The Sleeping Dictionary (62 page)

RESPONSIBLE:
 . . . 3. Answerable, accountable (to another for something); liable to be called to account. 4. Morally capable for one’s actions; capable of rational conduct.

—
Oxford English Dictionary
, Vol. 8, 1933

I
crept in two hours later to the flat, which smelled reassuringly of sandalwood, spices, and tea. How lovely the place was, with its tall windows that were finally free of their brown paper coverings, allowing a glimpse of the night-blooming garden and cool breezes to pass through. Inside, soft lamplight spilled over the fine carpets and well-polished mahogany and rosewood furniture. It was a home into which I’d be proud to welcome my daughter, if only I could.

“Good God!” Simon’s words burst forth as he emerged from the library, a book still in hand. “You look awful, darling. What happened at the rally?”

“Not much. It was a peaceful meeting.” I was startled by his reference to the day’s big event. Both the rally and the Sens’ party seemed a lifetime away.

“Come in,” he said, waving his hand back toward the library. “Shombhu’s still out, so I’ll make the gin-limes. I want to hear all about Deshapriya Park. Something must have happened for you to look like death warmed over.”

“No, it really was fine.” I tried to force my expression into normality. “Some very good speeches were given and there wasn’t any violence.”

“What did they say?” Simon said from the drinks cart, where he was mixing up the cocktails.

In the last two hours, my world had shifted so dramatically, I could no longer recall what anyone had said at the rally. I paused, trying to remember. “A female INA veteran spoke and, of course, there was Panditji, as people are calling Nehru. He could be a strong leader.”

“You don’t seem especially keen to talk,” he said. “Why is that?”

I twisted my hands, knowing I needed to help Kabita, that this was my best chance. “Actually, something else is weighing on me; and it has nothing to do with the rally.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry. Please tell me.” Simon gave me a gin-lime and joined me on the velvet settee.

Settling into his embrace, I said, “Chatting with an acquaintance at the rally today, I heard news about my cousin’s daughter, a little girl whom I’ve always adored. She is in need of schooling, and there is no money for it. I would like to send her to a good school in Calcutta and oversee her care.”

Simon’s face had been warmly concerned; but now his eyes narrowed. “Who said this to you?”

“A cousin,” I said helplessly.

“And how old is the child in question?”

“About seven, I think.”

“Ten years of school then, plus college.” His voice was as tight as his expression. “Do you realize you’d be paying the people who forced you to leave school? The family who wouldn’t even give you tea when you visited them two years ago?”

Now I regretted those lies I’d told about my trip to Midnapore. “The money’s
not for the family themselves; it’s only for her to go to school. I shall pay the tuition directly to the school, so there’s no question—”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t mean to be hard, but I have a bad feeling about this. I think they’re lying to you. If you take responsibility for the girl’s schooling, you’ll soon be paying for all her brothers and sisters and cousins for years to come.”

“What do you know about it?” A leaden feeling was spreading inside me. “It’s not any of the other relatives asking our help—just the mother of one girl.”

“Kamala, I won’t give a single rupee to people who were cruel to you. And that’s my last word on it.”

I would not beg from him. I knew that if he would not support a young relative, he would certainly not support an illegitimate child. Flooded with disappointment, I said stiffly, “I should not have presumed I could ask you to spend money on anything I cared about.”

“It’s not like that at all; we share money and consult each other on major expenses.” Simon’s fingers were jumping on the little mahogany tea table, tapping out a tense staccato rhythm. “At least you asked about this matter first. I like to make these decisions together.”

Together
was the wrong word to use. He alone vetoed or approved; this was the way of all men and their wives. And despite my love for him, this was not fair.

Simon suggested supper at a Chinese restaurant in Park Street. I told him to go on his own, because the gin-lime had given me such a headache that I needed to lie down.

As I crept under the covers, I cursed myself for how badly I’d handled the situation. If only I had never created the fictitious cruel family in Midnapore; if only I had not lied. I wished I could rewind my life the way he could with the speeches on his wire recorder. Then I would never have stepped off the train by accident in Kharagpur and would have gone on to Calcutta as planned. Simon would have found me two years earlier and hired me to work in his library. In time, we
would have fallen in love without pretense; we would have had a child together, and there would be no question where she belonged.

Would. Should. Didn’t. Cannot.
These verbs formed a mocking nursery rhyme that sang in my tired, aching head. When Simon returned from dinner, smelling of alcohol and smoke, I kept my back turned to him, and breathed evenly until he fell asleep.

I had told lies about Kabita in order to stay married. Simon and I were still together; but I did not know if it was worth what I was about to give up.

SIMON LEFT EARLY the next morning for a day trip to Jamshedpur, and I began the task of finding money and shelter for Kabita. Only a few hours remained before my meeting with Rose Barker. Schools opened before the bank, so I began by telephoning the ones I’d heard Supriya and her friends mention the most favorably. Unfortunately, fall term had already started, which meant Loreto House just down the street was full, as were Saint Mary’s and La Martiniere. I’d need to look outside of Calcutta.

I dreaded sending Kabita to some faraway place where I would have no knowledge of her treatment. And how would I afford boarding school, with what I had to pay Rose Barker? My bank account totaled less than four hundred rupees and could not be replenished as Simon had stopped paying me a salary once we’d become engaged. There were two hundred and ten rupees in the housekeeping expenses purse that I kept locked in the study; but if I used that, there would be no money to pay the servants or tradesmen. The only way to raise money was by selling my personal belongings. I remembered how little my books were valued, and used clothing would only fetch paise from the rag collector. I looked at the rings Rose Barker had admired. The engagement ring symbolized promise and the wedding band devotion; two ideals I never wanted to break, but would have to.

At ten o’clock,
Hogg Market was just opening up, and I went straight to the jeweler who had once sold me my favorite moonstone necklace. He beamed at the sight of me, but his excitement faded when he realized I wanted to sell and not buy.

“Just look at this beautiful treasure,” I said, turning my hand before him. “A Golconda diamond solitaire set in twenty-two-karat gold. Of course, you may inspect it yourself.”

After he’d scrutinized my engagement ring under a magnifying glass, he offered two hundred rupees.

“But it cost us fifteen hundred at J. Boseck last year!” I had not dared bring it back to that jeweler; how much he had smiled at the way Simon had searched for the very best piece. He would ring Simon if I came trying to sell.

“Yes, but the times are hard!” the jeweler said firmly. “Nobody who comes here has even five hundred to spend on a nice wedding set. This is not a fancy foreign shop but an honest business.”

I went to six jewelers before I found someone willing to take the engagement ring for four-fifty, the wedding ring for seventy and would give me acceptable-looking replicas to replace them. The man paid the cash immediately and said he’d have the rings copied for me by early evening.

At Grindlays Bank, I withdrew the rest that I needed from my bank account. Paying for school would come later, but I’d worry about it when the bill came.

At five minutes to twelve, I entered the Great Eastern Hotel. Going up the grand staircase, I thought how different this felt from my wedding night. Still, it heralded a different kind of beginning: my relationship with Kabita. I had gathered the money; I could take her; and this made my feet move faster.

Rose Barker opened the door, fully made up and dressed in a long purple moiré gown with high-heeled pumps to match. Kabita sat on the bed, wearing the same flowered frock as the day before, kicking her short legs aimlessly. She did not acknowledge me with either a
look or word. I felt guilt, because I’d never asked if she wanted to become mine. I hadn’t, because I was sure she would refuse. She had suffered too many losses to want to move on to yet another place.

I went to the desk and began counting out the rupee notes on its polished surface. Kabita was silently crying, long black rivers coming from her made-up eyes.

“Thank you very much,” Rose said, flipping through the bills. “No tricks now. Don’t interfere with my new life in England.”

Her defensive words startled me. I might have misjudged the situation. Perhaps she understood Simon’s stature, or feared that when he brought me to England one day, I would seek revenge. In England, she would be an aging lady without relatives around to support her; we would be ex-ICS, with Simon’s mother, siblings, and cousins established in West Sussex, part of a powerful social class.

“Don’t fret about England,” I said casually. “Let me tell you that I expect the same: no contact ever. I’m taking care of the bill downstairs. Your room must be vacated by one.”

I picked up Kabita’s small carpetbag and waited for her to follow me. Slowly, she slid off the bed and went to Rose.

“Good-bye, Mummy,” she said in a low voice. From the way she stood, I could see she was expecting a kiss or hug.

But Rose did not even turn to answer; she was too busy counting rupees.

CHAPTER

41

As is the tree, so is the fruit.

Bengali proverb

I
f we are quick, we can catch that tonga,” I said after I’d taken Kabita outside. There was an arcade over the pavement, shading us; but beyond that, the sun shone down on a traffic jam. The despair I’d felt moments before was gone. Kabita was alive. She was mine.

“Are we going to your flat, Auntie?” Kabita’s green eyes looked up at me hopefully, and I realized that she wasn’t as frightened of me as I’d thought.

“No. Unfortunately, I don’t have room for a little girl to stay with me.” Each word felt like a bullet coming out of me and into her; and from the way the light left her eyes, I knew it hurt.

“But your flat building is very nice! And you are going to raise me with all the luxuries. That’s what Mummy said!”

“Please don’t worry.” I found it ironic that she had already learned one of Rose Barker’s catchphrases. “Right now, we are finding which lady friend of mine will keep you for a few nights.”

“Oh! Is it a house of aunties like Rose Villa?” Her tiny brows drew together.

“No, it’s not. But first I have an idea—have you ever eaten ice cream?”

At Magnolia, I could have spent all afternoon watching her rapturously consume her first ice cream. But so much had to be done. As I dabbed at her face with a wet handkerchief, getting rid of the eye makeup and ice cream drips, I explained that I was searching for a nice school where she would sleep in a soft bed at night and spend her days studying and playing with other girls her age. But first I would take her to College Street. Because of Supriya’s and Mrs. Sen’s school ties, they would surely have ideas of the very best places for a girl to study.

It was soothing to climb the stairs and have Mrs. Sen open the door with a pleased cry, all the tension of the last few years erased. “You’ve come back to see us! And who is your young friend?”

“Mashima, she is my dear niece from the countryside. She goes by Zeenat,” I said, squeezing Kabita’s hand. At the sound of this obviously Muslim name, Mrs. Sen raised her eyebrows; I ignored this and asked whether Supriya was home.