The Sleeping Dictionary by Sujata Massey Page A

mask covered the lower half of her face. This was wet, too.
    “What is Miss Bidushi’s illness?” I asked.
    “I don’t really know; it could be anything,” she said in her rolling accent.“The fever hasn’t broken. She’s got the chills something awful, but I can’t wrap her lest I raise her fever.”
    I looked past the blue-and-white-striped mountain of Nurse-matron and toward the infirmary’s rows of beds, all empty save for one occupied by Bidushi. Nurse-matron’s mention of chills reminded me of my own episode with cholera. It seemed unlikely for Bidushi to have caught that disease, because all the students and teachers drank boiled water.
    I approached Bidushi’s cot. A mosquito coil burned nearby, its noxious perfume flung across the room by the whirling overhead fan. I put my hand on my friend’s cheek; it burned like fire. Underneath her closed lids her eyes were moving, dreaming about something that made her whimper.
    “I’m here,” I said in English, getting as close as I could given the mosquito nets guarding all sides of her cot. “What’s wrong, dearest? Where does it hurt?”
    She didn’t answer, although her eyes flicked open for a moment. Something was wrong with them. I realized then that this could not be an ordinary fever. My friend was deathly ill, and I could lose her.
    “Speak to her in Bengali,” Miss Jamison commanded from behind me. “Perhaps then she’ll hear you.”
    “Yes, madam.” Struggling to sound calm, I said, “Bidushi, I am worried about you. Please tell me what you are feeling.”
    I regretted my words for they were lost in a paroxysm; Bidushi shook and tossed her head from side to side so much that the front of her nightgown opened, revealing the ruby pendant plastered to her damp skin. Her eyes opened, and I could see only the whites that were not white at all, but a pale yellow.
    “God Almighty, is she epileptic?” Nurse-matron cried, pulling up the mosquito net as Bidushi’s body continued its sharp, fast vibrations. “Fetch a towel, girl!”
    I ran for the clean laundry cabinet and brought a cloth that Nurse-matron twisted and slipped inside Bidushi’s mouth. Theviolent shaking continued for another minute and then slowed until she was finally still. But not dead, I realized with gratitude, as I slipped my own hand over Bidushi’s hot, wet one.
    “Did you think her eyes looked yellow?” I asked Nurse-matron.
    “The girl may have the yellow fever and the jaundice. That’s more than I can treat; we must have a doctor come.” Nurse-matron gave Miss Jamison a look that said Do something .
    “Unfortunately, her guardians already made clear she cannot be examined by a male doctor.” Miss Jamison’s voice was grave. “Dr. Andrews from the Keshiari Mission cannot be called. There are Indian doctors in Midnapore, but I imagine they won’t allow them either because they are men.”
    “I would send for any doctor and not tell them about it. Surely they’d rather have a live girl than a dead one!” Nurse-matron’s eyes flashed as she straightened the sheet over Bidushi. I admired the Irishwoman for talking so strongly to the headmistress.
    “But there is also her fiancé’s family to speak with,” I said, remembering what Bidushi had told me about the Bandopadhyays’ modern ways. “She is to be married in a few months, and they are a very educated and modern family. I’m sure that her health is very important to them.”
    “Yes, I know about the forthcoming marriage.” Miss Jamison sounded thoughtful. “I suppose they might talk sense about the doctor to the Mukherjees. But I know nothing of their whereabouts.”
    “Her father-in-law-to-be, Mr. Bandopadhyay, is a lawyer at Number 27 Lower Circular Road in Calcutta’s Ballygunge section.” I said it swiftly, because I had memorized the address of where I dreamed of moving.
    Miss Jamison nodded. “If there is a telephone on the premises, I will be able to call. Otherwise, I shall send a