The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  We had never shaken hands. But today we had used our hands toward the same goal. What had happened in the garden was so unusual, that his holding on to my hand with both of his seemed like an extension of the dream.

  From our joined hands, a shiver traveled up my arm and into my brain. This was the same feeling I’d had the night of the Christmas bombing, and the time before that at our cocktail party. As Mr. Lewes pulled me against him, I wanted to let the shivering continue: to lift my face to his, which was lowering with eyes closed.

  It was too romantic; I felt as if I were in the cinema, watching the characters of a young Indian woman and an Englishman standing inside a walled garden bordered with flowering trees. They were so close; it was clear that they loved each other. But hanging over the wall was a chorus of mocking Indians and Britishers, ruining it.

  This moment was dangerous, I realized with a jolt. It could undermine everything I’d worked for and ruin him, too. Panic flared within me; I turned my wrist, and his hands were gone. And so was I, fleeing through the garden and out to the street.

  CHAPTER

  34

  When you are wise, you will know how much paddy makes rice.

  Bengali proverb

  When I’d taken the library job, I’d privately vowed that if Mr. Lewes ever touched me, I would leave. But now I couldn’t imagine leaving Middleton Mansions and the life I’d built. Nor did I want to leave him. I felt—no, I couldn’t let myself remember what I’d felt in the garden. Desire. Affection. Reassurance. All in the space of his holding my wrist.

  Trying to calm myself back to a normal state, I retreated to Bilgrami’s Classic Books, where I’d once gone hoping to sell my own treasured texts. It was still the closest bookshop in the area, and even though the windows were covered in blackout paper, inside it was neat and serene. I made my greeting to Mr. Bilgrami, who knew me well by now, and carried a stool over to the section where the children’s books were. I leafed through a few new boarding school novels. Angela Brazil and Enid Blyton’s innocent girls, caring only for each other, their teachers, and field hockey, took my mind off the crisis. I remembered what my ideas of love had been like when I was at Lockwood. Pankaj had ruled my head and heart; now I was confounded by what had almost happened with Simon Lewes. That was his first name. I’d never said it aloud, but now I whispered it.

  Simon.

  Several hours later, I walked very slowly home, dreading what lay ahead. But he was not in the flat. I found a key ring on the hall table with an envelope. Inside was his monogrammed card, scrawled with a few lines of his handwriting.

  I have gone away for a while on business. I don’t know the return date. My apologies for this and everything else.

  He had not even signed his name. I went into the library and curled up on the settee, reading the lines again. He was apologizing because he’d understood what had happened was wrong: the fru-ition of every cliché and stereotype about British men and Indian women, something we both had fought against so hard and for so long. I did not believe he had a business trip, because he’d never spoken of it. I wondered now if he would stay away until his emotions had calmed, or was he waiting to see if I would do the proper thing and quit working for him?

  “The saheb went away on business yesterday afternoon. Delhi or Bombay, I imagine,” I told Jatin when he came to my room the next morning with bed tea. I was acting as if I was telling him news, but what I was really doing was fishing for information.

  Jatin did not disappoint. As he put down the tray, he said, “That is strange. My cousin-brother saw him yesterday evening.”

  Trying to sound calm, I asked, “At Howrah Station?”

  “No. My relative is a waiter at the Calcutta Club. He said saheb was at the gentlemen’s bar upstairs, drinking too much whiskey. He could not have been traveling.”

  I’d heard that the Calcutta Club had bedrooms for its members. A cold feeling descended on me as I realized that my intuition had been correct. He did not think we could live under the same roof after the kiss. Yet he felt unable to dismiss me.

  The following day the telephone rang. I answered and Mr. Lewes spoke without introduction. In response to my murmured greeting, he asked to speak with Shombhu. Feeling sick with worry, I gave the head bearer the phone. After a minute, Shombhu put down the receiver and said that the saheb had asked him to pack a second suitcase with a week’s worth of clothing and have it dropped off at the office.

  “He’s going to Delhi, just like you said to Jatin,” Shombhu reported. “He does not know for how long.”

  Delhi, my foot! I thought. Mr. Lewes was such a creature of propriety; he would not let anyone think he was staying away from his flat for any reason but business. And then Reverend McRae decided to leave the flat, too.

  “But why?”

  “I’m invited to Dacca to help with famine relief there,” the reverend said over dinner on Wednesday, the third night since Mr. Lewes’s disappearance. “They’re very hard hit there. I’m sorry I won’t be able to lend a hand in the garden for a week or so.”

  “Please don’t worry!” I reassured him, although the prospect of losing the reverend’s company made my spirits sink even lower. “I’ll ask one of the ladies who come regularly to be my helper for this time.”

  “That’s a grand idea, empowering them to help one another. I may share this concept in Dacca.”

  “First, let me see how it works.”

  “Yes, yes, of course! And it’s a shame Mr. Lewes isn’t here—he would enjoy helping on the weekend. I think the rice kitchen’s made him into an even better man. Don’t you?”

  I nodded, all the while knowing that Mr. Lewes would never return to the garden with me. But I would spend time there; and after the reverend departed, working with so many people kept me from feeling lonely. But when I cleaned up afterward, and I looked at my hands, I remembered him touching them. I thought then: If only I had waited for the kiss. He would have left me anyway; but I would have known what it felt like.

  As the week continued, my longing turned to anger. If Mr. Lewes really wanted me to leave, he should have sent a letter. But I didn’t want to go. Not because I felt duty-bound to spy on the British; but because if I left, the rice kitchen would close. The peasants’ needs were more important than a botched moment between two privileged people. And what of my lost little Kabita? If I had her with me, I would not be thinking of such selfish matters.

  This attitude renewed my strength; and I began smiling and laughing genuinely again, as I spent hours with the people I was coming to know as well as those I’d grown up with in my small hamlet. And so the rice kitchen ran on until Friday. The feeding began as usual; at noon I was ladling phan with the assistance of a patron who’d become a friend: the Smiler, as I privately called the always-beaming woman of about thirty years, who had been prematurely aged by starvation. The Smiler had brought her five children to Calcutta, all of whom had survived the sixty-mile walk and were finally beginning to get flesh back on their bones. She told me that her smile had started the moment they’d entered the City of Palaces and had their first serving of phan.

  “What is that?” the Smiler inclined her head toward the street, and a heavy, grinding noise.

  “Soldiers, probably,” I said, looking past the gate as a long army lorry stopped right in front of the mansion block. From the sound of things, more lorries were behind that one.

  Then I saw Shombhu running: uncharacteristic movement for such a stately man. He was followed into the garden by four constables and a dozen Indian Army soldiers. Trying to appear calm, I put down my ladle and asked the men their business. Instead of answering me, the soldiers shouted at the peasants to turn around and board their trucks. When people refused to leave, the soldiers picked up their lathis. And now my anxiety turned to full-blown, heart-pounding fear.

  “Stop it! What are you doing?” I cried out to the constable who seemed to be the boss of the group.

  “We are obeying government order
s.” He shoved a thin paper with smudged typing at me. Dimly I saw the words relief and resettlement.

  “But this is an official government kitchen! These people are supposed to eat every day during these specific hours—”

  “Everything has changed,” the constable said. “Rice kitchens in the city are closed. The government has made feeding camps outside of Calcutta.”

  At his words, an image flashed into my mind; the work camps that the Nazis had built for Jewish captives. Not here, in India—I couldn’t stand it. Shakily, I said, “This is the residence of Mr. Simon Lewes. You cannot send away his guests without his permission.”

  “Guests!” the constable said mockingly. “This vermin?”

  “I want your name.” My breath came in short bursts because the constables carried lathis, and the soldiers had guns. I knew they could hit me just as they’d hit the female students blocking streets as part of Quit India. But the constable and his men turned away and joined the soldiers herding people like goats into the lorries’ open beds.

  I couldn’t stop them. But maybe someone else could. I hurried inside to the library and went into Mr. Lewes’s desk, where I knew he kept the governor’s letter stating we would receive a free rice allotment to dispense as we liked. But that letter was gone, as was almost everything that should have been in the drawer. Mr. Lewes must have taken his papers to keep on working at the Club. He would not be there at midday, so I rang the office to speak with his secretary, Mr. Branston.

  “Is Mr. Lewes there?” I asked, my breath coming so fast that I could barely get the words out.

  There was an intake of breath, and Mr. Branston said, “Madam, who are you?”

  “Miss Mukherjee. I’m his library clerk, calling on urgent business.” In a few sentences, I explained about the rice kitchen being shut down and the peasants being forcibly taken away. If I couldn’t reach Mr. Lewes, I needed to reach someone in Government House who knew about the established feeding program we had.

  “Mr. Lewes is in Delhi,” Mr. Branston said. “So there’s really nothing I can do—and no, I don’t think you should speak to the governor’s office about it, because it was Lord Rutherford who authorized the kitchen, and now Mr. Casey is in charge.”

  Mr. Casey, who Mr. Lewes had said was too disconnected and made poor decisions about everything. Branston was right; the governor wouldn’t help any more than he had.

  Only five minutes had passed, but the scene in the garden was worse. The constables were beating the last stragglers into the third lorry, although I saw a number of boys and girls running away from them and down the street. I was briefly cheered by this before realizing that these fleeing children would lose their families, just as I’d lost mine.

  For me, approaching the remaining lorry was hard. I had to fight back the terrible old memory of the Brahmin-saheb with his cart packed full of tied-up children. I reached up my hand to the Smiler, who was no longer smiling. In a choked voice I called, “You will have rice where they take you. Hold on to your children. Hold on, don’t let them go!”

  “Ma, don’t let them take us!” someone called to me.

  “I tried, but I can’t—”

  Another voice implored, “Ma, stop them!”

  But I could not. The driver put the first lorry in gear, and the people who had been standing inside the lorry beds fell against each other. The vehicle rolled on, followed by its companions.

  Somehow I stumbled back to the garden, barely able to see through my tears. Shombhu and Jatin were still picking up the pots that spilled onto the grass. Everywhere clods of grass had been kicked up, and the gate was hanging off its hinge.

  “Terrible people, those so-called police!” Jatin took the broken gate in his hands. “If the saheb were here, it never would have happened!”

  “You’re right,” I said, wiping my hand across my eyes. “But not everyone will miss the peasants. It’s been a lot of work for Manik, and the neighbors hated it.”

  “Didi, please! Don’t cry so. Go rest yourself.”

  I shook my head, because I imagined the lorries would take the quickest way out of the city and dump the peasants in a remote spot. Or would they pack them into a prison, perhaps sending them somewhere like the Andamans?

  “Please take a rest, Didi,” Jatin repeated. I looked into his eyes, which were also tearful, and something unspoken passed between us. I had grown to love the boy like a brother; the little one I had never gotten to care for. I pulled Jatin to me for an instant, and he hugged me back, understanding.

  I went upstairs and bathed, desperate to get off the dust and sweat and memory of my failure. I brushed my teeth and put on a nightdress because I knew I would be unable to eat.

  Night couldn’t come fast enough to put an end to the wretched day. I lay on my bed, watching the sun move across the ceiling, making shadows that bounced as the fan blades passed around. I wondered if what had happened to us had also happened at other rice kitchens, and if Mr. Weatherington had anything to do with the shutdown.

  Tortured by my circling worries, I could not sleep. The tall clock in the downstairs hall chimed midnight, and then one o’clock. At two thirty I went downstairs to make myself a cup of tea. By the light of the lamp I carried with me, the kitchen seemed so large and bare at night. As I stood waiting for the kettle to boil, I heard a creaking at the front door.

  Initially, I was frightened; my next feeling was rage with myself for having neglected to bar the door, which was my duty when Mr. Lewes was away. I turned off the stove quickly and went to the kitchen door with a cast iron pan in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other. Obviously it was a clever thief to strike when both Mr. Lewes and the reverend were away. But he did not know how strong I could become when it was needed. I breathed deeply, preparing myself for the fight.

  The burglar dropped something with a heavy thump. Then he began walking toward the kitchen, where I belatedly realized my lamp might have attracted him. Not wanting to wait for his attack, I gave a deathlike cry and sprang forward with my weapons.

  “Kamala!” Mr. Lewes had snapped on the light and was staring aghast at me.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, sir!” I was still shaking, although I understood the danger I’d feared was gone. What remained was the strangeness of his coming home so suddenly, and of not knowing what might happen next. I repeated, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would come tonight.”

  “My train was delayed. And while I was waiting in the lounge, I heard that Casey ordered the rice kitchens to close. Did it happen already?” Mr. Lewes looked at my face and said, “I’m the sorry one. Sorry I couldn’t tell you first—”

  “The people did not want to go.” I slid the knife back into its block. “The soldiers hit the peasants who protested. It was just like . . .” I was about to say, Just like the street protest in Kharagpur, when I remembered he shouldn’t know that I’d witnessed that. “Do you think Mr. Weatherington inspired the governor to shut things down?”

  “I doubt it.” Mr. Lewes sighed, and I noticed that his tie was askew and collar open; he looked hot and thoroughly rumpled. “The governor’s been saying that the peasants are not Calcuttans; they don’t have housing or jobs in the city, and never will. He claims that they have created a massive instability. So he finally acted on it.”

  “Taking people against their will is kidnapping. It’s like what Hitler is doing to the Jews of Europe—”

  “These camps in Bengal are for feeding, not killing.”

  As Mr. Lewes leaned against the counter, looking sadly at me, I suppressed the urge to run my hand along his cheek, where the evening stubble I’d never seen before had grown. Instead, I asked, “Has the governor said whether our peasants will have to remain in these feeding camps?”

  “My friend said the plan is for them to be freed when the rice harvesting is under way and they’re nourished and strong enough to return home. It might be only a few months.”

  “You make it sound almost humane, but I can’t bear it.�
�� Tears were starting at the corners of my eyes. “The peasants were torn away from here, and I’ll never see them again. Everyone always leaves. Even you—”

  As I wept, I saw the army lorry, but now it was loaded with all those who had vanished out of my life: my beloved family; sweet, laughing Bidushi; and brave Supriya. And curled up in a basket was the one I’d been stupid enough to give away: Kabita.

  Suddenly, I felt arms around me: banyan branches, big and strong. “I left because I was confused—but I won’t do it again.” Mr. Lewes’s voice came softly in my ear. “Kamala, I wasn’t sure how you felt. I will not leave you again.”

  I could have pulled away as I’d done twice before. If I had said, Sir, let me go, he would have stepped back. But his fingers were stroking my tangled hair, sending shocks into my head and down my spine. I could inhale his essence mixed with tobacco and gin—except that no alcohol was on his breath this time. He was under the influence of nothing but his own emotion.

  At Rose Villa, I always turned my head as such moments approached. But that was not what I did tonight. Tonight, as his mouth closed over mine, I kissed him back, opening my mouth so he could taste the neem and cardamom mixed with my longing. And with gentle fingers, I reached out to touch the warmth of his skin.

  CHAPTER

  35

  TRAITOR: 1. One who betrays any person that trusts him, or any duty entrusted to him; a betrayer.

  —Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 11, 1933

  I stretched awake, feeling the gentle rolling air from the ceiling fan play across my skin. The room was quieter than usual, with only birdsong coming through the window instead of the usual street noise. Why is it so cool? I wondered, pulling the cover up over myself. The sheet felt different, too: fine and soft. My eyes opened to reveal that I was not tucked in my own small bed, but in Mr. Lewes’s spacious bedroom on the first floor.