Read Online The Sleeping Dictionary by Sujata Massey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sujata Massey
Ads: Link
teacher.”
Miss Richmond was quiet for a moment, then said, “Sarah, speak some more.”
“I’m very sorry, but I don’t know what to say.” My face was hot with shame, for I knew this conversation had gone on too long. I had not intended to call attention to myself, only to rescue Bidushi.
“If you’ve been learning from me in this classroom, will you please recite something?”
So I recited the part of A Room of One’s Own she had just read aloud to the class. Perhaps I had gotten a few words wrong, but at the end, Miss Richmond asked me some questions to see how much of it I’d understood. I explained the various themes and about my idea of keeping a cabinet in one’s mind. She nodded and said, “Youunderstand everything, and your intonation is remarkable. And you must read plenty of books, obviously, to have followed all that figurative language.”
“I do read,” I said cautiously, praying this would not lead to an inquisition about which books I had touched. “But my handwriting is not up to the mark.”
“Handwriting can be improved—but, Sarah, you have a gift for language. You have given me an idea for Bidushi.” Bidushi had been looking blank, but her eyes widened at the sound of her name. Miss Richmond continued: “You shall become her special helpmate. An extra desk will be brought to this class and placed next to her. When Bidushi does not understand a word, she shall touch your desktop, and you may translate in Bengali—but in a whisper, so as not to distract the others. Please explain this.”
I translated quickly for Bidushi, and her lips slowly curved into a smile. In heavily accented English, she said, “Thank you, madam!”
“Oh, don’t thank me; it will be Sarah who deserves that.” Miss Richmond’s voice was brisk. “Now, Bidushi, shall we go into the dining hall? There are only friendly girls sitting at my table.”
SUDDENLY, MY LIFE had become quite bright, with a girl just my age who shared my past. In A Little Princess , a novel that Miss Richmond always had the nine-year-old class read, the rich student called Sara, and the scullery maid Becky, were kind to each other. It was almost the same, except for the reversal in our names. And I was aware that, although I now tutored Bidushi, I still had to honor my other responsibilities. If the electricity failed, I rushed from my desk to the back of the classroom to work the punkah, causing giggles among the girls. But such nonsense paled in comparison to Miss Rachael’s anger at losing my hands for several hours each day. In retaliation, she set me to doing more in my reduced hours. But I hardly minded, becauseI adored helping Bidushi. Learning English was like catching fish without touching water, as Thakurma used to say about good things that came too easily. I wanted it to be that way for Bidushi, also; but it was not.
“I cannot learn this language,” Bidushi whispered in our forbidden Bengali during the late-afternoon study period. “It is an embarrassment with my name.”
Bidushi’s name meant knowledge; I thought how lovely it would be to have such a lofty name instead of Sarah, an old wife in the Ingrej Bible. But I could see that Bidushi felt too sorry for herself. I had grown comfortable enough to know that if I teased her, it might improve her outlook.
“Oh, there’s no need to work at it,” I said lightly. “If you don’t care to please your husband and his English-speaking friends, he can return you to Johlpur, where you can speak Bengali with your dear aunt.”
Bidushi made a face but did work harder. Together we recovered the long-lost vocabulary, and she learned enough new words to recount life when her parents were alive. What a beautiful world it had been! As a young child, Bidushi tottered around a lace-covered table until European lady guests reached down to take her up on their laps. She moved on to thirty-course dinner parties at which royalty and government officials mingled. All the
Miss Richmond was quiet for a moment, then said, “Sarah, speak some more.”
“I’m very sorry, but I don’t know what to say.” My face was hot with shame, for I knew this conversation had gone on too long. I had not intended to call attention to myself, only to rescue Bidushi.
“If you’ve been learning from me in this classroom, will you please recite something?”
So I recited the part of A Room of One’s Own she had just read aloud to the class. Perhaps I had gotten a few words wrong, but at the end, Miss Richmond asked me some questions to see how much of it I’d understood. I explained the various themes and about my idea of keeping a cabinet in one’s mind. She nodded and said, “Youunderstand everything, and your intonation is remarkable. And you must read plenty of books, obviously, to have followed all that figurative language.”
“I do read,” I said cautiously, praying this would not lead to an inquisition about which books I had touched. “But my handwriting is not up to the mark.”
“Handwriting can be improved—but, Sarah, you have a gift for language. You have given me an idea for Bidushi.” Bidushi had been looking blank, but her eyes widened at the sound of her name. Miss Richmond continued: “You shall become her special helpmate. An extra desk will be brought to this class and placed next to her. When Bidushi does not understand a word, she shall touch your desktop, and you may translate in Bengali—but in a whisper, so as not to distract the others. Please explain this.”
I translated quickly for Bidushi, and her lips slowly curved into a smile. In heavily accented English, she said, “Thank you, madam!”
“Oh, don’t thank me; it will be Sarah who deserves that.” Miss Richmond’s voice was brisk. “Now, Bidushi, shall we go into the dining hall? There are only friendly girls sitting at my table.”
SUDDENLY, MY LIFE had become quite bright, with a girl just my age who shared my past. In A Little Princess , a novel that Miss Richmond always had the nine-year-old class read, the rich student called Sara, and the scullery maid Becky, were kind to each other. It was almost the same, except for the reversal in our names. And I was aware that, although I now tutored Bidushi, I still had to honor my other responsibilities. If the electricity failed, I rushed from my desk to the back of the classroom to work the punkah, causing giggles among the girls. But such nonsense paled in comparison to Miss Rachael’s anger at losing my hands for several hours each day. In retaliation, she set me to doing more in my reduced hours. But I hardly minded, becauseI adored helping Bidushi. Learning English was like catching fish without touching water, as Thakurma used to say about good things that came too easily. I wanted it to be that way for Bidushi, also; but it was not.
“I cannot learn this language,” Bidushi whispered in our forbidden Bengali during the late-afternoon study period. “It is an embarrassment with my name.”
Bidushi’s name meant knowledge; I thought how lovely it would be to have such a lofty name instead of Sarah, an old wife in the Ingrej Bible. But I could see that Bidushi felt too sorry for herself. I had grown comfortable enough to know that if I teased her, it might improve her outlook.
“Oh, there’s no need to work at it,” I said lightly. “If you don’t care to please your husband and his English-speaking friends, he can return you to Johlpur, where you can speak Bengali with your dear aunt.”
Bidushi made a face but did work harder. Together we recovered the long-lost vocabulary, and she learned enough new words to recount life when her parents were alive. What a beautiful world it had been! As a young child, Bidushi tottered around a lace-covered table until European lady guests reached down to take her up on their laps. She moved on to thirty-course dinner parties at which royalty and government officials mingled. All the
Similar Books
