The Sleeping Dictionary (46 page)

Mr. Lewes gave a short, incredulous laugh. “You talk about risks evaporating. How can that be, when we would all be gone, including the military?”

I protested, “There are plenty of Indian soldiers who already know the work—”

“The experienced British officers who’ve been leading the Indian Army, Navy, and Air Force for decades would all be let go. In their place, a fledgling, all-Indian army would have to hit the ground running. Could they successfully protect you and me and everyone else?” The hesitation that had been in Mr. Lewes’s voice before was gone; he spoke rapidly, waving his hands to emphasize his point. “Absolutely not.”

I settled back in the chair, wishing I could oppose him with more conviction. “You speak as if Japan or Germany is planning to attack India. We have no indication that that’s true.”

“Absolutely they want India; if those two countries aligned, we could very easily be lost. I’m certain that war will come here. And if we don’t stand up to fight, there will be nothing left for our children.”

Our children?
Surely it was figurative language that Mr. Lewes was using, but the way he was looking at me, it seemed like something else.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “You have the right to a different opinion.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I replied, trying to shake the mood that had swept over like a sudden cloud of rain. I could never have any more children. And he could not fight fairly. These were the only things to keep in mind.

THROUGHOUT THAT FALL and winter of 1940, I lived with my ear at the spy hole, trying to gather news about the government’s intentions toward the imprisoned Netaji. Mr. Weatherington continued to visit one or two evenings a week. In the desk drawer, I found carbon copies of letters from Netaji to the Bengal home minister, Mr. Nazimuddin, revealing that Netaji had started a hunger strike. The hunger strike had saved the Andamans prisoners; but as weeks passed, nothing in Netaji’s situation changed, except his letters took on the tone of a man resigned to dying. I told Pankaj about it, and he was just as worried as me but said that for Netaji to begin eating would show capitulation. It was a game of wills, and he was certain Netaji was intelligent enough to win.

Netaji’s trial was scheduled for early December, but the prison doctor declared he was too weakened by the hunger strike to stand before the judge. A new trial date was announced for a few weeks hence, but he remained in such wretched condition that the doctor again forbade the trial and shifted the famous patient to the Calcutta Medical College Hospital.

The suspense was overpowering: many nights I lay awake, worrying whether Netaji would survive. And then, a few weeks before Christmas, the situation took a stunning turn. Netaji was taken by ambulance from the hospital to recuperate in his parents’ home. From listening to Mr. Lewes and Mr. Weatherington’s conversations, I learned that the provincial government feared if Netaji died while in police custody, riots would sweep Calcutta and possibly the whole country.

“Come with us to a get-well rally outside Netaji’s home,” Supriya urged when I was having lunch with them one day. “People will chant prayers of support in order to irritate the police who are constantly watching the place.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t jeopardize my job.” I’d already told Supriya that Mr. Lewes worked for the government but had carefully left out what exactly he did. The only one I trusted to know about that part was Pankaj.

“How will Mr. Lewes know?” my friend protested. “You have gone to many political meetings without dire consequence. Ruksana wore a burka and transported two guns underneath it last week for the Strength Brigade.”

At this, I felt myself stiffen. “Why do they need guns?”

“Self-defense against the police, of course!”

“Does Pankaj-da encourage this?” I remembered his telling the Chhatri Sangha group that he worked as counsel to the Strength Brigade and other freedom fighters. Not as a fighter himself.

“No, but—” She paused. “You look like you’re about to cry! What is it about Pankaj that has made you so upset?”

Flustered, I said, “I only asked what he thought.”

“And he was asking about your family and where you came from. I did not tell him a thing!” Supriya said dramatically.

“He should ask me those things himself.” I wondered whether Pankaj was investigating me for reasons of politics or because he shared my yearning.

“How would Pankaj have a chance to ask you questions?” Supriya persisted. “Have you seen him outside our group?”

I felt stymied, not wishing to lie to such a good friend. “I noticed him at the cinema once and said hello.”

“Who was he with?”

“Some fellow! We weren’t introduced,” I said. “Why so many questions? Is Pankaj Bandopadhyay always on your mind?”

“Goodness, no.” Supriya’s hands flew to her face. “What I care
about is freedom! Speaking of which, there is a Chhatri Sangha meeting tomorrow afternoon right here! At least come to that.”

By now I knew Chhatri Sangha was on the list of suspicious organizations watched by the government. I couldn’t possibly risk Mr. Pal or someone similar lurking nearby and telling Mr. Lewes I’d been there.

“I shouldn’t do that, either,” I said, watching Supriya’s face fall. “It’s a watched organization.”

Supriya looked at me ruefully. “I understand. Your job could be lost, isn’t it?”

Feeling embarrassed, I reached into my purse and gave her the remainder of the last month’s salary that I’d planned to bring to the bank. “Yes. I’m so very sorry to miss it. But you can give this for me.”

“What a packet!” Supriya looked at the thirty rupees in awe. “How shall I say you’d like them to be spent?”

I thought for a moment and then said, “Words are what will win our struggle. You could suggest they put the money toward paper and ink.”

IT WAS A very different Christmas from the previous year’s. Mr. Lewes didn’t go to Bombay this time, wanting to conserve money. Still, he asked me to arrange for a Christmas meal. At a Chinese market in Bow Bazar, Manik found a duck and roasted it; Mr. Lewes pronounced it delicious, but its tough, oily meat stuck in my throat.

Because he still gave everyone their bonuses, I went about my usual business of giving small, useful presents to Manik, Shombhu, Choton, and Jatin, and wrapped up for Mr. Lewes a trio of mango chutneys that I’d made earlier in the year, remembering that I couldn’t spend money on him. He thanked me profusely, and the next morning, on Boxing Day, a gift box appeared outside my bedroom door. Inside was a plum silk sari with a gold border, and enough matching fabric to make a blouse.

As the smooth, obviously foreign-milled fabric slipped through my fingers, I felt patronized by the expense of the gift and embarrassed to have such a luxury. Because commercial sea traffic had stopped, the shops were empty of imported clothes and toys. I knew the situation in Europe was absolutely bleak, with bombings and shootings and families torn apart. They were probably not even thinking about Christmas goods, just everyone’s safety. And in Asia, it was even more frightening, because it was close, and the Japanese had seized Korea and China. The stories about the brutal murders of civilians and the raping of women and children gave me nightmares; one night I even dreamed the Japanese came to India and were looking for Kabita. It brought memories of what had happened in the brothel that I’d thought were suppressed, but were in fact always there, waiting.

IN THE SECOND week of January, when I came downstairs for breakfast, I was surprised to see that the newspapers hadn’t yet arrived. After I was done, I walked to the newsstand. Kantu was working alongside his father, handing out newspapers to a long queue of customers.

“Why didn’t you deliver to our flat today?” I asked him when I finally reached the busy counter.

“Netaji has vanished; everyone wants to read about it! The newspapers were delayed getting to us, and then these people came.” He gestured toward the crowd. “All the Bengali papers are sold out, but you can have the English one.”

I walked away, my head bent over the
Statesman.
The account confirmed what Kantu had said about Netaji no longer being at home. But what an exciting, mysterious story! Apparently Netaji had told his family weeks earlier that he wanted seclusion in his bedchambers in order to meditate. A curtain had been put up around his bed so that nobody could observe or trouble him. His meals were left just outside
the curtain. All the time the plates came back empty, his family believed he was keeping well. But then one supper tray stood untouched. His worried mother drew back the curtains to find his bed empty.

Mr. Lewes was already at his office. I imagined he was hearing the news there, if he hadn’t heard already. Book sorting could wait. I tucked the paper under my arm and took a tram to the Sens’. Of course they already knew; in celebration, Mrs. Sen served everyone sweets. After wolfing down several shondesh, her son, Nishan, jumped around the room shouting
Jai Hind
, the freedom-fighting call.

“Our Netaji outfoxed the police. It’s unbelievable because constables were posted on both corners of his house, night and day!” Supriya was beaming.

“Maybe he’s still inside the house, hiding somewhere.” I could not imagine he would be safe anywhere in Calcutta.

“Impossible; his mother would have found him!” Mrs. Sen interrupted. “It can only be that he wore a disguise to pass by the police and escape the country.”

“Do you really think he’s gone away?” I felt oddly anxious. “He’s not the kind to desert us and the freedom struggle.”

“The struggle isn’t over!” Supriya squeezed my hand in reassurance. “He will fight for us from abroad. The trick will be getting to Europe. He can’t possibly have made it yet.”

“Yes,” I said, thinking. “No ships are traveling the seas, except for military ones, and they are unlikely to provide him passage!”

“He cannot go by water, then,” Mrs. Sen opined. “It must be by land. Nishan, fetch your globe. We will dream up a route!”

THE SENS WERE not the only ones imagining Netaji’s travel itinerary. In the days that followed, Mr. Lewes and Mr. Weatherington spent many late nights discussing the escape. Their theories were quite different: Mr. Weatherington suspected Netaji had hidden on a
fishing boat and was sailing for Japan. Mr. Lewes guessed he had been carried by tribal people into the snowy hills of Darjeeling, and from there would trek into Nepal and then China. But both were proved wrong when British intelligence sent the Bengal government a copy of a decoded Italian telegram reporting that Netaji had reached Kabul, Afghanistan. He was believed to be hiding there while he plotted a route to Europe.