The Sleeping Dictionary Page 12

  Bonnie had a pretty bedroom with a large, four-poster bed covered in a pink-flowered quilt, with white pillowcases trimmed in the same pink. There were two almirahs; hers held a rainbow of beautiful Western clothes. There was a wireless radio on her dressing table and many bottles and pots of cosmetics. On the wall was only one picture: a framed photograph of the starlet Merle Oberon, whom she said was an Anglo-Indian from Calcutta.

  I had never heard of Merle Oberon; I had never even seen a film. All these exciting, glamorous ideas whirled through me as Bonnie showed off her very own bathroom, which had a tub set into a tiled floor and water that flowed right into it from a silver spout. The bath and sink water was heated by turning on a geyser mounted high on the wall. Bonnie showed me how to work them and also explained the correct seating for the white porcelain privy similar to ones I’d seen in the students’ lavatory at Lockwood School.

  Bonnie left me in this lavatory of wonders. When I came out wrapped in towels, she was sitting comfortably on her bed listening to the wireless. Next to her was a folded gold-and-orange-patterned silk sari and a very small matching gold blouse.

  “I thought you might like this sari for dinner tonight,” she said, smiling prettily. But my senses were on alert. She might have examined my bundle and decided that the two cotton saris within were too worn for me to wear before her family. As I did not want to embarrass myself any more that day, I allowed her to wrap the silk sari and let her comb my hair and place a few bangles on my wrists. I felt shy to be waited on by her, but I sensed there was no way to resist. When she led me to the long mirror set into her door, my reflection was that of a stranger with large eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips, with a woman’s body clearly revealed by the sari she had wrapped low around my waist.

  “Not bad,” Bonnie said, clapping her hands. “If they fit, you may borrow my slippers tonight.”

  Walking gingerly, because her feet were bigger than mine, I followed Bonnie downstairs to a parlor with windows covered by long, embroidered curtains, even though it was still sunny outside. Ranged across a series of settees and lounge chairs were five young ladies, all quite different-looking but attractive. They wore clothing I’d never before seen: shimmering saris with short blouses, gold-embroidered tunics and flowing pajama pants, and tight, beaded European gowns. For me, it was like being in fairyland, and the girls seemed just as interested in me.

  “Look at those eyes—lotus eyes. Add a bit of kohl and mascara and she could be in films,” said an Indian girl wearing a green chiffon sari who introduced herself as Lucky-Short-for-Lakshmi. Behind Lakshmi was Shila, also Indian, but wearing a party dress that barely reached her knees. I tried not to gawk at her long golden-brown calves, which seemed to shimmer and, like Bonnie’s, did not have a single hair growing on them. The girls repeated my name among themselves, and I heard it changing. Pam. Pamela. Pammy.

  “Bonnie says you speak well,” said Natty, a golden-skinned Anglo-Indian with a head of thick black curls. She appraised me with cold eyes almost like Miss Jamison’s, although she was a hundred times younger and prettier. “Sakina, fetch the latest copy of Vanity Fair for the girl to read. I must hear this so-called Mayfair accent for myself.”

  “Natty is a school graduate, so she thinks she’s a genius. Don’t mind her,” Bonnie murmured in my ear. But I understood Natty’s suspicion. They were like the Lockwood girls, just more beautiful because they had Indian blood—but many castes above me, without question. That was the only thing I was sure of in this loud room that smelled of so many perfumes my head was beginning to hurt.

  Bonnie brought me to a sink to wash my hands, and then we went to a long veranda on the back of the house, where a table was set with many chairs around it. Three young maidservants fanned flies away from the dishes: crisp shingaras, iced cakes, and square-cut cucumber-and-tomato sandwiches. A brass tureen held a mountain of steaming white rice flecked with onions and spices, and there were at least half a dozen curries in other bowls.

  I was so starved that I longed to descend on the table immediately, but these inquisitive young women would not let me move. One had her hands in my hair, undoing the braid I’d carefully made after washing upstairs. Another was lifting the pallu of the sari to examine what she called my figure. I’d always thought that figure was a term from mathematics, but now I realized it meant something else.

  “Girls, that is enough! You will have plenty of time to chat up Pamela after the meal.”

  The high-pitched voice belonged to Bonnie’s mother, who had joined us. I examined her covertly. Although she had the same lilting accent as Bonnie, she was darker, something she’d attempted to mask with pink powder. Reddish-brown curls fell around her head like a frizzy halo, and she had jeweled clips holding it back from her face. A short and stout woman, she nevertheless wore a tight long evening dress with a low neckline almost completely covered with sparkling necklaces. Her brown eyes were unusually small and seemed dominated by black-painted eyelashes. I had never seen anyone look like this, not even in the colorplate illustrations of The Arthur Rackham Fairy Book.

  “Sit next to me, dear heart.” The lady took my wrist in fat, strong fingers that were covered in jeweled rings and showed me a chair next to the table’s head. I took it as the other girls flopped into their seats, still laughing and chattering. The servants came around to serve each of us from the bowls; despite the abundant offerings, some girls avoided shingaras, and many others refused meat or dal. Bonnie’s mother accepted food from every bowl and urged me to as well. I did not want to appear greedy, but I was so hungry that I gratefully accepted every delicacy that the servants brought.

  As they feasted, the girls talked back and forth, mostly making jokes. Then an argument broke out about someone called Mr. Evans. The mother interceded, reminding the girls that in a family, everyone shared. Bonnie chimed in that she was still missing her pink suspender belt; could anyone remember seeing it? In the midst of this strange conversation the male butler walked in, bowed his head to Natty, and said, “Murphy-saheb is here.”

  Natty rolled her eyes, pushed back in her chair with a careless scraping sound, and left. Two others were called for in the same manner over the next half hour. No one returned, even though food was still left on their plates. I worried about it, wishing I could wrap it in papers to take for myself the next day.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” The mother asked, looking from me to my empty plate.

  I must have been staring at the leftovers. Quickly, I said, “Yes, madam. I cannot possibly thank you enough for your kindness.”

  “Bonnie was telling me that you are completely on your own.” From her expression, I could tell she expected me to say more.

  “Some years ago, there was a cyclone, and I lost my family: parents, grandparents, two sisters, and a baby brother.”

  “What a difficult lot in life,” the mother said. “Tell me, were you ever married? For an Indian girl your age, it is the usual custom.”

  “Oh, no, madam. There was nobody to arrange anything for me, and I don’t want that kind of life. Work is my dream. I am traveling to Calcutta to look for a teaching job.”

  “So you are independent.” Mummy sounded thoughtful. “Now you are amongst friends, all of whom have lost their families in some sense or another. You must not be afraid anymore.”

  After the meal, Sakina returned, wearing a different dress and carrying the Vanity Fair magazine. At everyone’s urging, I read a short story by William Seabrook, putting on a posher than posh accent that made all the girls howl. Bonnie put an arm around my shoulder and whispered in my ear that I read so well I should be a wireless announcer. Then she boasted her house had several parlors loaded to bursting with magazines and books, and that she would take me to find some good reading for the evening hours. I realized that I was happy: an emotion I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  As the servants cleared the table, the girls rose up slowly; I could tell that they didn’t particularly want to leave. I
heard some men’s voices coming from the front of the house. My first instinct was apprehension; but then I guessed that the lady’s husband had come home and brought friends. I wondered what kind of business Bonnie’s father did to have built such a fine house. But then I remembered that he’d abandoned her to go back to England. It didn’t make sense about Bonnie’s mother not having enough money to send her to school, because there was so much fine jewelry and clothing on everyone. And the food! I would remember the feast for the rest of my life.

  I lingered on the veranda with Bonnie and her mother, not wanting to say my good-bye. From the garden, I heard the call of doel birds, chhr-chhr-rr. This I knew was a kind of warning. I felt the hairs on my arms stand up, reminding me that I had no place to go tonight. My confident speech about going to Calcutta to Bonnie was an empty lie.

  As if she’d heard my thoughts, the mother said, “You are very welcome to stay in Bonnie’s room tonight. The girl who used to share with her is gone.”

  She’d said girl—not sister. I mulled this over until I understood what it meant. This was not a family home but a boardinghouse. This was the reason all the girls downstairs did not look like blood sisters. Bonnie had brought me here hoping I’d become a rento, not knowing I was too poor to afford it.

  With a sinking feeling, I confessed, “You are too kind to a stranger, Burra-memsaheb, but—”

  “Mummy!” she corrected, laughing. “My full name is Rose Barker, but I’m not Mrs. Barker to anyone but strangers. And you are Bonnie’s friend, dear heart, not a stranger.”

  “Mummy,” I said awkwardly, hardly believing she had called me dear heart again. “Mummy, I’m very sorry; I don’t have money to pay for your hospitality.”

  At my words, the lady’s high-pitched voice rose to a mouse’s squeak. “Oh, you have hurt me! To suggest I would charge money when I have invited you to stay at Rose Villa! You are welcome to all the luxuries, and don’t forget it.”

  “But you are overly generous.” I hesitated, then went forward. “My dream was always to work as a teacher, but I am of course capable of other jobs. If I could work here—any tasks or chores—I would be most grateful. I could sleep on the kitchen floor or anywhere you might have room.”

  “To think I would be so cruel!” Mummy exclaimed. “Our Bonnie wants you to stay with her so she is not lonely.”

  That didn’t make sense. I began an apology. “Thank you, but I cannot accept—”

  “Thank you,” Mummy parroted back, “for your hospitality. Say that, Pamela. It’s the only thing I want to hear.”

  THAT NIGHT, MUMMY put me to bed in Bonnie’s room because she said Bonnie would stay up very late. Smelling of roses and musk, she leaned down to draw the mosquito net around me.

  After she left, I lay between the soft sheets, thinking how quickly my fate had changed. My best friend on earth had died; yet another girl had stepped forward to comfort me. Who had ever heard of such luck? It was confusing to be taken in by rich strangers. I feared it was all a dream and I would wake up in the railway station’s ladies’ lounge with an empty purse and stomach. But if this were truly happening, I was the luckiest girl in India: being gifted with food and shelter so I would have a chance to work and earn enough to reach Calcutta.

  On the house’s roof, a slow tapping began. Within a minute, thousands of goblins were dancing jhup-jhup on the roof. My breathing slowed as I filled with the understanding that the garden birds had been calling to one another only because of this. Rain was coming! A sweet, cool rain that would wash away the pain of the last five years and allow me to bloom anew.

  PREMLATA WAS AT my bedside the next morning with a cup of tea and biscuits on the saucer. Awkwardly, I took the cup of sweet warmth to my lips, noticing that Bonnie had come to bed, but was still lying fast asleep. Premlata quietly asked if the rain had disturbed my sleep. She said that it was false rain because the monsoon was not due until the next month. She left the room after telling me a proper breakfast would be served downstairs at ten.

  Next month, where would I be? And with whom? I glanced at Bonnie, who remained like a lump on the other side of the mattress, dressed only in a thin petticoat. A smell of smoke and something sweet hung around her. She snored gently while I drank my tea, waiting for her eyes to open. She slept on, as if wrapped in the most overwhelming fatigue.

  After I’d finished my tea and left the tray outside the door for Premlata, just as the teacher-mems used to do for me, I decided to brave the bathroom myself. Remembering what I’d learned the day before, I lit the geyser’s flame and soon had hot water running into the bath. Then I lathered myself with fine soap that smelled of jasmine and watched it bubble away into nothing in the clean, warm water. I was so happy in the warm bath that I whispered to myself some lines from the Tagore poem about a bird taking wing to fly to freedom. The line had meant nothing the first time I’d read it but now seemed as if it had been written just for me.

  When I came back into the bedroom, Bonnie was awake and smiling. She showed me a different sari and blouse I should wear that day and helped wrap it around me in the proper fashion of her home, so my lower stomach showed. Then she slipped on a dressing gown and went downstairs with me, where the proper breakfast Premlata had spoken of was being served. Eggs, bacon, toasted thick bread, dal, rice, vegetable curries, baked beans, fruits . . . it was almost as luxurious as the previous night’s feast, although we did not sit down altogether; girls arrived sleepily every few minutes, and a few, like Sakina and Doris, not at all. Just as Bonnie and I were finishing up, the front door chimed and the chowkidar said that Rima the beautician had come. She was a young, pretty Muslim lady who yelped at the sight of me. I felt ashamed, as if she thought I looked very rough and ugly, but Mummy laughed and said it only meant Rima was eager to fix me up, if I was willing.

  I said yes, not knowing the lady would spread warm wax all over my legs and many other parts; in short, painful bursts my hair came off, so I looked as smooth as the others. Rima told me it was the custom of the house for her to visit weekly to groom all the girls, and I should not worry about the cost this time, as Mummy was paying.

  Next, the beautician massaged my feet with oil and cut and shaped the toenails; it was almost like what the barber’s wife did in our village, except the beautician painted all the nails with a red lacquer. Then she moved on to my hands. After rubbing them brutally with the same stone she’d used on my feet, she prescribed that I massage every part of my hands, from wrist to fingertips, with almond oil thrice daily.

  Lucky-Short-for-Lakshmi—the girl who had been kind the night before—asked if she could teach me something about cosmetics, and with curiosity and anticipation I agreed. I’d seen servant girls at Lockwood line their eyes with ash, but Lucky showed me a black kohl pencil that did the same thing with less mess. Pinkish rouge pressed into a metal case was for the cheeks, and shades of silver and brown powder were for decorating the eyelids. Then there was an array of short fat pens, all colored red or pink or almost purple.

  “What is your caste?” Lucky asked while she was using a tiny brush to color my lips. She was gazing only at my mouth, as if that was more important than her question, but I knew this was pretense. If she learned where I came from, she’d have to throw the brush away.

  After she’d finished painting my lips, I said, “Nothing. I’m Christian.”

  “All Indian Christians were something else before.” She made a kissing gesture at me and then laughed.

  I could not smile back. “Why do you ask me this?”

  “I watched you last night. You would not look at the servants—you hung your head every time they came to serve you! Everyone is wondering about the new girl. Her English is Mayfair, but where are the Mayfair manners?”

  “I’m sorry.” I tried to sound calm, but my insides were quaking.

  “I know you are not a Dom,” she said, naming the caste of the people who prepared corpses for cremation. “And I don’t think you are a sweeper. You’re somet
hing else: some kind of Sudra.”

  I closed my eyes, wishing to be elsewhere. She was right that my people came from Lord Brahma’s lower half. But Baba had told me that legs were the strongest part and that was our gift from Him. I once agreed with this, but after the way I’d worked hard and been treated unfairly at Lockwood, my feelings were different.

  “Don’t be frightened.” Lucky fiddled in a jewelry box, pulling out earrings. “I am not highly born. My family is from the thatching caste. My father sold me to a temple when I was seven to bring them the blessing of a son.”

  “What happened then?” As I spoke, she put down the earrings and looked up at me with eyes that were no longer merry. “I never saw them again, so I don’t know if a brother was born. And it was very hard at the temple: little food and terrible work. The only good part was learning to dance. When I was fourteen, one of Mummy’s friends came to watch our group perform. I was the one he liked best, so he paid the priests to let him bring me here. I was no longer Lakshmi, but Lucky. This name fits me. I feel lucky.”

  “You are lucky to be living here. My father grew rice for a jamidar near the coast.” I decided it sounded more dignified than to say he was a peasant. “I do not dance or have any talents like you, unless you consider speaking English any value.”

  Lucky put one hand comfortingly around my shoulders and used the other to raise a hand mirror before me. “Your voice does not match your face, Pammy, but both are quite nice. Remember to never let your eyes run away from another person’s again. The only time to drop your eyes is when you are trying to appear shy for a gentleman. Even then, you must coyly peek through your lashes like this!”