Free The Sleeping Dictionary by Sujata Massey Page A

Jamison’s parlor.”
    “The street a circle? And the house like a tiffin box. It is too much!” I spoke knowing that I would never see such a place, except in my mind. And for a moment I felt jealous.
    “But it’s really like that. I was there many years ago, visiting Calcutta, and Pankaj was describing it again in the letter he sent from England.”
    “What? He sent you a love letter ?” I whispered the forbidden, racy words in English.
    “Go away!” She punched me lightly. “Nothing is bad about the letters he sends. But I cannot decide whether to write back. My aunt and uncle would be too angry.”
    “They are too far away to know what you’re doing.” I was thinking how much I would like to see one of those letters for myself. This year, I had begun to feel that certain parts of my body were awake and restless; the idea of Bidushi receiving inappropriate correspondence inflamed me.
    “I don’t know what to write to him. He is ten years older and so intelligent.” She looked at me anxiously. “Will you help me?”
    Warmth spread through me at her words; for this was exactly what I wanted.
    During the next day’s study hall, we finished Bidushi’s homework, and then she laid a delicate paper across her notebook for me to read. I inhaled the letter from Pankaj the way she had the rose; but to my surprise it was more friendly than lover-like, full of talk about his classes and the English weather and his longing to return to Bengal. I began work that day on a reply in Bengali and made several drafts, the last of which we both approved several days later. In five hundred words, I had created a humorous depiction of Bidushi’s school life, making observations about the English girls’ odd behaviors. I included questions about Pankaj’s daily life and Bidushi’s anticipation of seeing him, throwing in a few English phrases to show how worldly she had become.
    Bidushi copied my words into her own neat handwriting and posted the letter with the regular school-mail collection. Letters going overseas were very common, no cause for notice. However, letters to men outside of the family were forbidden, so we always put Miss on the envelope addressed to Pankaj. Miss Jamison, who checked over the incoming and outgoing student mail, couldn’t pronounce Indian names. We realized with great delight that she would probably never guess that Pankaj was a male name, especially since he’d got in the spirit and wrote his name on the back of the envelope as Miss Pankaj Bandopadhyay, Esq.
    The letters flowed back and forth, at least one per fortnight. By 1935, the correspondence between Pankaj and me posing as Bidushibecame almost flirtatious. I was happy for Bidushi and proud of myself for engineering such a strong romance. I’d also gotten much better with my Bengali writing, although Bidushi was the one who always wrote, in her handwriting, the final version of the letter to be mailed.
    “If you give a beggar a pitcher, he will never stop drinking,” Miss Rachael said one afternoon when I’d come back from the study hall. “Your association with the Mukherjee girl is not good. And what would her Brahmin family think if they knew who was sitting so closely to her every day?”
    If the directress of housekeeping understood the extent of what was going on, she would have been even angrier.

CHAPTER
    6

February 14, 1935
12 Milton Road
Cambridge, England
My dear Bidushi,
May I call you dear? I have found myself struggling not to use endearments when I think of you. That is why I have enclosed this pendant. Your family will give you jewelry to take to our marriage, and perhaps not all of it will be to my liking. Therefore, this is my gift to you.
Your most recent letter was my favorite to date. How your descriptions of the school setting and your teachers amuse a very bored and homesick student! You may not remember, but when we were small, I played school with you once when your family visited us. Of course, I claimed