.”
“Excellent,” he said, stripping off the gloves. “I’ll review the pictures with a few friends as soon as possible. Then I’ll send them disguised as a shop delivery to your home. Do you think that would be safe?”
“Very safe.” I hesitated, because I did not want this encounter to be the end of it. “I will begin looking for letters to bring to you.”
Pankaj’s eyes were shining as he looked at me. “Do you understand what you’re offering? There’s quite a bit of risk.”
Since the time I was fourteen years old, Pankaj had been the center of my romantic dreams. He had once cared for me, too. Quietly, I spoke the words that he’d once written to me back in the Lockwood days.
“To take risks in the name of India’s freedom is my privilege.”
I waited for his eyes to flare with remembrance, but they did not.
MR. LEWES REMAINED in New Delhi for the rest of the week. His absence gave Pankaj time to send back the album, wrapped up in the disguise of a package from the Oxford Bookstore. I was disappointed that he didn’t send a note with it saying he’d suddenly remembered who I really was and that we must talk about the past, but I knew now that my best hope was to have him fall in love with the person I’d become. If that meant waiting patiently, I could do it.
Mr. Chun refitted the old lock plate on the desk, presenting me with a perfectly fitting, shiny brass key that I added to the key ring I kept tied to my sari’s pallu. The anger that I’d felt at Mr. Lewes for almost leading me into his arms was gone. Instead, I was glad to have learned of his true character before I’d made a mistake. His terrible work had brought me an opportunity I never thought I’d have: it was making me into a freedom fighter—a very secret one, reporting to one of the most important men in the movement.
As the week passed, I built myself a mountain of fantasies: sending information to Pankaj that saved lives, traveling in a burka to bring money to hidden revolutionaries, listening to the Sen girls as they talked about transporting arms with a quiet smile on my face. But then, everything changed.
I was in the garden cutting flowers to make a bouquet when Jatin came hurrying out of Middleton Mansions.
“War!” he said, panting as if he’d run a mile and not merely down one flight of stairs. “England declared war on Germany! What will it mean, Didi?”
I forgot the basket of flowers and went inside and up to the library, where Shombhu, Manik, and Choton were all listening to the wireless. Apparently, Britain’s prime minister, Mr. Chamberlain, announced war plans the day before, but now the viceroy had declared India was at war with Germany, too. India’s viceroy, Lord Linlithgow, announced this without consulting with any Indian leaders, and already there was angry public reaction. And for this reason, Mr. Lewes had to stay away two extra weeks in New Delhi. When he returned at last, his face was drawn, making him look much older than his thirty years.
“Everyone’s raring to fight, but they don’t understand Germany’s power,” he told me over drinks in the garden. We were sitting on Mr. Chun’s new chairs that matched the table perfectly; but Mr. Lewes had seemed too troubled to notice.
“How is Germany better off than Britain? Your country has much more manpower, given all its Asian colonies.”
Mr. Lewes lit a cigarette, and after taking a long puff, said, “The Luftwaffe—their air force—are unmatched. They’ll shoot us to hell and back.”
“Do you mean they’ll start bombing England?”
“Of course. And should they manage to take strategic locations in Africa and Asia to fly from, or use allies in these places”—Mr. Lewes shook his head, looking somber—“this new war could make the last one look like school games.”
I WANTED TO speak with Pankaj about Mr. Lewes’s thoughts on the war. In a men’s shirt box stuffed with rags, I sent Pankaj a message requesting a meeting. I received a message back from him in the same box saying he would see me in a cabin around the corner from the Metro Cinema. I dressed carefully and tried to hide my excitement as we met the following afternoon in the cozy snack place. The first order of business was for him to read my copy of Mr. Lewes’s report to the governor on the status of Germans in the city, all of whom were slated for imprisonment. He did so leisurely, with a Lion beer at his side. He’d offered to buy me one, but I asked for tea instead.
“Supriya Sen is quite worried for the welfare of her college’s German teacher,” I said, taking a sip from my cup of Darjeeling. “She’s a working mother who couldn’t possibly be spying for Hitler.”
“Supriya should ease her mind,” Pankaj said, folding the report in two. “The central government will release all of them, I’m sure, once the hostility between England and Germany ceases.”
“I don’t believe things will cease,” I said. Mr. Lewes had slept little since the declaration; he left the flat before I awoke and stayed late at his office every evening. If things were calming down, he would be smiling and behaving normally. But instead, he only seemed more agitated. I had not seen him pick up a novel or any other kind of pleasure reading in weeks.
“Neville Chamberlain is a diplomat,” Pankaj said. “He has been chatting with Hitler all along, letting him do some small things in exchange for not doing much worse ones. He can’t lead a war effort; he’ll find a way to back out.”
“I imagine you don’t think Indians should fight this war for England.” I had read enough about war to fear it; but I also feared what these alien powers would do to India if there was no resistance to their armies.
Pankaj grimaced. “Of course not! If this government becomes consumed with war, it will pay no attention to the idea of independence. I’m outraged that the Congress Party is cooperating. They’re supposed to lead us to freedom, not serve as Chamberlain’s coolies.”
“But what if England does lose?” I challenged. “Then the Germans could take over India as they’ve already done Denmark and Norway: and who knows what they would do? Have you heard about their actions toward Jewish people in their own country? They are being shut out of jobs and schools and must wear stars on their clothing.”
Pankaj pressed his lips together. “Yes, it’s immoral. Gandhiji has suggested that those Jewish people perform passive resistance to the leadership: to wear the stars and follow all government directions, but hold peaceful protests. I suppose it might shame Hitler—”
“But you don’t believe Gandhiji’s ways are working for India,” I reminded him. “Why would they work for the Jews in Germany? What does Netaji say to you about the war?”
Pankaj took a sip of his beer and said, “He thinks an overseas war will divert the government from being able to harass freedom fighters. So this could be a good time for us to push the independence movement. And he’s believes that it’s fortunate for us that the British have finally met a fierce enemy. You know the saying: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ ”
“That’s surely not a Bengali proverb.”
“No, but it may turn out to be the truth.” Pankaj brushed back a lock of his hair with his right hand, and I noticed for the first time he wore a heavy gold ring with a square ruby in the center. A ruby the same shape and size as the one Bidushi had. My body froze as I wondered if this was the same ruby that had disappeared so long ago.
“What is it?” he asked.
In a rush I said, “How did you get that handsome ring?”
Pankaj tapped the stone and made a face. “It’s a bit fancy for a man, isn’t it? Five years ago I bought the ruby from a Parsi jeweler in England. The ruby was set in a pendant that was briefly lost. When it was recovered, I decided to keep it close at hand.”
“That’s such a mysterious story,” I said, thinking about how evasive his storytelling was. “How was the ruby returned to you? Did a bird find it glittering in the dust and bring it back?”
“No, it’s a sad story.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “My dear friend who had the pendant died of malaria. When my family and I were leaving the place of her death, I noticed the pendant slipping out from the purse of my friend’s aunt. Apparently, the aunt had wanted to keep it for herself without telling anyone! The lady was embarrassed by my discovery and quickly returned it as a token of goodwill between our families. The girl who died was supposed to marry me.” At the end of his recitation, his face was flushed, and I saw moistness in his eyes.
“Was she your fiancée, then?” I wondered how much he would confess.
“Yes. I call her my friend, too, because that was how I felt. She wrote me such beautiful, intelligent letters. Almost two hundred of them, before she died.”
I was hit with two shocks: first, that he did remember the letters, and second, that Bidushi’s aunt had taken the ruby pendant and kept a cool demeanor during my persecution. For so many years, I had worried about the police coming after me. So much ruin had come to me from her dishonesty. Now I wondered whether if I’d stayed at Lockwood, my name would have been cleared. I would never have endured the tragedies of Kharagpur. But then again, I’d still be a servant. I would not be in Calcutta drinking tea with Pankaj.
“What is it, Kamala? You look distressed.”
Tightly, I said, “I was wondering . . . if the aunt was charged with thieving?”
“No.” He made a face. “At first a servant who was overly familiar was suspected, and she seemed proven guilty when she fled. I felt sorry, but really, there was nothing anyone could do.”
“I suppose not,” I said, feeling a sharp pain at the way he’d said “overly familiar.” I told myself it was better that he never know I was the letter writer. But I yearned to know whether I really stood a chance. Looking closely at him, I said, “What a loss your dear friend must have been. I see it in your eyes.”
He looked past me, toward the window showing the busy street. “It has been four years since her passing, so I’ve become accustomed to thinking of myself as a perpetual bachelor. And remaining this way has freed me to work ceaselessly for the movement. My mother complains that I am married to India, and I suppose it’s true.”
I remained silent, thinking. Even if he did fall in love, how could a rich Calcutta boy marry someone like me?
A devil’s voice whispered, Nobody in Calcutta knows who you were. Pom, Sarah, and Pamela were as good as dead. And I wasn’t really a Hindu Sudra anymore: at Lockwood, I’d been converted to Christianity. In Kharagpur, I’d undergone a different conversion: learning how to dress, how to speak confidently to men, and how to live comfortably inside an upper-class Anglo-Indian home. Everything that had happened to me—good and bad—had contributed to the making of Kamala Mukherjee. How different I was from the little girl who had desperately clung to a tree with floodwater rising beneath! I steered my own boat. I could build a life rich with ideas, family, and friends—just like the Sens and Bandopadhyays and other members of the educated Bhadralok class.
Take care of him, Bidushi had said on her deathbed.
I resolved that I would.
CHAPTER
28
PROPAGANDA: . . . 2. Any association, systematic scheme, or concerted movement for the propagation of a particular doctrine or practice.
—Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 8, 1933
As I’d suspected, the hostilities between Germany and Britain did not cease. In the spring of 1940, the Nazis invaded France, Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. Neville Chamberlain was relieved of his duties as prime minister and replaced by the tougher Winston Churchill, who ordered the British to begin rationing food, cloth, and other materials that would be needed for a long war.
The English newspapers made it seem as if the Nazis would be defeated any day, but this was clearly not the case. And India, so distant from the war theater, suddenly appeared like a safe haven to British families. Into our crowded, apprehensive city, people came. First were the soldiers: brown ones from India and the other colonies, and white ones from England, Scotland, and Ireland. Also arriving were the children of the Raj, those who’d been born in India but sent off to study in England.
That spring, Kabita turned two. She was still much too young to study, but I hoped Hafeeza and Abbas would plan for it. Since coming to Calcutta, I had saved enough to be able to send some money and cloth for dresses. This year I sent paper and pens and the small dictionary I’d once given Mr. Lewes. He had been so unappreciative, and I was sure he would never think to use it. Better for my own girl to have it, for I was sure Abbas would do his best to help her with English.
On the book’s packaging wrap, I had, for the first ti
me, written down the Middleton Street address. Since I’d learned of the ruby’s recovery, I wasn’t fearful of the police. I wanted Abbas and Hafeeza to know my new name and address in the hopes that they would write and let me know about Kabita’s well-being. For them to have a way to reach me, if crisis ever came to India.
In our neighborhood, emergency planning was precise. Mr. Withers, the elderly Civil Service retiree living in the next building, became Middleton Mansions’ air-raid warden, ensuring all households were supplied with bandages and petroleum jelly. Following his orders, I sadly oversaw the covering-up of our windows with thick brown paper; the loss of light and green views was disturbing. Mr. Lewes secured gas masks for every resident and servant of the entire Middleton Mansions building. I was horrified at the sight of Jatin when he tried his on: it seemed that he was no longer human; that none of us with them were. I did not want to touch the gas masks but I knew that in the Black Town, few residents had such protection, nor were any antiaircraft guns set up to protect them from air raids.
Mr. Lewes was back and forth between Calcutta, New Delhi, and Bombay, involved with others like himself in a vast campaign to ferret out German spies and sympathizers in India. In the library, Mr. Lewes no longer pored over his old books and handwrote the drafts of essays in his elegant longhand. Instead, he set up a machine called a wire recorder. It played back programs the government had given him to study: recordings of German propaganda in which ladies with silky voices coaxed British troops to lay down their arms. There was also counter-propaganda with English ladies speaking German, telling the German soldiers that Hitler was immoral and they would lose their country’s freedom forever if they fought. Mr. Lewes wrote similar scripts for the Indian population to hear, as well as pieces encouraging Indian men to join the army, navy, and air forces. The awful man from the cocktail party, Mr. Weatherington, had begun calling on Mr. Lewes some evenings, in order to listen to the overseas recordings and talk about their own propaganda strategies.
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 29
