The Sleeping Dictionary (59 page)

The desk clerk at the Great Eastern Hotel called me Mrs. Lewes when Simon and I checked in; and then we were alone, in a vast suite where the bed was decorated not just with rose petals but also gold and silver leaf. Simon had arranged for a gramophone to be there, and as we undressed, it was to the romantic strains of Lena Horne. Briefly, I recalled my old dream of a wedding night with Pankaj; but now I couldn’t imagine it.

“Maybe this will be the time,” Simon said as we lay down together. “Wouldn’t that be magic?”

I didn’t answer, because I felt a pang of guilt that Simon’s dream would always remain just that. Clearly, my passionate husband was
hoping for a child, because he’d already spoken about reorganizing our flat and hiring a bilingual ayah. I couldn’t tell him that I’d lost my fertility in a terrible childbirth and that I would never want another child; the pain of giving up Kabita still weighed heavily on me. All that Simon would learn, one day, is that we couldn’t conceive. He would likely be devastated; and I would comfort him.

Tonight, though, I put those thoughts away. I kissed Simon gently on his neck, then across his chest and arms. I asked him to lie down, and then I took control. Tonight I wanted to celebrate being a wife. Watching Simon’s eyes widen at the sight of me moving sensuously over him, I knew that he was enthralled; and that I should not hesitate to make love the way I wanted. For me, sex would never again be linked with money or force; it would only be for pleasure and love.

THERE WAS NO chance for a long honeymoon because of the war, although we did spend a week in Bombay, where we were able to hire a touring car that we drove by ourselves into the Panchgani Hills, Simon teaching me to shift and steer until I was almost as skilled as he. Now that we wore the respectable cloaks of the married, we were slowly meeting people who were tolerant of women drivers as well as mixed unions: a population that included some Anglo-Indians, a few ICS couples and Reverend McRae’s friends, who seemed to span all faiths and nationalities. We dined in Park Street restaurants and at the Calcutta Club, which had been founded by Indians and British together. On the surface, Mrs. Simon Lewes was charming, the opposite of a stereotyped shy Indian maiden.

But was Mrs. Lewes happy? With her husband, certainly. But everything else was unsettled. I knew that my opinions about the Indian National Army and the path of the war were too dangerous to be expressed. And I still yearned to know what had become of Hafeeza and Kabita, although I should have simply closed those poignant chapters
in my life book. How far I’d run from my past, but now I longed to have just a page—a paragraph—even three words saying,
We are well
.

Reverend McRae offered to leave the flat, now that we were married and might like more privacy. Simon and I both protested, knowing that there was little suitable housing available and not wanting to cast out a man who’d become like a father. As a compromise, the reverend shifted to my old bedroom upstairs, insisting the large spare room where he’d been would be a safe, close-by place for our first child. Simon happily accepted this change, but I found the reverend’s acknowledgment of our need for evening solitude embarrassing.

I could understand why my having a baby would seem logical to the reverend, since my new role of ICS wife was hardly taxing. Because I was Indian, not English, I had many fewer social invitations and expectations than the English wives of Simon’s colleagues. Instead, I managed the household as always and looked for other things to do, like volunteering for Reverend McRae’s orphanage. Speaking Bengali with the children and teaching them their letters was only a substitute for my doing the same with Kabita, but it passed the months.

SPRING OF 1945 brought a good rice harvest, which meant the refugees were released from their camps and went back to their villages, for the most part. And then, it was monsoon, supposedly the most romantic time of the year; but this time, marked by the war’s fiercest battles in the Asian theater. The Japanese bombed Assam and the INA fighters crossed over, but the Indian Army and the Americans pushed back hard. Simon did not sleep through many nights but spent time in the library, pacing as he listened to faraway reports on the wireless.

One morning in May, Kantu did not bring the newspapers, which signaled to me he was too busy at the newsstand to come. Instead of going straight down, I switched on All India Radio and heard the news
that Germany was surrendering. I found myself crying with relief at the liberation of the concentration camps, and the end of killing everywhere.

“Asia’s almost done, too,” Simon said to Reverend McRae that evening as we all enjoyed a champagne toast. “The Japanese are retreating in Burma. Everything’s collapsing like a house of cards.”

I wondered whether Supriya was in Burma or Singapore or yet another place. I worried for her safety because the Allies were taking every INA fighter they could catch as a prisoner of war. Would she do something drastic like shoot herself rather than be taken prisoner? I knelt before my Lakshmi statue, now set up in the parlor, praying that she would know that there was honor in surrender; that it would ultimately bring her back to India to continue the freedom struggle.

On August 6, the Americans dropped their secret atomic bombs on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, and three days later, Nagasaki. We heard about the mushroom clouds, the unbearable heat, the unknown thousands presumed dead. There were no photographs yet of the destruction, but I created these images for myself.

“How could they bomb like that?” I said to Simon as we lay in bed the night of August tenth. “This wasn’t targeted bombing of soldiers, it was the mass murder of innocents.”

“If there were a land war, double the people would have died,” Simon said, taking me into his arms. “I hate war, too, Kamala, but this is the only way it could end.”

Emperor Hirohito addressed the population of Japan on August 15, telling them he had ordered his government to surrender. Three days later, Netaji bade good-bye to his Indian National Army and escaped to Saigon aboard a Japanese military airplane bound for Tokyo. The plane stopped overnight in Taiwan to refuel and add more passengers. But this load of people and luggage was too much. As the airplane struggled to rise, it crashed and its most famous passenger was caught up in the fireball. Netaji died from the burns in hospital,
according to the surviving INA officer who had been his companion for the flight.

I wasn’t sure whether to believe it. Some were saying this was a lie told to help wrap up the war; that Netaji had safely reached another Asian country and was gathering strength to come back to India. Others suggested that the Russians had taken him prisoner for his role opposing the Allies during World War II. What an irony that would be, given Netaji’s strong relations with Indian Communists before the war. Each time a new rumor came out, I drilled Simon.

“You’re correct that there are some inconsistencies in the report of the plane crash; but when you have Netaji’s friend confirming his death, what more is needed?” Simon grumbled one Sunday morning at breakfast. “Naturally, our government is accused of lying about the matter. If you add in the unrest over the INA veterans, the situation becomes untenable. Did you know that more than forty Europeans were murdered across India in the last fortnight?”

“I’d heard bits and pieces, but not that number.” I toyed with my fork, not wanting him to sense how worried this made me about his own safety—and how sick I felt at the turn of the freedom movement. “How can it be? Gandhiji and Jawaharlal Nehru have never sanctioned physical aggression.”

“It’s true, but they can’t control violent types. I heard through a police source that some bastards knocked down Reverend McRae near the orphanage where he volunteers. If the orphans hadn’t rushed in to surround him, he could have been killed.”

A new tremor ran through me. I’d not been at the orphanage in the last week, so I hadn’t known. “But that’s awful! He never said a word about it to us!”

“He wants freedom for India, so I imagine he doesn’t want to publicize anything that would work against it.” Simon sighed. “This mad violence has turned into retaliation against any European—when the only ones they should really be angry with are me and my colleagues.”

“Be quiet. I don’t want you hurt, either.” I paused, thinking of how
to explain the mixed feelings I struggled with. “I believe it’s true that the INA veterans aren’t getting fair treatment after what they’ve been through.”

“Your opinion,” Simon said shortly. “Mine’s different.”

“Actually, I’m thinking about going to hear some of them speak at Deshapriya Park next week.”

Simon drew his brows together in concern. “That may not be a sound idea, Kamala. The police only issued a permit for the event because they worried if they didn’t, there would be terrible unrest in the city. But the event could turn to a riot—you know what the climate’s like.”

“The particular speakers are not of the inflammatory sort; it will be led by Mr. Nehru, as well as Netaji’s older brother, Sarat Bose, and some INA veterans,” I said, hoping to smooth the furrow that remained between Simon’s eyes. “I will be in the ladies’ section, of course. Please, Simon. I must be there.”

“Then you should go.” Simon’s voice sounded flat. “I won’t hold you back from what you believe in like some medieval husband, although I could send someone to be nearby to help you if something goes wrong. But I think for me—a white man—to be present would just add a spark to tinder.”

“Please don’t have anyone watch me,” I said, remembering Mr. Pal’s spying. “That will make it all the worse! Like I said, I’ll keep to myself in the ladies’ section.”

“Do be careful.” Simon sounded wistful. “You know that you can’t be replaced.”

“I appreciate your devotion,” I said, stretching my hand out to hold his. “I love you so much, Simon. And I will definitely take care.”

CHAPTER

38

Only a diamond-cutter knows a diamond.

Bengali proverb

T
he crowds in Deshapriya Park were huge, with almost as many women as men in the audience. I found a good place inside the women’s section. There, as chatter flew from one to another, I learned something very exciting: that one of the INA veterans speaking would be a Bengali female, Captain Supriya Sen.

So Supriya had survived and made it home. I was elated that my friend was back and hoped her parents could forgive me. Maybe with war over, life for us could be like the halcyon days before—or even better, with freedom so close at hand.

My optimistic thoughts only increased as the program began. It certainly was thrilling to hear Jawaharlal Nehru and Sarat Chandra Bose speak, knowing that once again, I was present in the middle of history being made, in India’s most important city. When my old friend finally took the stage, dressed hat to trousers in her old INA
uniform, the crowd went wild. Women around me were screaming and throwing flowers. I thought of saying,
I knew her when she was just a college girl!,
but the women’s section was full of those who knew her; from Loreto College, from the temple, from the bookbindery. She was known, and she was loved.