The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  I felt calmer knowing that Netaji was safely out of India. Those feelings changed, though, when I saw a government memorandum calling for his assassination by overseas spies working for the British. Some spies were searching for the escapee within Kabul, while others were setting themselves up along the borders of countries they thought he might pass through on the way to Europe. The name of one country, Turkey, came up as the place with the most concentrated intelligence efforts. I knew I had to tell Pankaj, who might know how to send a warning to Netaji’s helpers.

  I met Pankaj in the same cabin that we had gone to before. But this time I took the beer Pankaj offered. I told him everything I’d overheard and recited the British memorandum from memory. He did not make notes but listened silently, his eyes never leaving my face.

  Pankaj drank the last of his beer, and indicated to the waiter that he wanted a second one. In a low voice, he said, “I’m not sure if I can communicate such news out of India, but I will try. Good work, Kamala. Very good work.”

  “What about speaking to someone in Forward Bloc? Who is his closest friend?”

  “I would speak to his brother, Sarat, if the police hadn’t clapped him in prison already. Maybe Sarat’s son can help. I know that Sisir is sympathetic to the movement.” Pankaj paused. “I really shouldn’t say anything more. I worry that I’ll put you at risk.”

  If he worried about me, it meant that he cared. I took a deep breath and said that I’d heard from Supriya that he had been asking about my background.

  “Ah!” Pankaj smiled wryly. “No secrets can be kept within the Sen family. That is why I would never have recruited Supriya or Sonali for the work you are doing!”

  “But Pankaj-da—why were you asking the Sens about me?” The beer had made me a little bold. I kept my eyes on him, not wanting to miss his reaction.

  “Oh, you heard!” He blinked behind his spectacles. “It’s only that I was surprised not to have known about you until recently. You seem familiar, somehow. Your name—there are many Mukherjees, but I wonder . . .” He shook his head. “I won’t say it. I do not believe in reincarnation!”

  Now my heart was beating fast. He felt something! He had caught wind of my old letter-writing voice. Softly, I said, “Do not doubt all the old beliefs. They have been passed down for a reason.”

  “So, who are your parents, then? Where were you raised?” He spoke cheerfully, as if he wanted to know. But although I ached to confess that I was his lost soul mate, I suddenly felt Thakurma’s hand smelling of mustard oil press itself across my lips, urging caution. This was not the right time.

  “I come from the coast, a little town nobody’s heard of because it was swept away in a cyclone. My family died, leaving me to fend for myself.” To test him, I added, “I cannot compare with the college girls in Chhatri Sangha or anyone else whom your mother is considering.”

  At my words, Pankaj sighed and said, “I’ve told my mother that I am not looking for a wife. I am only committed to the dream of a free India.”

  I should not have said the last bit about his mother considering brides; I sounded overly bold. Hurriedly I added, “Yes, you’ve spoken of your love for India before. I did not mean to imply—”

  “I understand,” he said with a half smile. “I barraged you with questions and you tried to answer. But you must know what I intend for my life.”

  He was warning me off. After a few more minutes’ conversation, I bade him good-bye, putting down my half-full glass of beer that suddenly tasted too sour. As I began to make my way downstairs and out of the cabin, I glanced back. Pankaj was watching me with a haunted expression. And despite the idealistic words he’d said to me, I did not entirely believe them.

  CHAPTER

  29

  MISSIONARY: 1. A person who goes on a religious mission; esp. one sent to propagate the faith among the heathen.

  —Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 6, 1933

  When I was a little girl in Johlpur, my father once brought me into a deep part of the river. Suddenly, he flung me from his arms. I sank underwater and then came up coughing, moving hands and feet in an effort to get back to my father. He held his arms outstretched and praised me, explaining that the waving, kicking movements were exactly right. Treading water was the first lesson of swimming, and the most important one if I was ever caught in water that was too deep.

  For the rest of 1941, I felt as if I was treading water: staying alive, but not getting anywhere I wanted. Gandhiji’s strength was faltering, Jawaharlal Nehru was locked in prison, and Netaji was unable to do anything for India from outside. But at least he was alive. Pankaj told me he’d passed on my information, and Netaji did not go to Turkey. From Afghanistan he trekked and rode on horseback to the Soviet Union, where Germans helped him travel by train to Moscow and then by air to Berlin. This information, gleaned from listening in to Mr. Lewes and Weatherington, made it clear that Netaji was safe from the British, for the time being. But I did not trust where he’d gone for help.

  “You must understand he’s using a clever strategy,” Supriya explained when we talked about it one afternoon over coffee in Albert Hall. I’d decided it was safe enough to go because I was just with Supriya, and not with an organized group. “Our independence movement in India is too weak at the moment. It cannot combat British opposition. We need help from the outside to win.”

  Netaji had been in Austria before but not Germany. I hadn’t thought he would work with the Nazi party, which he had criticized in the past. However, since April 1941 Netaji had sent communications about his desire to organize a free Indian government, suggesting that treaties could be signed by Italy and Germany guaranteeing India its independence at war’s end.

  “I do wish Netaji had stayed with the Russians,” I said. “Their government has always been helped by the Indian Communists, and they have every interest in helping India become free.”

  “But the Russians are strong anti-Fascists,” Supriya said. “They will side with the English if Germany threatens them—and Netaji knows that. He had to go to the Nazis. There was no other choice, and fortunately he will prevail.”

  I wanted to shake Supriya for her belief that everything would go Netaji’s way: that he could control the Axis powers to do his bidding. I asked, “But what do Germans think of our race? Look at what they are doing to non-Christians in their country and beyond—”

  “Don’t worry so much! It will be a completely free India.” At my dubious expression, she added, “We will repay the Germans for their assistance, so we won’t be beholden. Netaji said so himself.”

  I wondered how Supriya was receiving information; did Pankaj say such things when he visited the Chhatri Sangha meetings I was avoiding? Since our last conversation, it seemed that a barrier had come between Pankaj and me, perhaps caused by my personal questions. The feeling reminded me of the glass window between the front and back seats of Mr. Lewes’s Buick: clear enough to see through, but too thick to allow listening. In the car, I liked the protective wall, but with Pankaj, I wanted it opened, so we could resume the connection we’d once had in our letters.

  I finished my coffee and ordered another. Some boys from the Strength Brigade came in and were toasting to Netaji’s long life and eventual return as the first premier of independent India. Supriya joined in their cheers, but I found myself unable to. I recalled something Thakurma had said about the unburned dead: the poor souls who could not be cremated and were stuck where they were, unable to move into their next lives. That was what it felt like for me, being unable to celebrate or mourn, just waiting somewhere in between.

  THE TIDES OF war were rising, and there were no trees high enough to shelter anyone. The Japanese attacked the American Navy base called Pearl Harbor in Hawaii; and within weeks afterward, their army had flooded Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaya, and Burma. It was not just British colonies they were after: in succeeding months, the Japanese conquered the American Philippines and the Dutch colonies of Borneo, Indonesia, and the East Ind
ies. How could such a small island nation accomplish so much, I wondered, and then I remembered that long ago, the tiny island of England had conquered even more. And now they were running like packs of dogs out of their colonies, toward India.

  One evening in spring 1942, Mr. Lewes was alone in his study, playing a broadcast on his wire recorder. He repeated it several times, then opened the door and called for me.

  “This broadcast from the propaganda ministry of Japan has a familiar Bengali voice,” he said, as I joined him. With a shiver of pleasure, I recognized the deep, strong voice of Netaji. Over a crackling background, the leader assured his audience he was very much alive and said that he’d taken charge of Japan’s Indian prisoners of war. They’d been freed to serve under his command in the Indian National Army.

  “From today, your mind, might, and money belong to the Indian Nation,” Netaji proclaimed. “Friends, you have the honor to be the pioneer soldiers of the Azad Hind Fauj. Your name will be written in gold letters in the history of free India.”

  The Hindi broadcast went on and on. Mr. Lewes sat at the desk, watching me listen. I realized that my expression might be giving away my solidarity with Netaji, so I hastily concocted a frown. At the recording’s end, I asked if he would require a translation. He said, “I already have a transcript, but I’d like you to check it for accuracy.”

  “Of course.” As I looked over the paper he handed me, I kept my face still. Netaji had done the unbelievable: made the army he’d always said was needed. And these Ceylonese and Singaporean and Malayan soldiers had new weapons, food, and uniforms coming from the Japanese. They really might succeed.

  “The translation is a fine one,” I said, after quickly skimming the Hindi and English transcripts.

  “Hmm. That’s not like you, not to find something amiss.” Mr. Lewes’s eyes didn’t move from me.

  Is this a test? I wondered and decided to distract him. “Sir, what do you think this Indian National Army’s chances are?”

  “To take India? That army is a strong propaganda tool, but I’m not sure whether the Japanese will trust the INA’s abilities enough to bring them along on the fight. So far, it’s just friendly promises.” Mr. Lewes paused, then added, “I’d like to think the INA can’t get through to India. But I don’t really know.”

  “If your country had granted us independence two years ago, Netaji would not be heading that army.”

  “ ‘You said your country.” Mr. Lewes sounded incredulous. “You speak as if it isn’t your empire, too!”

  I could not hold back a bitter laugh. “Of course it’s not. You have the right to enter any of the colonies and can sit in any train compartment, join any club, and live in any building. You can walk into Whiteaway Laidlaw without being questioned. Your people made money off my father’s back and—”

  I had spoken of my father. I pressed my lips together, feeling horrified. I was almost telling the secret. Giving myself away.

  “Kamala.” Mr. Lewes reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. It was broad, warm, and strong, making me jump inside. “I’m sorry there’s discrimination. British India is changing too slowly, but as I’ve said, war makes things hard.” He paused. “I miss reading the papers with you. But the wire recordings are just as interesting to hear. Perhaps we should make it an evening radio hour. What do you think?”

  “Perhaps another time. I’m not quite myself tonight. I’m sorry.” I tore away from his touch and dashed upstairs at double speed, without looking back.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I worked in the library, my mind filled with thoughts of the previous night’s conversation with Mr. Lewes. I’d started spying because I’d been shocked by the nature of my employer’s work, but war had turned the situation on its head. War could never be glorious—even though it was better for Netaji to be involved in the freedom struggle than away from it. Yet I suspected that if the Japanese did prevail, they would not really leave India to Netaji.

  My feelings about Mr. Lewes were just as mixed. A few months ago, it had been easy to hate him; now, not so easy. He had used the word discrimination as if he thought it was wrong, and he missed reading the papers with me. I wished I could tell him that I’d enjoyed that time, too—before understanding I was being used for informational purposes. I told myself now that his suggestion of a radio hour was just another way for him to do some work.

  The encounter made me nervous about the prospect of spending more time alone with Mr. Lewes in the library. This was the place where he’d almost kissed me. How dismayed Pankaj would be about what had almost happened.

  I had no mind for cataloging, so I set to dusting, going methodically book by book. As I worked, anger rose in me at myself, for thinking of Mr. Lewes’s attraction to me when I knew the selfish nature of Englishmen through my hard years at Rose Villa. I had a daughter to support, so I couldn’t ever lose my job. Nor should I halt the important spying work I was doing for Pankaj’s organization. I had to keep everything the way that it was; but this would be as difficult as my own feelings for both men.

  I was dusting violently, to match my turbulent feelings. When I reached the maps section, I was dusting so hard that some of the feathers from my duster broke off. While I was chasing after these feathers, Mr. Lewes poked his head in the door after work.

  “A good time for a break,” he said, as I hastily put the duster behind my back. “The rain’s stopped. Won’t you come to the garden with me? There is something we must discuss.”

  Discussing in the garden meant that he didn’t want the house staff overhearing. But what did he have to say that was secret? Would he address me about the violent dusting I’d given his treasures—or was it my rash speech the night before?

  Trying to appear calm, I followed him outdoors and sat down next to him in one of the teak chairs. Then I rang the bell for Jatin. When the boy came, I asked him for cauliflower phuluri and two gin-limes. Mr. Lewes raised his eyebrows at my finally taking an alcoholic drink for myself, but I looked back at him with a falsely confident smile. I would brazen my way through whatever happened; I could not appear frightened.

  When the drinks had been brought and we were once again in private, Mr. Lewes said, “You may have heard that the government has begun reassigning houses and larger flats to incoming refugees from the other Asian colonies. Because of the refugees, bachelor ICS officers with good houses are being asked to bunk with other men in chummeries. That’s all well and good for the young fellows, but I’ve got my library, and . . .”

  Suddenly, I understood that I wasn’t being reprimanded; he was trying to apologize to me about losing the flat. No longer would I have a roof over my head. And without the library work, there would be no money to send Kabita. Pankaj would not see me, either, if I couldn’t spy for him. These desperate thoughts flooded me as I stared at my employer, who looked as downcast as I felt.

  Fumbling for words, I said, “I shall vacate my room whenever you need it. After that, I will still arrive each day to pack up the library, because surely that room will be needed—”

  “No! I have a scheme that can keep our whole household together. I’ll volunteer the spare bedroom to a refugee. I think that if I offer straightaway, I have a lesser chance of being thrown out later.”

  I took a sip of the gin-lime cocktail: bitter and sweet, as it should be. “But there is my bedroom as well. Surely the Housing Office knows that your flat has three bedrooms.”

  Mr. Lewes waved a dismissive hand. “That’s really just a hidey-hole. No one could fit there but a small child.”

  I had fit there quite neatly. I adored my room, which I’d decorated with a few pictures and the calendar the Sens gave me each year. I even had acquired a small slipper chair and matching footstool that Mr. Chun gave me as thanks for providing so much business. I wondered if I could take this furniture with me; but to where? Sounding braver than I felt, I said, “I will find someplace.”

  Mr. Lewes put down his drink with an exasperated-sounding clink. “Kamala,
do you wish to leave this household?”

  “Goodness, no!” My answer came fast, for it was true. But so many times before, I’d lost my home; I did not dare to hope.

  “Let me speak to the Housing Office, then. And don’t think twice about our conversation last night. It was—refreshing. Good for me to hear.” Mr. Lewes was looking at me with a smile in his eyes, so intently that I had to drop my gaze. He didn’t understand that if someone joined us, it would no longer be acceptable for me to dine at the table or read the newspapers first. And I would have to be much more cautious about intelligence gathering. But if I could stay—I’d be safe. At least for a little while longer.

  WITHIN A FEW days, the Housing Office decided to give the spare room to a senior inspector of the Malaya police and his wife. Then, when Housing learned there were two accompanying daughters, they were reassigned to a large bungalow. A week passed, and then the Housing people matched the spare room with Rev. John McRae, a Scottish clergyman who had escaped Burma and was recuperating at Presidency Hospital.

  Mr. Lewes thought that an elderly cohabitant would likely be quiet and spend time sleeping, that he would not be much work for me. But I knew how stern religious men usually were; that was what worried me.

  On the next Sunday evening, I felt my heart sink as I looked out the window and saw a wizened old man in a black suit hobble to the front door with a bamboo cane. Behind him was a liveried driver who was unloading one small suitcase from the church’s car. I would hide my anxiety from the clergyman, I pledged to myself. When I got close enough to see the old minister’s face, though, that resolution flew out of mind.

  Reverend McRae was not white. He might have been once, but his skin had been so darkened by years in Burma that he did not look like any type of European. In the end, only the brightness of his blue eyes and his strong Scots accent gave away his origin.