by Amitav Ghosh
He paused to give Zachary a broad wink. ‘From what I hear, the Rascal’s going to be in for a samjaoing soon enough. The kubber is that his cuzzanah is running out.’
Zachary could no longer sustain the pretence of omniscience. Knitting his eyebrows, he said: ‘Cu – cuzzanah? Now there you go again, Mr Doughty: that’s another word I don’t know the meaning of.’
This naïve, if well-meant, remark earned Zachary a firm dressing-down: it was about time, the pilot said, that he, Zachary, stopped behaving like a right gudda – ‘that’s a donkey in case you were wondering.’ This was India, where it didn’t serve for a sahib to be taken for a clodpoll of a griffin: if he wasn’t fly to what was going on, it’d be all dickey with him, mighty jildee. This was no Baltimore – this was a jungle here, with biscobras in the grass and wanderoos in the trees. If he, Zachary, wasn’t to be diddled and taken for a flat, he would have to learn to gubbrow the natives with a word or two of the zubben.
Since this admonishment was delivered in the strict but indulgent tone of a mentor, Zachary plucked up the courage to ask what ‘the zubben’ was, at which the pilot breathed a patient sigh: ‘The zubben, dear boy, is the flash lingo of the East. It’s easy enough to jin if you put your head to it. Just a little peppering of nigger-talk mixed with a few girleys. But mind your Oordoo and Hindee doesn’t sound too good: don’t want the world to think you’ve gone native. And don’t mince your words either. Mustn’t be taken for a chee-chee.’
Zachary shook his head again, helplessly. ‘Chee-Chee? And what d’you mean by that, Mr Doughty?’
Mr Doughty raised an admonitory eyebrow. ‘Chee-chee? Liplap? Mustee? Sinjo? Touch o’tar . . . you take my meaning? Wouldn’t challo at all, dear fellow: no sahib would have one at his table. We’re very particular about that kind of thing out East. We’ve got our BeeBees to protect, you know. It’s one thing for a man to dip his nib in an inkpot once in a while. But we can’t be having luckerbaugs running loose in the henhouse. Just won’t ho-ga: that kind of thing could get a man chawbuck’d with a horsewhip!’
There was something in this, a hint or suggestion, that made Zachary suddenly uncomfortable. Over the last two days he had come to like Mr Doughty, recognizing, in the lee of his hectoring voice and meaty face, a kindly, even generous spirit. Now it was almost as if the pilot were trying to give him a word of warning, cautioning him in some roundabout way.
Zachary tapped the deck rail and turned away. ‘By your leave, Mr Doughty, I’d best make sure I’ve got a change of clothes.’
The pilot nodded in agreement. ‘Oh yes: we’ll have to get ourselves all kitted out. Glad I thought to bring along a fresh pair of sirdrars.’
Zachary sent word to the deckhouse and shortly afterwards, Serang Ali came to his cabin and picked out a set of clothes, laying them on the bunk for Zachary to inspect. The pleasure of high-priming in someone else’s finery had begun to wane now, and Zachary was dismayed by the array of clothes on his bunk: a blue dresscoat of fine serge, black nainsook trowsers, a shirt made of Dosootie cotton and a white silk cravat. ‘Enough’s enough, Serang Ali,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m done playin biggity.’
Serang Ali’s demeanour became suddenly insistent. Picking up the trowsers, he held them up to Zachary. ‘Mus wear,’ he said in a voice that was soft but steely. ‘Malum Zikri one big piece pukka sahib now. Mus wear propa cloths.’
Zachary was puzzled by the depth of feeling with which this was said. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why in the livin hell is it so important to you?’
‘Malum must be propa pukka sahib,’ said the serang. ‘All lascar wanchi Malum be captin-bugger by’m’by.’
‘Eh?’
Now, in a sudden, bright flash of illumination, Zachary understood why his transformation meant so much to the serang: he was to become what no lascar could be – a ‘Free Mariner’, the kind of sahib officer they called a malum. For Serang Ali and his men Zachary was almost one of themselves, while yet being endowed with the power to undertake an impersonation that was unthinkable for any of them; it was as much for their own sakes as for his that they wanted to see him succeed.
As the weight of this responsibility sank in, Zachary sat on the bunk and covered his face. ‘You don know the livin deal of what you askin,’ he said. ‘Six months back I was nothin but the ship’s carpenter. Lucked out getting to second mate. Forget Captain: that’s way above my bend. Ain gon happen; not bimeby, not ever.’
‘Can do,’ said Serang Ali, handing him the Dosootie shirt. ‘By’m’by can do. Malum Zikri plenty smart bugger inside. Can do ’come genl’man.’
‘What makes you think I can do it anyways?’
‘Zikri Malum sabbi tok pukka-talk no?’ said Serang Ali. ‘Hab heard Zikri Malum tok Mistoh Doughty sahib-fashion.’
‘What?’ Zachary shot him a startled glance: that Serang Ali should have noticed his talent for changing voices struck a chord of alarm. It was true that when called upon, his tongue could be as clipped as that of any college-taught lawyer: not for nothing had his mother made him wait at table when the master of the house, his natural father, was entertaining guests. But nor had she spared him her hand when he’d shown signs of getting all seddity and airish; to watch her son playing the spook would set her turning in her grave.
‘Michman wanchi, he can ’come pukka genl’man by’m’by.’
‘No.’ Having long been compliant, Zachary was now all defiance. ‘No,’ he said, thrusting the serang out of his cuddy. ‘This flumadiddle’s got’a stop: ain havin it no more.’ Throwing himself on his bunk, Zachary closed his eyes, and for the first time in many months, his vision turned inwards, travelling back across the oceans to his last day at Gardiner’s shipyard in Baltimore. He saw again a face with a burst eyeball, the scalp torn open where a handspike had landed, the dark skin slick with blood. He remembered, as if it were happening again, the encirclement of Freddy Douglass, set upon by four white carpenters; he remembered the howls, ‘Kill him, kill the damned nigger, knock his brains out’; he remembered how he and the other men of colour, all free, unlike Freddy, had held back, their hands stayed by fear. And he remembered, too, Freddy’s voice afterwards, not reproaching them for their failure to come to his defence, but urging them to leave, scatter: ‘It’s about jobs; the whites won’t work with you, freeman or slave: keeping you out is their way of saving their bread.’ That was when Zachary had decided to quit the shipyard and seek a berth on a ship’s crew.
Zachary got out of his bunk and opened the door, to find the serang still waiting outside. ‘Okay,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ll let you get back in here. But you bes do what you gon do blame quick, ’fore I change my mind.’
Just as Zachary had finished dressing, a series of shouts went echoing back and forth between ship and shore. A couple of minutes later Mr Doughty knocked on the door of his cabin. ‘Oh I say, my boy!’ he boomed. ‘You’ll never credit it, but the Burra Sahib has arrived in person: none other than Mr Burnham himself! Ridden chawbuckswar from Calcutta: couldn’t wait to see his ship. Sent the gig for him: he’s in it now, coming over.’
The pilot’s eyes narrowed as he took in Zachary’s new clothes. There was a moment of silence as he looked him up and down, subjecting his attire to careful examination. Then with a resounding thump of his cane, he announced: ‘Tip-top, my young chuckeroo! You’d put a kizzilbash to shame in those togs of yours.’
‘Glad to pass muster, sir,’ said Zachary gravely.
Somewhere close by, Zachary heard Serang Ali, hissing: ‘What I tell you? Malum Zikri no pukka rai-sahib now?’
Three
Kalua lived in the Chamar-basti, a cluster of huts inhabited only by people of his caste. To enter the hamlet would have been difficult for Deeti and Kabutri, but fortunately for them, Kalua’s dwelling lay on the periphery, not far from the main road to Ghazipur. Deeti had passed that way many times before and had often seen Kalua lumbering about, in his cart. To her eyes, his dwelling did not look like a hut at all, but had more
the look of a cattle-pen; when she was within hailing distance of it, she came to a halt and called out: Ey Kalua? Ka horahelba? Oh Kalua? What’re you up to?
After three or four shouts there was still no answer, so she picked up a stone and aimed it at the doorless entrance of his dwelling. The pebble vanished into the unlit darkness of the hut and a tinkle of pottery followed to tell her that it had struck a pitcher or some earthenware object. Ey Kalua-ré! she called out again. Now something stirred inside the hut and there was a deepening of the darkness around the doorway until at last Kalua showed himself, stooping low to make his way out. Following close behind, as if to confirm Deeti’s notion that he lived in a cattle-pen, were the two small white oxen that pulled his cart.
Kalua was a man of unusual height and powerful build: in any fair, festival or mela, he could always be spotted towering above the crowd – even the jugglers on stilts were usually not so tall as he. But it was his colour rather than his size that had earned him the nickname Kalua – ‘Blackie’ – for his skin had the shining, polished tint of an oiled whetstone. It was said of Kalua that as a child he had shown an insatiable craving for meat, which his family had satisfied by feeding him carrion; being leather-makers, it was their trade to collect the remains of dead cows and oxen – it was on the meat of these salvaged carcasses that Kalua’s gigantic frame was said to have been nourished. But it was said also that Kalua’s body had gained at the expense of his mind, which had remained slow, simple and trusting, so that even small children were able to take advantage of him. So easily was he duped, that on his parents’ passing, his brothers and other relatives had not had the least difficulty in cheating him of the little that was his rightful due: he had raised no objection even when he was evicted from the family dwelling and sent to fend for himself in a cattle-pen.
At that time, help had come to Kalua from an unexpected quarter: one of Ghazipur’s most prominent landowning families had three young scions, thakur-sahibs, who were much addicted to gambling. Their favourite pastime was to bet on wrestling matches and trials of strength, so on hearing of Kalua’s physical prowess, they had sent an ox-cart to fetch him to the kothi where they lived, on the outskirts of town. Abé Kalua, they said to him, if you were to be given a reward, what would you want?
After much head-scratching and careful thought, Kalua had pointed to the ox-cart and said: Malik, I would be glad to have a bayl-gari like that one. I could make a living from it.
The three thakurs had nodded their heads and said that he would get an ox-cart if only he could win a fight and give a few demonstrations of his strength. Several wrestling matches followed and Kalua had won them all, defeating the local pehlwans and strongmen with ease. The young landlords earned a good profit and Kalua was soon in possession of his reward. But once having gained his ox-cart, Kalua showed no further inclination to fight – which was scarcely a surprise, for he was, as everyone knew, of a shy, timid and peaceable disposition and had no greater ambition than to make a living by transporting goods and people in his cart. But Kalua could not escape his fame: word of his deeds soon filtered through to the august ears of His Highness, the Maharaja of Benares, who expressed a desire to see the strongman of Ghazipur pitted against the champion of his own court.
Kalua demurred at first, but the landlords wheedled, cajoled and finally threatened to confiscate his cart and oxen, so to Benares they went and there, on the great square in front of the Ramgarh Palace, Kalua suffered his first defeat, being knocked unconscious within a few minutes of the bout’s start. The Maharaja, watching in satisfaction, remarked that the outcome was proof that wrestling was a trial not just of strength, but also of intelligence – and in the latter field Ghazipur could scarcely hope to challenge Benares. All Ghazipur was humbled and Kalua came home in disgrace.
But not long afterwards, stories began to blow back that gave a different accounting of Kalua’s defeat. It was said that on taking Kalua to Benares, the three young landlords, being seized by the licentious atmosphere of the city, had decided that it would be excellent sport to couple Kalua with a woman. They had invited some friends and taken bets: could a woman be found who would bed this giant of a man, this two-legged beast? A well-known baiji, Hirabai, was hired and brought to the kotha where the landlords were staying. There, with a select audience watching from the shelter of a marbled screen, Kalua had been led into her presence wearing nothing but a langot of white cotton around his waist. What had Hirabai expected? No one knew – but when she saw Kalua, she was rumoured to have screamed: This animal should be mated with a horse, not a woman. . .
It was this humiliation, people said, that cost Kalua the fight at Ramgarh Palace. Thus went the story that was told in the galis and ghats of Ghazipur.
It so happened that of all the people who could vouch for the truth of this tale, Deeti herself was one. This is how it came about: one night, after serving her husband his meal, Deeti had discovered that she had run short of water; to leave the dishes unwashed overnight was to invite an invasion of ghosts, ghouls and hungry pishaches. No matter: it was a bright, full-moon night and the Ganga was but a short walk away. Balancing a pot on her hip, she made her way through the waist-high poppies towards the silver gleam of the river. Just as she was about to step out of the poppy field, on to the treeless bank of sand that flanked the water, she heard the sound of hoofs, some distance away: looking to her left, in the direction of Ghazipur, she saw, in the light of the moon, four men on horses, trotting towards her.
A man on a horse never meant anything but trouble for a lone woman, and where there were four, riding together, the signs of danger were all too clear: Deeti lost no time in hiding herself among the poppies. When the horsemen had approached a little, she saw that she had been mistaken in thinking that they were four in number: there were only three mounted men; the fourth was following on foot. She took this last man to be a groom but when the men had come closer still, she saw that the fourth man had a halter around his neck and was being led like a horse. It was his size that had caused her to mistake him for a horseman: she saw that he was none other than Kalua. Now she recognized the horsemen too, for their faces were well known to everyone in Ghazipur: they were the three sport-loving landowners. She heard one of them call out to the others – Iddhar, here, this is a good spot; there’s no one around – and she knew from his voice that he was drunk. When they were almost abreast of her, the men dismounted; of their three horses, they tied two together, turning them out to graze in the poppy fields. The third horse was a large black mare, and this animal they led towards Kalua, who was himself being held as if by a tether. Now she heard a whimpering, sobbing sound as Kalua fell suddenly to his knees, clutching at the thakurs’ feet: Mái-báp, hamke máf karelu . . . forgive me, masters . . . the fault wasn’t mine . . .
This earned him volleys of kicks and curses:
. . . You lost on purpose, didn’t you, dogla bastard?
. . . Do you know how much it cost us . . . ?
. . . Now let’s see you do what Hirabai said . . .
By pulling on his halter, the men forced Kalua to his feet and pushed him stumbling towards the mare’s swishing tail. One of them stuck his whip into the fold of Kalua’s cotton langot and whisked it off with a flick of his wrist. Then, while one of them held the horse steady, the others whipped Kalua’s naked back until his groin was pressed hard against the animal’s rear. Kalua uttered a cry that was almost indistinguishable in tone from the whinnying of the horse. This amused the landlords:
. . . See, the b’henchod even sounds like a horse . . .
. . . Tetua dabá dé . . . wring his balls . . .
Suddenly, with a swish of its tail, the mare defecated, unloosing a surge of dung over Kalua’s belly and thighs. This excited yet more laughter from the three men. One of them dug his whip into Kalua’s buttocks: Arre Kalua! Why don’t you do the same?
Ever since the night of her wedding, Deeti had been haunted by images of her own violation: now, watching fr
om the shelter of the poppy field, she bit the edge of her palm, to keep from crying out aloud. So it could happen to a man too? Even a powerful giant of a man could be humiliated and destroyed, in a way that far exceeded his body’s capacity for pain?
In averting her eyes, her attention was drawn to the two grazing horses, which had strayed into the poppy field and were now quite close to her: another step and she would be within reach of their flanks. It was the work of a moment to find a poppy pod that had already shed its leaves; in falling, they had left behind a crown of sharp, dry prickles. Creeping towards one of the horses, she made a hissing sound as she dug the spiky pod into its withers. The animal reared, as if in response to a snakebite, and galloped off, pulling its tethered companion along in its flight. The horse’s panic was instantly communicated to the black mare; in breaking free it lashed out with its hind legs, hitting Kalua in the chest. The three landlords, after standing a moment nonplussed, went racing off in pursuit of their mounts, leaving Kalua unconscious in the sand, naked and smeared in dung.
It took Deeti a while to summon the courage to take a closer look. When it became clear that the landlords were really gone, she crept out of her hiding-place and lowered herself to a squatting position beside Kalua’s unconscious body. He was lying in shadow so she couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not. She put out a hand to touch his chest, but only to snatch it back: to think of touching a naked man was bad enough – and when that man was of Kalua’s station, wasn’t it almost a plea for retribution? She cast a furtive glance around her, and then, in defiance of the world’s unseen presence, she put out a finger and allowed it to fall on Kalua’s chest. The drumbeat of his heart reassured her and she quickly withdrew her hand, preparing to dart back into the poppies if his eyes showed any sign of coming open. But they remained shut and his body lay so peacefully inert that she felt no fear in examining him more closely. She saw now that his size was deceptive, that he was quite young, with no more than a faint feathering of hair on his upper lip; lying crumpled in the sand, he was no longer the dark giant who called at her home twice a day, without speaking, or allowing himself to be seen: he was just a fallen boy. Her tongue clicked involuntarily at the sight of the dung around his middle; she went to the riverside, pulled up a handful of rushes and used them to wipe away the smears. His langot was lying nearby, glowing white in the moonlight, and this too she fetched and fastidiously opened out.
