The Sleeping Dictionary

by Sujata Massey

  Trying to push down my nervousness, I said, “You should have let me know your concerns through a letter or word of mouth. I’ve not sent new reports in some time because I’ve been running a rice kitchen.”

  “So I’ve heard. But L is still living on the premises and working for the ICS, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said, realizing that now was the right time for me to explain the change in situation. “He’s stopped searching for freedom fighters. He’s only interested in the famine. If you knew all the things he’d done—getting free rice for the peasants, improving ambulance transportation—you would be amazed.”

  “You sound as if you’re expecting applause.” Pankaj looked at me skeptically.

  “He’s been through such a change,” I said. And as the words came out, I was back in the garden with Simon, remembering the pleasure of working together, and then the passion that rose so unexpectedly and could not be put down. “I spied on him before, yes. There once was every reason in the world to hate him. But it’s different now.”

  “Just because our enemy says he pities the starving poor doesn’t mean he’s a new man!” Pankaj sighed. “He’s British, isn’t he? What is this nonsense you’re talking?”

  I could not bear to reveal what had happened; but for Pankaj to hear the story elsewhere would be worse. Slowly, I said, “Another thing has happened to him. He’s fallen in love.”

  At this, Pankaj exhaled loudly and gave a merry laugh. “Perhaps this explains the behavior change! So he finally met a memsaheb, eh? Is she a pretty young member of the fishing fleet?”

  “Neither. She isn’t English.” I swallowed down my fear and said, “Actually, it’s me.”

  “You?” Pankaj stopped short, and behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, his eyes widened. After a pause he said, “That must be hard. But be strong. I suppose it’s for the best.”

  “What do you mean?” I was utterly confused by his reaction, but Pankaj had started walking quickly again, with almost a bounce in his gait.

  “If he falls in love, he may want an affair with you . . . or even marriage.” Pankaj’s voice was calculating. “The latter would be the better situation, of course. As his wife, you will learn so many more secrets. He will take you to restaurants and clubs where you will gain information from his friends. Kamala, my hat is off to you. Now you can delve deeper into the Indian Political Service than anyone.”

  “But I just said he isn’t hunting freedom fighters! I can’t report on him any longer.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re in love, too?” Pankaj shot a bemused look at me. “Ah. What a quisling!”

  Quisling was the surname of the Norwegian administrator who had helped the Nazis easily conquer his country; since 1940, it was about the worst insult one could use. Shakily, I said, “I will never reveal anything about the movement—and you have no right to call me that ugly name.”

  “If you marry him out of our own desire, it’s only because you’re immoral.” His expression was tight. “You could have been so much more of a woman, someone like—”

  “Supriya!” I finished angrily. “Yes, you admire her for following your directions to go overseas. But you didn’t want me to do things like that; you didn’t even want me to participate in street protests!”

  “You were not needed there; and you’re not needed now.” Pankaj’s tone was frigid. “Honestly, I don’t think I can bear receiving another feverish note from you or tolerate the sight of you making eyes at me.”

  “You think that I make eyes at you?” I repeated, feeling a slow burn start inside. Had I misread the times he had flirted with me, had complimented me, had gazed into my face? No, I had read him correctly then. The woman’s intuition that I’d honed at Rose Villa told me this.

  Narrowing my eyes as I looked at him, I said, “You did care about me, Pankaj. You are only speaking rudely because you’ve been usurped. But it’s been years. Ten years of waiting, for naught.”

  Pankaj stopped walking. He turned away from me for a minute. When he faced me once more, his expression was grave. “Ten years?”

  “Yes; first we wrote letters to each other, and then you met me first when I was fifteen! But I was poor and invisible to you then, and after that you became so self-involved that your eyesight didn’t get any better.”

  Pankaj was quiet for almost a whole minute, then spoke. “You say ten years—I suppose it could be true that you were somehow in league with Bidushi. There is something familiar about you.”

  I waited for him to mention Lockwood, but he just shook his head and said, “You know that it could never be; my mother wouldn’t accept it.”

  “What does she think about me?” I challenged, even though I knew the answer could be devastating.

  “She didn’t think it right that you came to our home uninvited, and she knows that a woman sent a letter that got me in trouble at prison—and guessed it was you. She doesn’t like that you have no known relatives in the city.” He added, “When I marry, my bride will be approved by her, because we will live following my mother’s directions as long as she lives.”

  “You said you would never wed.” I remembered how I’d wanted to change his mind.

  Pankaj shrugged. “I was grieving for a very long time. But I realize that everyone around me is marrying. I don’t want to become a middle-aged man left by myself.”

  I was irritated by his callousness, as well as my own stupidity at having wasted so much time longing for a pen-and-ink caricature of manhood. Feigning warmth, I said, “Pankaj-bhai, I know just who you should marry! Your mother might even approve.”

  “And who is that?” He looked at me expectantly.

  “India!” I flung my arms as wide as the world around us. “She’s not available yet, but any day her parents will set her free.”

  “Very funny, Kamala!” He grimaced. “But really, you mustn’t go with Lewes. It would be a tragedy.”

  I realized with a start that Pankaj was so upset that he’d forgotten and said the name aloud instead of the code word L—and that he wasn’t the kind of hero I’d once believed him to be. I gave him a cold look and said, “The tragedy would lie in continuing any associations with you. Good-bye, Pankaj.”

  I saw a tram pulling into the stop and jumped aboard without checking its destination. I didn’t care that I had to switch at the next stop, because Pankaj’s shocked expression as I told him off was worth it. How could I have admired him, the man too weak to make a choice for himself? And even though I’d told him outright that we’d met earlier, he still couldn’t admit when—perhaps because the thought of a servant coming so close to his Brahmin self was too unnerving.

  Pankaj had never been in love with me, nor I with him. Instead, we’d been a relationship of words—written and spoken, but naught else. Love, on the other hand, was a language that operated without words. No dictionary could explain it any better than the heart.

  CHAPTER

  36

  RUMOUR: . . . 3. A statement or report circulating in a community, of the truth of which there is no clear evidence.

  —Oxford English Dictionary, Vol. 8, 1933

  It was too quiet at home. Jatin was not at the door to help with my bags; Shombhu was not singing as he set the table for dinner. Uneasily, I walked up the stairs, hoping nothing had gone wrong.

  As I bent to step out of my chappals, I felt a hand slide gently over the strip of skin between my sari and blouse. A lingering caress, that reminded me of the night before.

  “Simon!” I said, turning around with surprise. “You’re home so early. And where are the servants? It doesn’t smell like anything’s cooking for dinner.”

  “I gave everyone leave. I thought I would take you to one of my favorite restaurants. They serve magnificent Chinese food on Park Street.”

  I shook my head; as much as I didn’t want Pankaj’s words to have impacted me, they had. “I’m a little tired.”

  “I’ll draw the bath,” he said, striding off toward his chambers.<
br />
  “Simon, really, you mustn’t—” I saw the bed. It had been turned down properly, but rose petals were scattered across the coverlet and pillows.

  “What’s wrong?” Simon inquired genially. “Isn’t that the Indian tradition for lovers?”

  I was stricken with embarrassment. “Who did this?”

  “Shombhu or Jatin, I suppose. Manik contented himself with using the last of the jaggery to bake us a cake.”

  “Oh, no!” I sank onto the chaise and put my face in my hands.

  “Sorry?”

  Everyone would know. I wouldn’t be Miss Mukherjee, the library clerk, but Simon Lewes’s mistress. “Sending the staff away early would have been enough to bring gossip! The fact that they’ve decorated the bed is even worse.”

  “I think they’re happy, Kamala. Happy for both of us, hoping this is a start of a new way of living.” Simon crouched in front of me and took my hands in his. “Like I am. But from the way you’re talking, I’m not sure what you think.”

  Pankaj had sad it would be a tragedy. And despite my defensive protestations, the sick feeling in my stomach told me he might actually be right. Stiffly, I said, “We were both very naïve. You can’t imagine what will happen when it gets out that you’re with me; you won’t be received socially, and your career will crash.”

  “Both things have already happened!” Simon said, smiling. “Do I look frightened? Come, your bath is full. I won’t disturb you. I’ll just make tea.”

  “Tea?” I almost jumped out of my skin. “You can’t know how!”

  “I went to Cambridge. There I learned how to turn on a hob.”

  I lay alone in his bathroom, in soft light, with the window open to the koel birds. From time to time, they chirped; I listened for their warning calls, but they did not come. They seemed to say, Life is good; this man loves you.

  Afterward, I wrapped myself in his dressing gown. The tea was waiting on the second nightstand that I remembered searching years before; the one with nothing inside it. But now I saw a small pile of my lingerie, my hairbrush and the novel I’d been re-reading upstairs, Tess of the d’Urbervilles.

  “I brought it down for you, but I don’t recommend it,” Simon said. “I prefer novels with happy endings.”

  “I gather that’s a warning.” I took a sip of the tea; it had a strange flavor, but it was good. “What kind of tea is this?”

  “It’s not proper Indian tea. There’s a splash of rum in it. We English make it when someone’s tired. And Kamala, just because there are rose petals on this bed, it doesn’t mean we have to. But . . .”

  And now I noticed something lying next to my book that had not been there before: a French letter still in its paper covering. The sight of it caused me to catch my breath. Just like that, I was fifteen again and facing a customer.

  His eyes went to the nightstand. “It’s a precaution that I should explain. I don’t think you noticed I used one last night—”

  “No,” I said, looking straight at him. “I don’t want to touch that thing; I don’t want it near me.”

  Simon spoke hesitantly. “It’s about planning . . . planning for when children are conceived—”

  “No. Just come to me.” I was certain that I could not fall pregnant, and I knew his health was good. More than anything, I did not want what happened between us to have any relation to my past.

  Simon looked at me, and his expression seemed to lighten. He said, “As you wish.”

  That night I made love straight from my heart, gripping him, turning him, kissing him in places nice women could not know about. I did what I could to bring him to joyful release, and I did not hide my pleasure when it came to me. Afterward, it felt so quiet, lying next to each other with sweat cooling our bodies and the koel birds calling to each other in the garden below.

  I could have moved to pull down the mosquito netting, since dusk had passed, but I did not. I wanted to stop the clock in the hallway from chiming another hour. I always wanted to be in this bed, with this man. I sighed, and he rolled onto his side in order to face me.

  “What is it, darling?”

  “Not wanting time to pass on,” I confessed. “Staying exactly here with you, in this moment.”

  He stretched out a hand to touch my hair. “It can stay like this forever, if you’ll have me.”

  “But I do have you. Right here.” I ran my hand over his hip.

  “That’s not what I mean. Kamala, I want to marry you.”

  I was hot and cold, all at once. This was why he had given in so easily about the French letter; he assumed we would become husband and wife.

  “You needn’t be dramatic,” I said, because this proposal had caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure what to do. “It’s gone on for centuries, these liaisons between English men and Indian women. You’ve read enough books in your library to know that it rarely ends well.”

  “You’re wrong about that!” Simon chuckled. “Job Charnock, the founder of Calcutta, married an Indian widow. They brought up five children. Lord Ochterlony had an Indian wife and after she died, another. While I cannot make you first lady of Calcutta, you are already a very important one. You’ll fit in perfectly as my wife, Kamala. If only you’ll have me.”

  Simon thought I was a high-born Brahmin with an elite education. I had an accent like his own and could decorate a house, drink alcohol, and discuss books. But I was not anything close to a lady. If he knew, he would not think me marriage material. I told him, “Your examples aren’t realistic. The fact that I lived under your roof for so long, working for you, will make society regard me as your sleeping dictionary.”

  “What rot! I don’t need another dictionary in the library, or anywhere else.” Simon took my face in his hands. “You are the most incredible woman I’ve ever known, in any country. But you must tell me the truth. I don’t want to trap you if marriage is something you don’t want. Perhaps you truly abhor my English soul.”

  In the week he’d been away, I had castigated myself for not having allowed his kiss. Now I’d had his kisses and a great deal more. It was up to me to decide whether seizing happiness was worth the risk.

  “Kamala,” he said with a catch in his voice. “Answer me. Please.”

  Decisions. I had taken the jungle path instead of the main road; it had saved my life. I had signaled to many boats, and finally found one that took me. I had gone with a falsely smiling girl into a terrible house, but finally escaped. I knew that accepting Simon’s proposal would be as twisted as all my other life passages, leading to an outcome I couldn’t assume would be permanent or even happy.

  But how I wanted it—wanted him. I paused to take a deep breath, because I knew that if I used the word that was so frightening to me, it could never be retracted. Softly, I said, “No. I don’t abhor your soul, because souls don’t have caste, color, or creed. I want to marry you. I love you so very much. So much that it—”

  Hurts, I would have finished, but he had covered me with his body, and I could no longer speak.

  IN THE LIBRARY, I found a worn book about event planning for colonials in 1800s India. Written long before automobiles and refrigeration, it made our era seem magnificently convenient. But organizing a wedding in 1944 wasn’t a simple matter. Because of the war, most Calcutta churches were tightly scheduled with funerals and memorial services. Military weddings were prioritized first. Simon was already a member of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. This should have been enough to secure a date, but it wasn’t.

  I suggested that we marry in a court, but Simon was against it.

  “It wouldn’t be fitting, not when I’m a member of Saint Paul’s. I’ll keep trying to find a slot there and you can look into a Hindu temple. There are even more of those around.”

  But temples were out of the question for the likes of us. And it seemed that Simon was becoming an outcast within the British establishment. As we were discussing it over drinks one night in the garden, he finally addressed the trouble.

  “It
’s the rumor mill. Some wags are saying that I made you pregnant. In any case, our living arrangement has become a liability, despite the fact that we have a reverend on the premises. I suppose the groundwork that Weatherington laid is playing a part.”

  “What groundwork?” I asked, feeling a sense of dread.

  “He sent me a memorandum shortly after he met you at the party—all kinds of nonsense about it being a risk to keep you as an employee.”

  “Why? What kind of nonsense?”

  “I don’t remember the exact words because I threw the letter away. He wrote something about my head being turned by beauty and taking security risks. He said that a Brahmin’s daughter wouldn’t be allowed to work for an Englishman.” He looked at me. “But, of course, your father’s deceased. You have to work.”

  “Yes,” I answered, relieved that Weatherington hadn’t come up with anything more concrete—like my relationship with Pankaj Bandhopadhyay.

  “The churchwoman was asking for documentation of your Christian conversion, your parentage, all sorts of nonsense.”

  “I see.” I put down my glass, thinking. “I’ll never be able to find that for her. I’ve got an idea, though, of someone who might marry us without causing so much of a fuss. I’m surprised we didn’t think of him before.”

  “Reverend McRae?” Simon asked slowly. “It would be wonderful to have him involved. But as you know, I’m not Church of Scotland—”

  “Let’s just ask him. He’s so happy about our engagement.”

  Later that evening, when Simon and I brought it up over dinner, the reverend laughingly accepted. He said that he had been sitting on his hands waiting for us to ask him, and he did not care a whit what our faiths were. Without even needing to see the church’s calendar, he offered us a date a few days hence.

  “I can hardly believe this tremendous problem has been solved,” Simon said the next morning, as I tied his cravat for him. “Now, of course, comes the reception planning. Tell me, Kamala, how much time will your relatives need in order to organize a trip here for the event?”