by Amitav Ghosh
Zachary’s voice hardened. ‘Serang Ali,’ he said sharply; ‘I don need no explateratin here: I’d like you to do this, please.’
Serang Ali’s eyes darted resentfully from Paulette to Jodu before he gave his reluctant assent. ‘Sabbi. Fixee alla propa.’
‘Thank you,’ said Zachary with a nod, and his chin rose in pride as Paulette stepped up to whisper in his ear: ‘You are too kind, Mr Reid. I feel I should give you an explanation more complete – for what you have seen, of me and Jodu.’
He gave her a smile that made her sway on her feet. ‘You don’t owe me no explanation,’ he said softly.
‘But maybe we can speak – as friends, perhaps?’
‘I would be . . .’
Then suddenly Mr Doughty’s voice went booming through the hold: ‘Is that the gooby you fished out of the water today, Reid?’ His eyes bulged as they took in Jodu’s newly clothed form. ‘Well I’ll be damned if the blackguard hasn’t squeezed his wedding-tackle into a pair of trowsers? There he was, a naked little cockup half a puhur ago, and now he’s tricked out like a wordy-wallah!’
‘Ah! I see you’ve met,’ said Mr Burnham as Zachary and Paulette emerged from the booby-hatch into the heat of the sunlit deck.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Zachary, taking good care to keep his eyes away from Paulette, who was holding her bonnet over the spot where her dress had been dampened by Jodu’s wet loincloth.
‘Good,’ said Mr Burnham, reaching for the ladder that led to his caique. ‘And now we must be off. Come along now – Doughty, Paulette. You too, Baboo Nob Kissin.’
At the mention of this name Zachary glanced over his shoulder and was perturbed to see that the gomusta had cornered Serang Ali and was conferring with him in a manner so furtive, and with so many glances in his own direction, that there could be no doubt of who was being talked about. But the annoyance of this was not enough to eclipse his pleasure in shaking Paulette’s hand again. ‘Hope we’ll meet again soon, Miss Lambert,’ he said softly as he released his hold on her fingers.
‘Me also, Mr Reid,’ she said, lowering her eyes. ‘It would give me much pleasure.’
Zachary lingered on deck until the caique had faded completely from view, trying to fix in his mind the lineaments of Paulette’s face, the sound of her voice, the leaf-scented smell of her hair. It was not till much later that he remembered to ask Serang Ali about his conversation with the gomusta: ‘What was that man talkin to you about – what’s his name? Pander?’
Serang Ali directed a contemptuous jet of spit over the deck rail. ‘That bugger blongi too muchi foolo,’ he said. ‘Wanchi sabbi allo foolo thing.’
‘Like what?’
‘He ask: Malum Zikri likee milk? Likee ghee? Ever hab stole butter?’
‘Butter?’ Zachary began to wonder whether the gomusta was not some kind of investigator, looking into a report of misplaced or manarveled provisions. Yet, why would he concern himself with butter of all things? ‘Why the hell’d he ask bout that?’
Serang Ali tapped his knuckles on his head. ‘He blongi too muchi sassy bugger.’
‘What’d you tell him?’
‘Told: how-fashion Malum Zikri drinki milk in ship? How can catch cow on sea?’
‘Was that all?’
Serang Ali shook his head. ‘Also he ask – hab Malum ever changi colour?’
‘Change colour?’ Suddenly Zachary’s knuckles tightened on the deck rail. ‘What the devil did he mean?’
‘He say: Sometimes Malum Zikri turn blue, no?’
‘And what’d you say?’
‘I say: maski, how-fashion Malum blue can be? He is sahib no? Pink, red, all can do – but blue no can.’
‘Why’s he asking all these questions?’ said Zachary. ‘What’s he up to?’
‘No need worry,’ said Serang Ali. ‘He too muchi foolo.’
Zachary shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He may not be as much of a fool as you think.’
Deeti’s intuition that her husband would not be able to go back to work was soon confirmed. Hukam Singh’s condition, after his seizure at the factory, was so enfeebled that he had not the strength to protest even when she took away his pipe and his brass box. But instead of initiating an improvement, deprivation provoked a dramatic turn for the worse: he could neither eat nor sleep and he soiled himself so often that his bed had to be moved out of doors. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he would scowl and mutter in incoherent rage: Deeti knew that if he had possessed the strength, he would not have stopped at killing her.
A week later, Holi arrived, bringing neither colour nor laughter to Deeti’s home: with Hukam Singh muttering deliriously, on his bed, she did not have the heart to step outside. In Chandan Singh’s house, across the fields, people were drinking bhang and shouting ‘Holi hai!’ The joyful cheers prompted Deeti to send her daughter over, to join in the fun – but even Kabutri had no appetite for merrymaking and was back within the hour.
As much to keep up her own spirits as to ease her husband’s suffering, Deeti exerted herself to find a cure. First she brought in an ojha to exorcize the house and when this produced no effect, she consulted a hakim, who purveyed Yunani medicines, and a vaid who practised Ayurveda. The doctors spent long hours sitting at Hukam Singh’s bedside and consumed great quantities of satua and dalpuris; they dug their fingertips into the patient’s stick-like wrists and exclaimed over his pallid skin; they prescribed expensive medicines, made with gold foil and shavings of ivory, to obtain which Deeti had to sell several of her bangles and nose-rings. When the treatments failed, they confided secretly that Hukam Singh was not long for this world, one way or another – why not ease his passage by allowing him a taste of the drug his body craved? Deeti had decided never to return her husband’s pipe and she was true to her resolve; but she relented to the point where she allowed him a few mouthfuls of akbari opium to chew on every day. These doses were not enough to bring him to his feet, but they did ease his suffering and for Deeti, it was a relief to look into his eyes and know that he had slipped away from the mundane pains of the world and escaped into that other, more vivid reality where Holi never ceased and spring arrived afresh every day. If that was what was necessary to postpone the prospect of widowhood, then she was not the woman to flinch from it.
In the meanwhile there was the harvest to attend to: within a short frame of time each poppy would have to be individually incised and bled of its sap; the coagulated gum would then have to be scraped off and collected in earthenware gharas, to be taken to the factory. It was slow, painstaking work, impossible for a woman and child to undertake on their own. Being unwilling to ask for her brother-in-law’s help, Deeti was forced to hire a half-dozen hands, agreeing to pay them in kind when the harvest was done. While they were at work she had often to be away, to attend to her husband, and thus could not keep as close a watch as she would have liked: the result, predictably, was that her tally of sap-filled jars was a third less than she had expected. After paying the workers, she decided it wouldn’t be wise to entrust the delivery of her jars to anyone else: she sent word to Kalua to come around with his oxcart.
By this time Deeti had abandoned the thought of paying for a new roof with the proceeds of her poppies: she would have been content to earn enough to provide provisions for the season, with perhaps a handful or two of cowries for other expenses. The best she could hope for, she knew, was to come away from the factory with a couple of silver rupees; with luck, depending on the prices in the bazar, she might then have two or three copper dumrees left – maybe even as much as an adhela, to spend on a new sari for Kabutri.
But a rude surprise was waiting at the Carcanna: after her gharas of opium had been weighed, counted and tested, Deeti was shown the account book for Hukam Singh’s plot of land. It turned out that at the start of the season, her husband had taken a much larger advance than she had thought: now, the meagre proceeds were barely enough to cover his debt. She looked disbelievingly at the discoloured coins
that were laid before her: Aho se ka karwat? she cried. Just six dams for the whole harvest? It’s not enough to feed a child, let alone a family.
The muharir behind the counter was a Bengali, with heavy jowls and a cataract of a frown. He answered her not in her native Bhojpuri, but in a mincing, citified Hindi: Do what others are doing, he snapped. Go to the moneylender. Sell your sons. Send them off to Mareech. It’s not as if you don’t have any choices.
I have no sons to sell, said Deeti.
Then sell your land, said the clerk, growing peevish. You people always come here and talk about being hungry, but tell me, who’s ever seen a peasant starve? You just like to complain, all the time khichir-michir . . .
On the way home, Deeti decided to stop at the bazar anyway: having hired Kalua’s cart, it made no sense now to return without any provisions. As it turned out, she was able to afford no more than a two-maund sack of broken rice, thirty seers of the cheapest arhar dal, a couple of tolas of mustard oil and a few chittacks of salt. Her frugality was not lost on the shopkeeper who happened to be also a prominent seth and moneylender. What’s happened-ji, O my sister-in-law? he said, with a show of concern. Do you need a few nice bright Benarsi rupees to see you through till the shravan harvest?
Deeti resisted the offer till she thought of Kabutri: after all, the girl had just a few years left at home – why make her live through them in hunger? She gave in and agreed to place the impression of her thumb on the seth’s account book in exchange for six months’ worth of wheat, oil and gurh. Only as she was leaving did it occur to her to ask how much she owed and what the interest was. The seth’s answers took her breath away: his rates were such that her debt would double every six months; in a few years, all the land would be forfeit. Better to eat weeds than to take such a loan: she tried to return the goods but it was too late. I have your thumbprint now, said the seth, gloating. There’s nothing to be done.
On the way home Deeti sat bowed with worry and forgot about Kalua’s fare. By the time she remembered he was long gone. But why hadn’t he reminded her? Had things come to the point where she had become an object of pity for a carrion-eating keeper of oxen?
Inevitably, word of Deeti’s plight filtered across the fields to Chandan Singh, who appeared at her door with a sackful of nourishing satua. For her daughter’s sake, if not her own, Deeti could not refuse, but once having accepted, nor could she shut the door on her brother-in-law with the same finality as before. After this, on the pretext of visiting his brother, Chandan Singh took to invading her home with increasing frequency. Although he had never before shown any interest in Hukam Singh’s condition, he now began to insist on his right to enter the house in order to sit beside his brother’s bed. But once past the door, he paid no attention to his brother and had eyes only for Deeti: even as he was entering he would brush his hand against her thigh. Sitting on his brother’s bed, he would look at her and fondle himself through the folds of his dhoti; when Deeti knelt to feed Hukam Singh, he would lean so close as to brush her breasts with his knees and elbows. His advances became so aggressive that Deeti took to hiding a small knife in the folds of her sari, fearing that he might attack her, right on her husband’s bed.
The assault, when it came, was not physical, but rather an admission and an argument. He cornered her inside the very room where her husband was lying supine on his bed. Listen to me, Kabutri-ki-ma, he said. You know very well how your daughter was conceived – why pretend? You know that you would be childless today if not for me.
Be quiet, she cried. I won’t listen to another word.
It’s only the truth. He nodded dismissively at his brother’s bed. He couldn’t have done it then any more than he can now. It was me; no one else. And that is why I say to you: wouldn’t it be best for you to do willingly now what you did before without your knowledge? Your husband and I are brothers after all, of the same flesh and blood. Where is the shame? Why should you waste your looks and your youth on a man who cannot enjoy them? Besides, the time is short while your husband is still alive – if you conceive a son while he is still living, he will be his father’s rightful heir. Hukam Singh’s land will pass to him and no one will have the right to dispute it. But you know yourself that as things stand now, my brother’s land and his house will become mine on his death. Jekar khet, tekar dhán – he who owns the land, owns the rice. When I become master of this house, how will you get by except at my pleasure?
With the back of his hand, he wiped the corners of his mouth: This is what I say to you, Kabutri-ki-ma: why not do willingly now what you will be compelled to do a short while hence? Don’t you see that I’m offering you your best hope for the future? If you keep me happy, you will be well looked after.
There was a part of Deeti’s mind that acknowledged the reasonableness of this proposal – but by this time her loathing of her brother-in-law had reached such a pitch that she knew she would not be able to make her own body obey the terms of the bargain, even if she were to accede to it. Following her instincts, she dug her elbow into his bony chest and pushed him aside; baring just enough of her face to expose her eyes, she bit the hem of her sari, drawing it aslant across her face. What kind of devil, she said, can speak like this in front of his own dying brother? Listen to my words: I will burn on my husband’s pyre rather than give myself to you.
He drew back a step and his slack mouth curled into a mocking smile. Words are cheap, he said. Do you think it’s easy for a worthless woman like you to die as a sati? Have you forgotten that your body ceased to be pure on the day of your wedding?
All the more reason then, she said, to burn it in the fire. And it will be easier than to live as you say.
Big-big words, he said. But don’t depend on me to stop you, if you try to make yourself a sati. Why should I? To have a sati in the family will make us famous. We’ll build a temple for you and grow rich on the offerings. But women like you are all words: when the time comes, you’ll escape to your family.
Dikhatwa! We’ll see, she said, slamming the door in his face.
Once the idea had been planted in her mind, Deeti could think of little else: better by far to die a celebrated death than to be dependent on Chandan Singh, or even to return to her own village, to live out her days as a shameful burden on her brother and her kin. The more she thought about it, the more persuasive the case – even where it concerned Kabutri. It was not as if she could promise her daughter a better life by staying alive as the mistress and ‘keep’ of a man of no account, like Chandan Singh. Precisely because he was her daughter’s natural father, he would never allow the girl to be the equal of his other children – and his wife would do everything in her power to punish the child for her parentage. If she remained here, Kabutri would be little more than a servant and working-woman for her cousins; far better to send her back to her brother’s village, to be brought up with his children – a lone child would not be a burden. Deeti had always got on well with her brother’s wife, and knew that she would treat her daughter well. When looked at in this way, it seemed to Deeti that to go on living would be nothing more than selfishness – she could only be an impediment to her daughter’s happiness.
A few days later, with Hukam Singh’s condition growing steadily worse, she learnt that some distant relatives were travelling to the village where she was born: they agreed readily when she asked them to deliver her daughter to the house of her brother, Havildar Kesri Singh, the sepoy. The boat was to leave in a few hours and the pressure of time made it possible for Deeti to remain dry-eyed and composed as she tied Kabutri’s scant few pieces of clothing in a bundle. Among her few remaining pieces of jewellery were an anklet and a bangle: these she fastened on her daughter, with instructions to hand them over to her aunt: She’ll look after them for you.
Kabutri was overjoyed at the prospect of visiting her cousins and living in a household filled with children. How long will I stay there? she asked.
Until your father gets better. I’ll come to get you.
When the boat sailed away, with Kabutri in it, it was as if Deeti’s last connection with life had been severed. From that moment she knew no further hesitation: with her habitual care, she set about making plans for her own end. Of all her concerns, perhaps the least pressing was that of being consumed by the cremation fire: a few mouthfuls of opium, she knew, would render her insensible to the pain.
Seven
Well before he looked at the papers that Zachary had given him, Baboo Nob Kissin knew that they would provide the sign he needed to confirm what was already clear in his heart. So confident was he of this, that on the way back from Bethel, in his caranchie, he was already dreaming of the temple he had promised to build for Ma Taramony: it would sit upon the edge of a waterway and it would have a soaring, saffron-coloured spire. There would be a wide, paved threshold in front, where great numbers of devotees could assemble, to dance, sing and worship.
It was in just such a temple that Nob Kissin Baboo had spent much of his own childhood, some sixty miles north of Calcutta. His family’s temple was in the town of Nabadwip, a centre of piety and learning consecrated to the memory of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu – saint, mystic and devotee of Sri Krishna. One of the gomusta’s ancestors, eleven generations removed, was said to have been among the saint’s earliest disciples: he had founded the temple, which had been tended ever since by his descendants. Nob Kissin himself had once been in line to succeed his uncle as the temple’s custodian, and in his boyhood he had been carefully groomed for his inheritance, being given a thorough education in Sanskrit and logic, as well as in the performance of rites and rituals.
When Nob Kissin was fourteen his uncle fell ill. Summoning the boy to his bedside, the old man had entrusted him with one last duty – his days were drawing to a close, he said, and it was his wish that his young wife, Taramony, be sent to an ashram in the holy city of Brindavan, to live out her widowhood: the journey being difficult and dangerous, he wanted Nob Kissin to escort her there personally before assuming his duties in the family temple.
