The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  “Let’s go inside,” Mr. Lewes said.

  His flat’s first floor was dominated by a long drawing room filled with a cluttered jumble of Victorian and modern furniture. One side of the drawing room had three closed doors; Mr. Lewes said they went to a guest room on the left, his bedroom on the right, and a shared bath in the middle. Off the main hallway was a doorway to the kitchen and a second door leading to the library.

  This was the most important place. I had anticipated a grand room lined with built-in bookcases, but there were only three bookcases, and all were jammed with books. The rest of the room’s space was stacked floor-to-ceiling with wooden crates and cardboard boxes. Between them were a few narrow openings that led to a partners desk with two chairs piled atop it for lack of room. Clearly, there were too many books in the room for the space. There was a smell of old paper, dust, and who knew what else: like the condition of the books in my trunk but magnified.

  “A formidable job,” Mr. Lewes said, sounding a good deal less cheerful than in the car. “It will take hard work. Patience. It’s not just typing but unpacking and sorting and cleaning.”

  “Do you really have time to read all of these?” I asked in wonder.

  “I try. And some of them are so interesting I’ve written essays about them—a mad hobby, I suppose, because I write so much for work.”

  “It sounds like a busman’s holiday, sir.”

  “Ah. You know metaphors, too.”

  “I will do my best with your books,” I said, feeling happy to have met someone who felt as strongly about books as I did. “But to put them all away, more bookcases are needed.”

  “Yes! I’ve been given the name of a good carpenter but haven’t yet made arrangements. That can be among the first of your responsibilities. Just make sure the bookcases aren’t so tall that they cover what few windows exist.”

  I nodded, looking upward at the row of small windows set close to the ceiling that appeared to be opened by a long pole standing nearby. They were so very high that I imagined that even if the whole line of windows were open, it would be hard to feel much of a breeze.

  The second floor held a storeroom and another small bedroom with its own bath, probably meant for an infant and ayah. All three rooms were piled up with boxes of books. “You may use the bathroom upstairs,” he said, answering the question I had been afraid to utter. I was quite pleased to see it had a tub with taps and a toilet with a pull chain, just as I’d had at Rose Villa. I wouldn’t have to wash on the streets again, if I came here each day. I was on my way back to a comfortable life.

  “Please come early on Monday, before I leave for work,” Mr. Lewes said.

  “How early, sir?”

  “Six thirty would be fine.”

  I nodded, hoping that buses or trams from Howrah ran early enough to get me all the way to the White Town by six thirty. Then Mr. Lewes reached into his pocket and took out several bills. Pressing them into my hand, he said, “Consider this an advance. Get what you need, organize your transport, and so on.”

  Forty-five rupees. My pulse raced at the sight of so much money, given to me without my having done anything. And trusting I’d come back to work. But I did not know if this was money for one month or two. I had to ask.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lewes,” I said, folding it into my palm. “I suppose it is time to discuss the wage structure?”

  “Not quite enough, eh?” Mr. Lewes’s eyebrows drew together. “What would you say to fifty a month? With weekends off, of course.”

  This salary was in line with the office jobs for which I’d applied. Mr. Lewes must have been very rich to offer so much to a house servant. I was so overcome that when I opened my mouth, no words came out. I could not think of how to thank him. But was it too good to be true?

  It’s fine as long as he doesn’t expect more, I told myself after leaving the house through the front door. Mr. Lewes was an obvious bachelor; but with me, he’d seemed respectful and bookish, rather than lecherous. And I was tired of running. All I wanted was to be safely set up in the city, earning enough money to support myself and send something to Kabita.

  EMPOWERED BY THE cash advance, I searched the rest of the afternoon for a hostel or rooming house. Just like the landlords of Kharagpur, none in Calcutta would take an unmarried girl without proof that I was studying nearby and financially backed by my father. In the end, I found another cheap hotel in the vicinity of Howrah, just one rupee per day. And then I resolved to use some of my money to buy clothes—the kind of softly hued, quality silk and silk-cotton saris that I’d grown to admire.

  Mr. Jones at the hotel had once advised that the best shopping was in Hogg Market, the place the Writers’ Building clerk Ranjit had cited: the Hogg Market, two large old brick buildings selling everything from lamps to dal to, of course, clothing. The dozens of sari shops lining the floors were decorated with swags of bright silk that seemed to shout with happiness and promise. I let Bidushi’s spirit guide me into the best place, and within an hour had chosen three saris of cotton-silk blends that were both stylish and practical. The shop owner assured me the coordinating blouses would be stitched within a few hours, so I ventured deeper into the market to buy a warm shawl for the coming winter. Passing a children’s shop, I paused at the sight of the stylish garments in the window. My daughter was growing. For two rupees, I bought a fancy dress and a matching hat for Kabita that I’d mail to Midnapore the next day.

  I left the market with a light step, because the fear was over. I had work and money, and would be eating a meal soon. It seemed that out of the darkness, Goddess Lakshmi had emerged to bless me.

  CHAPTER

  20

  BIBLIOPHILE: A lover of books; a book-fancier.

  —Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 10, 1933

  The next morning, I paid a half anna for a ride in the back of a lorry leaving Howrah for the White Town. It was 6 a.m. but already the streets were crowded with every kind of vehicle and animal. I was let off near Chowringhee and Park and ran all the way to Middleton Street. I was there at seven fifteen.

  Shombhu, the household’s chief bearer, opened the door with a heavy expression. He told me I was very late and should go directly to see Mr. Lewes in the library. Feeling sickened to have erred so soon, I hurried in with an apology.

  “It’s all right.” He met my panicked eyes with a reassuring glance, then went back to the business at hand. “I’ll show you which boxes should be unpacked first. You’ll need to use a hammer to pull out nails from the wooden crates—can you?”

  “Certainly,” I said, for I’d seen every kind of tool used in the stables at Lockwood. “Sir, may I ask something?”

  “Ask me anything. That’s why I waited to see you before going to my office.”

  “How many books do you have exactly?” The sight of so many boxes was both daunting and enthralling.

  He ducked his head, looking almost sheepish. “A few thousand, but I lost count some years ago. The exact number will be discovered by you.”

  “Shall I make a list of the titles?” I looked longingly at a typewriter on the desk, remembering the pleasure of using Miss Richmond’s.

  “Yes, as a starting point. You can use it to type up reference cards that will also have call numbers following the code developed by Mr. Melvil Dewey.”

  The code? I had never heard of this, nor of Mr. Dewey. My stunned expression must have given me away, because he said, “The Dewey decimal system is explained clearly in one of my reference books. But unfortunately, that book still has to be—”

  “Unpacked.” A giggle escaped me because the situation was becoming absurd. He laughed, too: a rich, warm laugh that seemed to share my feeling. And suddenly, I was at ease. Mr. Lewes seemed to understand it would take time for me to organize.

  “Have a good day working,” he said, picking up his hat from the edge of the desk and a briefcase marked with the ICS emblem of crossed swords. “I look forward to chatting about what you’ve found when I retur
n this evening.”

  After Mr. Lewes went off, the houseboy Jatin came with a tray holding tea and biscuits. “Memsaheb will need strength,” he said, coughing from the dust.

  “Thank you. And please don’t call me that; think of me as your big sister. My first name is Kamala,” I added, because as much as I desired respect, I wanted Shombhu and him and the others to feel comfortable with me.

  “Kamala-didi, then?” He spoke the words hesitantly.

  “Yes, I’d like that very much.” I gave him a sisterly smile, but he dropped his eyes.

  After I’d finished the good, sweet cup of milky Darjeeling, I tied my handkerchief over my face and set to work on the crates; once they were emptied, I put them in the hallway to be removed and began making stacks of books by subject.

  Outside of the many volumes of the 1933 edition of Oxford English Dictionary and some other English language reference books and works of literature, Mr. Lewes’s collection appeared to be focused on India’s literature, geography, history, and culture. Most were printed in English but some of the old ones were in Portuguese, Dutch, and French. There were also many large blue volumes called The Gazetteers: massive reference books compiling the events, agriculture, weather, and economies of various provinces from the 1800s up to present.

  I was busy all morning until Jatin interrupted me again with a lunch tray. I’d become hungry without realizing it. The mounds of books had utterly distracted me; I had not felt so excited since I’d first learned to read English.

  Mr. Lewes found me reading the book on the Dewey decimal system when he returned at six o’clock. I jumped up, feeling guilty that he’d caught me reading instead of sorting, but he was pleased I’d opened six crates. He told me to finish up and come to the veranda for a cup of tea.

  After I washed the book dust off me in my little lavatory and had brushed my hair, I went outside to the grand stone veranda with two long teak lounging chairs, one of which was occupied by my employer, who was smoking a cigarette and had a gin-and-tonic on a small table beside him. Where should I go—to the other chair or just stand? I tried to delay the awkward choice by gazing about at the garden, which was beginning to smell of night-blooming jasmine. When Mr. Lewes motioned for me to sit down near him, I awkwardly did. Then he asked how the day’s work had gone.

  How could I tell him what joy it was to work with my favorite things in the world, that I’d come from the depths of degradation into the most pleasurable, honorable profession imaginable? I could never tell him this; so I decided to ask a question instead.

  “Is there any place I should store very large government books, like The Gazetteers? There are dozens of them, and they are oversize and will take up a great deal of space.”

  He drew his brows together in puzzlement. “For now—perhaps the hallway? I suppose you think my collecting them is irrational.”

  “I don’t think that,” I said quickly. “It’s just that they are not individual books like the others. I imagine there might be many of these Gazetteers all over India on the shelves of various government offices.”

  “But they’re not considered items of value. My guess is almost all The Gazetteers in those offices will be thrown away within the next decade, which makes conservation necessary.”

  “Why thrown away?” I was curious about the way a collector’s mind worked.

  “Because of the coming independence. Who will want to keep books detailing the intricacies of British rule once we’re out of the country? I may be one of the few people left in the world with such records.” He blew a smoke ring heavenward. “Didn’t you have trouble reading the minuscule print?”

  “Not at all. I hold books like that a distance away.” But I was startled that he would voice the thought the British would give up India. Had he no faith in his own government?

  “You’re definitely farsighted, then. I noticed that when you were trying to read in the bookshop. You will visit my eye doctor on Park Street to have an examination and some spectacles made. Don’t worry; he’ll put it on my bill,” he added, as if noticing my startled expression. “I am nearsighted myself, which means I have no trouble reading but need glasses for distance.”

  I had not known that my eyesight was poor. I had sat in a faraway corner of the classroom and seen every letter on Miss Richmond’s blackboard. Maybe I would be more comfortable wearing spectacles; but the thought of going to a doctor filled me with anxiety.

  “You needn’t see Dr. Asdourian right away,” he said, as if he sensed my feelings. “Just when your schedule allows.”

  AND SO MY days went: I arrived more or less by six o’clock, worked all the morning, and after a simple Indian lunch that Manik made for me, I went out to Bow Bazar, a neighborhood filled with merchants from many countries, with synagogues and churches. It was in this area, filled with jostling people of all races speaking languages I’d never heard, that Mr. Lewes had recommended I locate a furniture maker.

  Mr. Chun, a wizened old carpenter originally from Shanghai, was delighted to take my order for bookcases; and I was warm with pride at directing a project. Within a few days, Mr. Chun had sketches of an ingenious design with pegs allowing the shelves to be heightened or reduced according to whim.

  Mr. Lewes liked the design as much as I did and chose to have the bookshelves made in mahogany. After we looked over the estimate for cost and drawings, he began giving me ideas of how the books should be arranged. I made notes but then felt duty-bound to give him some bad news: that dozens of his most precious acquisitions had pages falling out or covers that had separated from their broken spines.

  “If I had a book press, I could use it to glue new covers to the books,” I suggested. “I could also replace some of the cracked spines. The covers that are only slightly torn can be mounted on linen.”

  “Where did you learn these ideas of book preservation?”

  “Last weekend, I visited the Asiatic Society and the National Library and spoke to some gentlemen there about how they care for their books and manuscripts.” Seeing his eyebrows go up, I added, “I’m sorry, sir, perhaps I should not have gone without asking your permission?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all, and you’ve made me quite interested. I should like to see some of these examples you’re describing.”

  I went with him to the library, where I switched on the electric light. Although I’d asked Jatin to dust each day, the space still was a musty den. I explained how I had been airing a few dozen books daily, brushing off the mildew in the garden. He looked at the books I had set aside with the worst covers and after leafing through a few, said that he preferred that they be rebound by a professional bookbinder. He must have seen my face fall, for he added, “It is not such a necessity with books that aren’t so old. And I’m not opposed to your setting up a book press. You can air the books now, while the weather is fair, and spend the next rainy season working on such repairs.”

  If he was talking about the next rainy season, it meant I’d still have work in eight months. This was a good sign for me, but I worried again that he didn’t have an understanding of the books’ conditions. I said, “Humidity will ruin the books if you keep them inside the whole monsoon. They still need air and brushing, as long as rain isn’t falling directly on them.”

  “The only way around the damp weather is air-conditioning. Have you heard of it?” His eyes held the same spark that I’d noticed when I’d agreed to investigate his library.

  “Yes. Some of the picture houses and hotel ballrooms have it—but isn’t it terribly expensive?”

  “As more sophisticated machinery is being developed and shipped to India, the cost is dropping. Air-conditioning has gone into trains and even some private homes in this city.”

  I nodded, trying not to reveal how decadent and slightly lunatic I thought he was. Cooling books was an extravagance I could not comprehend. Heat could make people very sick or even die: I’d seen that in my village. And it was supposed to be even more difficult for Europea
ns to bear India’s heat.

  “Whilst I research air-conditioning, there are some small cedar boxes I had made to protect the oldest and most valuable books. You will find them as you continue unpacking. I saw you have already found the oldest book in my library, the Portuguese sailor’s account dating to 1465.”

  “I was afraid to open that one.” I made a face, remembering the fragility of its cover.

  “It’s good you didn’t. But it’s one I’d like to have worked on by a professional bookbinder. I don’t have a specific name; I heard the best district to find someone is near Presidency College in North Calcutta.”

  “Do you mean College Street?” I had been reading maps and walking everywhere on my weekends off.

  “Yes. But you must be very careful there.” His eyes lingered on me overly long, and he added, “It’s a hotbed of terrorism.”

  I nodded, all the while thinking this was another example of irrationality. College Street was where Presidency College and many other educational institutions lay: the city’s font of education, bookselling, and publishing. I’d already put it on my list for future exploration, because of all the books I might find—and because it might be a neighborhood Pankaj would visit, too.

  CHAPTER

  21

  People tell me the modern woman is aggressive. I wonder if this is true. But if it is, she has a good reason for it, and her aggression is only the natural outcome of generations of suppression. The first taste of liberty is intoxicating, and for the first time in human history, a woman is experiencing the delights of this intoxication . . .