As the group quieted, I called out that Supriya would bring down her brother through the Duttas’ building, and the Sen parents would like to proceed through their own building, if the fire was out. After a fireman gave approval, we descended rapidly. I felt such a spring in my step that it was like flying.
But the strength was temporary. When we emerged on the street, my knees buckled and Simon caught me up in his arms.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked as he pressed his wet face against mine. He held me as if the past had never happened; as if he loved me like a newly wedded husband.
“Kamala, I am so thankful you left the note. Shombhu read it and came straight to the Control Room to tell me.” Simon put his warm, dry jacket around my shoulders.
“You brought the army and a fire engine. How did you manage that?”
“Actually, it’s the best way to get around,” he said cheerfully. “And I had a feeling we’d save more than your skin. Now, let’s go. We’re quite safe in the army lorry, but they want us back in the European Quarter.”
I could not go to safety without my friends. I began, “About the Sens—”
“I hope they’ll come to stay with us! Shombhu and Jatin can prepare every room they might need.”
He had thought of this already, without being asked by me. Tears of gratitude and love welled up in my eyes.
“But you’re crying,” Simon said, touching my cheek. “Don’t you want them to come?”
CHAPTER
48
ILLUMINATION: . . . . 2. Spiritual enlightenment; divine inspiration; baptism.
—Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 5, 1933
The slaughter did not end that day, nor for some time thereafter. As the Week of Long Knives continued with sporadic killings and burnings, we remained safely nestled in Middleton Mansions. Mrs. Sen moved into the kitchen, spending hours attempting to teach an annoyed Manik proper Bengali cooking. Schools were closed, so Nishan spent hours on the carpet, lost in a chess game with Simon. Mr. Sen bided his time in the library, reading through the collection. Supriya held court in the drawing room, where she gave interviews to journalists wanting a firsthand account of how the female INA veteran had cleared a riot with two shots.
“The Times of India reporter told me the government says only seven hundred and fifty died in Calcutta. It can’t be,” Supriya said when she and Simon and I were sitting in the garden having tea one evening.
“It’s obviously false,” Simon agreed. “I can tell you that more than five thousand corpses have been collected, and who knows how many others had been burned to nothing or swept from the gutters into the Hooghly River?”
And then there were the bodies not counted because they were cremated or buried as fast as their families could do it. We heard about Chhatri Sangha girls who had lost family members; Ruksana had survived along with her parents because they’d been hidden by Hindu friends. For every story of murder, it seemed there was a story somewhere else about good people who had hidden friends and neighbors within their homes. And there were some very canny individuals, like Pankaj’s mother, who’d dressed herself like an old Muslim sweeper lady and sent away the rioters with a few glittering pieces she told them were the Bandopadhyay family’s greatest treasures. After this tale, I was certain that Supriya would get on with Pankaj’s mother; she had the same cleverness, and she would be a far better daughter-in-law than Bidushi or I could ever have been.
I knew all of this because Pankaj, who was still in Delhi, had been writing to Supriya. He wanted her to join him, and she was deliberating whether she should go, staying with family friends as he’d suggested. I told her it was a good idea, because in the capital, Supriya could very well begin a journey toward her own political success. And she’d see Pankaj enough to help decide if he really was the right man to become her life partner.
So many people were in our flat that when it came to my reunion with Simon, the experience was very muted. Only when we were sure everyone was asleep in the various bedrooms did we dare speak intimately. We made swift, quiet love with more tenderness than ever before. Three nights passed this way; then four.
“When this is all over,” Simon said one night, “where will we be?”
“I don’t know about myself, but you’re taking a ship home to England.” I had not forgotten the ticket order I’d seen on his desk. Nor had I forgotten the little girl who lived and breathed just an hour’s train ride away and might someday relent and allow me to be part of her life.
“Yes, my berth number’s come up for January,” Simon said. “But I won’t go anywhere until I know where I stand with you.”
“I am here for you,” I said, although it was not quite true, because of the secrets I still held. I could have told him about Kabita then, but I was scared of his pulling away.
“I never stopped loving you,” Simon said. “You understood that, didn’t you?”
“Of course I didn’t! You said nothing to me for months, took your own room, treated me like an Untouchable—”
“But, incredibly, you stayed.”
“I stayed because you are my husband,” I said. “And because I am tired of running.”
“Running from where? Please, won’t you tell me?” Simon murmured. “What is it that has been driving you all this time?”
I would not risk the tenuous bond that was growing between us. So I answered the best way I could, by covering his mouth with my own.
BY AUGUST 24, the killings had stopped. Trams and buses were running, and shops and markets had reopened for business. The Sens’ contractor was making repairs to the ground-floor entrance, which was the only part that had burned. The question was whether the Sens would stay or sell the place; for as Mrs. Sen said, “Not one of the neighbors we knew for more than thirty years helped us when we needed it. With friends like that, who would stay?”
The Sens had decided to move to a section just outside Calcutta called Salt Lake. It was still mostly swamp, but the Israni family thought it would become a popular place to live. Supriya planned to stay with them until her December wedding.
I busied myself with the Sens’ departure to their new home, and then they were suddenly leaving Howrah Station with twenty suitcases and a flurry of embraces. The weekend stretched ahead. I was looking forward to having time alone with Simon, to see a film or eat dinner at a good restaurant as we’d once done. I wanted to replace the ugly memories of the Direct Action riots with what I remembered of the good life.
On the first night all of our friends were gone and we were finally alone, I sat in the garden with a glass of sweet lime, watching butterflies circle the jasmine bush. Mr. Chun’s teak chair felt firm under my back, as strong as Simon’s arms around me at night.
“Something for you!” Simon walked down from the veranda; he was home a little later every evening, but happier. He had been this way since his transfer from Lord Sinha Lane to Government House, where he had become the Bengal governor’s confidential assistant for the transfer of power. Simon’s role in securing the army’s return on a night when Calcutta’s government was paralyzed had been appreciated, and he was no longer anywhere near Mr. Weatherington.
“A letter for you!” Simon said, holding it out. “But I will only give it for baksheesh.”
As I looked up to give him a kiss, which was surely the kind of tip that he was teasing me for, I wondered who had written to me. The cream-colored envelope seemed familiar, and when I saw the watermark, I recognized the stationery set I’d bought for Kabita. She had not written me any letters before. I held the envelope, studying Kabita’s neat, rounded handwriting, trying to control the excitement I felt inside. A letter from Kabita. She had made the effort to communicate.
“Is it something you don’t want?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I said, realizing how grave I must have looked. “This is a letter I’ve eagerly awaited for so many years.”
I slit open the envelope and drew out two sheets of paper writte
n in the same neat English that had been on the envelope.
Dear Auntie,
I am not sure what you would like me to call you now. You never said. I am writing because I heard what happened in Calcutta, and I hope you are all right. Mother Superior let me ring Calcutta but there was no answer.
I am sorry for what I said the last time. I have been thinking of you every day. Some months ago you sent me some smashing stories. You stopped at the place where you and your friend are beginning to study together. I want to read what happens next. But if you don’t write again because you’re mad, I understand why. And I haven’t forgot you!
Your loving daughter,
Kabita Zeenat Hazel Smith
She used her names—all of them. My daughter understood who she was and did not hide it. And this was more of a gift than anything I had ever received.
“Are you all right, my love? I see you’re crying.” Simon had settled in the chair next to mine without my noticing. Now he took up my hand.
“Yes, I’m fine. It’s the best letter I ever had.” I sat motionless, filling up to overflowing with emotion. I was so proud of Kabita, so wracked with love for her, that I could no longer hide her away. It was time to stop holding all my secrets. “Here, you look at it.”
He read it slowly all the way through and then a second time. At last he said, “I don’t understand. The writer of this letter calls you Auntie but also says she is your daughter. Is that an Indian custom?”
I took a deep breath and looked straight at him. “No. She’s my little girl. Not so little, really. She turned eight over the summer.”
“Damn it,” Simon said, and blood slowly filled his face. “Damn.”
“You’re upset,” I said, but still felt relief that the truth was out. The bricks in the walls of lies were coming loose, freeing me from the prison I’d lived in since girlhood.
Simon put his drink down. “If she’s eight now, you were young when she was born.”
“Eighteen. And prior to that were terrible years that I did things no girl should ever have to.”
Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, I imagine you won’t want someone like me in your flat anymore—”
“No. It’s just that—” He broke off, and sighed. “We’ve wanted a child, and it seems we’ve had one all along.”
We’ve had one all along. The sentence spoken so naturally made my pulse race. Did this mean Simon would have accepted Kabita in the past—or that he still might?
“You must be horrified by this information,” I said, watching his face. “Any husband would be.”
Simon shrugged. “What happened in this city over the last few weeks is what I’d call horrifying. Discovering that I am not your first lover is not. You already know that you weren’t my one and only.”
“Yes. Though I expect that I am, now!” My pulse was hammering, not out of fear but happiness.
“Yes. We must talk honestly—and obviously, Kabita’s needs must come first. What is the situation with her father? Would he allow her to visit us on holidays?” Simon’s eyes were on me, full of hope.
“Don’t have to worry about her father, because he never accepted her as his. He was an Englishman.” The words slipped free before my internal censor could stop them.
“Well, then. I’m relieved that he’s not a part of your life, or hers.” Simon was still looking steadily at me. “Please understand that whatever happened with him, or with the spying, or with your daughter, will not cause me to leave you. But I’d like to know more. If you’re ready to tell.”
Tears had come to my eyes again; I wiped them and said, “I’ve feared telling you because the story is filled with so many sad parts, and is quite long. It begins in a tiny village by the sea.”
Simon took my hands in his. “Oh, but long stories are my favorites. Especially when I know the ending will come out happily.”
CHAPTER
49
DARLING: 1. A person who is very dear to another; the object of a person’s love; one dearly loved.
—Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 3, 1933
Time, sweet time! For most of my life, time had passed with excruciating slowness, but now, the days rushed forward. The next morning, Kabita answered the telephone call I made to Saint Joseph’s. Her soft hello sounded shy but not angry.
I told her that I’d spoken about her to my husband, and we both wanted her in our life. She could stay in the flat as often as she wanted; and if she were willing, he would formally adopt her as his legal daughter. Simon knew many of the judges in the Calcutta High Court, and he’d been advised to quickly bring a petition to them before independence.
“I’ve thrown so many long words and ideas at you,” I apologized. “But what it really means is that you’ll never be alone again. You will be with your father and mother, in a comfortable house, and you may attend school wherever you’d like.”
Kabita was silent for a half minute, then asked if we could come on Friday to take her to stay with us for a weekend in Calcutta. I agreed and gave her details about our arrival time. Simon, who’d been sitting on the other side of the partners desk listening intently, gave me a thumbs-up. But I wondered if we could truly convince her, after she’d suffered so many disappointments.
“I’M MORE NERVOUS today than at our wedding,” I said, holding on to Simon’s hand as we walked together up the convent’s drive.
“You are?” Simon gave my damp fingers a squeeze. “At least she knows you. She probably thinks I look like a blue-eyed devil!”
“A very handsome devil. Oh, there she is! The tallest one, with the brown hair.” I had spotted her in a cluster of energetic young Indian and European girls. They had field hockey sticks and were battling for the puck on the grass near the school’s entrance. Kabita did not see us, but her merry laugh carried.
“She’s good at sport. Maybe the doll I’ve bought for her was the wrong gift.” Simon sounded anxious.
“Well, there’s plenty we can do with games in the garden.” I was feeling optimistic. We would not be a typical family, but my happiness since telling Simon was not typical, either. He had listened to my life story over the course of three nights. At the end of it, he’d said that while many parts of my story broke his heart, all he felt was gratitude that I’d come into his life and stayed.
“Kabs! Your parents are here,” shouted an English girl, looking over her shoulder at us.
How did she know we were her parents? I wondered, before realizing that everyone at school knew Kabita as Anglo-Indian. Simon was white, and I was Indian; the three of us looked as if we belonged together.
As Kabita loped toward us, her eyes moved from me to Simon. And then she put her arms out to me, and I inhaled her delicious schoolgirl scent of ink, coconut oil, and sugar. As I stooped to hug her, I smelled Bidushi and our shared past; but the aroma was all the sweeter, because this time there could be a happy ending.
“Kabita, thank you,” I said, my voice finally catching up to my breath. “Thank you for coming with us this weekend. I can hardly wait to bring you home.”
“Ma, what should I call him?” she whispered into my ear.
She had chosen to call me Mother; with my heart filled to bursting, I considered the question of Simon. “I don’t know, darling. Maybe Simon-uncle, or—”
“Father.” Simon had squatted so he was at our level, and his blue eyes looked deep into hers. “Or Daddy or Papa or Baba! You choose my name. I can never replace Hafeeza and Abbas, but I will treat you like my own.”
“Really?” She pulled away from me a few inches and looked at us with her beautiful, wary eyes.
In her gaze, I saw all the people who’d died or vanished from her world. Why should she believe that this home we wanted to give her could be a permanent one where she’d be happy?
“Yes,” I said softly, holding back the tears. “Your bedroom is right next to ours. It’s just been painted pink. There’s a teddy on your bed and a dollhouse
set up on the carpet. Outside, the garden is full of flowers and a very large mango tree. Everything is waiting. You are the only part missing.”
Kabita shifted from one foot to another, as if deciding. Then she said, “I like pink.”
I looked at Simon, and he grinned. I’d been the one to insist on the rushed painting and decorating.
“Pink is a beautiful color,” Simon said, picking up her hockey stick “Well, then. Let’s all go home.”
CHAPTER
50
Hindus and Moslems, freely mixing with each other, are in Calcutta tonight wildly celebrating the approach of independence. The former scenes of communal battles are now happy meeting places for crowds of both communities who are shouting and dancing in the streets. No incident has been reported until a late hour tonight. Mr. Gandhi, Mr. Suhrawardhy, who ceases to be the Premier of Bengal at midnight, and a former mayor of Calcutta are beginning a 24-hour fast to celebrate independence.
—The Manchester Guardian, August 14, 1947
I’d planned to serve our independence dinner by candlelight in the dining room laid on a silk tablecloth laden with all the favorite family dishes. But Simon was playing field hockey in the garden with Kabita and Pallavi, her new friend from Loreto House, the school just down the block. All afternoon and into twilight, the girls had run back and forth in the garden, chasing the balls he lobbed. In the end, they were altogether too sweaty to sit inside on velvet chairs, so I shifted the meal to the veranda.
We began dinner at nine thirty, timed so that while we ate pudding—a trifle made with fresh cream, mangoes, and pistachios, the colors of the new Indian flag—we could listen on the wireless to Mr. Nehru addressing the Indian Constituent Assembly. I was happy to see the girls dig in, but inside I felt some private guilt at the feast because of the fasting by Gandhiji and Suhrawardy in North Calcutta. They were staying together as an appeal to Bengalis not to fight like they had eleven months earlier. To let the new borders of India and Pakistan stay, even though Bengal itself would be split apart like sisters separated by a flood, never to live together again.
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 46
