“At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom.” Nehru’s voice cut into my bittersweet imaginings. “A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.”
“Ma knows him,” Kabita said casually to Pallavi, whose mouth made a little O as she gaped at me.
“Not quite, Kabby. We’ve only just said hello!” It was true that I’d met him at Supriya and Pankaj’s wedding. When Pankaj had made introductions, he had praised my years of intelligence gathering, especially regarding the government’s attempts to catch Netaji. Nehru had nodded in approval, while I said what I always did: I had never heard from the Bose family that the information had mattered, but it felt right to help in anyway possible.
As Mr. Nehru’s address continued, I was filled with the realization that everything was linked, like the efforts Supriya and I had both made, as far apart as we had been. And while the political outcome I’d always longed for had come, it also meant the end of Simon’s livelihood, because the new Indian Civil Service would be staffed by only Indians.
Simon had packed up his office two weeks earlier. Reams of documents and photographs were nailed up in crates headed for the East India Office archives in London. Simon was allowed to keep duplicates that were not classified material. I wondered how we would fit all these new books and pamphlets and folios into the library; but not as much as I wondered what he would do for his next job.
We had talked about his taking an administrative job with the British Civil Service in London, like so many of his colleagues, including Mr. Weatherington, were doing. Another choice was moving to West Sussex, where his family had a variety of business interests. But Simon didn’t particularly want to return to England. He’d considered taking his books to fill a shop in Bombay that he’d heard was being vacated.
I’d lobbied for staying put in Calcutta, selling books out of the library as needed to stay afloat.
Months earlier, I’d created a sales brochure about the most valuable books that Simon might be willing to let go. Mr. Sen spread the word to his collector customers throughout India, but their reaction was muted. The few inquiries that had come for the most valuable books were less than what Simon had paid to buy them ten years earlier. So he held on.
Prime Minister Nehru’s address finished at midnight. Over the wireless came thunderous roars of joy that were soon drowned out by honking horns and fireworks on our street. India was free.
“It’s come! Independence!” Simon said. I leaned over and kissed him, feeling a surge of elation that I was celebrating this day with him and my daughter. We were different from any other family in Calcutta, but no less happier. I turned to give hugs to Kabita and Pallavi and found them already standing by my chair.
“Ma, please! Listen to me; may we be excused?” Kabita shifted from foot to foot in an impatient dance.
“But why would you go off? It’s Independence!”
“Yes! Jatin wants to set up fireworks in the road and give away all the leftover cake!” Kabita said, pointing to the vast expanse of mango-cream confection that was left.
“Giving it away is a good idea.” I hesitated for a moment, considering whether her going into the street was a good idea. I escorted Kabita everywhere, even down the block to school, because deep inside—even though Simon had brought me immigration information proving Rose Barker had left India and settled in Brighton—I still feared that my daughter would vanish.
“Kamala-di, all of us will be with them. Just in front of the house, with the Mitra family,” Jatin said, mentioning a Parsi family I’d grown to know and like. “They are serving refreshments also.”
“Yes,” said Simon to Kabita. “But remember, darling, you may only hold sparklers. And stay right with Jatin and the others. Ma and I will be along shortly.”
After they’d skipped out of the garden, I asked Simon, “Will it feel strange to you to be celebrating on the street, an Englishman amongst Indians?”
“Why should I?” Simon poured a little more Darjeeling in my cup. “I worked for the transition, just as you did.”
“I never dreamed that I’d live to see independence,” I said, taking the cup with a smile. “When I was a girl at Lockwood School and then in Kharagpur, it seemed the British could put down any attempts at freedom.”
“So when you found out about my work, you hated it,” Simon said. “It took me some time to understand that I wasn’t being helpful to anyone. But I know that I love India. Just as I love you.”
I studied the man I’d come to love improbably but so deeply. “For a while, I thought I hated you. But the feeling inside me was—too strong. All along, it must have been love—mixed with disappointment at what I learned.”
Simon pressed his lips together. “I fear I’m going to disappoint you again. I don’t think any bookselling business could bring enough to support us. And then there’s the question about you—how you’d like to spend your life.”
I had been thinking about this, too. I wanted to do more than keep house, volunteer, and take care of Kabita, because in less than a decade, she’d be off to college. Slowly, I said, “I don’t want to be a memsaheb. I wish I could afford to enroll somewhere and get the Cambridge certificate I always wanted. But a twenty-seven-year-old lady can’t sit down at the desk with her daughter at school. It’s too odd. You know how sensitive Kabita is; she’d be humiliated.”
“I often forget you don’t have that certificate, and it means so much to you.” Simon paused. “I don’t suppose you’d—no, you’d find it too cold.”
“What’s too cold?” I looked at him, thinking, Darjeeling?
“Someone invited me to apply for a position in Canada,” Simon said. “The University of Toronto is seeking a lecturer on India’s politics and modern history. If I did get the position, I would teach there—in that country.”
I caught my breath, because I could tell he felt differently about this than the proposed government job in London. “I gather you’d qualify to teach the politics and history based on your Cambridge degree and your career experiences here?”
“Yes. And do you remember the essays I sometimes wrote about the books in my collection? Well, a few of them were published. People are interested in understanding how England treated India over the years. And how, in turn, India responded to the British.” A flash of pleasure crossed Simon’s face, an excited happiness that I’d never seen when he spoke about his ICS career. “If I became a lecturer, it would allow me—allow us—to return to India occasionally. And to further your personal interest in education, the University of Toronto might be just the place. A private tutor can help you with prerequisites. The academic system is different in North America, not as rigid as India or England.”
But Canada was a dominion of the United Kingdom, just as India would remain for a few years before becoming a republic. I asked, “How English is Canada, really?”
He smiled wryly. “Well, most of the people there are supposed to sound like Americans, but there are quite a few Brits who’ve emigrated. Supposedly it’s easy to find crumpets and marmalade.”
“Many Anglo-Indians are leaving for Canada,” I said, recalling a conversation at some recent Loreto House mothers’ gatherings. “We might know people in Canada.”
“There is a large Asian community in Toronto,” Simon said. “Indians have been there for many years. They say that one can buy spices there. And real Indian rice.”
I considered the myriad customs and words that the British had brought to India. Could Indians scattering throughout the world spread their own culture, too? And if I worked there, and had a profession of real value . . .
“Sailing by ship is relatively inexpensive, but it takes so long,” Simon continued, not knowing the questions racing scattershot through my mind. “This is the way the government will send us out. But if we are careful with money, we
might be able to return for our first visit by airplane.”
“If we earn enough,” I added. “After some of my experiences over the years, I feel called toward—becoming a doctor. Maybe if college goes well, I might qualify for medical school, although I always thought I would teach. I can’t say which I’d prefer right now.”
“Whatever you choose, I will support—and just think how proud Kabita will be.” Simon’s voice dropped; there was a catch in it. “But that doesn’t take away the question of leaving India now. Would it break your heart?”
Once again, a wave had come and swept away the life I knew. This time, the wave was freedom. Children born into the new India would grow up in a nation where no foreign power could seize their rice or keep them out of hospitals and train compartments. Women would vote freely, and the caste system would be officially abolished. I would have preferred to linger in the new free India. But I could still witness India’s growth from wherever I moved and feel proud.
“My heart is healed,” I said, running my hand along the edge of Simon’s jaw and bringing it to his lips. “And you know that India will always be inside it, along with you and Kabita.”
Simon kissed my hand. We looked at each other for a long moment, full of everything that had happened—and what would come. Then gradually, I became aware of car horns bleating in exultation. I heard the cheering, and singing voices, and even Kabita’s high-pitched, merry laugh. Without saying anything more, Simon and I linked hands and walked out of the garden, toward the celebration.
A TASTE OF OLD
CALCUTTA
PERFECT RICE (BHATT)
Serves 6 with leftovers
2 cups basmati rice, white or brown, soaked at least 20 minutes (for white rice) or 2 hours (for brown)
3 cups water or low-sodium chicken stock (for white rice; use 4 cups for brown)
1 cinnamon stick
2 cloves
2 green cardamom pods
1/4 cup chopped onion
1 tablespoon canola or vegetable oil
Rinse the soaked rice (once for white rice, 4 times for brown) to remove extra starch.
In a medium-size pot, add 1 tablespoon of oil and bring to medium heat. Add spices and, after a minute, the onion and drained rice. Sauté about 2 minutes and then add the stock.
Raise heat slightly to bring to a boil. When it boils, lower heat to a simmer and put the lid on the rice.
Cook rice until the water is almost gone (15–20 minutes for white basmati rice, about 45 minutes for brown).
Turn off range and let rice sit covered for 10–20 minutes to continue steam cooking. Then fluff with a fork and serve. Bengalis consider rice well cooked if the grains appear to be standing upright.
MUSTARD SHRIMP (CHINGRI BHAPEY)
Serves 6 as part of a larger meal
1.5 pounds raw shrimp, shelled and deveined
3 tablespoons brown mustard seeds
1 tablespoon poppy seeds
2 green chilies, seeded
1 teaspoon turmeric powder
1/4 cup coarse salt
Marinate shrimp in coarse salt for 10 minutes, then rinse.
Grind the mustard and poppy seeds and chilies in a spice or clean coffee grinder.
Mix the shrimp into this paste and put in a stainless-steel bowl. Cover tightly with foil.
Choose a stockpot large enough to contain the bowl. Add enough boiling water to the stockpot so that it will come a third of the way up the foil-covered bowl. Cover the stockpot and put on medium heat for a low boil. Cook the shrimp about 10–15 minutes total, then carefully (to avoid burning yourself!) lift the foil midway (turning off the stove temporarily) so you can stir the shrimp once.
Shrimp are ready when they are tender and the flesh is white. Serve with rice, dal, and a vegetable curry.
INDEPENDENCE TRIFLE
Serves 10
Approximately 18 double ladyfinger cakes, fresh or dried
1 pint of custard, made with Bird’s Custard Powder or from scratch (store-bought vanilla pudding may be used as well)
Two 30-oz (850 g) cans of Alphonso Mangoes, drained (or 4 cups of fresh, ripe sweet mango slices)
1 pint heavy cream, whipped with 2 tablespoons of sugar
Apricot jam or orange marmalade
1 cup unsalted pistachios, shelled and roughly chopped
Reserve 1 cup of the whipped cream to use for topping. Mix the remainder of cream with the custard.
Cover the bottom of a glass bowl with ladyfinger halves, curved side down. Spread a little mixed apricot jam/orange marmalade on top of the ladyfingers. Lay enough mango slices to cover.
Top with half the custard-cream mixture and sprinkle with 1/3 cup of pistachios.
Repeat another ladyfinger, jam/marmalade, mango, and custard layer, sprinkle with 1/3 cup of pistachios.
Add remaining fruit and top with whipped cream and sprinkle with remaining pistachios.
GALLERY READERS GROUP GUIDE
THE SLEEPING DICTIONARY
Sujata Massey
Introduction
When a tidal wave wipes out a tiny village on Bengal’s southwest coast, a young girl known as Pom is set adrift in the world. Found near death by a charitable British headmistress and her chauffeur, Abbas, Pom is christened Sarah and becomes a servant at the Lockwood School for British and upper-caste Indian girls. When Bidushi Mukherjee, whose family owned Sarah’s home village, arrives at the school, Sarah believes she’s found a true friend. Bidushi is engaged to a handsome young lawyer, Pankaj Bandophadhyay, and the two girls dream that Sarah will become Bidushi’s personal ayah after Bidushi marries. Sadly, Bidushi succumbs to malaria, and Sarah is accused of theft and runs away. With the help of Abbas, she makes it to the larger town of Kharagpur, where she hopes to work as a children’s teacher, but her lack of qualifications make this impossible. A glamorous Anglo-Indian woman, Bonnie, invites her to luxurious Rose Villa, where she is renamed Pamela and inadvertently falls into a life of prostitution. Rose Villa caters to British railway men and military officers, and Pamela’s unhappy experiences there spark her interest in the burgeoning freedom movement. Secretly, she plots to save enough to leave Rose Villa for Calcutta, where she hopes to study for a teaching certificate.
Her hopes are dashed yet again, this time by an unwanted pregnancy. Believing it’s the best thing she can do for herself and her newborn daughter, Kabita, she leaves the baby in the care of Abbas and his wife and sets off for Calcutta, hoping to find respectable work. By a stroke of luck, she becomes the librarian and house manager for Simon Lewes, a young British Indian Civil Service officer who has a massive collection of books on India. She tells him her name is Kamala Mukherjee and allows him to believe she is well-born and well-educated. With her new freedom-fighting friends, Kamala reconnects with Pankaj Bandopadhyay, although he does not remember her as the servant girl from Lockwood. At his urging, she spies on Mr. Lewes’s work and finds that he’s tracking Indian revolutionaries. As they work together, she wonders if he could ever look past the unknowns about her and become her husband. However, as time goes on, Simon becomes more sympathetic to Indian independence, falls in love with Kamala, and convinces her to marry him. And, while their relationship is tested by the stresses of World War II, the reappearance of Kamala’s daughter, Kabita, and the truth of Kamala’s difficult past, their love for each other and for India carries them through.
Discussion Questions
1. After losing her family, Kamala goes through several identities—from Pom to Sarah, Pamela, and finally Kamala. Can any of them be said to be more “real” or “true” than the others?
2. Kamala’s life is strongly shaped by loss: her family, Bidushi, even Abbas, the Lockwood School’s chauffeur. How do these deaths shape the course of her life? How effectively does she deal with these losses?
3. Discuss the race relationships in the book as exemplified by the administration at Lockwood School, the clients at Rose Villa, and Kamala’s relationship with Simon
. Are there generational forces at work, as well as class and caste, in terms of how the British and Indians interact?
4. Instead of treating her sympathetically, the Indian housekeeper at Lockwood goes out of her way to bully and abuse Kamala. What inspires Rachael’s antipathy toward her? What does it illuminate about relationships within Indian and British society?
5. There is a large gap between the paths of the Rose Villa girls and the activist Chhatri Sangha girls. How is Kamala able to move from one world to another? What real differences (if any) are there between these young women that lead to their respective circumstances?
6. Kamala decides to give up her daughter, believing she is making the right choice both for herself, the child, and Abbas and his wife. Do you believe it was the right decision, considering what we know about Kabita’s life at the end of the novel? What would you have done in Kamala’s shoes?
7. Kamala has three real friendships throughout the novel: Bidushi, Lakshmi, and Supriya. How do these friendships shape her and her ambitions? How do they impact her life, for worse or for better?
8. When Pankaj discovers who Kamala works for, he asks her to spy on her employer. How does this subterfuge affect Kamala’s feelings about Simon Lewes?
The Sleeping Dictionary Page 47