“All right, but you must return by five.” As I spoke, I noticed he was grinning and nodding, but not with the normal expression of gratitude. It was as if there were some great joke to which he was privy—or that he was getting ready to tell somebody else.
I waited all morning and into the afternoon for the Red Cross van to pick me up, as was the established plan. The telephone didn’t work; I imagined the operators were staying out, and perhaps the Red Cross workers had decided to as well. The dead telephone gave me another worry. If Simon wanted a ride from his office, he might not be able to ring home.
But that was a moot point, because five o’clock passed without Ahmed’s return. Then it was six. Manik presented me with a cup of tea and asked what to make for dinner.
“I’m not hungry. Take a holiday from cooking!”
“Ever since the February riots, Memsaheb has become as thin as a broomstraw. It is not good.”
I forced a smile on my face. “I’ll eat a little, just to please you. But nothing fancy. What are you making for yourselves to eat?”
“Potatoes with greens, channa dal, and rice. It’s a small meal because the vegetable-wallah stayed away. There’s a bit of curd and sugar. I can make a sweet from it.”
“Please make mishti doi. Mr. Lewes will enjoy it when he returns. Oh, I will be glad when this day is over!”
Manik raised his eyebrows and said, “I will be, too. I heard that you let Ahmed take Saheb’s car to see Suhrawardy. How can he go off with those who are plotting our murders and return expecting me to give him rice?”
His emotion was understandable, but it filled me with indignation. I said, “We have always expected our staff to cooperate without prejudice; and please remember that most Europeans prefer Muslim cooks. Mr. Lewes chose you because of your ability and character only. Please think that way about your working brothers.”
“Character? You think Ahmed has good character?” Manik sputtered, then wheeled about and left the room.
I was shaken by Manik’s effrontery and hoped that what he said about future killings would not come true. An hour later, I recognized the sound of Jatin’s footsteps on the stairs. When he came into the library, he was dripping with sweat and breathing hard, as if he’d run.
“Didi, Bow Bazar is burning!”
“Tell me,” I said, pouring him a glass of water from the crystal pitcher I kept on the drinks trolley. Jatin flinched at my serving him from one of the best crystal tumblers, but after I urged him to drink, he did. His friends were reporting that Muslim thugs had come into the city from the countryside to destroy Hindu property and life, and that they were encouraging others in Calcutta to join them.
“It’s a good thing that Reverend McRae is in Burma right now,” I said, thinking about the vulnerability of his orphanage in the Black Town. It housed children of all faiths; I prayed the building was locked. “Did your friends say whether the police are acting to stop it?”
“Not very much.” Jatin breathed heavily. “They cannot keep up with so many different eruptions. These bad types may be traveling everywhere. And what of Ahmed and the saheb’s car?”
“Not yet returned.”
“Well, curfew is on now, so he should not be driving,” Jatin mused. “Maybe he will come back tomorrow colored black from fire and red with blood!”
I did not want to believe Ahmed would join the rioting, but I did not know our new driver very well, and in such heated times I couldn’t expect everyone to remain sensible. Shombhu came in with my dinner tray, and after chiding Jatin for using the good glass, asked me when the saheb was returning.
“Perhaps he went to the Control Room,” I guessed.
“I only hope he doesn’t walk in the city tonight,” Shombhu’s voice was ominous. “He has no car and the taxis and rickshaw drivers are not to be trusted.”
My stomach twisted as I imagined Simon being accosted on the street, having his briefcase yanked away or worse.
“You miss him, Didi, don’t you?” Shombhu looked at me sadly; he and the others had noticed the months of silence between us. I told Shombhu that I would dine from a tray in the library to be near the telephone.
At least All India Radio was working. The news broadcaster said that police had contained the riots at Bow Bazar, but there were riots at Sealdah Station, complicating the efforts of thousands to flee Calcutta by train. And fires were burning along Lower Circular Road in Ballygunge, where Pankaj and his mother lived.
Around ten, the radio reported that military orders had been given for the soldiers in the Worcester and Green Howard regiments to report to Howrah to contain the riots. I thought of the English saying: “better late than never.” I supposed this was the way Governor Burrows and his people operated. I continuing listening to reports mixed with incongruous popular music until I fell into a restless sleep.
Suddenly, I heard something. My eyes flew open and I saw that Simon had stepped into the room.
“Thank God you’re home!” I exclaimed before remembering that we were not speaking to each other.
“It’s six thirty. Have you been here all night?” Simon’s voice was hoarse.
Sitting up, I nodded, and he came and sat down on the other side of the partners desk, where my untouched dinner tray was. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on the previous day and looked exhausted. I asked if he had been in the Control Room.
“Yes.” He rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. “I came for a wash and something to eat before going back . . . and to see that you were still here. The Buick and Ahmed were gone, so I feared the worst.”
“Ahmed took the car yesterday morning. He’d said you would allow it, if I had no need to go anywhere.”
Simon gave me a pained look. “Never would I have agreed to that. What if he went to the Direct Action rally?”
Swallowing hard, I said, “I let him go. I believed what he said about your orders, and thought it would be impossible for me to keep a Muslim servant inside on a Muslim holiday. Now I’m so very sorry.”
Simon was silent for a moment, then said, “Well, he lied to you to begin with, and it’s not your fault the city’s gone mad. Only neighborhoods full of Christians and Europeans are safe. You won’t believe what they’re finding—” He broke off, and I turned to notice Shombhu standing in the open doorway with a tray that held a plate of biscuits and two cups of tea. Simon thanked him and closed the door. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t want them hearing too much, lest more rumors spread. When the troops went in last night, they couldn’t see much of anything except for flames and mobs. But now that the sun’s up, they’re finding corpses.”
Despite the warm tea going down my throat, I was chilled to my core. “I’ve heard goondas came from the countryside to stir up trouble.”
“Yes. The Muslim League managed to draw hundreds of extra food ration cards for these newcomers as well as special coupons for petrol. Nobody in government bloody noticed!”
“But surely it’s not just them. Ahmed told me that Hindus were placing barricades around the city to interfere with people getting to the rally.”
“And Hindu merchants have stockpiled American pistols and grenades. Others including gang leaders are supposedly paying men ten rupees per corpse, five rupees per wounding.”
I wondered who had set the price, valuing life at so little. “But the Calcutta police are stopping it, aren’t they?” Although headed by the British, the constables were largely Indian, and while most of them were Hindu, the ranks also included Muslims.
“They’re being blocked. Mr. Suhrawardy has set up shop inside the Control Room. He’s working to convince the police to stay out of the Hindu neighborhoods where violence is reported.”
I did not think I’d heard Simon right. “He’s keeping the police away? How could he do such a thing?”
“As he is the Bengal home minister, he argued that it is his right to direct police movement. I went from one police administrator to another trying to convince them that safety sho
uld rise above politics until Weatherington had me thrown out.”
“I can’t believe what is happening to everyone,” I said slowly. “It’s as if they’ve lost their souls.”
“I’m returning to argue Suhrawardy has no place there, and if Weatherington bans me again I’ll go to the army.” Simon set down his empty teacup with a rattle. “While I’m bathing, will you please tell Manik to make me a quick breakfast? I may be busy for quite a while; I know I should have something inside me.”
“You’re going out again? Simon, I don’t want you to be hurt.” I longed to put my arms around him, but was afraid of being pushed away.
“No Europeans have been attacked in the rioting. Our neighborhood is quite safe because there are very few Muslims or Hindus here. You must not leave here, and tell the servants the same.”
Simon left within the hour. He said good-bye quickly, without a touch or kiss. This first bit of communication in months would have felt like a triumph except for the context of the situation. Too many people were still likely to die.
I paced the library, feeling the tall walls of books that had once protected me press in like the sides of a tomb. The radio continued with the news announcer describing violence, burning and looting from Bow Bazar, where Mr. Chun’s shop was; to Jorasanko, Rabindranath Tagore’s hometown; and College Street.
College Street! I sat down weakly when I heard this. The Sens’ home was in a row of mostly Muslim homes and businesses. Their building sign with an obviously Hindu name would mark them. Sonali was away living with her in-laws, but Mashima, Masho, Supriya, and Nishan were probably home. The fears I’d felt before turned to dread that they might not survive.
The sound of a vehicle stopping outside gave me a rush of hope and I ran into the front hall. Perhaps Ahmed was back with the Buick. But when I peered down the stairway, I recognized the slight figure of Ishan, the young driver from the Red Cross.
“You made it!” I exclaimed, thinking Ishan looked in a dreadful state, with a wet face covered with smudges of dirt and a wild look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Ishan bent over, burying his face in his hands. “So sorry, madam.”
“What happened?” I hurried downstairs to him.
“It’s Dr. Haq. I picked him up in Ballygunge. On Lower Circular Road, there was a bonfire. I tried to reverse it to get away but then men came running and surrounded us. I cannot tell the rest!”
“Speak,” I implored him, because if Dr. Haq was in danger, we needed to help him quickly.
“The goondas stole Red Cross armbands out of the back and put them on. Then they took Dr. Haq. They would have taken me if I hadn’t proved that I was Hindu. I begged them not to hurt Doctor-saheb, but they forced me to leave. They said if I looked back they would kill me, too.”
I wanted to run from his words; but I knew they were true. The kidnapping had happened and could not be reversed; all I could do was think of how to help. “The telephone might work in one of the neighbor’s flats. I’ll try to get through to the police, and you can explain which way they took the doctor.”
“No. Doctor-saheb is dead. I tried to follow where they’d gone and found they ran a knife through him,” Ishan cried.
And now my tears flowed, too, for Dr. Haq, the dedicated and gentle doctor who chose to work for the Red Cross instead of having a private practice. I had admired and liked him so much. He knew the danger of Direct Action Day but had gone out because he felt an obligation to save lives.
Jatin helped me guide the shaken driver upstairs and into the kitchen for tea. Wiping away my tears, I went into the library and tried the telephone. Still not working. I could not remember if the operators’ strike was over or this was a new disturbance. The rioters could have cut telephone lines; they could do anything. How would I reach the Sens, to find out their situation? They could not stay where they were. Somehow, they needed to reach the White Town.
Inside the kitchen, Ishan was clutching a tumbler of tea and retelling the story of Dr. Haq’s murder to Manik, Jatin, and Shombhu.
“Hindus did that?” Jatin’s voice was horrified.
Not knowing I’d come up behind him, Manik spoke with venom. “But the Muslims are killing ten times more than Hindus are doing. I would have let the doctor go, but I will fight the goondas attacking their neighborhoods. My knives are already sharpened.”
The cook’s crude boast made me want to shake him. Taking a deep breath, I said to all of them, “Anyone leaving this house to join the riots will never be allowed back. Ahmed has already lost his job.”
“Didi, what is happening in the city is criminal. We must be prepared to defend.” Shombhu was trying to sound authoritative, but his damp, flickering eyes told me he was afraid.
“Of course it is criminal. But remember that true Hindus respect all forms of life, and if they fight Muslims or anyone else, they will not have a good rebirth.” I looked at Ishan. “If you are feeling better, we can go out in the van together. Let’s start at the Control Room, where we can hear the safest streets to travel. I would like to get to College Street and give first aid to those who need it.”
Ishan shuddered like a leaf being tossed about in a monsoon wind. “I’m sorry, Kamala-didi, but I am not going out again into the madness. This area where you live is safe. After the tea, I would like to stay for a while, if you will permit it.”
Ishan was utterly distraught. I’d been insensitive to ask anything of him. Feeling guilty, I said, “Of course, you may stay here as long as you like, even overnight—Shombhu, is there space in the garden house for Ishan to take a rest?”
“Yes, but . . .” Shombhu paused. “Didi, is it possible for my brother to bring his family here?”
“Of course—but how will he know it’s all right to come?”
“I’m sure he’s already trying to reach the White Town,” Shombhu said. “Everyone who knows of a safe place is trying to reach it. And don’t worry for us, madam. We will not go outside to fight. We will help Ishan and everyone who comes.”
“Thank you, Dada.” The word for older brother slipped from my mouth. He looked as surprised as I was, but I covered his hands with mine before leaving the kitchen. I was not saying good-bye, just making a silent promise I’d see him again.
In the hallway, I saw the driver’s cap that Ishan had set down on the little rosewood table where we kept the day’s newspapers and post. Next to his cap was the Red Cross van’s key. I picked it up. The van wasn’t much longer coming than the ambulance.
Did I dare? If I reached College Street, I could bring back the Sens to stay until it was all over. I remembered what Simon had said about Christians not being at risk. The danger wouldn’t exist if nobody thought I was Hindu or Muslim. I had changed my identity so many times. This would be simple.
Squeezing the key in my palm, I went into my room and put on a freshly starched white sari bearing the Red Cross patch. In the bathroom, I washed my face, making sure the kumkum mark typical of Hindus was gone from my forehead. Around my neck I hung the silver crucifix necklace that was a gift from the orphanage staff.
In the hallway, I left a short note for Simon about going to the Sens to bring them here safely, just in case he reached home before I returned. And then, before any of the servants might catch sight of me, I slipped downstairs and out to the driveway.
The Red Cross van started easily, and I slipped into first gear.
CHAPTER
46
I now fear nothing—neither myself, nor anybody else.
I have passed through fire. What was inflammable has been burnt to ashes; what is left is deathless.
—Rabindranath Tagore, The Home and the World, 1919
I drove north on Chowringhee: the usual route, only with no traffic this morning. At the Park Street intersection, flames shot from the windows of a Muslim kebab restaurant where I’d had many good dinners with Simon. A nearby Hindu-owned auction shop had already been burned to black. Christian households and businesses had pa
inted their doors with crosses proclaiming their faith; these doors stood untouched. I thought of Kabita, still angry with me but safe inside Saint Joseph’s Convent. She would never know it, but being locked up with the nuns in Chandernagore might have saved her life.
Going through Wellesley Street, I saw a tank with soldiers and raised my hand to them as I passed. Then I was in Bentinck Street, with more looted and burned buildings. Here, I saw the first corpses lying in the gutters and hanging from lampposts. The most gruesome sight was a man who’d been tied up to a tram system’s electric control panel. Electricity must have jolted him repeatedly toward his painful death. Once this place had been called the City of Palaces; now it was Hades. It was as if Calcutta was besieged with the demons Thakurma often talked about in her historical stories. But this was real. I remembered Simon’s plea for me to stay in, but not to go to College Street could mean leaving the Sens to die. A mournful voice inside me whispered, If they aren’t already slaughtered. I told the voice to shut up.
In the side streets, men ran in packs from one house to another with cleavers and swords and lathis in hand. Most wore the ragged clothes of the poor, but others were in clean white kurtas and wore the white caps of the Congress Party, the erstwhile followers of nonviolence. Some had red tika marks on the forehead, meaning they were Hindus who had recently worshipped.
As I continued north, I found a fire burning in the road’s center, just as Ishan had described. I veered left into a side street knowing it would just take a few turns to get back onto Chowringhee. But the street I turned into was filled with Hindus and Muslims battling each other with knives and tire irons and sticks. At the sight of my van, shouting erupted among them. A Red Cross van. They wanted it.
If I stopped the van, I would be lost. In terror, I stepped hard on the gas and shot forward so fast that I was thrown back in my seat. There was nowhere clear to pass, so I drove straight toward the mob, rather than let them surround me as Ishan had described happening earlier. The strategy worked; the men scattered except for a vicious-looking fellow who ran straight toward the driver’s side door. I turned sharply, and the impact of the car pushing into him made him fly in the air and across the bonnet. Then he fell to the side as I roared down the next street, burned out already and now empty.
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 44
