The Sleeping Dictionary (49 page)

Wherever you fear a tiger, that is the place where day ends for you.

Bengali proverb

QUIT INDIA!

In red paint, the two words were slashed on the high white walls that ran around Middleton Mansions. They filled me with a private thrill—but also worry. The words could be read as a personal warning to the thirty-odd Europeans who lived in the mansion block buildings. And even if Mr. Lewes and the others wanted to leave India, all passenger travel was off, because of war activity on the seas.

I overhead Shombhu telling Jatin to remove the message as quickly as possible, but when Jatin went outside with a bucket of water and cloth, Mr. Lewes stopped him.

“If you are seen taking the words away, it could be dangerous for you,” Mr. Lewes said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let the message stay. It doesn’t hurt my pride, and sooner or later, the letters will fade.”

The Quit India movement had begun a week earlier at a meeting in a Bombay park, where Gandhiji addressed a group of Congress supporters. He said everyone had been patient enough, waiting for the independence that Britain always said was coming but did not. He announced he was writing to the viceroy, demanding that Britain quit India and offer unconditional freedom. If his request wasn’t met, he promised that he would direct the nation’s population in a dramatic resistance plan.

By the next morning, Gandhiji and his wife, Kasturba, were arrested. And one by one, his followers began their own protests and were put in jail. Within a week India’s penal system was packed with activists, including all the Congress Party’s legislators. But “Quit India” had become a national slogan.

It was more than shouting and painting. Factory workers went on strike at steelworks, cotton mills, and the ports. Protesters cut telephone lines. Schoolchildren boycotted classes. Almost immediately, Calcutta’s police began beating up the protesters, many of whom were only waving flags or blocking streets. Reverend McRae was as upset about the police violence as I was; he wrote a letter to Governor Rutherford about it. I couldn’t understand why he was not frightened for himself, because protesters screamed the slogan directly at Europeans walking in Calcutta’s streets; although only rarely were they touched, heeding Gandhiji’s order for nonviolence.

I found it hard to stand by and not join the Sens for at least a few of the protests. But just as Mr. Lewes had done with Jatin, Pankaj warned me.

“You mustn’t get caught up in anything,” Pankaj said, during one of our covert meetings in the cabin. “Kamala, you are too valuable to risk being arrested.”

“But everyone’s involved,” I protested. “If I do absolutely nothing, I’ll stand out as a nonpatriot. Can’t I at least wave flags with the Sens outside of Whiteaway’s and the other English shops?”

“What if you’re arrested? You cannot imagine the techniques being used on so-called suspects. And if your employer ever finds out
that you’ve been carrying information from his desk to me, it could bring down many people in the movement.”

I supposed he was right. I nodded and said, “This action is like nothing Indians have done before. I overheard L telling W that it’s sent Churchill around the bend. Unfortunately, it may mean the prime minister won’t ever allow dominion status to be granted.”

“So what are we to do? Sit on our hands at home, or give our bodies to be blown apart in the war?” Pankaj rapped his fist on the table. “As I’ve said, your spying now is at its highest value. But be careful. You are walking a line between life and death.”

Maybe Pankaj spoke so strongly because he sensed it might be the last time we’d communicate. A week later, the Calcutta police arrested Lata Menon for gathering money to be used in antigovernment protests. Pankaj Bandopadhyay signed on as her lawyer, and in his initial court appearance, shouted so furiously that the judge ordered him arrested for contempt of court. Now both Lata and Pankaj were incarcerated in the Fort William prison.

Lata was not a close friend, but the idea of her locked in the women’s ward of a prison was just as distressing as Pankaj’s plight. I could have been jailed many times over for the things I’d done; all Lata had done was gather jewelry from other women who wanted to help the cause.

I knew that I couldn’t visit the prison because a record of visitor names was kept, but I was so worried for Pankaj and Lata that I went to the Sens’ every week for updates on their situations.

“Don’t worry so much! Pankaj is from a prominent family, and Lata is a known Brahmin,” Mrs. Sen said, as she set out tea and biscuits in her pleasant sitting room. “They will be placed in the superior prison block away from common criminals. There they have cots for sleeping.”

“I hear the cots have bedbugs,” Supriya said with a grimace. “I can’t imagine either of them standing it.”

“I suppose Kamala could ask her saheb if anything can be done to get them out.” Mrs. Sen gave me a questioning look.

“Ma, that is wrong!” Supriya said. “How can we ask a white to free us from the whites? Think of Pankaj having to grovel to a European—he would sooner die.”

Mrs. Sen protested, “But he must be a good man. He spends so much on bookbinding and pays Kamala fairly—”

“I agree that he should not be asked,” I said. “We’ve got to think of another way.”

Because I couldn’t visit the prison, Mrs. Sen suggested that I write letters for her to bring—they did not have to be signed with my own name. Lata’s letter was easy to write. When writing to Pankaj, I strove for a tone that couldn’t be faulted if Supriya and her mother were to see the words.

My Dear Older Brother:

I am saddened by your absence. The sun is hot, warming the earth to a steaming point; we await the rains. I imagine it is ten times worse where you are. Please tell me you are able to walk outside sometime and look at India’s sky. Through the cell windows, can you hear the koel birds sing at night? I do—and I think their voices speak for you and your fellow inmates. You are not with us now, but you will be again. Your spirit must remain strong, so you can fly again. The rest of us continue watching and writing and dreaming of the future.

Your loving little sister

Two weeks later, a letter came hidden in a sari shop box. It was from Bijoy Ganguly, the Strength Brigade member I’d met a few times and hadn’t particularly liked. In tight, cramped Bengali, Bijoy wrote that Pankaj had requested that he tell me not to write to him in prison, because the letter about birds had been suspected as activist code. Pankaj had endured questioning for several days and sent a warning for the Sens not to visit him either in order to protect themselves. The postscript was that Pankaj wished all my future intelligence go to Bijoy.

I was horrified that the letter had been misunderstood and caused trouble for Pankaj. At the same time, I was relieved that Pankaj understood the letter came from me yet hadn’t sacrificed my name. As he sat in his cell, remembering the words I’d written, would they give him hope for our future—or, as Bijoy had suggested, would they only remind him of trouble? No matter how much I thought about the situation, I could not divine the truth.

AS THE HOLIDAY approached, Reverend McRae went out to the countryside to help deliver services at churches with absent ministers. For Christmas Eve, Mr. Lewes went to Saint Paul’s Cathedral for the services, and I stayed home with the Agatha Christie novel he’d given me. Sometime after I’d shut out the light, I was awakened by wailing sirens. My head rang with the sound and my heart raced in fear, for I knew what the siren was signaling.

This was actually the second Japanese bombing attack; the first had come earlier in the week, when several silver spots had appeared in a clear blue sky and the sirens had let loose. I had been in the garden airing books and had gone with the servants into the shelter of Mr. Rowley’s storeroom, where we sat together with his servants for a miserable hour. It was terrifying because there were so many likely targets nearby: the Red Road airstrip, Victoria Memorial, Chowringhee and Esplanade and Government House. And Middleton Mansions was a tall, distinguished-looking series of buildings easy for a pilot to spot as a likely home of the British.

And now: Japanese bombs on Christmas Eve. What a cruel and symbolic present for Calcutta’s English people.

“Air raid! We must hurry.” I called the words out as I came downstairs wearing my wrapper over a nightdress. My employer was still dressed in his suit from going to the cathedral and was carrying the
heavy wire recorder out of his library. He directed me to carry his two ICS briefcases downstairs.

Jatin and Shombhu arrived from their garden cottage, holding electric torches to guide us down the blackened staircase. Manik went to the kitchen for a jug of water and steel tumblers, and Choton carried the first-aid kit, matches, and gas masks. In this organized fashion, we trooped down to Mr. Rowley’s flat where the shelter lay: but no matter how hard Mr. Lewes pounded the flat door, there was no response.

“He’s gone for Christmas!” I said, remembering what his servants had told me as they’d packed to go to their homes for the break. Now I wished I’d asked them for the flat key, because we had no way in. I explained all this and then remembered the garden trench the servants had dug months ago as an alternate safe hiding place. As we hurried into the garden, a horrible smell hung in the air, indicating that someone recently had used it as a latrine. Shombhu and Manik were especially repulsed, blaming the condition on drunken soldiers. Whatever the case, nobody wanted to climb down into it.

Mr. Lewes suggested that we take shelter along a windowless, narrow section on the building’s eastern side. The three menservants clustered together, taking up most of the short space. Mr. Lewes gallantly offered me the space near the wall’s edge, putting himself between the servants and me. He must have intended to be courteous, but my body’s right side was pressed against him in a decidedly improper closeness.

“Those cases you have in your arms are heavy,” Mr. Lewes said, his breath brushing my hair. “You can put them down.” What he said was sensible, but as I bent down, my hips brushed against him in a very personal manner. He stumbled back a pace, as if he was as embarrassed as I. When I came up, I could smell the Pall Mall cigarette that he still smoked each evening, overlaid with gin-and-tonic. And then there was the scent of him: his core.

“Can you hear the people shouting?” Jatin asked excitedly. “They are saying a bomb fell on Chowringhee!”

“Really? I’d think that if there was a hit, it would have been louder!” Mr. Lewes said. “What do you think, Kamala?”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to distract myself from the way my hips fit so snugly against his thigh. I should have been thinking about Pankaj, I told myself; but I could not stay focused despite my fear.

Suddenly, Mr. Lewes shifted out from behind me. Taking a briefcase in each of his hands, he spoke breathlessly. “I must go to the Control Room.”

The desire I’d felt had also touched him; I knew a man’s physical signs. Of course he could not remain in such an intimate position. My heart pounded with the realization that he did desire me for more than information, despite what I’d been telling myself. And I was shocked, too, that I felt sorry at his shifting away and that I was thinking this even while my heart belonged to Pankaj.

“Mr. Lewes, how will you reach this Control Room?” I blurted, anxious at the idea of his going off through a blacked-out city with bombers overhead. “You won’t find a taxi or rickshaw under these circumstances!”

“I will make it.” His voice was faint because he was already halfway across the garden. “Bring the wire recorder back in when it’s all clear, and don’t worry. I have a feeling we’ll all survive the night.”

CHAPTER

31

The ordinary woman had perhaps been so busy that the veiled newspaper warnings of famine had not penetrated to her; but perhaps that was natural when the authorities kept repeating, “There is plenty of rice. Plenty of rice.” Perhaps there was plenty of rice, but in that case, who, women were beginning to ask, who were these people flocking into the towns and the city? Men and women and unclothed children, all with scarecrow legs and arms and ribs, and strange sunk eyes and swollen stomachs? Why did they settle in swarms on the pavements, round the rubbish bins, sleeping there through the nights, covering the streets with filth and cess? Why did no one come to move away? Why, rather did more and more come every day?