The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  The next morning, Mr. Lewes stopped me in the hallway. “Kamala, we must speak. Obviously, something has been quite wrong since the time you went on leave.”

  “I’m fine,” I protested, although I’d barely slept. “It’s the others who aren’t.”

  “Which others?” He kept his eyes on me.

  “Throughout this city, scores of thousands are dying from famine.” Irritation at his lack of understanding swelled inside, made me bold. “Haven’t you noticed?”

  He nodded. “The government can’t admit there’s a famine, because then they’d have to provide relief. And they say there is no rice to give.”

  “That is absurd!” I snapped. “Rice is being loaded on ships to soldiers. And the Bengalis in the countryside who grow it can’t take a handful home for themselves and their families!”

  Mr. Lewes leaned against the library’s doorframe, studying me. “It’s always so difficult. I’ve been in India over a decade now and have seen malaria, cholera, flooding come again and again to devastate the people. Misfortune strikes India, time and time again.”

  But he had not really seen it. He had not clung for his life in a tree and watched corpses float by. He had not suffered cholera twisting his gut, nor dissolved into malarial shaking and delirium, nor seen anyone he loved die helplessly. He could display compassion, but he could not understand.

  Abruptly, I asked, “Has your driver arrived?”

  “Of course. Do you need to go somewhere?”

  “You have always said you like to see all the sights of India. Won’t you let me show you some places in Calcutta?” I spoke in a firm voice, making my question not really sound like one.

  “I would be happy to go about with you. But I hardly think now’s the time—”

  “There’s no traffic now. It will be easy.”

  Mr. Lewes looked at his watch and said, “As long as I’m to Lord Sinha Road by half ten for a meeting.”

  How had I dared to give orders to Mr. Lewes? A demon must have invaded me. But Mr. Lewes would not fight. In short order, we were in the car. This time, Mr. Lewes settled against the far left side, his face resolutely turned toward the window. It reminded me of how I’d been on my first car ride with him to Middleton Mansions, trying to separate myself from him as much as possible.

  In Hindi, I told Sarjit to drive us to the section of the Maidan where the refugees had planted themselves. More than a thousand were there; the green lawn had become a sea of distended brown bodies.

  When we arrived, the chauffeur came around to open Mr. Lewes’s door; my employer made no movement to leave.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I felt angry that we had come into the midst of the people yet would remain spectators.

  “I understand that you wanted me to see that starving people have filled the grounds. I have noticed. It’s a wretched vision.” His voice was clipped.

  “I’d rather we didn’t remain behind glass looking at them like an exhibit!” I got out of the door Sarjit had opened for me and walked around to stand by the left passenger door. Reluctantly, Mr. Lewes emerged. I pointed toward the white wedding cake of a building that was the Victoria Memorial and said, “Let’s go this way.”

  Today, nobody gawked at the oddity of a white man and brown woman walking together in public. Those who huddled under ragged blankets were too locked in their own misery to look at anything. As we came closer to the people, an unmistakable smell wafted toward us. Mr. Lewes held a handkerchief to his nose as I spoke quietly, pointing out the signs of starvation. So many bellies were distended, rounding up tightly against gaunt rib cages. And the eyes were the worst, lost deep in their sockets, looking out at the world without a bit of hope or expectation.

  When we were in the car again, I directed Sarjit to take us up Central Avenue and then into North Calcutta, over to the Howrah Station area and finally, east to Entally. At this hour of the morning, traffic was still light; the car moved swiftly, revealing block after block filled with collapsed corpses and near-corpses wandering in vain.

  As we pulled up to Lord Sinha Lane, Mr. Lewes finally spoke. “Thank you for the tour. I agree that it’s awful. I wish the government had money to do something more.”

  “Money won’t help them,” I said. “All they need is rice. But none of them have the sticks to build a fire, nor the pot to boil water in.”

  “Of course rice can be distributed. There must be some people giving aid—”

  “No feeding kitchens have been organized yet by the government or English citizens.” Unable to hide the sentiments of most Bengalis, I said, “Is Mr. Churchill trying to punish Bengal for the Quit India movement, or does he think that if the population shrinks, it will be easier to rule?”

  “That isn’t fair,” Mr. Lewes said sharply. He pulled out a cigarette, and struck his lighter uselessly against it. “The governor is considering relief measures, but they will be hard on everyone. I know that even our household has been hoarding maunds of rice—which is exactly the problem.”

  I swallowed and said, “Yes. I’ve come to understand that my buying so much rice last month was wrong. I want to do something to make up for it.”

  Mr. Lewes’s cigarette finally caught light. He took a deep inhalation and then said, “Perhaps we can donate some of our rice. I can look into the official channels.”

  “How many hundreds will die today if we wait for official channels? These people need to drink phan today. All I can think of doing is serving phan to anyone who comes to the garden. Manik could help me with the cooking.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “If you serve thirty people today, they will tell others, and tomorrow there will be two hundred. The day after, five hundred.”

  “Phan is made with eight parts water to rice,” I said, remembering the recipe my grandmother had taught me. “A maund weighs eighty pounds and will stretch for several days. And in those days, we will certainly save some lives.” I paused to ensure he was still paying full attention. “Have you ever saved a life before, Mr. Lewes?”

  After a pause he said, “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, I haven’t, either. Here is our first chance.”

  THE REST OF the day, I was busy. I instructed Manik to use our two tallest pots for boiling rice and convinced Mr. Rowley’s servants to lend me a third. Then I had Sarjit drive Jatin to the wholesale market to load up the car with as many clay cups as he could buy, and I telephoned the Sens.

  Mrs. Sen did not have a pot to spare because she was making phan daily as part of an effort organized by the women’s section of the Communist Party. As usual, though, she had some controversial political news. “Netaji sent a message to the government, offering to drop one hundred thousand tons of Burmese rice over Bengal. But the Britishers would rather see half of Bengal die than accept help from the enemy!”

  “Yes, I heard,” I said, because I’d seen a memorandum about it in Mr. Lewes’s desk. Apparently, the British suspected the Japanese planes would drop more than just rice on Bengal.

  “So you are making your own rice kitchen, Kamala. That is a great thing. Would you like Supriya to print a leaflet about your address and the feeding time from noon till two? Someone will distribute it on the Maidan. That is not too far from you.”

  “Yes, but there will be no set feeding time. I want to feed anyone who manages to find our place, any time of day—”

  She interrupted me, sounding exasperated. “Kamala, you don’t understand! All the other rice kitchens are on the same timing. Otherwise people will travel throughout the city to take food twice a day and use up what little supply we have. Or they will camp out on your property permanently.”

  I did not like what Mrs. Sen said, but it seemed that following the rules would mean a more manageable system. So with reluctance, I agreed.

  The first day, only those staying nearby came. Reverend McRae and I oversaw the tureens, giving each person a generous scoop that filled the clay teacups. Afterward, people sat on the grass, dig
esting. Some vomited, and others lost control of their bowels. Two constables stopped by to see if I had a permit for such a nuisance to the neighborhood. I gave each a rupee and thanked them for their concern. They straightened the sign I had put on the gate as they left.

  I had feared people might battle one another to get phan, but the lines remained quiet and orderly. Tragically, one woman died at the end of the line, so by midafternoon, the undertakers’ cart came to Middleton Street. The next day, nobody died. And two hundred came. The clay cups were all gone, so people were using leaves or even their hands to cup the gruel. I wished I could tell Pankaj about these people and the way it felt to serve them, but I did not dare write to him again.

  As my days serving rice continued, I noticed something curious; almost all the refugees were children and females. One woman explained it best: she had left her husband in the country because he could eat leaves and worms. Her children could not. I had not talked to peasants in a long time, and I felt my old country accent coming back. Reverend McRae’s Scottish Bengali made the children laugh. But there was a problem: our rice could not last forever. I worried aloud to the reverend about the supply, and whether I would have to offer phan only to newcomers to the city. There was less than a week’s store left, by my calculations.

  “How can you refuse one person over another?” he asked.

  “I can’t. It would break my heart.”

  “Then all who come to you are meant to receive.” His blue eyes glowed like unearthly coals against his weathered skin. “That is why you created this kitchen, isn’t it?”

  His optimism frustrated me; it was unrealistic. “But I do not have enough rice, as I have been saying!”

  The reverend’s voice was gentle. “If you pray, you will receive. God’s angels will bring the message of how this will be.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, because I had never seen a winged being in Calcutta except for bats in the garden. And while I deeply respected the way Reverend McRae related to his Christian God, I could not see him as different from the Allah who had led Abbas to rescue me, or Goddess Lakshmi who had guided me out of poverty and into the comforts of Middleton Street. Did the reverend understand that it would be to all of them I would pray? Somehow, I didn’t think it mattered.

  THAT EVENING, I did not share my anxiety with Mr. Lewes, although I imagined he would be concerned if he knew that twenty maunds were almost depleted. After dinner, we all went into the library to listen to a classical music broadcast. Mr. Lewes stretched out on the settee with a book on his chest. Reverend McRae sat snugly in a wing chair reading a book of essays by Swami Vivekananda. I slouched at the desk, ostensibly looking over the day’s papers but thinking of only one thing: rice.

  The flat’s bell shattered this peaceful moment. I jerked my head up to hear Shombhu opening the door a flight below us and then a stamping of feet upstairs. In the next minute, Mr. Weatherington strode into the library with Shombhu anxiously following in his wake, making an apologetic face at Mr. Lewes.

  “You left quite early today. An official document came in a half hour later and I’ve taken it upon myself to bring it.” Mr. Weatherington glowered at the whole room.

  Mr. Lewes put down his book, looking as irritated as I felt. “Reverend McRae, may I introduce Mr. Weatherington? Who would like coffee, and who is for tea?”

  Mr. Weatherington pointed a bony finger at me. “I heard about an Indian woman luring refugees into the White Town. Seeing the condition of the garden outside, I know who it is. Shame on you!”

  “I’m not ashamed at all,” I answered in a cool voice, but inside I was furious. He would not ruin the last days of the rice kitchen; I could not stand it.

  “The rice kitchen was both our ideas; and with Reverend McRae’s assistance, it has served thousands of meals.” Mr. Lewes came up to stand behind me. He put a hand on the back of my chair, which had the odd effect of making me feel like we were touching.

  “Running a place like this out of a good residential establishment could get you evicted by your own landlord,” Mr. Weatherington said, watching us closely.

  “If you make a fuss about it, perhaps. But I’ll know it’s your doing.”

  I cast a glance backward and saw my employer was staring hard at his colleague. It was as if the polite English veneer was gone and something tougher had emerged.

  Mr. Weatherington must have noticed, for his voice rose as if in self-defense. “That’s not my intention, Simon, but I wish to remind you that Calcutta is India’s war production center. You must return to saving India from the Japanese, not saving it for the huddled masses!”

  “I’m giving up my car for the war effort. What about you?” Mr. Lewes coldly scrutinized his colleague.

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Weatherington huffed. “I don’t believe in empty symbolic gestures like giving up cars or setting up charities in high-rent districts. Nobody would allow it in Alipore.”

  I realized now that I despised Mr. Weatherington as much as the worst individuals I’d known: Miss Rachael who’d told lies about me, Mummy who’d sold me, and the Railway Hospital nurses who had almost killed Kabita with their kicks. I hated him, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset.

  Mr. Lewes still hadn’t taken his eyes off his colleague. “What is this really about, Wilbur?”

  “I honestly don’t know. You tell me!” Mr. Weatherington lifted up his briefcase, unlocked its clasp and took out a sealed envelope.

  “Good night,” I said, beginning to rise in my seat. I knew what the argument was really about: Mr. Weatherington’s jealousy of his colleague, the one he thought the governor preferred.

  “Don’t go, Kamala. This is news you may need to hear.” Mr. Lewes had opened the paper and was reading it over swiftly. “Yes, exactly as I’d hoped!”

  “What in hell are you saying?” Mr. Weatherington sputtered. “Don’t reveal privileged communications!”

  “Actually, Kamala and the reverend are involved.” Mr. Lewes leaned down, and I felt his breath against my skin as he put the letter in my hands. “The Relief Control office will send us rice. A dozen maunds per week for an unspecified time.”

  Mr. Weatherington’s mouth worked for an instant, as if he had a hundred objections to raise. But he only made a sharp exhalation, then stormed out of the room and downstairs without as much as saying good night.

  “Praise God!” said Reverend McRae, smiling from the wing chair where he’d watched the whole drama unfold. I thought it was about the letter; but perhaps Mr. Weatherington’s departure, too.

  “Did you know this wonderful thing would happen? Is it your doing?” I had risen to rush over to the reverend and clasp his hand.

  “Nothing to do with it, Miss Mukherjee. I’m as happily surprised as you are!”

  I glanced back at Mr. Lewes, who was still standing behind my vacated chair and suddenly understood. He must have done it. Slowly, I read through the letter written on engraved letterhead and signed by the governor. It was just as Mr. Lewes had said. Within two days, we’d receive a regular supply of rice each week, free of charge.

  Everything had happened as the reverend had predicted. But there was still one thing that troubled me. Although Mr. Weatherington clearly was the bearer of good news, I could not consider him any kind of angel.

  CHAPTER

  33

  In wartime practically everything is either rationed or off the market altogether. But it is surprising how comparatively little these shortages inconvenience one by now. In fact, some are positively a blessing in disguise. Food for example. There are no luxuries, of course, and quite apart from luxuries, most of one’s old favorites have vanished. It is months, years in fact, since I have made close acquaintance with a genuine mutton chop. Substitutes too are everywhere and most of what one eats, it seems to me, ‘tastes’ different. But there is ‘enough.’

  —Calcutta’s controller of rationing, Lord Elton, Amrita Bazar Patrika, Jan. 30, 1944

 
Angrily, I crushed up the page with Lord Elton’s editorial. The pompous aristocrat didn’t know how few Indians would ever see a mutton bone, let alone a mutton chop. Nor did he seem to understand how pitifully scant the permitted amounts of rice, flour, and sugar were. Mr. Lewes and Reverend McRae obtained their ration cards easily, but I had to visit the ration office several times in order to get the cards for Shombhu, Jatin, Manik, and myself. After experiencing how difficult obtaining a card was, I guessed thousands of Calcuttans might not get ration cards. And what of Kabita and others in the countryside, where there were no ration cards at all?

  As Mr. Lewes had pledged, he gave up his car. His driver, Sarjit, was quickly hired by an American colonel come to town. This was the way of the times: because American military officers earned far more than their British counterparts, many neighborhood servants were looking for new bosses. I thought Shombhu and Jatin would stay, but I worried about Manik. The rice kitchen, plus his usual cooking schedule, was much more than he’d had to do before.

  “Take rest this afternoon,” I said to Manik at least several times a week.

  “But who will make dinner then?” He looked at me glumly.

  “I shall!”

  “You do not know about kitchens.”

  I could have told Manik that as a girl, I’d crouched on a mud floor sorting stones from lentils, but that would shock and confuse him. I held my tongue, thinking about the many lies, spoken or not, that had become part of me. I did not want to mislead Manik, but admitting humble origins could lead to everything falling apart.

  It was easier to concentrate on rice. My mornings were filled with getting the pots gently boiling enough rice for the four to five hundred who came daily. After serving and clean up, I took a brief rest and gave Reverend McRae his Bengali lesson. Then it was time to welcome Mr. Lewes home for dinner and to read him the newspaper translations, which he’d asked me to resume since he began closely monitoring local information about the famine.