by Amitav Ghosh
What happened? said Cassem-meah. Did he fall on deck?
The steward stopped to brush a hand across his eyes. No; the wind took him – carried him away like a kite.
The lascars exchanged glances, and Simba Cader shook his head despondently: Nothing good will come from staying on this boat: I can feel it, in my elbow.
We could vanish, said Rajoo hopefully. The ship’s going into dry dock tomorrow. By the time it comes back, we could all be gone.
Now, suddenly, Serang Ali took command, in a voice that was low but authoritative. No, he said. If we desert, they’ll blame Zikri Malum. He’s come a long way with us – look at him: anyone can see he’s on his way to making good. No other malum’s ever shared our bread and salt. We can only gain by keeping faith with him: it may be hard for a while, but in the end it’ll be to our good.
Here, sensing himself to be at odds with the others, the serang glanced around the circle, as if in search of someone who would join him in affirming allegiance to the malum.
Jodu was the first to respond. Zikri Malum helped me, he said, and I’m in his debt; I’ll stay even if no one else does.
Once Jodu had committed himself, many others said they’d steer the same course – but Jodu knew that it was he who’d steadied the tiller, and Serang Ali acknowledged as much by giving him a nod.
That was when Jodu knew that he was no longer a dandi-wala; he was a real lascar now, assured of his place in the crew.
Eleven
The migrants had been on the Ganga only a few days when the monsoons came sweeping up the river and deluged them with a thunderous downpour. They greeted the rains with cries of gratitude for the preceding few days had been searingly hot, especially in the crowded hold. Now, with powerful winds filling its single, tattered sail, the ungainly pulwar began to make good time, despite having to tack continually between the banks. When the winds died and the showers stopped, the vessel would make use of its complement of twenty long-handled oars, the manpower being supplied by the migrants themselves. The oarsmen were rotated every hour or so and the overseers were careful to ensure that every man served his proper turn. While under weigh, only the oarsmen, the crew and the overseers were allowed on deck – everyone else was expected to remain in the hold below, where the migrants were quartered.
The hold ran the length of the vessel, and had no compartments or internal divisions: it was like a floating storage shed, with a ceiling so low that a grown man could not stand upright in it for fear of hurting his head. The hold’s windows, of which there were several, were usually kept shut for fear of thieves, thugs and river-dacoits; after the rains came down they were almost permanently sealed, so that very little light penetrated inside, even when the clouds cleared.
The first time Deeti looked into the hold, she had felt as though she were about to tumble into a well: all she could see, through the veil of her ghungta, were the whites of a great many eyes, shining in the darkness as they looked up and blinked into the light. She went down the ladder with great deliberation, being careful to keep her face veiled. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, she saw that she had descended into the middle of a packed assembly: several dozen men were gathered around her, some squatting on their haunches, some lying curled on mats, and some sitting with their backs against the hull. A ghungta seemed but a paltry shield against the assault of so many curious eyes, and she was quick to seek shelter behind Kalua.
The women’s section of the hold lay well forward, in a curtained alcove between the bows: Kalua led the way there, clearing a path through the press of bodies. When they reached the alcove, Deeti came to an abrupt halt and her hand shook as she reached for the curtain. Don’t go far, she whispered nervously in Kalua’s ear. Stay close by – who knows what these women are like?
Theekba – don’t worry, I’ll be nearby, he said, ushering her through.
Deeti had expected the women’s part of the hold to be just as crowded as the men’s, but on stepping past the curtain, she found only a half-dozen figures inside, veiled by their ghungtas. Some of the women were lying sprawled on the floor planks, but on Deeti’s entry they moved up to make room for her; she lowered herself slowly to her haunches, taking care to keep her face covered. With everyone squatting and every face covered, there followed a sizingup that was as awkward and inconclusive as the examination of a new bride by her husband’s neighbours. At first no one spoke, but then a sudden gust of wind caused the pulwar to lurch, and the women found themselves tumbling and spilling over each other. Amidst the groans and giggles, Deeti’s ghungta slipped from her face, and when she had righted herself, she found that she was looking at a woman with a wide mouth from which a lone tooth protruded like a tilted gravestone. Her name, Deeti would discover later, was Heeru, and she was given to fits of forgetfulness during which she would sit gazing vacantly at her fingernails. It would not take Deeti long to learn that Heeru was the most harmless of women, but at that first meeting, she was more than a little disconcerted by the directness of her curiosity.
Who are you? Heeru demanded. Tohar nám patá batáv tani? If you don’t identify yourself, how will we know who you are?
As the newcomer, Deeti knew that she would have to account for herself before she could expect the same of the others. It was on her lips to identify herself as Kabutri-ki-ma – the name by which she had been known ever since her daughter’s birth – when it occurred to her that if she was to prevent her husband’s kinsmen from learning of her whereabouts, both she and Kalua would have to use names other than those by which they were generally known. What then was to be her name? Her proper, given name was the first to come to mind, and since it had never been used by anyone, it was as good as any. Aditi, she said softly, I am Aditi.
No sooner had she said it than it became real: this was who she was – Aditi, a woman who had been granted, by a whim of the gods, the boon of living her life again. Yes, she said, raising her voice a little, so that Kalua could hear her. I am Aditi, wife of Madhu.
The significance of a married woman using her own name was not lost on the others. Heeru’s eyes grew clouded with pity: she too had been a mother once and her name was, properly speaking, Heeru-ki-ma. Although her child had died a while ago, through a cruel irony of abbreviation, his name had lived on in his mother. Heeru clicked her tongue sadly as she mulled over Deeti’s plight: So your lap is empty then? No children?
No, said Deeti.
Miscarriages? The question was asked by a thin, shrewd-looking woman, with streaks of grey in her hair: this was Sarju, Deeti would discover later, the oldest among the women. Back in her village, near Ara, she had been a dái, a midwife, but a mistake in the delivery of a thakur’s son had caused her to be driven from her home. On her lap lay a large cloth bundle, over which her hands were protectively clasped, as if to safeguard a treasure.
That day on the pulwar, Deeti did not have the presence of mind to think of a proper answer when the midwife repeated her question: Miscarriages? stillborn? how did you lose the little ones?
Deeti said nothing, but her silence was suggestive enough to elicit an outburst of sympathy: Never mind . . . you are young and strong . . . your lap will soon be filled . . .
In the midst of this, one of the others edged closer, a teenaged girl with long-lashed, trusting eyes: the mound of her chin, Deeti noticed, bore an embellishment that perfectly complemented the oval shape of her face – a tattoo of three tiny dots, arrayed in an arrowhead pattern.
É tohran ját kaun ha? the girl asked eagerly. And your caste?
I am . . .
Once again, just as she was about to provide an accustomed answer, Deeti’s tongue tripped on the word that came first to her lips: the name of her caste was as intimate a part of herself as the memory of her daughter’s face – but now it seemed as if that too were a part of a past life, when she had been someone else. She began again, hesitantly: We, my jora and I . . .
Confronted with the prospect of cutting herself loose
from her moorings in the world, Deeti’s breath ran out. She stopped to suck in a deep draught of air before starting again: . . . We, my husband and I, we are Chamars . . .
At this, the girl gave a squeal and threw her arm delightedly around Deeti’s waist.
You too? said Deeti.
No, said the girl. I’m from the Mussahars, but that makes us like sisters, doesn’t it?
Yes, said Deeti smiling, we could be sisters – except that you’re so young you should be my niece.
This delighted the girl: That’s right, she cried, you can be bhauji hamár – my sister-in-law.
This exchange annoyed some of the other women, who began to scold the girl: What’s wrong with you, Munia? How does all that matter any more? We’re all sisters now, aren’t we?
Yes, that’s right, said Munia, with a nod – but under the cover of her sari, she gave Deeti’s hand a little squeeze as if to affirm a special and secret bond.
‘Neel Rattan Halder, the time has come . . .’
No sooner had Mr Justice Kendalbushe begun his concluding address than he had to start pounding his gavel, for a disturbance broke out in the courtroom when it came to be noted that the judge had omitted the defendant’s title. After order had been restored, the judge began again, fixing his eyes directly upon Neel, who was stationed below the podium, in a dock.
‘Neel Rattan Halder,’ said the judge, ‘the time has come to bring these proceedings to a close. Having given due consideration to all the evidence brought before this court, the jury has found you guilty, so it now becomes my painful duty to pass upon you the sentence of the law for forgery. Lest you be unaware of the seriousness of your offence, let me explain that under English law your offence is a crime of the utmost gravity and was until recently considered a capital crime.’
Here the judge broke off and spoke directly to Neel: ‘Do you understand what that means? It means that forgery was a hanging offence – a measure which played no small part in ensuring Britain’s present prosperity and in conferring upon her the stewardship of the world’s commerce. And if this crime proved difficult to deter in a country such as England, then it is only to be expected that it will be very much more so in a land such as this, which has only recently been opened to the benefits of civilization.’
Right then, through the muted patter of a monsoon shower, Neel’s ears caught the faint echo of a vendor’s voice, hawking sweetmeats somewhere in the distance: Joynagorer moa . . . At the sound of that faraway call, his mouth filled with the remembered taste of a crisp, smoky sweetness as the judge went on to observe that since it was said, and rightly, that a parent who failed to chasten a child was thereby guilty of shirking the responsibilities of guardianship, then might it not also be said, in the same spirit, that in the affairs of men, there was a similar obligation, imposed by the Almighty himself, on those whom he had chosen to burden with the welfare of such races as were still in the infancy of civilization? Could it not equally be said that the nations that had been appointed to this divine mission would be guilty of neglecting their sacred trust, were they to be insufficiently rigorous in the chastisement of such peoples as were incapable of the proper conduct of their own affairs?
‘The temptation that afflicts those who bear the burden of governance,’ said the judge, ‘is ever that of indulgence, the power of paternal feeling being such as to make every parent partake of the suffering of his wards and offspring. Yet, painful as it is, duty requires us sometimes to set aside our natural affections in the proper dispensation of justice . . .’
From his place in the dock, all that Neel could see of Mr Justice Kendalbushe was the top half of his face, which was, of course, framed by a heavy white wig. He noticed that every time the judge shook his head, for emphasis, a little cloud of dust seemed to rise from the powdered curls, to hang suspended above like a halo. Neel knew something of the significance of haloes, having seen a few reproductions of Italian paintings, and it occurred to him to wonder, momentarily, whether the effect was intentional or not. But these speculations were cut short by the sound of his own name.
‘Neel Rattan Halder,’ rasped the judge’s voice. ‘It has been established beyond a doubt that you repeatedly forged the signature of one of this city’s most respectable merchants, Mr Benjamin Brightwell Burnham, with the intention of wilfully defrauding a great number of your own dependants, friends and associates, people who had honoured you with their trust because of their regard for your family and because of the blameless reputation of your father, the late Raja Ram Rattan Halder of Raskhali, of whom it could well be said that the only reproach ever to attach to his name is that of having fathered as infamous a criminal as yourself. I ask you, Neel Rattan Halder, to reflect that if an offence such as yours merits punishment in an ordinary man, then how much more loudly does it call for reproof when the person who commits it is one in affluent circumstances, a man in the first rank of native society, whose sole intention is to increase his wealth at the expense of his fellows? How is society to judge a forger who is also a man of education, enjoying all the comforts that affluence can bestow, whose property is so extensive as to exalt him greatly above his compatriots, who is considered a superior being, almost a deity, among his own kind? How dark an aspect does the conduct of such a man assume when for the sake of some petty increase to his coffers, he commits a crime that may bring ruin to his own kinsmen, dependants and inferiors? Would it not be the duty of this court to deal with such a man in exemplary fashion, not just in strict observance of the law, but also to discharge that sacred trust that charges us to instruct the natives of this land in the laws and usages that govern the conduct of civilized nations?’
As the voice droned on, it seemed to Neel that the judge’s words too were turning into dust so that they could join the white cloud that was circling above the wig. Neel’s schooling in English had been at once so thorough and so heavily weighted towards the study of texts that he found it easier, even now, to follow the spoken language by converting it into script, in his head. One of the effects of this operation was that it also robbed the language of its immediacy, rendering its words comfortingly abstract, as distant from his own circumstances as were the waves of Windermere and the cobblestones of Canterbury. So it seemed to him now, as the words came pouring from the judge’s mouth, that he was listening to the sound of pebbles tinkling in some faraway well.
‘Neel Rattan Halder,’ said the judge, brandishing a sheaf of papers, ‘it appears that despite the waywardness and depravity of your nature, you do not lack for adherents and supporters, for this court has received several petitions in your favour, some of them signed by the most respectable natives and even by a few Englishmen. This court is also in receipt of an opinion, offered by pandits and munshis who are learned in the laws of your religion: they hold that it is not lawful to punish a man of your caste and station as others are punished. In addition, the jury has taken the extraordinary and unusual step of commending you to the merciful consideration of the court.’
With a gesture of dismissal the judge allowed the papers to slip from his hand. ‘Let it be noted that there is nothing this court values more than a recommendation from a jury, for they understand the habits of the people and may be aware of mitigating circumstances that have escaped the attention of the judge. You may be assured that I have subjected every submission placed before me to the most serious scrutiny, in the hope of discovering therein some reasonable grounds for diverting from the straight path of justice. I confess to you that my efforts have been in vain: in none of these petitions, commendations and opinions, have I been able to discover any grounds whatsoever for mitigation. Consider, Neel Rattan Halder, the view, offered by the learned pandits of your religion, that a man of your station ought to be exempted from certain forms of punishment because these penalties might also be visited on your innocent wife and child by causing them to lose caste. I freely acknowledge the necessity of accommodating the law to the religious uses of the natives, so far as it ca
n be done in a manner consistent with justice. But we see no merit whatsoever in the contention that men of high caste should suffer a less severe punishment than any other person; such a principle has never been recognized nor ever will be recognized in English law, the very foundation of which lies in the belief that all are equal who appear before it . . .’
There was something about this that seemed so absurd to Neel that he had to drop his head for fear of betraying a smile: for if his presence in the dock proved anything at all, it was surely the opposite of the principle of equality so forcefully enunciated by the judge? In the course of his trial it had become almost laughably obvious to Neel that in this system of justice it was the English themselves – Mr Burnham and his ilk – who were exempt from the law as it applied to others: it was they who had become the world’s new Brahmins.
But now there was a sudden deepening in the hush of the court, and Neel raised his eyes to find the judge glaring directly at him again: ‘Neel Rattan Halder, the petition submitted in your favour implores us to mitigate your sentence on the grounds that you have been a person of wealth, that your young and innocent family will lose caste and be shunned and ostracized by their kinsmen. As to the latter, I have too great a regard for the native character to believe that your kin would be guided by so erroneous a principle, but in any event, this consideration cannot be permitted to have a bearing on our reading of the law. As to your wealth and your position in society, in our view these serve only to aggravate your offence in our eyes. In pronouncing your sentence I have a stark choice: I can choose either to let the law take its course without partiality, or I can choose to establish, as a legal principle, that there exists in India a set of persons who are entitled to commit crimes without punishment.’
