by Amitav Ghosh
‘Son?’ said Zachary. ‘Is that what you’d do for your son? Turn him to crime? Piracy?’
‘Crime, Malum Zikri?’ Serang Ali’s eyes flashed. ‘Smuggling opium not blongi crime? Running slave-ship blongi better’n pi-ra-cy?’
‘So you admit it then?’ said Zachary. ‘That’s what you had in mind for me – to do a Danby for you?’
‘No!’ said Serang Ali, slapping the deck rail. ‘Want only Zikri Malum do good for he-self. ’Come officer. Maybe Cap’ting. All thing Malum Aadam can not ’come.’
The Serang’s body seemed to wilt as he was speaking, so that he looked suddenly older, and somehow strangely forlorn. Despite himself, Zachary’s voice softened. ‘Lookit, Serang Ali,’ he said. ‘You been plenty freehanded with me, can’t deny it. Last thing I want is to turn you in. So let’s just settle this between us. Let’s agree that when we put into Port Louis, you’ll light out. That way we can just forget any of this happened.’
Serang Ali’s shoulders sagged as he answered. ‘Can do – Serang Ali so can do.’
Zachary took a last look at the watch before handing it over. ‘Here – this belongs in your poke, not mine. You better keep it.’
Serang Ali sketched a salam as he knotted the watch into the waist of his lungi.
Zachary stepped away but only to come back again. ‘Look, Serang Ali,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I’m cut down ’bout it ending like this between us. Sometimes I just wish you’d’a left me alone and never come anigh. Maybe things would’a been different then. But it was you as showed me that what I do counts for more than where I was born. And if I’m to care bout my work, then I need to live by its rules. Else it wouldn’t be worth doing. You see the sense of that?’
‘See.’ Serang Ali nodded. ‘Can see.’
Zachary was about to step away again when Serang Ali stopped him. ‘Malum Zikri – one thing.’
‘What?’ Zachary turned to find Serang Ali pointing ahead, in a south-easterly direction.
‘Look-see. There.’
Zachary could see nothing in the dark. ‘What’d you want me to look at?’
‘Over there blongi Sumatra channel. From here maybe forty-fifty mile. From there Sing’pore very close. Six-seven day sail.’
‘What’re you getting at, Serang Ali?’
‘Malum Zikri wanchi Serang Ali go, no? Can do. Can go very soon, that way.’
‘How?’ said Zachary in bemusement.
Serang Ali turned to point to one of the longboats. ‘In that boat can go. Little food, little water. Can go Sing’pore seven days. Then China.’
Now Zachary understood. In disbelief he said: ‘Are you talking of jumping ship?’
‘Why not?’ said Serang Ali. ‘Malum Zikri wanchi me go, no? Better go now, much better. Only cause of Malum Zikri, Serang Ali come on Ibis. Or else not come.’ Serang Ali broke off to dump a mouthful of paan in the sea. ‘Burra Malum, he no-good bugger. See what he trouble he make with Shaitan-jib? Bugger make plenty bad joss.’
‘But the Ibis?’ Zachary slapped the schooner’s deck rail. ‘What about her? What about the passengers? Don’t you owe them anything? Who’s going to get them where they’re going?’
‘Plenty lascar hab got. Can reach Ibis to Por’Lwee. No problem.’
Zachary began to shake his head even before the serang had finished. ‘No. I can’t allow it.’
‘Malum Zikri not hab do nothing. Only must sleep on watch one night. Just twenty minute.’
‘I can’t allow it, Serang Ali.’ Zachary was absolutely sure of himself now, confident that this was where he had to stake out the lines of his own sovereignty. ‘I can’t let you make off with one of the longboats. What if something goes wrong later and we have to abandon ship? We can’t afford to be a boat short, with so many people on board.’
‘Other boats hab got. Will be enough.’
‘I’m sorry, Serang Ali,’ said Zachary. ‘I just can’t let it happen, not on my watch. I offered you a reasonable deal – that you wait till Port Louis before lighting out. That’s as far as I’m going to go; no farther.’
The serang was about to say something but Zachary stopped him. ‘And don’t push me, cause if you do I’ll have no choice but to go to the Captain. Do you understand?’
Serang Ali gave a deep sigh and a nod. ‘Yes, Zikri Malum.’
‘Good.’
Stepping off the fo’c’sle, Zachary turned around for one last word. ‘And don’t think of pulling anything smart, Serang Ali. Cause I’m goin to be watching you.’
Serang Ali smiled and stroked his moustache. ‘Malum Zikri too muchi smart bugger, no? What Serang Ali can do?’
The news of Heeru’s wedding broke upon the dabusa like a wave, creating eddies and whirlpools of excitement: after all the unfortunate things that had happened, here at last was something, as Deeti said, to make everyone laugh in their sorrow – dukhwá me sabke hasáweli.
As everybody’s Bhauji, it fell, as if by right, to Deeti to think of all the organizing and bandobast that lay ahead. Should there be a tilak ceremony? Deeti allowed her voice to rise to the querulous pitch that was appropriate for someone who had been burdened, yet again, with the tiresome business of making all the arrangements for a family event: And what about a haldi, with a proper smearing of turmeric?
These were exactly the questions that arose when the other women heard the news: Was there to be a kohbar? Could a wedding be real without a marriage chamber? Surely it would be no great matter to set one up, with a few sheets and mats? And what about the fire, for the seven sacramental circlings? Would it be enough to have a candle, or a lamp instead?
We’re all talking too much, scolded Deeti. We can’t decide this on our own! We don’t even know what the customs are like on the boy’s side.
Boy? Larika? – this raised gales of laughter – he’s no boy, that man!
At a wedding everyone’s a boy: what’s to stop him from being one again?
And what about a dowry? gifts?
Tell him, we’ll give him a goat when we get to Mareech.
. . . Be serious . . . hasé ka ká bátba ré . . . ? What’s to laugh at?
The one thing everyone agreed about was that no purpose was to be served by dragging things out: best to get everything done with the greatest possible dispatch. Between the two sides, it was decided that the next day would be devoted entirely to the wedding.
Among the women, the only one who was less than enthused was Munia. Can you imagine living your life with any of these men? she said to Paulette. Wouldn’t do it for anything.
So who’re you aiming for then?
I need someone who’ll show me a bit of the world.
Oh? said Paulette, teasing. A lascar, for example?
Munia giggled. Why not?
Among the women Sarju, the midwife, was the only one who still showed no signs of recovering from her seasickness: unable to keep down any food or water, she had dwindled away until it seemed that the last sparks of life in her body had retreated into her dark, fiery eyes. Since she was unable to go up to the main deck for her meals, the women took it in turns to bring a little food and water down to the dabusa, in the hope of coaxing some nourishment between her lips.
That evening, it was Deeti’s turn to fetch Sarju’s food. She came down the ladder while most of the girmitiyas were still on deck, eating their meal: the dabusa was lit only by a couple of lamps, and in that dim, near-empty space, Sarju’s worn, withered figure seemed even more forlorn than usual.
Deeti tried to sound cheerful as she seated herself beside her: How are you, Sarju-didi? Feeling better today?
Sarju made no answer; instead she raised her head and looked quickly around the dabusa. When she saw that there was no one within earshot, she caught hold of Deeti’s wrist and pulled her close. Listen, she said, listen to me; there’s something I have to tell you.
Yes, didi?
Hamra sé chalal nã jálé, Sarju whispered. I can’t take this any more; I can’t go on . . .
/>
Why are you talking like that? Deeti protested. You’ll be fine once you start eating properly.
Sarju dismissed this impatiently. Listen to me, she said, there’s no time to waste. I’m telling you the truth; I will not live to see the end of this journey.
How do you know? said Deeti. You may get better.
It’s too late for that. Sarju fixed her feverishly bright eyes on Deeti and whispered: I’ve dealt with these things all my life. I know, and before I go I want to show you something.
Moving her head off the cloth bundle that served as her pillow, Sarju pushed it towards Deeti: Here. Take this; open it.
Open it? Deeti was amazed, for Sarju had never before been known to open her bojha in anyone’s sight: indeed her furtiveness about her baggage was so extreme that the others had often joked and speculated about the contents. Deeti had never joined in the teasing because Sarju’s protectiveness seemed to her to be merely the fixation of a middle-aged woman who had precious few possessions to boast of. But she knew also that such manias were not easily overcome, so it was with some caution that she asked Sarju: Are you sure you want me to look inside?
Yes, said Sarju. Quickly. Before the others come.
Deeti had assumed that the bundle contained not much more than a few old clothes, maybe some masalas, and perhaps a couple of copper utensils: when she peeled away the first flaps of cloth she found more or less what she had expected – some old clothes and a few wooden spoons.
Here. Give it to me. Sarju thrust a twig-like hand into the bundle and pulled out a small pouch, not much bigger than her fist. She put it to her nose, took a deep breath and handed it to Deeti: Do you know what this is?
From the feel of the pouch, Deeti knew that it was filled with tiny seeds. When she raised it to her nose, she recognized the smell at once: Ganja, she said. These are seeds of ganja.
Sarju acknowledged this with a nod and handed over another pouch. And this?
This time it took Deeti several whiffs before she recognized what it was: Datura.
Do you know what datura can do? whispered Sarju.
Yes, said Deeti.
Sarju gave her a thin smile. I knew that you, and you alone, would know the value of these things. This most of all . . .
Sarju pushed yet another pouch into Deeti’s hands. In this, she whispered, there is wealth beyond imagining; guard it like your life – it contains seeds of the best Benares poppy.
Deeti thrust her fingers into the pouch and rubbed the tiny, speck-like seeds between her fingertips. The familiar grainy feel transported her back to the environs of Ghazipur; suddenly it was as if she were in her own courtyard, with Kabutri beside her, making posth out of a handful of poppy seeds. How was it possible that after spending so much of her life with these seeds she had not had the foresight or wisdom to bring some with her – as a keepsake if nothing else?
Deeti extended her hand to Sarju, as if to give back the pouch, but the midwife pushed it back towards her. It’s yours; take it, keep it. This, the ganja, the datura: make of them the best use you can. Don’t let the others know. Don’t let them see these seeds. They’ll keep for many years. Keep them hidden till you can use them; they are worth more than any treasure. Inside my bojha, there are some spices, ordinary ones. When I’m gone, you can distribute them to the rest. But these seeds – these are for you alone.
Why? Why me?
Sarju raised a trembling hand to point to the images on the beam above Deeti’s head. Because I want to be there too, she said. I want to be remembered in your shrine.
You will be, Sarju-didi, said Deeti, squeezing her hand. You will be.
Now put the seeds away quickly, before the others come.
Yes, didi, yes . . .
Afterwards, when Deeti took Sarju’s untouched food back to the main deck, she found Kalua squatting under the devis and sat down beside him. As she was listening to the sighing of the sails, she became aware that there was a grain lodged under her thumbnail. It was a single poppy seed: prising it out, she rolled it between her fingers and raised her eyes, past the straining sails, to the star-filled vault above. On any other night she would have scanned the sky for the planet she had always thought to be the arbiter of her fate – but tonight her eyes dropped instead to the tiny sphere she was holding between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at the seed as if she had never seen one before, and suddenly she knew that it was not the planet above that governed her life: it was this minuscule orb – at once bountiful and all-devouring, merciful and destructive, sustaining and vengeful. This was her Shani, her Saturn.
When Kalua asked what she was looking at she raised her fingers to his lips and slipped the seed into his mouth.
Here, she said, taste it. It is the star that took us from our homes and put us on this ship. It is the planet that rules our destiny.
The first mate was one of those men who like to boost their sense of their own worth by coining nicknames for others. As always with those who play this trick, he was careful to thrust his epithets only on those who could not refuse his coin. Thus Captain Chillingworth’s cognomen – ‘Skipper Nabbs’ – was used only behind his back, while Zachary’s – ‘Mannikin’ – was said to his face, but usually out of earshot of others (this being a concession to the collective prestige of sahibs, and thus malums). As for the rest, only a few were notable enough to merit names of their own. Serang Ali – ‘Sniplouse’ – was one such, but the migrants were indifferently ‘sukies’ and ‘slavies’; the silahdars and maistries were either ‘Achhas’ or ‘Rum-Johnnies’; and the lascars were either ‘Bub-dool’ or ‘Rammer-Sammy’ – or just ‘Sammy’ for short.
Of all the people on the schooner, there was only one whose nickname denoted some measure of camaraderie on the part of the first mate: this was Subedar Bhyro Singh, whom he called ‘Muffin-mug’. Unbeknownst to the mate, the subedar too had a name for him, which he used only in his absence: it was Malum na-Malum (Officer Don’t-Know). This symmetry was not accidental, for between these two men there was a natural affinity that extended even to their appearance: although the subedar was much older and darker – heavier in the belly and whiter in the head – both were tall, barrel-chested men. Their mutuality of disposition, too, was such as to transcend the barriers of language and circumstance, allowing them to communicate almost without benefit of words, so that between them there could be said to exist, if not exactly a friendship, then certainly a joining of interests, and a mutual ease that made possible certain familiarities that would otherwise have been unthinkable in men of their respective stations – for example, the occasional sharing of grog.
One of the many matters in which the subedar and the first mate were perfectly in accord was their attitude towards Neel and Ah Fatt – or the ‘Two Jacks’ as Mr Crowle liked to call them (Neel being Jack-gagger and Ah Fatt, Jackin-ape). Often, of an afternoon, when Bhyro Singh led the two convicts around the deck on their daily Rogues’ March, the first mate would join in the entertainment, urging Bhyro Singh on, as he prodded the convicts with his lathi: ‘With a will there, Muffin-mug! Lay about cheerily now! Rattle their ruffles!’
Occasionally the mate would even step in to take the subedar’s place. Flicking a length of rope like a whiplash, he would slash at the convicts’ ankles, making them skip and jump, to the tune of:
Handy-spandy, Jack o’dandy
Loved plum cake and sugar candy
Bought some at a grocer’s shop
And off he went with a hop-hop-hop.
These encounters invariably occurred during the day, when the convicts were up on deck: this being so, both Neel and Ah Fatt were taken unawares when a couple of guards came to the chokey, late one night, to tell them that the Burra Malum had ordered that they be brought above.
What for? said Neel.
Who knows? said one of the silahdars, grumbling. The two of them are up there, drinking grag.
The bandobast for taking the convicts on deck required that their wrists and
ankles be bound and chained, which took some doing, and it was soon clear that the silahdars were none too pleased to be called upon to go through the procedures at this late hour.
So what do they want with us? said Neel.
They’re must with sharab, said the guard. Out for maza.
Fun? said Neel. What fun can we provide?
What do I know? Keep your hands steady, b’henchod.
It was a time of night when the fana was crowded with lascars, sleeping in their jhulis, and to walk through it was like trying to negotiate a thicket of low-hanging beehives. Because of their long confinement Neel and Ah Fatt were already unsteady on their feet and their clumsiness was now compounded by the motion of the ship and by their chains. Every roll sent them carroming into the hammocks, butting butts and ramming heads, provoking kicks, shoves and outbursts of angry galis.
. . . B’henchod slipgibbet qaidis . . .
. . . Your balls aren’t meant for walking . . .
. . . Try using your feet . . .
Clanking and clattering, the two convicts were led out of the fana and taken up to the fo’c’sle deck, where they found Mr Crowle enthroned on the capstan. The subedar was waiting attendance on him, standing between the bows.
‘Where’s ye’been, quoddies? It’s low hours for the likes of you.’
Neel saw now that both the first mate and the subedar had tin mugs in their hands, and it was clear from the slurred sound of Mr Crowle’s voice that this was not his first drink of the night: even when sober, these two men were cause enough for trouble so it was hard to imagine what they might, or might not, do now. Yet, despite a tightening in his guts, Neel did not fail to take notice of the singular spectacle of the moonlit sea.
The schooner was on the starboard tack, and the deck was aslant, dipping and rising as the sails strained in the wind. From time to time, as the tilt lessened, waves would break on the port beam and wash across the deck, dripping out of the starboard scuppers when the schooner leant sidewise again before the wind. The phosphorescent glow of these whirling runnels of water seemed to add footlights to the masts, illuminating the soaring wings of canvas overhead.
