The Sleeping Dictionary Read online

  “Nurse-matron locked the infirmary door last night at Mr. and Mrs. Mukherjee’s request.” Miss Jamison moved toward me, slowly, and I had to hold myself from running. “But Nurse-matron found you inside this morning; however did you enter?”

  “I came through the window. I did it because I needed to speak to Bidushi and give her a bath.” I tried to speak evenly, but the trembling that had affected my hands earlier had spread to my whole body.

  “The girl was unconscious,” Miss Jamison said. She towered over me, so I had to put my head back to look up at her.

  “With respect, Burra-memsaheb, she was a-awake,” I stammered. “She heard me announce the arriving people, and she told me she was feeling cold.”

  “Speak Bengali. I want to hear the lies for myself!” Bidushi’s uncle grumbled after his wife whispered something in his ear.

  “The jamidar-saheb requests translation,” I murmured in a rush.

  “Then do it!” Miss Jamison raised her voice. “And, Sarah, I can hardly think of any situation so urgent that you would have broken through a window instead of going to Nurse-matron.”

  “It was so early that I dared not wake her. Our visitors had arrived outside the school and asked to come inside.” I gestured toward the Bandopadhyays, wishing them to nod or somehow acknowledge that I’d helped them, but they remained stonily in place. “I spoke to the men in the stables and the chowkidar who guards the school entrance. Then I went to Bidushi.”

  “To think this wretch was sleeping in the room with her so many nights, pawing through her ornaments!” Bidushi’s aunt said in sharp Bengali.

  I could not bring myself to translate those terrible words, so the jamidar, in his stilted English, repeated it verbatim for Miss Jamison, whose face blanched even paler than its normal color.

  “Such an incident has never happened here,” she answered stiffly. “But I have just learned from the housekeeping directress that Sarah may have coerced your niece to spend money on her before. This likely motivated her misbehavior.”

  “Misbehavior is not the proper term,” Mr. Bandopadhyay shot back in his perfect English. “It is a crime.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bandopadhyay. Of course you are right.”

  “It is my son who I grieve for, because he is rather sensitive,” the elderly lawyer continued. “He said he sent the ruby as well as some letters. Many letters were found in the dormitory by your Nurse-matron.”

  Now Miss Jamison looked as if she were regaining some strength. Nostrils flaring, she said, “Letters between our students and any males outside of the immediate family are forbidden. We were never told that anyone was writing to her.”

  The jamidar whispered to his wife in Bengali, and she gave a shriek. I felt so faint that I had to breathe hard to keep standing. Pankaj wanted his letters. If he had them and saw the words I’d unthinkingly repeated to him today, would he accuse me?

  “If the necklace isn’t recovered, to have those letters will at least be some comfort for my son,” Mr. Bandopadhyay said without looking at me. But in my mind, I was thinking, He wants to know what is in the forbidden letters: the love-filled papers that I long to have as well.

  “It is a difficult time for all. You may wish to retire to your rooms. I will have tea sent to you.” Miss Jamison’s lips drew into a thin line as she spoke. “Sarah!”

  I followed Miss Jamison into the hallway, which had filled with a mix of eavesdropping servants and students. At the sight of the headmistress, the servants rapidly scattered toward their proper domains, and the English girls walked off in a more relaxed manner. By the time Miss Jamison and I had reached the tall Jesus statue in the main hall, all of the listeners were gone, most likely telling stories to the rest of the school.

  “This is your chance to tell the truth before God.” Miss Jamison gestured toward the statue. “Sarah, you must say where you’ve hidden the necklace. We did not find it in your quarters.”

  So they had looked already. I was filled with embarrassment and anger, too. Woodenly, I said, “I’m very sorry, Burra-memsaheb, but I do not know because I did not take it.”

  Miss Jamison’s reply was swift, as if she’d anticipated my response. “Then you will be searched. I shall call Miss Rachael—”

  “No!” I said, for the thought of Miss Rachael searching me was as awful as Miss Jamison doing it herself. I could not be a teacher; I could not be Bidushi’s ayah; I would not be their whipping girl. “I have nothing hidden on me. I give you my word.”

  “Your word? The problem is you learned too many of them! If school staff won’t search you, the police will. Go to your room and wait. And remember, you are bound for hell.”

  I hung my head, too overcome to respond. But I longed to say that I wished she would find the true culprit. Maybe a man had crept in the window that I’d left open. Or perhaps the thief was Miss Rachael or Nurse-matron or even the jamidarni-auntie. But how could I say that? I could not accuse with no evidence.

  “Aren’t you listening?” Her voice cracked with impatience. “Go!”

  OLD JYOTI-MA WATCHED me pack up my sleeping mat, the composition book and pencils Miss Richmond had given me, and my hair comb. All this I wrapped in a bundle made from my second sari and tied it to a stick she found for me. Then Jyoti-ma whimpered, and I looked up into the doorway of the lean-to and saw my nemesis.

  “I always knew that no good would come from you. Next time they bring a girl from the mission hospital, I will refuse her!” Miss Rachael spoke casually, for she knew there was no need to try to punish me anymore. She had used rumors, spread here and there, to great effect, and finally won her five-year-battle against me.

  “I am glad to be freed.” I turned my back on her and continued to secure my bundle. Never before would I have dared to speak like this, but everything was finished. She had no more hold on me.

  “Free to be a girl of the streets! Very quickly you will find yourself in the only job an unknown female can have.”

  She was right; I needed money to stay off the street. I thought of my serving maid’s stipend: just five rupees a month, but after five years of work, it would be quite a packet. Trying to remain polite, I said, “I’ll take my pay, now, if you please.”

  “Pay?” she laughed. “The thief tries to take more? There is no pay. You’ve never had it.”

  I knew what Abbas had told me, and the other servants, too. Tightly, I said, “I am not a thief. If you won’t bring it now, I’ll go to Miss Jamison and tell her you’ve seized it.”

  “I’ll tell her you’ve been getting it each week, just like the others. Why would she believe you? All she knows of you are lies.” Rachael’s voice was triumphant, and hearing this, I finally lost control.

  “Let there be ash on your face!”

  The old curse that I spat was too much for Miss Rachael. She rushed forward and pushed me to the hard earthen floor. Then she was hitting my face, and I was striking back to protect myself. Jyoti-ma cringed in a corner, weeping and imploring us to be calm.

  “Stop it!” An English voice broke through my consciousness. Instantly, Miss Rachael was on her feet, proclaiming that I’d gone mad and attacked her. I expected Miss Jamison, but to my relief it wasn’t she who had interrupted us. It was Miss Richmond, whose hair had escaped its knot, and who was looking flushed in the face, as if she’d been running.

  “The dining room staff needs your oversight,” Miss Richmond sternly ordered Rachael, who nodded and disappeared through the doorway, and then she told Jyoti-ma to leave as well. The old woman scurried off, leaving me with the teacher who had changed my life for the better and now had to see me in utter degradation.

  “I can explain, Miss Richmond,” I said, between gasps, because the fight with Miss Rachael had been fierce. “It is much like Silas Marner.”

  “George Eliot’s novel?” Her thin auburn brows drew together. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I am like Silas, accused of stealing something that I didn’t—and also the victim of
a crime by the ruling class. You know that I loved Bidushi. I would never take from her. Perhaps I could help detect the culprit—”

  “I came to warn you that the police have been called.” She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You must run away from here. Please, Sarah.”

  Now I felt like vomiting, for I did not know the area at all; I would be caught easily. And I wouldn’t be able to ask Miss Jamison about my stipend, either.

  “This is the book of Tagore poetry you were translating for me.” Miss Richmond slipped it into my hands. “It is of no use to me without your translations. Maybe it will be of some comfort, at your next . . .”

  She did not finish the sentence. She did not say your next home, or your next station because she must have known how very unlikely it was I would find either.

  I turned over the small hardcover book I knew so well. The volume was used, and about the only value it could bring would be a few annas, but I knew as I held it in my hands, I could never sell it.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and without looking at her again, I left—past the tennis courts, the stables, and the rose garden in which a young gentleman remained sitting where I’d last seen him. I had thought it better that Pankaj would never know anything of my true nature; but now, as I ran, I hoped that he would not believe what they would tell him about me.

  As I escaped, my bare feet pounded the dusty path the mali had not yet watered. With each step I was moving farther from the place where I’d learned life’s hardest lesson, toward the unknown. No, I realized, it was not unknown. It was the old, large world I had once known; India.

  There was only one road down the hill. Eventually, a fork would come, the main road linking to Midnapore, but I feared to take it because of the police. I resolved to take the other road, wherever it might bring me. I did so, but soon the pounding in my head was drowned out by a clattering sound. Some kind of horse-drawn vehicle was chasing me from behind. Oh, for it to be Pankaj: for him to have come after me to say he knew the truth and would take me to Calcutta with him! But the likelier situation was that the police had guessed my route.

  Quickly, I veered off the road and into the brush, where I flattened myself to the ground. And then I heard a familiar, friendly voice.

  “Come out, Beti. It’s only me.”

  Warily, I lifted my head and saw two feet in well-worn chappals that I recognized. I crept out and found that Abbas-chacha was indeed alone and standing with the horse’s reins in hand next to a small cart usually used at the school for moving cisterns and other heavy materials.

  “Come,” he repeated, in a voice that was strong and calm. “I will bring you to the train. The best thing for you is to go far away to a big city like Calcutta. There, you can vanish.”

  Calcutta. He was speaking of my dream city; but why? I had never told him I loved Pankaj.

  “I know you did not steal.” He tilted my chin up with his finger, so I could see into his moist eyes. “You loved that girl like a sister. It’s why I’ve come to help you.”

  Overwhelmed with gratitude, I tried to touch his feet, but he caught me before that could happen. “No time for that. Get on.”

  “But, Chacha, how ever will I take a train to Calcutta?”

  “You will enter the third-class section and sit down somewhere—and don’t give your ticket to anyone except the conductor wearing a uniform! There are tricksters, Beti. How I wish I could take you myself, but I would be noticed missing.”

  “I have never ridden a train—”

  “You will do it. And there you will tell people a new name, and you will find work.”

  “Yes. And I will never tell anyone that you helped me.” I shot a sidelong glance at him, remembering how he’d rescued me from the riverbank, brought me to the school, and listened to my English practice for years. Even though I had not seen him on a daily basis since taking up with Bidushi, knowing he was nearby always had made me feel safe.

  “We will stop at my home first. There, my wife will help you change clothing and I will find some money for you.” As tears formed at the edges of my eyes, he said, “Just lie down in the back section of the cart and cover yourself with this blanket.”

  I remained hidden for the half hour or so it took to drive into Midnapore. I realized that I was lying in just the same way as the kidnapped children I’d seen long ago. And while I was not afraid of Abbas, I was worried what might happen if we were discovered. Because of this, I didn’t peek from under the blanket at anything, until he stopped. Then I saw that we had come through a gate in the middle of a tall garden wall made of clay and topped with glass spikes. Inside the wall were two huts, one that had a trail of cooking smoke coming from it.

  “This is my home,” he said, taking the musty blanket away completely as I sat up. “You are safe now.”

  A water buffalo grazed in the yard along with a few chickens. A pretty, middle-aged woman wearing a flower-patterned sari over her salwar kameez put down the milk bucket she was carrying and looked toward us.

  “My wife,” Abbas-chacha said to me in an undertone. Then, more loudly, he said, “Hafeeza, your niece is here. It is a good surprise.”

  “What’s that?” With her brow furrowed, Abbas’s wife motioned both of us into the large hut. I stood at the threshold, thinking what a comfortable place it was with a smooth earth floor, a swing for sitting, and two cane chairs. High on the wall was a framed paper with curly Urdu writing: the only thing that revealed this was a Muslim home. Suddenly, I felt ashamed for having believed all I had heard during childhood about the Mohammedans being so different.

  “Are you mad? Who is this?” Hafeeza looked from her husband to me with concern.

  “This is the one I told you many stories about; they call her Sarah,” Abbas said. “The young lady she was helping learn English passed away this afternoon. She is quite upset.”

  “Allah, have mercy!” His wife touched my chin with gentle fingers. “Beti, I know that you loved that girl—and she loved you. You will call me Hafeeza-chachi. I know that my husband has been something like an uncle. But why such secrets about your visiting? You should have come long ago.”

  “Sarah is in trouble,” Abbas said. “The burra-mem accused her of stealing jewelry from her student friend. She said all of this in front of that girl’s relatives and the parents of her betrothed, so they all believe it.”

  “Oh!” Hafeeza said, her lovely almond-shaped eyes widening.

  “Of course she did not do it. I have brought her here to quickly give her some necessities and send her off to Calcutta. If anyone asks about a girl being here, we will say it was your niece from Balasore.”

  “But the girl is not Muslim! If she walks out, anyone can see that.”

  Abbas countered, “If she wears a burka, her face will not be seen on the train.”

  “A burka?” Hafeeza regarded her husband curiously. “I do not have any of those.”

  “Once, my mother gave you—”

  “That is long gone,” she scoffed, then turned to me. “Don’t worry. I’ll dress you in a sari and salwar kameez in our fashion. You won’t be recognized.”

  Hafeeza led me to a tank in an area of their courtyard protected by high walls, where I bathed and came back in my wet sari to the hut. Then she brought me in the second room, which had a rope bed, a large steel almirah, and a fine carpet woven with flowers and birds.

  “Where do your children sleep, Hafeeza-chachi?” I asked, surprised that the room appeared to be theirs only.

  “We were never blessed.” Hafeeza’s voice dropped an octave, and belatedly I remembered Abbas telling me of this misfortune when we’d driven so many years ago to Lockwood School. “This is a fresh salwar kameez that is small for me. Wear it underneath the sari I’ll give you. Now remember, always pull the sari’s pallu over your head. That is our Muslim way.” She unlocked the almirah and brought out a folded blue sari with golden zari embroidery. It was stunning.

  “But I don’t deserve this.” I turne
d the sari over in my hands, thinking it the finest garment I’d ever held. Likely Hafeeza had gotten it as a wedding gift years ago.

  “I have no need for it anymore. Dress yourself and comb your hair. I can give you a pair of chappals, but they won’t fit perfectly. I’m afraid that your feet are larger than mine.”

  I looked at the leather thong sandals that she held out. I’d seen townspeople wearing such chappals and a few upper-level servants like Rachael and Abbas, but I’d never worn anything on my rough, bare feet.

  “Put them on now and practice,” Hafeeza said. “You must not fall out of them as you take your first steps into a new life.”

  BOOK THREE

  KHARAGPUR

  1935–1938

  . . . The moral character of some of the English officers has not been a blessing to India. The majority, indeed, are choice men and many of a grand personality; yet others have disgraced their position, and replied the confidences of the natives.

  However, British rule has been an incalculable blessing. India has never before had so just a government in all its history. Never until now has the whole country known peace, since its first settlement. The petty kingdoms, with shifting boundaries, that formerly were engaged in frequent external and internal wars, are now gathered under one stable government, conducted for the benefit of the governed and not for the glory of a single prince. There is a new feeling of security. Every one realizes that the English Government is firm and has come to stay. . . .

  Margaret Beahm Denning, Mosaics from India, 1902

  CHAPTER

  9

  This heart of mine, a night express, is on the way.

  The night is deep, the carriages are loaded all with sleep.

  What seems a murky nothing plunged in the infinite dark,

  Awaits the frontiers of sleep in lands unspecified.

  —Rabindranath Tagore, “The Night Express,” (“Rater Gari”), 1940