Free The Sleeping Dictionary by Sujata Massey

while the jamidarni was schooling her in menus, jewelry selection, and sari draping: details of the Indian aristocratic life that I savored.
    Once she became more confident, I made Bidushi write her English sentences next to Bengali translations; I used this to help me learn the writing of Bengali, for up to this point I spoke my mother tongue but could not read or write. In this way, Bidushi taught me as much as I taught her, without her noticing. I feared that if she knew I was so uneducated, she might treat me like less of a friend.
    Bidushi smiled and joked more as her English came along, although she retained a strong Bengali accent that the other girlsmocked if the teachers weren’t listening. I’d hoped Bidushi would find solace with the two other Indian girls at Lockwood, but they walked past her as if she didn’t exist.
    “It’s because I talk with you, Didi, but I don’t care,” she said one evening in the garden, where we had gone for fresh air after studying inside. “I’ve never had a true friend like you, and those two aren’t worth two paise. The others, even less.” And then she told me something that I had not understood. Indian Civil Service and army officers did not send their daughters to our school, which wasn’t top-drawer. Lockwood was stocked with the daughters of ordinary merchants and missionaries and railway men, and a few wealthy Indians from nearby. Out of this mishmash, the girls built their very own caste system.
    Indians were, of course, at the ground floor. The Anglo-Indians, Armenians, and French socialized well together; but it was the girls from Britain and her colonies who were on top, though they occasionally warred with one another. The British called the Australians Aussies, and they in turn called the English ones Poms, which meant Prisoners of Mother England. When I learned this, I was quite relieved nobody knew my old village name.
    Bidushi did not call me Sarah, only the loving term didi , meaning big sister. It was ironic, because she was slightly older. But in many ways, she seemed younger; and as months passed, a feeling grew inside me that I was intelligent and had value. It was as if Bidushi’s affection and Miss Richmond’s expectations were making me into someone new.

    IN SHORT ORDER the weather turned from pleasant to sweltering. The girls played tennis in sleeveless white blouses and skirts that barely brushed their knees. Even Bidushi wore a tennis costume, and I silently cheered as she grew in skill enough to triumph over an English girl. I was happy for Bidushi, and the next time that we weretaking our evening constitutional, I confessed that I wished we could always be together at Lockwood.
    Bidushi bent to snip off the blossom of one of the rosebushes and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply. “First, you’d have to change this place by sending away all the pale people with their unkind thoughts. And the hot air in this locality makes me feel ill from late morning into the night. I long to hear the sea again and feel the cool breezes.”
    “But Pankaj’s family doesn’t live near Johlpur—aren’t they in Calcutta?” I asked, watching Bidushi idly twirl the rose in her hand. If the gardener had seen, he would be angry; clearly, Bidushi wasn’t afraid of anyone.
    “Yes. The City of Palaces, as they call it! It’s going to be a terrible hustle-bustle there, with all the trams and cars, but the Bandopadhyays live in a very beautiful calm section. They call that place Ballygunge.”
    “What a lovely house name,” I said, spelling it out in my mind.
    “No, it is not like the countryside!” Bidushi said, casually dropping the rose to the gravel path. “Their bungalow has a number on the street—27 Lower Circular Road—and it is built with four levels, just like a tiffin container. Every bedchamber has its own bathroom with running hot and cold water. There is a large room just for parties, and in it a grand piano like the one in Miss