The Sleeping Dictionary Read online

  “No. I am already gone! I feel it.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.” I pulled her so close that her heart beat against mine. “Everything will be right as rain.”

  “No,” Bidushi repeated sadly. “The rainy season will come, but I will not feel a single drop.”

  And that night, I was awakened not by any cries from her, but by her fast breathing and burning-hot body. I left the cot to soak cloths in cold water and press them all over her, but to no avail. I was so frightened by Bidushi’s condition that I went to call for Nurse-matron, who slept in her own small room just outside the infirmary. She rang for the bhisti, who came rubbing sleep out of his eyes to carry buckets of cool water into the infirmary bathtub. Then I carried my friend, who in just a few days had shrunk to such a low weight, into the water.

  Bidushi was back at 105 degrees Fahrenheit when Dr. Sengupta arrived in the tonga driven by Abbas the next morning. From the corner of the infirmary, I watched the small woman with large spectacles examine Bidushi and take a needle to her arm to collect blood. This blood went into a glass tube set into a flask filled with chilled water. She told me to give it to Abbas to bring right away to the Midnapore clinic. I admired the doctor’s calm, directive manner, and marveled that an Indian woman had this job that I thought only Englishmen could do. How clever she must be; surely she would save Bidushi.

  The next morning, the clinic’s doctor confirmed that Bidushi had malaria. A driver came with medicine and a metal stand that held bags of liquid that dripped through a tube into Bidushi’s arm. Dr. Sengupta started giving Bidushi the medication mepacrine and asked that Bidushi’s aunt and uncle be summoned.

  Around teatime the next day, the chowkidars who guarded the school’s gate sent word up to the building that the jamidar-uncle and jamidar-auntie had arrived. Miss Jamison sent me out of the sickroom to give the Mukherjees privacy with their niece. My head rebelled against this, knowing how Bidushi felt about them, but I knew it was their right.

  Miss Rachael put me on duty washing the baseboards along the hallways. I made sure to work slowly in the hallway outside the infirmary, so I could spy on the visitors. Bidushi had told me enough about her aunt that I easily recognized her puffy face with eyes as small and hard as black dal. She was wearing a good bit of jewelry—Bidushi’s mother’s, I guessed. The lady’s husband, Barun Mukherjee, was almost as tall as his elder brother, but was lacking the old jamidar’s kind features.

  Two of the school’s guest rooms were occupied now: one by Dr. Sengupta, and the other by the jamidar-uncle and his wife. Their arrival caused notice by the English and Anglo-Indian girls who joked about the jamidarni-auntie’s heavy jewelry being paste. Lalit, the Brahmin cook who normally just prepared simple meals for the school’s few Hindu students and large Hindu staff, suddenly had to cook fancy vegetarian meals for the Mukherjees. He grumbled about it mightily, so I offered to help with kitchen cleaning, because, of course, I could not touch their food.

  The next day as I was scrubbing out a pot with ash, Miss Rachael came into the kitchen. She stood watching me for a while before saying, “You’re looking thin.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” It was true that I’d barely eaten over the last few days; yet she could not be asking because she was concerned about me. It was leading to something else.

  “Why are you in this kitchen?”

  “Lalit-dada is cooking many more dishes now and asked me to help with cleaning,” I answered, keeping my eyes on the pot, because I didn’t want her to accuse me of disrespect; I just wanted her to go away.

  “Well, there’s a great deal more I have for you to do, but let me tell you some news: Your friend is dying. The bhisti heard the doctor tell her parents.”

  “They are not her parents,” I said as my mind whirled. Bidushi had medicine; she could not be dying. Miss Rachael had lied to me and other people before. This could be another of her cruel fabrications; I would not believe it.

  THAT NIGHT I went to the infirmary door and was told by Nurse-matron to sleep in the lean-to. This troubled me, for I worried whether it might be true that Bidushi was doing worse. Matron would not say, and I couldn’t bear not knowing. So the next morning, even before the crows cawed, I went silently to the outdoor tank to bathe. Just as I was tying on my clean pink sari, a car horn sounded.

  The only reason for the noise was a visitor outside the school gate, which was locked every evening. I hurried to the stables and called to the boys who slept there about the horn and then hastened down the driveway myself. A taxi had come with a turbaned Sikh driver at the wheel. In the seat next to him was a clean-shaven young man wearing glasses, and in the back was an older well-dressed couple still half asleep. I waited at the gate until the stable boy came running with a key to unlock the padlock.

  I followed the car as it drew up to the portico. Without waiting for a chowkidar’s aid, the young man unfolded himself from the car. He was tall and wore a Western gentleman’s suit. His dark hair waved back from a high, intelligent forehead. He had round gold-rimmed spectacles that made him look wise beyond his age. I stared openly, realizing he was as fine and beautiful as the words he’d written to me. I loved him; so would Bidushi.

  “Will you please tell the authorities that the Bandopadhyays are here to consult with Dr. Sengupta?” Pankaj Bandopadhyay’s voice was courteous and carried what I guessed must be a sophisticated city accent. How breathtaking he was: even more than I imagined.

  “Yes, of course. I’d almost forgotten you were coming!”

  He paused, as if my words had startled him. Then, looking at me strangely, he said, “I reached Calcutta yesterday. My parents and I have come to see my fiancée, Bidushi Mukherjee. She is a student here who is seriously ill.”

  “Yes, I know. I will tell them. Please wait.” I ran back to the school building, elated that Pankaj had come, like a prince to awaken and save the sleeping princess. I awoke the bearer who was sleeping in the hallway and asked him to summon the bhisti to bring hot water to the infirmary, while the kitchen staff needed to make tea for the visitors and doctor. I next rapped on the doctor’s door and called to her that bed tea was forthcoming and that the Bandopadhyays had arrived.

  But when I reached the door to the infirmary, it was still locked. Desperate to awaken and bathe Bidushi, I went out a side door into the garden and came around to one of the infirmary’s open windows and pulled myself up through it into the room.

  To my relief, Bidushi’s stomach was rising and falling with her breath. Her stomach was hard and round, protruding more than before. When I approached her and touched her hand, her eyes flickered.

  “Pankaj is here,” I said. “We must prepare for him!”

  Slowly, she turned her head toward me.

  “He came straight here with his family. I will wash you because they will come to your bedside later on.” I was filled with urgency that she appear as fresh as she could. Her beauty was gone; maybe with washing I could bring it back.

  “Too cold,” whimpered Bidushi, although the temperature of her hand was pure heat.

  “Heavens, what are you doing in here?” Nurse-matron had unlocked the main infirmary door and come inside. The bhisti was behind her, carrying his heavy drum of water.

  “Her fiancé just arrived. I came to clean her and change her sheets.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about the visitors. They’re in the parlor having tea. All right then, you may help with her bath, but let me take her temperature first.” She put her hand to Bidushi’s forehead. “God only knows why this medicine is taking so long to have any effect.”

  At least now Bidushi knew Pankaj was there. Because of this, I thought she could rally. After all, love was the most powerful medicine. Not just what Pankaj felt for Bidushi; but what I felt for both of them, too.

  Why is it that the best moments pass fleetingly—and bad minutes feel like days? I paced the hallway, ready to run for supplies if Matron or Dr. Sengupta put their head out the door. I was not allowed at
the bedside but knew her aunt and uncle were there. Every so often they would exit to drink tea in Miss Jamison’s study, while the Bandopa-dhyays took their turn. All this switching had come about because Dr. Sengupta thought too much company would tire Bidushi.

  “That sick girl will ruin chances for a wedding.” I overheard the jamidarni-auntie fretting to her husband. “If she has another fit, they’ll believe that a devil’s inside her. I always suspected, but here is proof.”

  “We don’t know what they think.” The jamidar-uncle sounded more tired than anything. “They are a good family with a long link to ours. Over the generations, there have been many Bandopadhyay-Mukherjee marriages. Remember that.”

  “She never should have come to this place,” his wife hissed. “If she’d been kept in purdah at home none of this would have occurred.”

  It was because of Pankaj’s request that Bidushi had come to school; I wondered if he was thinking about that, too. Later that morning, I glimpsed Pankaj seated in the chair closest to Bidushi’s pillow. There were no indications any conversation was taking place between them, and I felt dejected about how sickly Bidushi looked. I hoped that would not deter Pankaj. If he kissed her brow, perhaps she would come back to life like Sleeping Beauty in The Arthur Rackham Fairy Book. Bidushi had said that if she died, I would have to watch over Pankaj; but how could that be, with me a lowly servant he clearly hadn’t recognized as his companion of letters? The request was impossible. The only way I could care for him—and for her as well—would be for her to survive this terrible turn of events and get away to Calcutta.

  I worked in the kitchen that afternoon, chopping fish for a curry that would be served to all the Indian visitors. A special table had been created for them near the headmistress’s. According to Lalit, the new Indian table had triggered unrest among the English girls. Upon seeing the Bengali dishes spread elegantly on the table, some students were demanding the same instead of boiled meat and potatoes.

  It was a struggle to concentrate on Lalit’s conversation. I could only think of Bidushi slipping away and my future burning up alongside her on the cremation pyre.

  In the late afternoon, I begged to bring the tray of tea and sweetmeats for the visitors to Miss Jamison’s parlor, in order to overhear any possible news. Lalit was uneasy, for what I’d volunteered to do was typically a male bearer’s job, but he finally agreed to let me bring in the freshly ironed tablecloths and napkins to set the table at which everyone concerned with Bidushi would take their tea.

  I walked with my arms full of fresh-starched cloths to the empty study, wishing for a way to make the job last longer. I had an idea. I’d slip into the garden and see if the mali would allow me to cut some roses. Then I would arrange a vase for each table. The fragrance would revive the visitors after the harsh smells of the sickroom.

  As I walked through the school’s flower garden looking for the freshest open roses, I noticed that Bidushi’s fiancé was walking, too. As Pankaj drew near, I saw his head was bowed and tears were streaming from beneath his spectacles. He half-fell onto one of the marble benches and then buried his face in hands.

  I had grown up believing that tears were a sign of womanly weakness. Yet here was the man Bidushi and I had both dreamed about in uncontrolled despair. How moved I was by the sight of him; his tears made me love him for everything he was and for how deeply he adored my only friend. Now I regretted not having written the final letter Bidushi had asked me for. I could have overlooked propriety and confessed her deepest love. I would not have tried to be funny or clever, just said the words that came from my heart. And maybe I could have added a postscript saying that the letters he treasured had always had a coauthor, another Indian girl at the school. She was the one who had made the jokes he liked and had political opinions he respected. She could still write to him, if it was what he desired.

  As I thought this, I was filled both with sorrow for Bidushi and a flash of something else—guilt—at thinking I could remain part of Pankaj’s life. I tried to choke back a sob, but was unsuccessful, for Pankaj looked up. He took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Sorry, I have bothered you . . .” I trailed off, feeling ashamed.

  “You speak fluent English,” he said tightly. “And when you came to meet our car, you already knew I was expected to visit. What kind of staff does this school have? Are you a servant—or a spy?”

  He questioned me roughly: the way an aristocrat typically did to a lesser. And I knew that I didn’t look quite like the other servants, dressed as I was in the good pink sari with a rose tucked in my hair. Now I understood that my wistful dream about confessing my existence in a last letter was wrong. I couldn’t risk his learning how close I was to Bidushi.

  I switched back to the soft, regional Bengali I’d grown up speaking. “I’m very sorry, Saheb. I only spoke English because I am accustomed to using it here with my betters—I mean, my English betters. Not that the Ingrej are better than Indians,” I added hastily, remembering our political exchanges.

  Pankaj put his glasses back on and squinted through them at me. “Go on, speak English. It seems to be your preference.”

  My heart beat triply as I struggled to think of what to say to extricate myself from the situation. I had invaded his sorrow, embarrassed him by catching him weeping—and for this he was angry. Trying again I said, “No, no! I am making mistake upon mistake because I am torn with grief, too—”

  “Mistake upon mistake. Who taught you that phrase?” There was a strange light in his reddened, sorrowful eyes, something that made me afraid that I couldn’t stay a moment longer without giving away the truth.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. For reasons of work, I must leave!” I blurted, and once again, I ran from him, stumbling along the stone path, roses all but forgotten.

  Mistake upon mistake. I had written those words to him in English, in one of the letters, liking the way the Ms sounded so close together. But the phrase could be my undoing, if Pankaj continued to remember.

  INSIDE THE SCHOOL, I wiped my sweating face and hands before proceeding at a normal pace to the infirmary. As I drew near, I heard a surprising amount of noise. As I entered the sickroom, I found Mr. Bandopadhyay was softly chanting a prayer. Instead of participating, the jamidar-uncle was arguing with Dr. Sengupta, who was looking downcast. I imagined how sad she was that Bidushi hadn’t improved. The jamidarni-auntie was wailing and being held by Pankaj’s mother. So much noise was not good for Bidushi; I was shocked that Dr. Sengupta was allowing it.

  With misgivings, I looked toward Bidushi’s bed. A sheet had been pulled from bottom to top, covering the small mound of her body. The medicine stand had been disconnected and pushed to the other side of the room. And with all of this, I finally understood why Pankaj had fled outside to weep in private.

  Bidushi was gone.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Hissing serpents poison the very air.

  Here fine words of peace ring hollow.

  My time is up; but before I go, I send out

  My call to those who are getting ready in a

  Thousand homes to fight the demon.

  —Rabindranath Tagore, “Hissing Serpents,” (“Number 18”), 1937

  It is impossible for a servant to take time for grief. Everywhere, people have their needs. For the rest of that afternoon, I ran dishes from the kitchen to the dining hall with a face that said nothing, although my hands would not stop trembling. I struggled to remember Bidushi’s final words. She’d said that she felt cold. Now I wished I had lain down to warm her. It would have been better for her than the bath.

  Everyone knew. In the kitchen and hallways, I overheard the other servants debating whether the cremation would be done by a Hindu priest in nearby Midnapore or if the Mukherjees would bring her home. Timing mattered. A corpse should be burned within the day for the soul to escape into the next life.

  Miss Rachael was watching me with hard eyes through all of this
, and then she came up, smiling with false sympathy, saying that Miss Jamison wanted me in the infirmary. I went quickly, wondering if this would be a chance to pay my last regards to Bidushi. Or maybe the headmistress wanted me to wash Bidushi’s body, as that work might be considered too gruesome for Nurse-matron and the jamidarni-auntie.

  Upon entering the infirmary, I saw Bidushi’s bed was already empty and stripped of sheets. I bobbed my head for Miss Jamison and made a respectful namaskar with my hands toward the Bandopadhyay parents and both Mukherjees.

  “I have a question for you about Miss Mukherjee’s possessions.” Miss Jamison spoke to me in clear, loud English, as if she wanted the others all to understand. “Her fiancé wished for the return of a sentimental gift he made to her. Perhaps you know it?”

  During this address, Bidushi’s aunt was leaning forward, her bangles tinkling against one another like little bells of warning.

  “Yes, there was a ruby she always wore on a gold chain.” My speech came slowly, while my mind raced. Since she was deceased, she could not get in trouble. But I could for having known about it.

  “Nurse-matron noticed it and offered to put it in the cabinet for safekeeping. Miss Mukherjee refused, and because the girl was doing so poorly, Nurse-matron let her keep wearing it. But now it is no longer with her.” Miss Jamison’s words dropped hard, like stones in a river.

  That morning, I had been desperate to put Bidushi into a state of decent cleanliness. I had stripped off my friend’s soiled nightdress without noticing the necklace. Had it been on then? How could it have been lost?

  “Maybe the chain broke in the sheets,” I ventured, thinking that if a dhobi had found a ruby pendant within his washing bundle, he would not likely bring it forward. But who would be depraved enough to steal from someone who’d died?

  “In that case, there would be evidence: a remnant of the chain. It appears that the entire necklace and the pendant were removed by someone,” Mr. Bandopadhyay said in the precise English I imagined he used in the court.