The Sleeping Dictionary (28 page)

I talked to the oldest of the children, a girl called Lina. At nine, she was in her last year before debut, which came much earlier at an ordinary brothel. She was not pretty or well spoken enough for Rose Villa; she would work only at this house. I imagined the prospect would be terrifying for her, but Lina told me otherwise.

“I don’t mind, Auntie,” she said with a wan smile. “It’s better than being rented to beggars at the station, as they did until I was eight.”

Lina ruled the weed-choked courtyard where most of the children ran about all day in rags; the tiniest ones were naked and tethered with chains. I managed to convince Jayshree to unchain them for most of the daylight hours and set Lina to playing with them while I washed their clothes and then took each one for a bath and hair-combing. In turn, Lina asked me to properly comb her own hair, and I did so, grimly working out the lice. On all the children, there were lice and other insects, too: ringworms on their scalps, nestled in their food-smeared clothes, and most awful of all, the biting bugs that dug their tiny claws deep into the skin. I could not see them with my eyes, but I recognized the holes they left and how the children cried at the pain. I brought them a cream from Dr. DeCruz that healed the wounds, but the clever bugs still hid in the clothes and bedding. If I had not washed myself thrice daily, I would likely have become infested, too.

Jayshree and Tilak’s place was so dirty that the British military were not authorized to visit, which meant their customers were poor Anglo-Indians and Indians. From what the women told me over morning tea, these customers were often rough and unkind. After a week, the horrible sounds I heard at night, paired with the vile surroundings, led me to decide that no matter the cost, I should pay to stay
elsewhere. After making an excuse about going shopping in the bazar, I walked through the town, seeking a decent boardinghouse. My polite voice opened doors, but whenever the landladies saw the bump under my sari—and learned no husband would be staying with me—I was refused.

So I returned to the brothel and resolved to walk daily outside and spend time reading in the park, where the air was fresh. But as my stomach became bigger, people on the streets mocked me, the fallen sinful girl.

DR. DECRUZ TOLD me I had only a month left until the baby was ready, but each day dragged out like a month in hell. Jayshree wanted more money from me, complaining of my overuse of water for baths and washing laundry. What she asked for was more than I had on hand, so with a great deal of effort, I walked to the bank.

When I gave the bank clerk the savings withdrawal slip, he looked at me sorrowfully. “Miss Barker, I’ve missed seeing you. Have you forgot that your account is closed?”

I couldn’t have heard him right; he must have been speaking of another of the Rose Villa girls. With emphasis, I said, “I’m Pamela Barker. My account is in good standing, with more than five hundred rupees saved.”

The clerk looked in his record book again and came back. “Your account is jointly held with your mother, Mrs. Rose Barker. Last month she withdrew the remaining funds. Surely she told you?”

The baby kicked inside, as if he’d also heard the terrible words, and I had to grab at the counter for security.
My God
. Mummy had told me she would either keep the money for me safely in the house, or I could bank it. I’d thought this was a straightforward choice, but now I understood that there was no difference in either method. Girls like Bonnie and Lucky who behaved well could take money out. The
ones who displeased her lost their money. Hundreds of rupees I’d had, and now I was destitute, unable to do anything for the baby or myself. I would never get a Cambridge certificate; never even take a train to Calcutta and catch a glimpse of Pankaj Bandopadhyay.

The loss of money felt almost like a second rape. In a daze, I stumbled back to the dancing girls’ house. I told Jayshree that if she wanted any money, she would have to get it directly from Mummy. There must have been something about my voice that convinced her, because she didn’t argue.

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, I had an unexpected visit from Lucky. How alien she looked, with her smoothly lacquered hair, powdered skin, and delicate chiffon sari. I felt a surge of envy, which faded as I remembered what she did each day to earn these luxuries.

“I brought money from Mummy to give those people. They’re awful! They aren’t making you work here, are they?” Lucky’s big eyes, so beautifully painted with mascara and kohl, looked at me with obvious concern.

“I’m not working except for helping with the children, and I’ve become very poor,” I confessed, for there was no point in trying to put on appearances with Lucky. “I have no money anymore. Mummy closed my account.”

“How?” Her glossy mouth dropped open, revealing the single dead tooth she always tried scrupulously to hide.

“Remember how we all were told to use the surname Barker when we set up the bank accounts?” I asked. “It means Mummy is the joint owner of each account. The bank lists us all as daughters under her guardianship.”

“I have her keep my money in the house,” Lucky said slowly. “It’s never been a problem for me to get enough for shopping—”

“Because you are behaving the way Mummy wants. But, Lucky,
you must find a way to withdraw your money while you still can—little by little, so she doesn’t notice. Hide it somewhere she won’t know. You must not lose it!”

“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Lucky said, and her calm face made it clear she didn’t believe she would ever be in my same situation. “But I thank you for the warning. And before I forget to say it, Bonnie sends her regards.”

“How is she?” I asked eagerly. I hoped Bonnie would come to see me.

Lucky waved a hand dismissively. “Bonnie is constantly studying new film songs for entertaining in the parlor, if she’s not working.”

“She comes into town all the time for the cinema! Surely she could stop by—”

Lucky looked down for a minute, then said, “She doesn’t care to come to this place. And she’s said—that you weren’t very intelligent to get yourself in such a situation.”

“I see.” I thought about the hours I’d spent with Bonnie, sharing her room like a sister. Upon leaving, I’d given her all my newspapers and magazines. I’d believed Bonnie was my friend, but now I understood that she was interested in only what could benefit her.

“The funny thing is, the Australian photographer’s been coming around. He’s trying to see her without paying, you know, almost like a boyfriend—” Lucky chattered on as if it were the old days. But I had no patience for such gossip.

“Lucky, look around at this filth. Did you see the other women and children here? I don’t think Mummy spent more than five minutes here before deciding to leave me. She can’t realize how terrible the place is.”

“She does know.” Lucky’s voice was sober. “She says that she sent you here because you didn’t appreciate all the luxuries. She did it so you’d come crawling back and never break a house rule or keep a secret from her again. It’s supposed to be a lesson to you and us all.”

“What’s happening to me is a
lesson
?” I shook my head, thinking
that Mummy was crueler than anyone I’d ever known, to take not only my money but also my dignity and the child inside me.

“Please let me give you this.” Lucky fished into her beaded golden purse and pulled out ten rupees. “It’s all I have today. But I will find a way to give you more. Don’t worry; you can pay it back later. I can hardly wait until all this nonsense is over and you are back in the room next to mine.”

BUT ROSE VILLA was even less of a home than Lockwood School had been. I treasured what I had learned at Lockwood, while the skills I’d been taught at Rose Villa I would not share with anyone. How stupidly I had fallen for false kindness, how much I had sacrificed, and how I’d been punished for choosing a life I’d known was wrong from the beginning.

The spring heat had no mercy, pouring through the cracks in the old building’s ceiling and walls. The storeroom in which I slept had no punkha on the ceiling nor windows to let in breezes, so I was usually slick with sweat. The baby kicked constantly, telling me he was surely as unhappy as his mother. From the curve of my belly, the brothel women declared that I was having a female, but I disagreed. The kicking and rolling meant that I had a fighter: a boy with the Taster’s piggish face. He would be born to a mother without husband or home, in such bad circumstances he would steal as a boy and become a dacoit by his teenage years. My son would be the Oliver Twist of Kharagpur but without a happy ending.

ONE NIGHT THE sounds of screeching laughter in rooms nearby seemed even louder than usual; they battered my head like the lathis that soldiers and police had used on the political protesters. I was
feeling swollen and tired when I lay down, and it took hours to fall asleep because of the kicking. The baby was late, by Dr. DeCruz’s calcuations. But I didn’t want the baby to come. I just wanted to be a girl back in Johlpur.

That night, I dreamed myself there. I was standing in a rice paddy. My lost little brother ran along the raised walking edge toward me; I was thrilled to see that he was now seven years old and very handsome. I waited for him, knowing he’d come to greet the child growing inside me, but to my shock, Bhai came up to me and shoved hard. Again and again he pushed against my round belly, as if he were punishing me. And though I cowered and screamed at him to leave me, he would not stop.

Crying out with pain, I awoke to find my legs and the thin bed mat I slept on were soaked. The hard shoving of my dream continued; I breathed through my nose to bear the spasm until it stopped. Then, using every bit of strength in my arms, I pulled myself off the bed and untwisted my wet sari to put on a fresh one.

It was so early that not even the darwan had arrived to the brothel’s door; I could not possibly climb the stairs to where Tilak and Jayshree slept—nor did I wish to awaken them. The moon illuminated the street as I walked toward the rickshaw-wallah’s stand. My legs shook with effort made all the worse by the anxiety I felt. I knew it was time.

In a rickshaw parked down the street, the thin, wrinkled Bihari driver was curled up in its carriage, sleeping. “Uncle, please,” I called to him until at last he stirred. He looked quite worried by my appearance, but quickly helped me into the chair and got himself between the wooden poles.