The Sleeping Dictionary (35 page)

“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

T
he 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 return 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 Gazetteer
s? 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
Gazetteer
s all over India on the shelves of various government offices.”

“But they’re not considered items of value. My guess is almost all
The Gazetteer
s 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.”