The Sleeping Dictionary (18 page)

Walking gingerly, because her feet were bigger than mine, I followed Bonnie downstairs to a parlor with windows covered by long, embroidered curtains, even though it was still sunny outside. Ranged across a series of settees and lounge chairs were five young ladies, all quite different-looking but attractive. They wore clothing I’d never before seen: shimmering saris with short blouses, gold-embroidered tunics and flowing pajama pants, and tight, beaded European gowns. For me, it was like being in fairyland, and the girls seemed just as interested in me.

“Look at those eyes—lotus eyes. Add a bit of kohl and mascara and she could be in films,” said an Indian girl wearing a green
chiffon sari who introduced herself as Lucky-Short-for-Lakshmi. Behind Lakshmi was Shila, also Indian, but wearing a party dress that barely reached her knees. I tried not to gawk at her long golden-brown calves, which seemed to shimmer and, like Bonnie’s, did not have a single hair growing on them. The girls repeated my name among themselves, and I heard it changing. Pam. Pamela. Pammy.

“Bonnie says you speak well,” said Natty, a golden-skinned Anglo-Indian with a head of thick black curls. She appraised me with cold eyes almost like Miss Jamison’s, although she was a hundred times younger and prettier. “Sakina, fetch the latest copy of
Vanity Fair
for the girl to read. I must hear this so-called Mayfair accent for myself.”

“Natty is a school graduate, so she thinks she’s a genius. Don’t mind her,” Bonnie murmured in my ear. But I understood Natty’s suspicion. They were like the Lockwood girls, just more beautiful because they had Indian blood—but many castes above me, without question. That was the only thing I was sure of in this loud room that smelled of so many perfumes my head was beginning to hurt.

Bonnie brought me to a sink to wash my hands, and then we went to a long veranda on the back of the house, where a table was set with many chairs around it. Three young maidservants fanned flies away from the dishes: crisp shingaras, iced cakes, and square-cut cucumber-and-tomato sandwiches. A brass tureen held a mountain of steaming white rice flecked with onions and spices, and there were at least half a dozen curries in other bowls.

I was so starved that I longed to descend on the table immediately, but these inquisitive young women would not let me move. One had her hands in my hair, undoing the braid I’d carefully made after washing upstairs. Another was lifting the pallu of the sari to examine what she called my figure. I’d always thought that figure was a term from mathematics, but now I realized it meant something else.

“Girls, that is enough! You will have plenty of time to chat up Pamela after the meal.”

The high-pitched voice belonged to Bonnie’s mother, who had joined us. I examined her covertly. Although she had the same lilting accent as Bonnie, she was darker, something she’d attempted to mask with pink powder. Reddish-brown curls fell around her head like a frizzy halo, and she had jeweled clips holding it back from her face. A short and stout woman, she nevertheless wore a tight long evening dress with a low neckline almost completely covered with sparkling necklaces. Her brown eyes were unusually small and seemed dominated by black-painted eyelashes. I had never seen anyone look like this, not even in the colorplate illustrations of
The Arthur Rackham Fairy Book
.

“Sit next to me, dear heart.” The lady took my wrist in fat, strong fingers that were covered in jeweled rings and showed me a chair next to the table’s head. I took it as the other girls flopped into their seats, still laughing and chattering. The servants came around to serve each of us from the bowls; despite the abundant offerings, some girls avoided shingaras, and many others refused meat or dal. Bonnie’s mother accepted food from every bowl and urged me to as well. I did not want to appear greedy, but I was so hungry that I gratefully accepted every delicacy that the servants brought.

As they feasted, the girls talked back and forth, mostly making jokes. Then an argument broke out about someone called Mr. Evans. The mother interceded, reminding the girls that in a family, everyone shared. Bonnie chimed in that she was still missing her pink suspender belt; could anyone remember seeing it? In the midst of this strange conversation the male butler walked in, bowed his head to Natty, and said, “Murphy-saheb is here.”

Natty rolled her eyes, pushed back in her chair with a careless scraping sound, and left. Two others were called for in the same manner over the next half hour. No one returned, even though food was still left on their plates. I worried about it, wishing I could wrap it in papers to take for myself the next day.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” The mother asked, looking from me to my empty plate.

I must have been staring at the leftovers. Quickly, I said, “Yes, madam. I cannot possibly thank you enough for your kindness.”

“Bonnie was telling me that you are completely on your own.” From her expression, I could tell she expected me to say more.

“Some years ago, there was a cyclone, and I lost my family: parents, grandparents, two sisters, and a baby brother.”

“What a difficult lot in life,” the mother said. “Tell me, were you ever married? For an Indian girl your age, it is the usual custom.”

“Oh, no, madam. There was nobody to arrange anything for me, and I don’t want that kind of life. Work is my dream. I am traveling to Calcutta to look for a teaching job.”

“So you are independent.” Mummy sounded thoughtful. “Now you are amongst friends, all of whom have lost their families in some sense or another. You must not be afraid anymore.”

After the meal, Sakina returned, wearing a different dress and carrying the
Vanity Fair
magazine. At everyone’s urging, I read a short story by William Seabrook, putting on a posher than posh accent that made all the girls howl. Bonnie put an arm around my shoulder and whispered in my ear that I read so well I should be a wireless announcer. Then she boasted her house had several parlors loaded to bursting with magazines and books, and that she would take me to find some good reading for the evening hours. I realized that I was happy: an emotion I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

As the servants cleared the table, the girls rose up slowly; I could tell that they didn’t particularly want to leave. I heard some men’s voices coming from the front of the house. My first instinct was apprehension; but then I guessed that the lady’s husband had come home and brought friends. I wondered what kind of business Bonnie’s father did to have built such a fine house. But then I remembered that he’d abandoned her to go back to England. It didn’t make sense about Bonnie’s mother not having enough money to send her to school, because there was so much fine jewelry and clothing on everyone. And the food! I would remember the feast for the rest of my life.

I lingered on the veranda with Bonnie and her mother, not wanting to say my good-bye. From the garden, I heard the call of doel birds,
chhr-chhr-rr.
This I knew was a kind of warning. I felt the hairs on my arms stand up, reminding me that I had no place to go tonight. My confident speech about going to Calcutta to Bonnie was an empty lie.

As if she’d heard my thoughts, the mother said, “You are very welcome to stay in Bonnie’s room tonight. The girl who used to share with her is gone.”

She’d said girl—not sister. I mulled this over until I understood what it meant. This was not a family home but a boardinghouse. This was the reason all the girls downstairs did not look like blood sisters. Bonnie had brought me here hoping I’d become a rento, not knowing I was too poor to afford it.

With a sinking feeling, I confessed, “You are too kind to a stranger, Burra-memsaheb, but—”

“Mummy!” she corrected, laughing. “My full name is Rose Barker, but I’m not Mrs. Barker to anyone but strangers. And you are Bonnie’s friend, dear heart, not a stranger.”

“Mummy,” I said awkwardly, hardly believing she had called me dear heart again. “Mummy, I’m very sorry; I don’t have money to pay for your hospitality.”

At my words, the lady’s high-pitched voice rose to a mouse’s squeak. “Oh, you have hurt me! To suggest I would charge money when I have invited you to stay at Rose Villa! You are welcome to all the luxuries, and don’t forget it.”

“But you are overly generous.” I hesitated, then went forward. “My dream was always to work as a teacher, but I am of course capable of other jobs. If I could work here—any tasks or chores—I would be most grateful. I could sleep on the kitchen floor or anywhere you might have room.”

“To think I would be so cruel!” Mummy exclaimed. “Our Bonnie wants you to stay with her so she is not lonely.”

That didn’t make sense. I began an apology. “Thank you, but I cannot accept—”

“Thank you,” Mummy parroted back, “for your hospitality. Say that, Pamela. It’s the only thing I want to hear.”

THAT NIGHT, MUMMY put me to bed in Bonnie’s room because she said Bonnie would stay up very late. Smelling of roses and musk, she leaned down to draw the mosquito net around me.

After she left, I lay between the soft sheets, thinking how quickly my fate had changed. My best friend on earth had died; yet another girl had stepped forward to comfort me. Who had ever heard of such luck? It was confusing to be taken in by rich strangers. I feared it was all a dream and I would wake up in the railway station’s ladies’ lounge with an empty purse and stomach. But if this were truly happening, I was the luckiest girl in India: being gifted with food and shelter so I would have a chance to work and earn enough to reach Calcutta.

On the house’s roof, a slow tapping began. Within a minute, thousands of goblins were dancing
jhup-jhup
on the roof. My breathing slowed as I filled with the understanding that the garden birds had been calling to one another only because of this. Rain was coming! A sweet, cool rain that would wash away the pain of the last five years and allow me to bloom anew.

PREMLATA WAS AT my bedside the next morning with a cup of tea and biscuits on the saucer. Awkwardly, I took the cup of sweet warmth to my lips, noticing that Bonnie had come to bed, but was still lying fast asleep. Premlata quietly asked if the rain had disturbed my sleep. She said that it was false rain because the monsoon was not due until
the next month. She left the room after telling me a proper breakfast would be served downstairs at ten.

Next month, where would I be? And with whom? I glanced at Bonnie, who remained like a lump on the other side of the mattress, dressed only in a thin petticoat. A smell of smoke and something sweet hung around her. She snored gently while I drank my tea, waiting for her eyes to open. She slept on, as if wrapped in the most overwhelming fatigue.

After I’d finished my tea and left the tray outside the door for Premlata, just as the teacher-mems used to do for me, I decided to brave the bathroom myself. Remembering what I’d learned the day before, I lit the geyser’s flame and soon had hot water running into the bath. Then I lathered myself with fine soap that smelled of jasmine and watched it bubble away into nothing in the clean, warm water. I was so happy in the warm bath that I whispered to myself some lines from the Tagore poem about a bird taking wing to fly to freedom. The line had meant nothing the first time I’d read it but now seemed as if it had been written just for me.

When I came back into the bedroom, Bonnie was awake and smiling. She showed me a different sari and blouse I should wear that day and helped wrap it around me in the proper fashion of her home, so my lower stomach showed. Then she slipped on a dressing gown and went downstairs with me, where the proper breakfast Premlata had spoken of was being served. Eggs, bacon, toasted thick bread, dal, rice, vegetable curries, baked beans, fruits . . . it was almost as luxurious as the previous night’s feast, although we did not sit down altogether; girls arrived sleepily every few minutes, and a few, like Sakina and Doris, not at all. Just as Bonnie and I were finishing up, the front door chimed and the chowkidar said that Rima the beautician had come. She was a young, pretty Muslim lady who yelped at the sight of me. I felt ashamed, as if she thought I looked very rough and ugly, but Mummy laughed and said it only meant Rima was eager to fix me up, if I was willing.