The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I needed to speak to you alone. My niece came to me unexpectedly. She’s lost her parents.”

  The sari that Mrs. Sen had been holding slipped through her fingers. “Oh, the poor child.”

  “Yes,” I continued. “Her father died in a mill accident, and her mother was felled by dysentery. I took her as my ward because her uncle couldn’t afford to keep and educate her.”

  “What a terrible tragedy; but how lucky she’s got you.” Supriya gave me a warm look. “I suppose she’s moving right into Middleton Mansions.”

  “I wish I could host her; but I can’t.” I watched the Sen women’s eyes widen with disbelief. “It’s a complicated situation with my husband and the reverend both staying there; the ideal place for her would be a boarding school, but I can’t find one in Calcutta that isn’t already full.”

  “What? Why can’t she attend day school and stay with you?” Supriya asked.

  “And what kind of school would be best?” Mrs. Sen chimed in.

  Before I could answer, she spoke again. “She is very fair-skinned—fairer than you, Kamala! And why is her name Muslim?”

  “Her late father was Muslim,” I said carefully. “And as you know, so many Indians are light-skinned: the Kashmiri, the Punjabis, the Parsis—”

  “But she is Bengali. I wonder—” Supriya broke off. “Sorry. I can’t say it.”

  “Just speak!” I said.

  “Is Mr. Lewes her father?” Supriya asked.

  Mrs. Sen slapped her. “Shame on you!”

  As Supriya rubbed her cheek, I struggled to put together my response.

  “Simon is not the father; if he was, it would be much easier!” I forced a laugh. “Don’t you remember that I came to Calcutta seven years ago to find work? Zeenat is a bit older than that. I last saw her as a newborn baby.”

  “I was not saying she was yours,” Supriya protested. “I was only wondering if some secret offspring came from Mr. Lewes’s past. Englishmen are known for not cleaning up their messes.”

  Mrs. Sen began brushing Supriya’s hair in long, thorough strokes. “Don’t be silly, she is obviously Kamala’s niece. Look at the similarity of their eyes. And I have some ideas about boarding schools for her, but they are not inside Calcutta.”

  “I can’t afford the expense of a Darjeeling school.” Nor could I bear the distance.

  “I’m thinking about Chandernagore, just an hour up the river.” Mrs. Sen put down the brush and began braiding her daughter’s hair. “I graduated from an old convent school there called Saint Joseph’s. I will write to Mother Superior about your niece. Perhaps she qualifies for an orphan’s scholarship.”

  “But are the teachers and girls kind?” I hesitated. “I mean to say, I was at a boarding school where Indian students weren’t well-treated. There was not much mixing.”

  Mrs. Sen kissed her daughter’s head as she finished the braid. Then she turned to look at me. “I have attended some old girls’ teas; the current atmosphere and students are very nice. You will both be pleased.”

  I was overcome by the Sens’ interest in helping and also their offer to keep Kabita with them until it was time to travel to Chandernagore. I had not even had to ask—they offered. What true friends they were to me.

  The three of us emerged from the bedroom, arms linked; Kabita enjoyed the delicious snacks and tea, which were served just as Nishan came in the door from school.

  “You will stay here tonight. They are the kindest family in Calcutta. And I shall be here before ten tomorrow morning to take you shopping.”

  “Thank you, Auntie,” she said, and gave a quick embrace before running to the table to join Nishan, who was setting up the chessboard. To her, it was a playful time with new friends. For me, it was the beginning of another end.

  IT TOOK SEVERAL telephone calls to Saint Joseph’s to arrange Kabita’s admission. Her tuition was scaled to cover the remainder of the year, and she received a fifty-rupee scholarship, which was wonderful for me, as my total cost was just twenty-five rupees. This meant I could afford tuition and the uniforms and other supplies she needed. The thought of her growing up away from me hurt; but I couldn’t see another way.

  That week Simon worked very long days, which were a blessing for my schedule. Each morning, I went by tram to the Sens’ house to pick up Kabita. I had a list of tasks: having her uniforms made, swinging tennis rackets, and learning to tie oxford shoes. We ate in various European restaurants so she could study European table manners and how to behave. For fun we saw films at the Metro Cinema and shopped for books in College Street. Several times we crossed paths with English and Indian women who knew me; I introduced them to my niece Zeenat visiting from the countryside.

  As we grew to know each other, Kabita’s pinched little face relaxed. To her, I was the mysterious auntie who would listen to every tale she told, but offered no stories of her own. I did not say a word to her about Simon, because the more time I spent with my child, the angrier I became with him. At home, I maintained my normal, pleasant demeanor. I told Simon that I would be traveling with a group of volunteers working on an education progam for orphans. He thought it was an excellent idea and offered a financial contribution that I gladly accepted.

  “Godspeed to you,” Reverend McRae said as he saw me off at the flat door early that Friday morning. “As you take your place in society, you will be one of the very few who will still connect naturally with the general population, speaking to them like a mother or sister. My only advice is to think carefully about which particular cause you shall undertake. It’s easy to spread oneself too thinly.”

  I felt guilty about his approval and resolved to do something charitable upon my return. I would need to prevent my restless mind from circling back to the reality of this second abandonment. As Kabita and I boarded the train to Chandernagore, I could barely lift her small bag; it felt as if my arms had become paralyzed. I felt wretched that keeping my life with Simon meant sending her away. Kabita didn’t seem to want to go, either; she dragged her feet, scuffing the new black oxfords.

  “Why are you taking me away? It’s nice staying with the Sens and going about the city with you!” As the train rolled on, my daughter nestled into my side, smelling sweetly of coconut oil and cake.

  “I’m very glad you like them,” I said with a lump in my throat. “Perhaps you can stay again with the Sens for the summer holidays.”

  “Supriya-auntie is a famous fighter—did you know? She said that on the school holiday, she’ll teach me how to use a gun.”

  We were not even out of Calcutta’s limits, and I had to warn her. She was on her way to a new school, a new life with Europeans who would not approve of the Indian National Army.

  “Kabita, you mustn’t talk about that outside of the Indian community,” I said. “The ladies in charge of your school will be French and English. They won’t like girls who are excited about guns.”

  “Kabita?” As my daughter repeated the name I’d let slip, her expression was curious.

  Hurriedly, I said, “It means poem. Your ma loved the poetry of Tagore. It’s your second name.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Kabita sounded pleased. “Kabita. But it’s a Hindu name, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, we should speak about your school name. Would you prefer to go by Hazel? Many of the girls won’t know the name Zeenat.” I’d registered her as Hazel Smith, because that was the name on the birth certificate that I’d carefully kept for her.

  “Hazel sounds hard.” Kabita’s voice trembled. “And I don’t want to go to that school after all. Can we give back the uniforms and shoes? Why do I have to change places again?”

  “Darling, some changes are for the best. And I will always see you for the holidays—”

  “But I don’t live with you. Or anybody.” Again there was quiet despair in her voice.

  I could not confess that I was her mother; not in this train compartment only a half hour left before arrival. And it
was such a loss. To Kabita, I would always be the auntie who gave ice creams and clothes and paid for her school. Nothing more.

  “I will visit as much as I can,” I promised, stroking Kabita’s hair. Since Mrs. Sen had washed out the shellac from Rose Villa, Kabita’s hair had revealed itself as a silky brown mass with gold strands running through. Kabita flinched, so I put my hand back in my lap. I would not let my heart run away with her. My golden girl would remain the treasure I always dreamed of but could not keep.

  CHAPTER

  42

  Where I am, I am not. I am far away from those who are around me. I live and move upon a world-wide chasm of separation, unstable as the dew-drop upon the lotus leaf.

  —Rabindranath Tagore, The Home and the World, 1919

  As the days passed, I mourned Kabita’s absence. I paid to use a shop telephone to call her during her free period. Because she seemed happy to hear from me, each Friday afternoon I rode the train to visit her. I waited in the visitor’s parlor with a book until she skipped in, full of chatter about her new friends, drama class, and chorus. The nuns said she was settling in, although she was frank in her dislike of Latin, maths, and English food. This inspired me to bring a tiffin box packed with a vegetable curry, dal, chapatti, and always on the bottom layer, a sweet that I had made with my own hands. I served the remainder of the batch at Friday night dinner.

  The sweets had quite an impact on Simon. He was always affectionate on Friday evenings and when I was going to see the French gynaecologist, because it was almost a year of marriage and I’d not yet conceived. I dutifully recorded the doctor’s name, knowing I’d never go, because any examination would reveal I’d given birth before and was too damaged to succeed again. Simon was so keen for a child that he even spoke to me about adopting one of the unwanted babies that had come from unions between the poor women of Assam and the American and European soldiers; but I could not fathom the idea of any child other than Kabita.

  I may have been barren, but something was growing inside me like a small, hard seed. It was resentment. I felt that Simon had separated Kabita from me; although I knew that the lies I’d told had led to his decision. But what other way was there, for me to have survived?

  AS THE HINDU pujas and Christmas approached, I fell into a happy reverie, determined to bring it all to Kabita, and trying to plan what I could give without spending unduly. One Friday afternoon, I went to see her, determined to learn her wishlist. But instead of coming to the arms I held open for her, she settled herself onto a small ottoman, her ankles crossed so her thin legs stood up like butterfly wings.

  “They’ve brought us tea!” I began pouring her cup.

  “No tea for me.” She looked away.

  “A biscuit then?”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Lewes.”

  I was surprised by her fierce refusal, and the way she would not meet my eyes. I said, “When we first met in Calcutta you called me Auntie—it was so much friendlier. Is something wrong, dear?”

  Kabita wrapped her arms around herself, and with her head tucked down, mumbled, “Why didn’t you come last week?”

  “Darling, I sent a telegram explaining, didn’t you receive it? The regular train was canceled, some sort of trouble with political protesters. I couldn’t take a later one and be home in time to—” I broke off, leaving unsaid in time to convince Simon nothing was amiss. “But I’m here now, and we have lots of fun ahead of us.”

  Kabita shook off my promise with a scowl. “We shouldn’t be apart. Why did you buy me if you don’t want to be with me?”

  How I wished she had never seen the money go from my hands to Rose’s. Awkwardly, I said, “I was not buying you. I was saving you, bringing you back to me—”

  “Back to you? I’d never seen you before in my life!”

  I could have kept lying to her. But if I lied now, how could I ever tell her later? I remembered all the mistakes I’d made lying to Simon. I began cautiously. “I believe you know that Hafeeza and Abbas cared for you from a very young age.”

  “So it’s true what Mummy said?” As she spoke, her lips trembled. “That I wasn’t born to them?”

  If I lied to her, I could have soothed her mind forever; but I would not have been able to live with another lie. Hedging for time, I said, “Tell me what Mummy said about it.”

  “Mummy said that my mother was a very naughty lady who wouldn’t keep me.” Kabita paused. “But I think she had a good heart. The lady sent Ma letters with lovely things like hair ribbons and shoes and money. Ma said she loved us both.”

  I coughed and said, “Did you know, I have a story, too?”

  “What?” Her face relaxed slightly, because she was used to me telling her fairy tales and reading books aloud during our visits.

  “I was born a poor little girl from the countryside. My whole family died and your baba saved my life. He helped me find work at his school where I was a servant who cleaned floors and pulled fans.”

  “You were a servant?” Kabita’s eyes were incredulous.

  “Yes. They called me Sarah. Later on, others called me Pamela. Kamala is the first name I chose for myself.”

  Kabita shook her head. “But your parents must have named you when you were born! That is your name. What’s that?”

  This startled me so much I almost couldn’t respond. In a rush, I said, “Oh, I’ve grown so accustomed to being Kamala that I’ve no need for another name. I’ve had to make many changes throughout my life; more than any woman should have to do.” I swallowed down the sob that threatened and said, “The hardest change, of course, was giving you up.”

  Kabita shook her head disbelievingly. “What?”

  “I mean . . . I was your first mother.” I put down my cup, because my hand was shaking so hard. “I kept you with me for the first month and a half in a horrible, hot little room. Mummy knew about you. She wanted to keep you for her own selfish reasons, and the doctor wanted you sent to an orphanage. Because I had no home to shelter you, nor money to feed you, I brought you to Hafeeza and Abbas, the best people I knew.”

  Kabita seemed to shrink into herself, like a young butterfly crawling back into its cocoon. In a muffled voice, she said, “But you are rich. You live in a mansion. You should have taken me, if I really am yours.”

  She was right, absolutely right. Tears started in my eyes as I confessed, “My husband would throw us both out if he knew.”

  Kabita’s head shot up, and she looked at me with eyes full of hate. “That’s a lie.”

  “No, really, he thinks I’m—I’m better than I am—”

  “No, you’re lying. You have told too many lies. I don’t want you to be my mother.”

  With that, she had done me in. I had fooled many people, but this girl, nearly eight years old, could read me like a book. Tears flowing freely, I sobbed, “You make me feel that I should never have come.”

  “You’re right!” Kabita cried. “And I don’t want to know your first name or anything more about you! I hate you now and will forever!”

  I WEPT ALL the way home on the train. A worried-looking woman offered me a crusty shingara as consolation. It filled my mouth with a taste like paper; I knew nothing would ever taste good to me again. Automatically, I thanked her and ate it, but I could not taste any flavor.

  I had calmed down, but when I got into the flat and saw my reflection in the mirror, my eyes were red and my face puffy. I turned to see Simon, who’d come from the dining room with a drink in one hand. His gin-lime; he’d been drinking more of them in the past few months. With an off-kilter smile, he said, “Sorry—I started eating dinner. Where have you been?”

  “The orphans’ home.” This was a project with which I’d helped Reverend McRae right after getting married, when I was looking for useful things to do. I used the orphanage as my regular excuse for Friday afternoon visits to Kabita.

  “The air must be bad outside; you look wretched. At least you made it back in one piece. We will have our anniversary celebr
ation another time, I suppose.”

  I’d forgotten that this date was the anniversary of one year of marriage. Now I was filled with guilt on top of my existing misery. “Simon, I’m so very sorry! I was so busy with the volunteer work I simply forgot.”

  “Never mind that. I have something for you.” Simon handed me a smallish rectangle wrapped in silver paper. Not a jewelry box; good, because I was still feeling guilty about the rings. Inside the pretty paper I discovered a book bound in plain red morocco. Inside was a sea of empty pages. The only words were stamped on the corner of the front endpaper: Sen Bookbindery and Publishing, College Street, Calcutta.

  “Paper is the first anniversary gift, isn’t it?” I smiled mistily at him, remembering what I’d learned from the English book about wedding planning.

  “Yes. It’s a diary,” Simon said. “I visited their shop and saw they had quite an assortment of specialty books. I thought an empty book to write in is what you need.”

  “Important men write about their lives in diaries: I hardly have anything to record.” I could not say that I was afraid to put down a single honest word without crying.

  “But women have kept diaries, too: There’s so much that you hold within: it’s my hope that this diary may help you find your voice.”

  I thanked Simon and said how happy I was he’d finally met the Sens—for this, at least, was true. As I began a stumbling apology for not having his gift ready, he waved it off.

  “You don’t need to give me anything.” He paused. “Well, the one thing—but that’s up to the doctors and God, isn’t it?”