The Sleeping Dictionary (56 page)

A stunned silence hung on the other side of the door, and then I heard Shombhu’s feet moving swiftly back toward the kitchen.

“I will open the door for him.” I slid down from the high bed and went to the divan to dress in my discarded nightgown.

“You are remarkable,” Simon said.

“The way Shombhu reports my reaction to the others will determine how everyone will behave—” I broke off the explanation when I realized Simon’s eyes were not on me but the white linen bed sheet flecked with a few rust-colored drops.

I had almost forgotten the small surgery Dr. DeCruz had done. He had sewn me up to be resold at a good price, without my consent. And the irony was I hadn’t taken money for what I’d done—I never would, again.

“My God,” Simon said in a low voice, “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you meant to. I did as well.” As I sat down on the bedside, I realized I was telling the truth.

During my girlhood reveries, my imaginary guide to the land of counterpane had always been a handsome, intelligent Indian man. Pankaj was the natural hero to take on such a role; but he had not wanted it. As I thought of the way Simon and I had been with each other over the last five years, I realized how blind I’d been. My desire to be the perfect nationalist had kept me from understanding the great connection between us. My old dreams of Pankaj were like a schoolgirl crush out of Angela Brazil: one-sided and immature. Whereas what I felt coming from the man in bed with me was so powerful that it was almost frightening. And this time, I would not run away.

The knock came again, and I opened the door to admit Shombhu, who had composed his face into normalcy and gave me his usual morning greeting.

“Where would you like the tray?” I called over my shoulder to Simon, and from the bed, he mutely pointed to a tea table by the window. Shombhu nearly tripped in his haste to get the tray to this strangely distant place. Behind him was Jatin, carrying a basket with a freshly ironed and folded sari and blouse that must have been just delivered by the dhobi. Jatin was grinning, but a sharp look from me made him drop his eyes.

“And what is your breakfast wish, sir?” Shombhu asked.

Simon paused and said, “Sliced fruit and two eggs poached with toast and tomatoes, please. What for you, Kamala?”

I asked for my usual Indian breakfast: a chapatti, some vegetables, and fruit. Then I turned to the man who had become my lover. “Would you like to eat on the veranda? The morning is quite beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at me. “Now it is.”

“Sir, I— Your clothing for the day—” Shombhu shifted from foot to foot, and I realized that he must have always dressed Simon.

“I shall take care of the dressing by myself. From now on”—Simon’s voice grew stronger—“I shall do this.”

OF COURSE I helped Simon. He had not dressed himself for quite a while, so he was clumsy at first. But after all was done, he rolled up his shirtsleeves when I went to bathe in his gloriously large tub. I found my guard slipping away with the slick lavender-scented soap on his hands. And then his shirt came off, and the rest of his clothes, and he was in the bath, too. It was the room farthest from the kitchen, I told myself; nobody would know anything except that I was taking a bath at the wrong time of day, and in the wrong room.

But then I stopped worrying about what anybody thought, because Simon was making love to me with only his hands and his mouth, and again the strange physical electricity built and exploded within me—although his mouth covered mine, so no one could hear me gasp.

“I love you,” he said, as we broke apart to take deep breaths. “I love you, Kamala.”

As he spoke, I realized that nobody had ever said those words to me. With my family, and later with Bidushi, the feeling of love was there; but so obvious it was never said aloud. But this was different, being with someone from the West, who made bold pronouncements. I knew what was in my heart, but it was still too hard to say.

We made it to the garden well after ten. Breakfast was brought out promptly along with the newspapers. As Simon read the
Statesman
, I searched
Ananda Bazar Patrika
for mention of the rice kitchen closings. There was nothing. When I looked at Simon, he shook his head.

“There can’t be any coverage because the censorship is still powerful.”

“I will always remember them,” I said.

“Yes. I should have served them many more times; that is my only regret.” He gave me a wistful smile. “It’s an odd time to bring it up, but we need to talk about the lawn. I promised Mr. Sassoon that if he’d allow the kitchen, I’d leave the lawn better than before.”

I glanced around at the pitted, trampled space where, for a half year, thousands had come for daily sustenance. It looked as bad as the Maidan. “I will speak to Promod about restoring the lawn so the landlord won’t be upset. The air raid trench won’t look so bad if we border the near side with plantings. You might like to have some more shrubs and flowers for arrangements.”

“We might like it,” Simon corrected gently. “Would you like it, Kamala?”

And with this short conversation, I knew the peasants would never come back. Part of me would always mourn their absence, yet I would celebrate the gift they had made in bringing Simon and me together.

AFTER SIMON WENT off to Lord Sinha Road, I gave Promod careful instructions about the garden; I’d heard about a nursery just outside the city where farmers sold blankets of healthy grass that could be laid down to replace the old. I said I would go with him, because I wanted to consider all the flowers and shrubs myself.

Then I returned to the library, where I had been absent for much too long. A memorandum about improving efficiency of Howrah Station transportation lay on the desk. Simon must have forgotten to take it to work with him; but it didn’t look like an emergency. This paperwork appeared as well intentioned as almost everything else he’d brought to the government’s attention over the last year. I could have opened the desk to look for something political, but I realized that I didn’t want to.

I couldn’t spy on Simon anymore. He had changed so much
as he began seeing the abject failings of his government. When I watched him ladling phan and speaking warmly with the peasants, I sensed he’d undergone a personal transformation; and I had, too. I loved him, even though I was still too shocked by the change in my world to ever say it to him. And what would my freedom-fighting contacts think? I realized that I hadn’t reported in more than six months to Bijoy Ganguly, the man Pankaj had supposedly wanted to become my contact. I’d been too busy with the rice kitchen for spying, and in those months, Simon had been concerned only with famine deaths, ambulances, and hospitals. I’d communicated this in a message I’d sent three months earlier to Bijoy. But now that the rice kitchen was finished, I would probably be expected to make political reports.

As I sorted through a small stack of books I’d left on the library table, this new worry supplanted my happiness. Simon and I could not possibly keep our liaison private. By afternoon, Jatin’s cousin-brother who worked at the Calcutta Club could be talking about it, and so would Manik’s cooking friends in ICS households throughout the neighborhood. Simon’s good name would be ruined; and I could not allow myself to think of what could happen if my Indian friends found out. Our love affair was impossible—but how much I wanted him! The war between my heart and head felt almost as violent as what was happening in the outside world.

I WAS TOO restless to stay inside; in early afternoon, I took a tram to North Calcutta, where I would hunt for a fine first edition of Michael Madhusudan-Dutt’s poems to add to the collection. As I walked, I noticed that the absence of peasants made the established Calcutta beggars visible again. They seemed busy gathering up wooden boards and bowls and scraps of cloth: everything that the peasants had to leave behind. If I’d jumped up in the lorry with the peasants, I would
be with them. I would not have slept with Simon, and I would not be facing this difficult decision about my loyalties.

As I browsed the various bookstalls, I listened to the chatter of the students around me; they were talking about war news, mathematics examinations, a Communist meeting that evening. After an hour, I could not concentrate on finding the book. I wanted to go into Albert Hall for a cup of coffee but decided against it, lest I run into Bijoy Ganguly, who might demand an intelligence report.

The Sens’ house was just around the corner from the bookstalls. I’d been foolish to remain hurt about not receiving a wedding invitation: surely it had been some kind of postal error, and Mrs. Sen would be glad to hear from me about why I’d been absent. But first on the list of topics to discuss would be Supriya. Because of eavesdropping operators, I hadn’t dared to make a telephone call to them about her. But I was in North Calcutta, so there was every reason to visit.

In the vestibule, the Sens’ darwan, Ali, welcomed me cheerfully and said to go upstairs. I called out a greeting as I knocked. To my delight, the door was opened by Sonali.

“My goodness! So long.” She pulled me to her in a tight embrace. She smelled different now, of sandalwood, and I saw the telltale red marking of sindoor parting her hair.

“All my best wishes for your marriage; I’m sorry I couldn’t give them earlier,” I said. “What luck I have to see you here today.”

“I come quite often; we live a few miles away near the Nakhoda Mosque,” Sonali answered with a smile.

“Yes, in these modern marriages, the ladies travel freely as they like!”

A cheerful masculine voice came from the parlor; in an instant I recognized it as Pankaj’s. Despite my detached thoughts about him earlier in the day, I felt warm. This chance meeting, coming so soon after my union with Simon, would tell me whether I truly had grown out of the crush.

“Do come in,” Sonali said, waving me ahead of her. “Pankaj-da is
visiting. He had some news of Supriya. Ma is in the kitchen; I’ll tell her to pour another cup of tea for you.”

Pankaj was sitting on the low bed covered with red cushions; he looked much thinner and grayer than before. It even seemed that on the right hand he held outstretched in greeting, the ruby ring was looser. So far, I felt badly for what prison had done to him but nothing more.

“My goodness, is it really Kamala? You have been keeping extremely well.”

“Hello, Pankaj-bhai.” I was dressed simply, but I knew from Simon’s mirror that my skin had an extraordinary glow, and my eyes were clear and sparkling. “I’m so glad that you are out of prison. I must apologize for having caused trouble for you.”

He smiled easily. “All in the past; it’s better not to speak of it at all. We are only here chatting about Sonali’s wedding. I don’t think I saw you there?”

I shook my head, not sure how to proceed. And then Mrs. Sen came out of the kitchen, but she was not bringing tea, just facing me with her thick arms folded across the middle.

“Hello, Mashima,” I said, feeling uncertain.

Mrs. Sen’s color rose as she looked steadily at me. “I should have liked to invite you, but my husband would not allow it because of Supriya’s letter!”