These days, all he talked of was the hunger. He had even convinced some colleagues in Delhi to direct national funds toward relief in Bengal. Despite this, he remained worried about the distribution system ordered by Governor Casey, who insisted two-thirds of the rice must stay in Calcutta, although there were ten times more deaths per week in the countryside. As Mr. Lewes doggedly continued, I began understanding why he was doing so much. The new governor, Mr. Casey, had decided to run his office differently than the other governors before him. He had even stopped sending fortnightly letters to the viceroy.
“It’s unheard of,” Mr. Lewes said one evening at dinner with the reverend and me. “The secretary of state is very much against cutting the flow of information about Bengal’s status at a time such as this. He is so perturbed he wrote a letter about it.”
“Do you think it’s because Mr. Casey prefers the telephone to writing?” I asked, thinking that if letter-writing duties were stripped, Mr. Lewes had lost half of his job.
“Of course not! He’s stopping regular correspondence because he doesn’t have a bloody notion of how to explain his mismanagement of the famine and labor unrest. It’s the same reason he won’t let hospitals reveal to the newspapers how many have starved to death.”
“Oh, that’s why there’s so little in the papers—”
“Indeed.” Mr. Lewes grimaced. “If Casey only communicates when he wants, he can drop mentions of glorious schools being built and new animals installed at the Alipore zoo. He can shine praise on every church in town!”
“Leave the poor clerics out of it. We are not all admirers of Mr. Casey!” Reverend McRae protested.
Hoping to coax a laugh out of both of them, I said, “Mr. Casey should write some reports of popular films at the Metro Cinema and good drinks at Firpo’s. What splendid letters he can write for himself! He doesn’t need—”
He doesn’t need you, I had been about to say. But in an instant I remembered that although Mr. Lewes had brought up Governor Casey’s unwillingness to write letters, he hadn’t mentioned that he was the one who had been writing them. And nobody could know about this without having seen the drafts and final copies in Mr. Lewes’s desk.
At my words, Mr. Lewes had abruptly stopped smiling. My stomach dropped, as I feared that I’d given myself away. But it turned out that I was wrong, because all Mr. Lewes did was ask whether Manik could bring him another gin-lime.
The fall pujas passed without my seeing the Sens; I sent a letter, feeling bad that I had no time to go. I vowed that I would go to them at Christmas, as had been my custom. But Supriya beat me to the punch, surprising me on an early December afternoon by coming into the garden herself. My spirits jumped when I noticed her standing in the corner of the garden; I smiled and motioned to her to sit down at the table on the veranda. After the feeding time ended, I hurried over to greet her.
“Kamala-didi, I hope you are not annoyed that I came without calling,” Supriya said, reaching up to give me a hug. “But you are very overdue in picking up these books! Baba said if we kept them any longer, they would be in danger of becoming lost.”
“It’s my fault,” I said, smiling at her. “Let me wash my hands before touching those books. How is everyone?”
“Quite well. Baba and Ma are allowing Sonali to marry Arvind Israni; the wedding is next month. You must come: Baba is designing the most beautiful invitations. The thing that is funny is Sonali’s name is changing; her in-laws want to call her Sonal. My little sister will become Mrs. Sonal Israni. How grand that sounds.”
“Does she mind?” I asked, thinking if Supriya knew how many times I’d changed names, she would be very surprised.
“Of course not! She is only too happy to be permitted her love marriage.”
Love marriage! I thought of my dream of a union with Pankaj, and the happiness inside me began to fade. I said, “Please come inside, and I’ll have Jatin serve your tea while I quickly bathe.”
I left Supriya in the drawing room to look at some art folios on the coffee table. I went up to my room and after a quick bath, changed into a fresh sari. I returned and was pleased to see that Manik had already brought tea in the best silver service and a china plate of crisp cauliflower phuluri.
Supriya was walking around, looking here and there when I returned. In a dry tone she commented, “This place could belong to a maharajah! I didn’t know Mr. Lewes was so rich.”
And she did not know, either, that it had been a dreadful hodgepodge until I’d decorated it for him. Feeling strangely proprietary, I said, “It’s just a two-story flat. A Scottish minister is staying here, too, because of the war.”
Supriya giggled. “But it is your place; it fits you! Look, you are so beautiful in that jamdani sari—and are those moonstones in the necklace?”
My face warmed with embarrassment. “My sari is old; you have seen it before. Eat something.”
“It’s not only the sari, it is you looking like a candle has been lit inside!” Supriya insisted. “Clearly, the rice kitchen fulfills you. Tell me, how many maunds are you serving a week?”
“About a dozen. We somehow manage to give to everyone who comes.”
“I don’t think that you will run out of food.” She sighed. “Actually, I came here to say good-bye.”
“Why? And where are you going?” I relaxed a bit, because Supriya’s attention to the flat could have been due to her tension about bringing such news.
“I’m following Netaji!” She grabbed my hands in hers and squeezed them.
“Don’t joke like that!” I whispered, shooting a glance over my shoulder. The kitchen door was closed, but I imagined that the men had set up their work close to the door to overhear us.
“Why?” Supriya teased. “Is your church minister sleeping? Or is Mr. Lewes home?”
I shook my head at my impulsive friend. “Supriya, let’s go upstairs to my room.”
Once she had followed me upstairs, admired my bathroom, and examined the novels on my nightstand, Supriya sat down next to me on the bed. She said that she was not joking about following Subhas Chandra Bose. Apparently he had taken charge of the Indian National Army in Singapore and was forming a women’s regiment. She would leave to join them the next day.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. I was shocked by both the danger she was running toward, and the idea that she could cross India’s border. I didn’t think it could be done. She would fail, she would die. When I regained my breath, I asked, “How will you possibly go?”
“Tomorrow I will travel by train to Assam, and from there, I only have to cross the river into Burma. People living in the jungle know all the secret ways; Pankaj has told me exactly who to find. I will be safe.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to visit Pankaj in prison?” I had not forgotten how my error in writing to him had made life difficult for all of them.
“Pankaj-da was released two months ago, and Lata as well. I’m surprised you did not know.” Supriya gave me a guarded look. “I suppose you’ve been so busy.”
“Oh! That is wonderful news.” But the relief I felt was tempered by doubt. Pankaj had been free for two months and not sent me any messages? Perhaps he was still angry about my mistake in writing to him—or was he trying to protect me from police who might be following him? Yes, I decided; that had to be it.
“Pankaj-da’s friends gathered documents showing ties to the Communists, and as you know, the Communists in prison had to be freed because of the new British alliance with the Soviets,” Supriya continued. “Lata was freed for another reason: poor health. But don’t worry too much; her parents are fattening her up at home in Travancore. I don’t think they’ll let her come back to join the wild freedom fighters of Calcutta, though!”
Supriya was being so light-spirited that it was hard to remember that she was on the edge of self-destruction. I asked, “What does Sonali think about your going?”
Her merry expression abruptly vanished. “I daren’t tell her for fear she�
��ll tell Arvind or my parents. The best thing is for me to run off and leave a letter behind explaining. I’ll say that serving him is my dharma; that is an idea Hindus understand.”
I’d left my village home for an hour’s walk, never to see my family again; her journey would be even more risky. But I couldn’t tell her not to go. Reluctantly, I warned, “Think carefully if you really want to do it. If you change your mind, it may be impossible to return.”
“Oh, I will definitely return to India!” Her eyes were once again bright and hopeful. “The INA will come through Burma into India and free everyone from British rule. Sometime next year you’ll see me marching down Chowringhee in dress uniform!”
“If that day comes, I will salute you,” I said, trying to hold back tears. She was reckless and brave: everything I could never be. She also had the advantage of Pankaj’s help. If he believed that she could make it to the INA, she would.
“Don’t tease me.” Supriya’s eyes were wet. “All I want, dearest Kamala, is your embrace.”
And we did, holding each other tightly enough to meld into one.
BY MID-DECEMBER, FAMINE deaths were declining, but I was still busy feeding peasants. Mr. Lewes suggested that I take a break from the kitchen one weekend; he was willing to serve the phan himself, with Reverend McRae on hand to help. I was pleased by his offer because I wanted to visit the Sens to find out whether they’d had news on Supriya’s journey. I’d added her to the daily prayers that I always made for Kabita, now nearly six years old, at the little Lakshmi shrine in my bedroom.
Lately, I’d had a dreadful feeling that Kabita was alone in the world, without even Hafeeza. The idea had no basis; it had come to me in a dream at night, and I was filled with as much terror as if a man with an ax had been standing at my bedside. But in the morning, I rationalized things. If she was alive, it meant she was a survivor like me. Perhaps she had found bread for herself, or was eating jungle plants. She could have found help from a rice kitchen or orphanage. All I could do was hope that my prayers would carry her through the difficult times.
The Saturday morning was bright and clear as I walked to the tram en route to see the Sens. My city had changed. Trenches had been dug in Park Street and Chowringhee. Calcutta’s worn tongas and carts and buses looked like battered toys next to massive military vans and lorries. Most private cars had been taken by the military; one could see their drivers patiently waiting outside the cafés. The Allied military elite dined at Flury & Trinca’s and the Golden Slipper by day and slept in the Great Eastern and Grand Hotels at night. How ironic that our city, once the jewel in Britain’s crown, was the only Asian metropolis she had left—and the ones able to afford her pleasures were foreigners.
As the tram I rode took me away from the White Town, the affluence vanished. Here the streets were packed with the rural poor, hands cupped for rice. This made me worry a little about how things were going at our rice kitchen. Mr. Lewes might frighten the refugees with his sharp, blue eyes; or he might be scared himself by their overwhelming suffering. On the other hand, I had no doubts about the capability of Reverend McRae. He would manage the feeding without a problem.
The door to the Sens’ building was locked with its grille pulled down. Ali, the darwan, was sitting on the stoop, chewing paan.
“They are all at the wedding!” he told me with a smile that split his wizened face in two.
“The wedding? Is Sonali marrying today?” I was stunned, because I had not received an invitation.
“Today is the second-to-last day of ceremonies at the temple, Kamala-didi.” He spit paan neatly on the walk. It formed a blot that looked like blood; and for some reason, this made me shiver.
“What good news,” I said, trying to shake off my feeling of sadness.
“You should be there already!” Ali chided. “Did you forget?”
I shook my head. I had never known the exact wedding date. Maybe I’d stayed away from the Sens for so long that they’d forgotten me. Yet another loss of people I cared about, I thought, turning back the way I’d come.
At dinner that evening, I had no appetite for the fish mollee and rice on my plate. Mr. Lewes was full of lively stories that evening about the various people he had served.
“I think our accents left something to be desired, but we were somehow understood.” Mr. Lewes nodded at the reverend sitting across the table.
“What did you say to them?” I asked.
“Dekha ho bey.” He pronounced the words slowly but badly, in his elegant Oxbridge accent. “I believe that it means, see you tomorrow?”
“Thank you, but I shall be on the job tomorrow,” I said. “I am so grateful for what you did today.”
Mr. Lewes had the determined look that I knew well. “But it’s Sunday—after church services, I could serve them. You could go out again with your friends.”
“What friends?” I reached forward to push my plate away, accidentally bumping my hand against that of Mr. Lewes. It felt electric; and I pulled away, fast.
Exhaling, he said, “You went somewhere today. I’m guessing you saw the people you bring sweets to on puja days.”
Was he jealous, or merely suspicious? I could not tell from his voice. Stiffly, I said, “The Sens are the ones you’re thinking of. And yes, they might have sent a letter here. I am wondering if it might have been lost. It would have been a large envelope.”
“You once received so many letters and parcels, Miss Mukherjee!” Reverend McRae said in his warm burr. “But now it’s dropped off. My post has, too. The war has interrupted delivery.”
My private mail wasn’t mailed from overseas, but hand-delivered from a bungalow in Ballygunge or the Hindu College. War wouldn’t affect it. I felt nervous that the reverend had brought this up in front of Mr. Lewes, who surely understood that I had no post coming from overseas.
“Kamala, I’m sure I haven’t seen anything, but you should also ask Shombhu, who sorts it. If you don’t trust his answer, I will ask him myself.”
“That isn’t necessary,” I said quickly. “I trust them like my brothers.” Now I felt desolate, for if nobody had seen the large envelope, it must never have come.
MR. LEWES DID not even go to church on Sunday. He appeared in the garden before noon, dressed in shirtsleeves and canvas trousers with an apron around his waist.
“I hope Manik won’t mind my small theft,” Mr. Lewes said, turning up the ends of the apron to show them off. “On which side of the serving station do you want me?”
“How about the right as usual?” At the dinner table, Mr. Lewes sat at the head and I was close on his left. In the garden, he’d subjugated his authority to me; it felt funny.
“Don’t think of moving that tureen; it’s too heavy.” Mr. Lewes went up the steps to load one of the tall brass tureens into his arms and came down carefully to rest it atop the rack I’d set over a paraffin candle.
“It’s almost time,” I said, looking at the people already queuing outside the gate.
“No bowls for them to use, ever?” he queried.
“They use their hands, as you’ve seen, or leaves from the trees.” I inclined my head toward the mango tree, which was almost completely stripped of leaves and fruit. It had given all it could to the refugees, just as we had.
“I want to try phan.”
Shrugging, I said, “It’s just like the congee people eat when they’re ill. It’s not at all delicious.”
Mr. Lewes went over to the mango tree and brought back a leaf. I dropped a spoonful of phan onto it, and he brought the leaf to his mouth. After a moment, he said, “It’s rather bland. I wonder if it would be tastier with salt or sugar.”
“There’s a sugar shortage, if you hadn’t noticed!” I shook a finger at him, almost enjoying the way he was asking my advice.
“How about jaggery, the Indian sugar?”
“They are grateful for what we give. There’s no need to do anything extra.”
“But it’s Sunday lunch! Where does Mani
k keep his blocks of jaggery?”
“Third cupboard from the door, upper shelf. Use the round-topped silver key.” Smiling at his generosity, I untied the key ring I always wore from the waist of my sari and gave it to him. He returned a few minutes later with two cups of the golden-brown jaggery, which melted easily into one tureen of bubbling phan.
“This sweet pot is the one I’ll serve from; tell the children,” he said, as I went to open the gate and welcome the refugees in. I told them, and the young ones rushed to be in Mr. Lewes’s line. I was surprised how well he did; speaking the few words of Bengali I’d taught him. Please take some. It’s sweet. Come back tomorrow.
Fortunately the adults were satisfied with the plainer phan. As I served them, they asked in Bengali who the saheb was. I realized then that they thought the property was my own, and he was the guest. During a slow moment, I told Mr. Lewes about the humorous misunderstanding. “I was worried you might frighten them, but it turns out they are only concerned whether you are the governor or my husband!”
“If you told them I was both—what would they say? Tell them,” he said with a laugh.
“I won’t lie to them!” I couldn’t say how much I regretted all the stories I’d told.
When the last refugee had eaten and trailed out the gate, I hung the CLOSED sign and prepared to take the empty tureens inside. But Mr. Lewes had already done the tureens and was blowing out the paraffin candles.
“The work is done. Thank you.” I ran damp hands over my hair, which was escaping its bun. I rarely thought about how disheveled the work over steaming tureens made me; but today, I was embarrassed.
“You’re very welcome. And you’re lovely,” he said, reaching out to take one of the curling wisps. My heart started hammering, as he held it for a moment. This could not be. Rapidly, I brought up my hand over his, to get him to release my hair, but all he did was put his other hand over mine. He stepped closer to me; so close that I could smell a hint of smoke and jaggery mixed with his scent.
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 35
