With a rush, everything came back: how he had come home in the middle of the night; how I had cried; how we had kissed each other endlessly in the kitchen until we went together in his room. I remembered how in his room, lit only by the small lamp, he had unfastened my nightdress, and I stood before him in just my skin.
I had not expected this to happen. For so long in my life, this part of the human experience had been almost forgotten. No, I corrected myself. During my years at Rose Villa, I had never traveled to such a country of affection and sensation, all of it mixed up so I could not tell one from the other. I hadn’t ever believed that sex could be more than a game of pretending or that a man would take time and care with his caresses. But having felt the climbing rush and the explosion, and the sweet comfort of lying together for hours, I finally understood.
The bathroom door opened and Mr. Lewes emerged, still tying his dressing gown. His smile began with his eyes and stretched all the way to his clean-shaven jaw. “You slept late today. Tut, tut.”
“That was not my intention, sir.” I could not help but beam back at him, because I would never again worry that Mr. Lewes would be upset over anything I did.
“Last night you called me Simon. It sounds so much sweeter to my ear.” He came back to his grand bed, lifting the mosquito net to slide in beside me. I said his name tentatively, then said it again, laughing, as he rolled on top of me.
“Twenty-one steps,” he said into my neck.
“What, sir—I mean Simon?”
“Twenty-one steps is the distance between my bedroom door across the drawing room and into the hall and up the stairs to your room. Several times over the last years, I have found myself standing upstairs. And then I counted how long I could bear to stand outside your closed door.”
I pulled myself up on my elbows and looked at him in surprise. “I never knew you were upstairs. I always felt so safe!” If he had ever done it in my first few years in service, I would have shot out of the house the next morning and never come back.
“I only went up when you were outside of the house, and I was dreaming of you,” Simon said. “I thought this kind of thing must never happen, because you were my employee, because I could never jeopardize things and make you run away. I told myself that what I loved about you was your intelligence, your keen sense of organization, your sensitivity to all who live in the world. Nothing else.”
“Sir, that is—” I had been about to say, that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, but was interrupted by a crisp knock at the door. It could only have been Shombhu with the bed tea.
“How does he know you’re home?” I whispered.
“It must have been the suitcases I left by the door!” Simon whispered back. “We’ve been caught. I don’t see any way around it.”
Knowing that he was right, I suppressed my urge to dive under the covers. But what would Shombhu think of me? For five years, I’d lived in the house and conducted myself as properly as a schoolteacher. And now, I’d thrown propriety to the wind.
“Saheb? Are you feeling fine?” Shombhu was desperately rattling the doorknob as if his locked-in employer was in danger. “Saheb, did you not request tea for half nine as usual?”
“I’ll speak to him,” I said. I’d already decided the next minutes were crucial, in terms of how the staff would react to the situation and treat me. Because of what I’d done, I might never recover their respect; but I could try. Without hesitation I called out in Bengali, “Thank you for coming so promptly, but please go back to the kitchen and bring a cup for me as well.”
A stunned silence hung on the other side of the door, and then I heard Shombhu’s feet moving swiftly back toward the kitchen.
“I will open the door for him.” I slid down from the high bed and went to the divan to dress in my discarded nightgown.
“You are remarkable,” Simon said.
“The way Shombhu reports my reaction to the others will determine how everyone will behave—” I broke off the explanation when I realized Simon’s eyes were not on me but the white linen bed sheet flecked with a few rust-colored drops.
I had almost forgotten the small surgery Dr. DeCruz had done. He had sewn me up to be resold at a good price, without my consent. And the irony was I hadn’t taken money for what I’d done—I never would, again.
“My God,” Simon said in a low voice, “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course you meant to. I did as well.” As I sat down on the bedside, I realized I was telling the truth.
During my girlhood reveries, my imaginary guide to the land of counterpane had always been a handsome, intelligent Indian man. Pankaj was the natural hero to take on such a role; but he had not wanted it. As I thought of the way Simon and I had been with each other over the last five years, I realized how blind I’d been. My desire to be the perfect nationalist had kept me from understanding the great connection between us. My old dreams of Pankaj were like a schoolgirl crush out of Angela Brazil: one-sided and immature. Whereas what I felt coming from the man in bed with me was so powerful that it was almost frightening. And this time, I would not run away.
The knock came again, and I opened the door to admit Shombhu, who had composed his face into normalcy and gave me his usual morning greeting.
“Where would you like the tray?” I called over my shoulder to Simon, and from the bed, he mutely pointed to a tea table by the window. Shombhu nearly tripped in his haste to get the tray to this strangely distant place. Behind him was Jatin, carrying a basket with a freshly ironed and folded sari and blouse that must have been just delivered by the dhobi. Jatin was grinning, but a sharp look from me made him drop his eyes.
“And what is your breakfast wish, sir?” Shombhu asked.
Simon paused and said, “Sliced fruit and two eggs poached with toast and tomatoes, please. What for you, Kamala?”
I asked for my usual Indian breakfast: a chapatti, some vegetables, and fruit. Then I turned to the man who had become my lover. “Would you like to eat on the veranda? The morning is quite beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said, looking at me. “Now it is.”
“Sir, I— Your clothing for the day—” Shombhu shifted from foot to foot, and I realized that he must have always dressed Simon.
“I shall take care of the dressing by myself. From now on”—Simon’s voice grew stronger—“I shall do this.”
OF COURSE I helped Simon. He had not dressed himself for quite a while, so he was clumsy at first. But after all was done, he rolled up his shirtsleeves when I went to bathe in his gloriously large tub. I found my guard slipping away with the slick lavender-scented soap on his hands. And then his shirt came off, and the rest of his clothes, and he was in the bath, too. It was the room farthest from the kitchen, I told myself; nobody would know anything except that I was taking a bath at the wrong time of day, and in the wrong room.
But then I stopped worrying about what anybody thought, because Simon was making love to me with only his hands and his mouth, and again the strange physical electricity built and exploded within me—although his mouth covered mine, so no one could hear me gasp.
“I love you,” he said, as we broke apart to take deep breaths. “I love you, Kamala.”
As he spoke, I realized that nobody had ever said those words to me. With my family, and later with Bidushi, the feeling of love was there; but so obvious it was never said aloud. But this was different, being with someone from the West, who made bold pronouncements. I knew what was in my heart, but it was still too hard to say.
We made it to the garden well after ten. Breakfast was brought out promptly along with the newspapers. As Simon read the Statesman, I searched Ananda Bazar Patrika for mention of the rice kitchen closings. There was nothing. When I looked at Simon, he shook his head.
“There can’t be any coverage because the censorship is still powerful.”
“I will always remember them,” I said.
“Yes. I should have served them
many more times; that is my only regret.” He gave me a wistful smile. “It’s an odd time to bring it up, but we need to talk about the lawn. I promised Mr. Sassoon that if he’d allow the kitchen, I’d leave the lawn better than before.”
I glanced around at the pitted, trampled space where, for a half year, thousands had come for daily sustenance. It looked as bad as the Maidan. “I will speak to Promod about restoring the lawn so the landlord won’t be upset. The air raid trench won’t look so bad if we border the near side with plantings. You might like to have some more shrubs and flowers for arrangements.”
“We might like it,” Simon corrected gently. “Would you like it, Kamala?”
And with this short conversation, I knew the peasants would never come back. Part of me would always mourn their absence, yet I would celebrate the gift they had made in bringing Simon and me together.
AFTER SIMON WENT off to Lord Sinha Road, I gave Promod careful instructions about the garden; I’d heard about a nursery just outside the city where farmers sold blankets of healthy grass that could be laid down to replace the old. I said I would go with him, because I wanted to consider all the flowers and shrubs myself.
Then I returned to the library, where I had been absent for much too long. A memorandum about improving efficiency of Howrah Station transportation lay on the desk. Simon must have forgotten to take it to work with him; but it didn’t look like an emergency. This paperwork appeared as well intentioned as almost everything else he’d brought to the government’s attention over the last year. I could have opened the desk to look for something political, but I realized that I didn’t want to.
I couldn’t spy on Simon anymore. He had changed so much as he began seeing the abject failings of his government. When I watched him ladling phan and speaking warmly with the peasants, I sensed he’d undergone a personal transformation; and I had, too. I loved him, even though I was still too shocked by the change in my world to ever say it to him. And what would my freedom-fighting contacts think? I realized that I hadn’t reported in more than six months to Bijoy Ganguly, the man Pankaj had supposedly wanted to become my contact. I’d been too busy with the rice kitchen for spying, and in those months, Simon had been concerned only with famine deaths, ambulances, and hospitals. I’d communicated this in a message I’d sent three months earlier to Bijoy. But now that the rice kitchen was finished, I would probably be expected to make political reports.
As I sorted through a small stack of books I’d left on the library table, this new worry supplanted my happiness. Simon and I could not possibly keep our liaison private. By afternoon, Jatin’s cousin-brother who worked at the Calcutta Club could be talking about it, and so would Manik’s cooking friends in ICS households throughout the neighborhood. Simon’s good name would be ruined; and I could not allow myself to think of what could happen if my Indian friends found out. Our love affair was impossible—but how much I wanted him! The war between my heart and head felt almost as violent as what was happening in the outside world.
I WAS TOO restless to stay inside; in early afternoon, I took a tram to North Calcutta, where I would hunt for a fine first edition of Michael Madhusudan-Dutt’s poems to add to the collection. As I walked, I noticed that the absence of peasants made the established Calcutta beggars visible again. They seemed busy gathering up wooden boards and bowls and scraps of cloth: everything that the peasants had to leave behind. If I’d jumped up in the lorry with the peasants, I would be with them. I would not have slept with Simon, and I would not be facing this difficult decision about my loyalties.
As I browsed the various bookstalls, I listened to the chatter of the students around me; they were talking about war news, mathematics examinations, a Communist meeting that evening. After an hour, I could not concentrate on finding the book. I wanted to go into Albert Hall for a cup of coffee but decided against it, lest I run into Bijoy Ganguly, who might demand an intelligence report.
The Sens’ house was just around the corner from the bookstalls. I’d been foolish to remain hurt about not receiving a wedding invitation: surely it had been some kind of postal error, and Mrs. Sen would be glad to hear from me about why I’d been absent. But first on the list of topics to discuss would be Supriya. Because of eavesdropping operators, I hadn’t dared to make a telephone call to them about her. But I was in North Calcutta, so there was every reason to visit.
In the vestibule, the Sens’ darwan, Ali, welcomed me cheerfully and said to go upstairs. I called out a greeting as I knocked. To my delight, the door was opened by Sonali.
“My goodness! So long.” She pulled me to her in a tight embrace. She smelled different now, of sandalwood, and I saw the telltale red marking of sindoor parting her hair.
“All my best wishes for your marriage; I’m sorry I couldn’t give them earlier,” I said. “What luck I have to see you here today.”
“I come quite often; we live a few miles away near the Nakhoda Mosque,” Sonali answered with a smile.
“Yes, in these modern marriages, the ladies travel freely as they like!”
A cheerful masculine voice came from the parlor; in an instant I recognized it as Pankaj’s. Despite my detached thoughts about him earlier in the day, I felt warm. This chance meeting, coming so soon after my union with Simon, would tell me whether I truly had grown out of the crush.
“Do come in,” Sonali said, waving me ahead of her. “Pankaj-da is visiting. He had some news of Supriya. Ma is in the kitchen; I’ll tell her to pour another cup of tea for you.”
Pankaj was sitting on the low bed covered with red cushions; he looked much thinner and grayer than before. It even seemed that on the right hand he held outstretched in greeting, the ruby ring was looser. So far, I felt badly for what prison had done to him but nothing more.
“My goodness, is it really Kamala? You have been keeping extremely well.”
“Hello, Pankaj-bhai.” I was dressed simply, but I knew from Simon’s mirror that my skin had an extraordinary glow, and my eyes were clear and sparkling. “I’m so glad that you are out of prison. I must apologize for having caused trouble for you.”
He smiled easily. “All in the past; it’s better not to speak of it at all. We are only here chatting about Sonali’s wedding. I don’t think I saw you there?”
I shook my head, not sure how to proceed. And then Mrs. Sen came out of the kitchen, but she was not bringing tea, just facing me with her thick arms folded across the middle.
“Hello, Mashima,” I said, feeling uncertain.
Mrs. Sen’s color rose as she looked steadily at me. “I should have liked to invite you, but my husband would not allow it because of Supriya’s letter!”
“Oh?” Mashima always said what she meant, but this time she was confusing me. “Did Supriya write to you from Singapore? I can’t imagine how, with the censors—”
“I am talking about the letter she left before going off on that mission! She wrote that she’d received your blessings, and we should keep you apprised of her progress. My question is, why? Why would someone I treated like a daughter send my firstborn on such a deadly journey?”
My hands flew to my face as I stuttered, “I d-didn’t send her. I warned her to think carefully, because of the danger—”
Mrs. Sen roared, “Then you should have run quickly to warn us so she could have been stopped!”
“Ma, please!” Sonali said. “Everyone in the locality can hear you. And nobody can stop Supriya when she wants something—you know that.”
Mrs. Sen shook a finger at me and said, “This year, we lost two daughters: one to marriage, and the other to Netaji! Now all we have is our little boy, who will likely give his life for India if the situation continues to be so deplorable!” She shot a pained look toward her son, Nishan, who didn’t look up from the sailboat he was building in the room’s corner.
“Stop, Ma!” Sonali interjected. “And, Kamala, I apologize. We are very emotional, all of us.”
“The important thing is that your s
ister is doing well,” Pankaj said firmly. “As I told everyone earlier, I heard Supriya’s voice on a radio broadcast. She is full of joy about the mission and will make us all proud.”
“So you’ve heard her speak!” I said, not surprised that Pankaj possessed one of the radio receivers that Japanese spies had distributed within India. Mr. Weatherington would have been wild to know this.
Pankaj got up from the bed and went to touch Mrs. Sen’s feet. When he came up, he said, “Mashima, if you blame anyone it should be me; I was the one who told her the route to get out of India. And I helped her with provisions and contacts along the way.”
Mrs. Sen blinked and then said, “Is it true?”
Pankaj nodded, and from his face I could tell he expected to be verbally battered as I just had been. But that did not happen. Mrs. Sen gave him a half smile and said, “If you told her the way to go, this meant you saved her life.”
Pankaj could do no ill, it seemed, but I could. Blood rushed to my face, and I did not know what to say.
“Kamala, I wish I could ask you to stay for tea, but my husband will be coming up to join—and he is not ready to forgive. Supriya’s letter upset him very much.” Mrs. Sen was looking toward the door.
“Don’t worry! I will talk sense to them!” Sonali whispered as I gathered my bag to leave.
“I’m going as well. I shall walk with you to the tram.” Pankaj stood up, a lean shadow of his former self, and after touching Mrs. Sen’s feet again, followed me out.
“That was too difficult!” I said as we emerged from the building. “I now understand why I wasn’t invited to the wedding.”
“I missed you there. And I’ve also missed your reports that Bijoy would forward to me.” Pankaj was keeping a quick stride, as if we were just like anyone else walking toward the tram station.
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 37