Sea of Poppies: A Novel (The Ibis Trilogy)

by Amitav Ghosh

  ‘Please but enter, Baboo Nob Kissin,’ she said, stepping well away from the door to let him in. Noticing the three lines of sandalwood paste on his forehead, she quickly dropped the hand she had almost offered in greeting: the gomusta was a fervent devotee of Sri Krishna, she recalled, and as a celibate Seeker, he might well look askance upon a woman’s touch.

  ‘Miss Lambert, you are well today?’ he said, as he came in, nodding and bobbing his head, while also stepping backwards to maintain a safe distance from the possible pollutions of Paulette’s person. ‘Motions were not loose, I hope?’

  ‘Why no, Baboo Nob Kissin. I am very well. And you?’

  ‘I have come running like anything,’ he said. ‘Master only has told to reach message – his caique-boat is urgently required.’

  Paulette nodded. ‘I will send word to the boatmen.’

  ‘That will be most appreciable.’

  Looking over her shoulder, Paulette noticed that a khidmutgar had entered the hallway. She sent him off to alert the boatmen and led Baboo Nob Kissin towards the small withdrawing room where visitors and petitioners were usually seated before being admitted to Mr Burnham’s presence.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to attend here until the boat is ready?’ she said. She was about to close the door when she noticed, somewhat to her alarm, that the gomusta’s expression had changed: baring his teeth in a smile, he shook his head in such a way as to set his tikki wagging.

  ‘Oh Miss Lambert,’ he said, in a strangely ardent voice, ‘so many times I’m coming to Bethel and always I am wanting to meet and raise up one matter. But never you are lonely with me one minute also – how to commence discussions?’

  She drew back, startled. ‘But Baboo Nob Kissin,’ she said. ‘If there is anything you wish to say to me, surely it can be said all in the open?’

  ‘That you only can be judging, Miss Lambert,’ he said, and his tikki danced in such a comical way that Paulette could not but bite back a laugh.

  Paulette was not alone in seeing something absurd in the gomusta: many years and thousands of miles later, when Baboo Nob Kissin Pander found his way into Deeti’s shrine, his was the only likeness to figure as a caricature, a great potato of a head sprouting two fern-like ears. Yet Nob Kissin Pander was always full of surprises, as Paulette was imminently to discover. Now, from the pocket of his black jacket, he pulled out a small object that was wrapped in cloth. ‘Only one minute, Miss: then you dekho.’

  Laying the bundle on his palm, he began to undo the folds, very fastidiously, using just the tips of his fingers, without once touching the thing itself. When the wrappings had been undone and the object lay nested in a bed of cloth, he extended his palm towards Paulette, moving his arm slowly, as if to remind her not to approach too close: ‘Kindly do not catch.’ Despite the distance, Paulette recognized instantly the tiny face that smiled up at her from the gold-framed locket in the gomusta’s palm; it was an enamelled miniature of a woman with dark hair and grey eyes – her mother, whom she had lost at the very moment of her birth and of whom she possessed no other token or likeness.

  Paulette glanced at the gomusta in confusion: ‘But Baboo Nob Kissin!’ After her father’s death, she had looked for the miniature everywhere, without success, and had been forced to conclude that it had been stolen, in the confusion that befell the house after his sudden passing. ‘But how you have found this? Where?’

  ‘Lambert-sahib only gave,’ said the gomusta. ‘Just one week before shifting to heavenly-abode. His conditions were extremely parlous; hands were trembling like anything and tongue was also coated. Rigorous constipation must have been there, but still he is reaching to my daftar, in Kidderpore. Just imagine!’

  She recalled the day, in a clarity of detail that brought tears to her eyes: her father had told her to summon Jodu and his boat and when she asked why, his answer was that he had business in the city and needed to cross the river. She had demanded to know what business he might have that she couldn’t see to, but he gave her no answer, insisting that Jodu be called. She’d watched as Jodu’s boat made its way slowly across the river: when they were almost at the far side, she was surprised to see that they were heading not towards the centre of the city but to the docks at Kidderpore. What business could he have there? She could not imagine, and he never answered her questions about it; not even Jodu could do anything to enlighten her, upon their return. All he could tell her was that her father had left him to wait in his boat, while he disappeared into the bazar.

  ‘That time was not his first to my chamber,’ the gomusta said. ‘As such, many sahibs and mems are coming when some funds are required. They give some jewelleries and trinkets for disposal. Lambert-sahib graced with his presence only two-three times, but he is not like others – not loocher, not gambler, not shrubber. For him, difficulty is that he is too-much good-hearted, all the time doing charities and giving up funds. Naturally many villains are taking advantage . . .’

  This description was neither unjust nor inaccurate, Paulette knew, but that was not how she chose to remember her father: for of course the great majority of those who benefited from his kindness were people desperately in need – waifs and urchins, porters crippled by their loads and boatmen who had lost their boats. And even now, after being thrown into the care of people who were, after all, strangers, no matter how kind, she could not bring herself to reproach her father for the greatest of his virtues, the one thing she had loved in him most. But yes, it was also true, and there was no denying it, that her lot would have been different if he had been – like most other Europeans in the city – bent upon his own enrichment.

  ‘Lambert-sahib always discussing with me in Bangla,’ the gomusta continued. ‘But I am always replying in chaste English.’

  But now as if to belie his own pronouncement, he surprised Paulette by switching to Bengali. With the change of language, she noticed, a weight of care seemed to lift from his huge, sagging face: Shunun. Listen: when your father came to me for money, I knew, even without his saying so, that he would be giving it away to some beggar or cripple. I’d say to him: ‘Arre Lambert-shaheb, I’ve seen many a Christian trying to buy his way into heaven, but I’ve never come across one who worked as hard at it as you do.’ He’d laugh like a child – he liked to laugh, your father – but not this time. This time there was no laughter, and hardly a word was said before he stretched out his hand and asked: How much will you give me for this, Nob Kissin Baboo? I knew at once that it was of great value to him; I could tell from the way he held it – but of course, such is the evil of this age that things that are of value to us are not necessarily so to the world at large. Not wishing to disappoint him, I said: ‘Lambert-sahib, tell me, what is the money for? How much do you need?’ ‘Not much,’ was his answer, ‘just enough for a passage back to France.’ I said, in surprise: ‘For yourself, Lambert-sahib?’ He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘for my daughter, Putli. Just in case something happens to me. I want to be sure she has the means to return. Without me this city would be no place for her.’

  The gomusta’s fist closed on the locket as he broke off to glance again at his watch. Your father, Miss Lambert – how well he knew our language. I used to marvel as I listened to him speak . . .

  But now, even as the gomusta continued, in the same sonorous tones, Paulette heard his words as though they were being spoken by her father, in French: . . . a child of Nature, that is what she is, my daughter Paulette. As you know I have educated her myself, in the innocent tranquillity of the Botanical Gardens. She has had no teacher other than myself, and has never worshipped at any altar except that of Nature; the trees have been her Scripture and the Earth her Revelation. She has not known anything but Love, Equality and Freedom: I have raised her to revel in that state of liberty that is Nature itself. If she remains here, in the colonies, most particularly in a city like this, where Europe hides its shame and its greed, all that awaits her is degradation: the whites of this town will tear her apart, like vultures
and foxes, fighting over a corpse. She will be an innocent thrown before the money-changers who pass themselves off as men of God . . .

  ‘Stop!’ Paulette raised her hands to her ears, as if to shut out her father’s voice. How wrong he was! How mistaken he had always been in his understanding of her, making her into that which he himself wished to be, rather than seeing her for the ordinary creature that she was. Yet, even as she chafed against his judgement, Paulette’s eyes misted over at the thought of those childhood years, when she and her father had lived with Jodu and Tantima, as though their bungalow were an island of innocence in a sea of corruption.

  She shook her head, as if to rid herself of a dream: So what did you tell him then, Nob Kissin Baboo – about the worth of the locket?

  The gomusta smiled, tugging at his tikki. ‘After careful considerations I clarified that passage to France, even in steerage, would definitely be costing more than this locket. Maybe two-three similar items would be required. For the cost of this one he could send only up to Mareech-díp.’

  Mareech-díp? She wrinkled her eyebrows, wondering what place he could be thinking of: the expression meant ‘pepper-island’ but she had never heard it used before. Where is that?

  ‘The Mauritius Islands, they call in English.’

  O les îles Maurice? cried Paulette. ‘But that is where my mother was born.’

  ‘That is what he told,’ the gomusta said, with a thin smile. ‘He said: Let Paulette go to Mauritius – it is like her native-place. There she can cope up with the joys and agonies of life.’

  And then? Did you get him the money?

  ‘I told him to come back after some days and funds would be there. But how he is to come? Expired, no, after one week?’ The gomusta sighed. ‘Even before, I could tell that his conditions were already parlous. Eyes were red and tongue was wheatish colour, indicating stoppages of bowels-movement. I advised to him: Lambert-sahib, just for some days, kindly refrain from meateating – vegetarian stool is easier to pass. But no doubt he ignored, leading to untimely demise. After that I had too much difficulties in obtaining back the item. The moneylender had already delivered at pawnshop; and so on and so forth. But as you see, now it is again in my possession.’

  Only then did it occur to Paulette that he need not have told her any of this: he could have kept the money for himself and she would never have known any better. ‘I am truly grateful to you for bringing back the locket, Nob Kissin Baboo,’ she said. Unthinkingly she extended a hand towards his arm, only to see him back away as if from a hissing snake. ‘I do not know how you to remercy.’

  The gomusta’s head reared in indignation and he switched back to Bengali: What do you think, Miss Lambert? Do you think I would keep something that is not my own? I may be man of commerce in your eyes, Miss – and in this age of evil, who is not? – but are you aware that eleven generations of my ancestors have been pandas at one of Nabadwip’s most famous temples? One of my forefathers was initiated into the love of Krishna by Shri Chaitanya himself. I alone was not able to fulfil my destiny: it is my misfortune . . .

  ‘Even now I am searching Lord Krishna left and right,’ continued the gomusta. ‘But what to do? He is not heeding . . .’

  But even as he was extending his hand towards Paulette’s open palm, the gomusta hesitated and drew back his arm. ‘And the interest? My means are deficient, Miss Lambert, and I am saving for higher purpose – to build temple.’

  ‘You shall have the money, never fear,’ said Paulette. She saw a look of doubt enter the gomusta’s eyes, as though he were already beginning to rethink his generosity. ‘But you must let me have the locket: it is my mother’s only picture.’

  Now, in the distance, she heard a footfall that she knew to be the sound of the khidmutgar returning from the boathouse. This made her suddenly desperate, for it mattered very much to her that no one at Bethel should know of this dealing between herself and Mr Burnham’s gomusta – not because she took any pleasure in deceiving her benefactor, but only because she did not wish to provide them with any further material for their recurrent indictments of her father and his godless, improvident ways. She lowered her voice and whispered urgently in English: ‘Please Baboo Nob Kissin; please, I beg you . . .’

  At this, as if to remind himself of his better instincts, the gomusta reached up and gave his tikki a tug. Then, opening his fingers, he allowed the cloth-wrapped locket to fall into Paulette’s waiting hands. He stepped back just as the door opened to admit the khidmutgar, who had returned to let them know that the boat was ready.

  ‘Come, Baboo Nob Kissin,’ said Paulette, making an effort to be cheerful. ‘I will walk you to the boathouse. Come: to there one goes!’

  As they were walking through the house, towards the garden, Baboo Nob Kissin came suddenly to a halt beside a window that looked towards the river: he raised his hand to point and Paulette saw that a ship had entered the rectangular frame – the chequered flag of the Burnham firm was clearly visible on the vessel’s mainmast.

  ‘Ibis is there!’ cried Baboo Nob Kissin. ‘At last, by Jove! Master waiting, waiting, all the time breaking my head and collaring me – why my ship is not coming? Now he will rejoice.’

  Paulette flung open a door and went hurrying across the garden towards the riverfront. Mr Burnham was standing on the schooner’s quarter-deck, waving a hat triumphantly in the direction of Bethel. He was answered by the crew of the caique, who waved back from the boathouse.

  While the men were waving, on ship and shore, Paulette’s gaze strayed towards the river and she caught sight of a dinghy that seemed to have come loose from its moorings: it was floating adrift, with no one at the helm. Caught by the river’s current, it had been pulled out to midstream and was on its way to a collision with the oncoming schooner.

  Paulette choked on her breath as she looked more closely: even from that distance, the boat looked very much like Jodu’s. Of course there were hundreds of similar dinghies on the Hooghly – yet, there was only one that she herself had known intimately: that was the boat on which she was born and on which her mother had died; it was the boat she had played in as a child and in which she had travelled with her father, to collect specimens in the mangrove forests. She recognized the thatch, the crooked turn of the prow, and the stubby jut of the stern: no, there could be no doubt that it was Jodu’s boat, and it was just a few yards from the Ibis, in imminent danger of being rammed by its knife-edged cutwater.

  In a desperate attempt to avoid a collision, she began to mill her arms through the air, shouting as loud as she could. ‘Look out! Dekho! Dekho! Attention!’

  After weeks of anxious wakefulness at his mother’s side, Jodu had slept so deeply as to be unaware that his boat had slipped its moorings and was drifting out into mid-river, right into the path of the ocean-going ships that were using the incoming tide to make their way to Calcutta. The Ibis was almost upon him when the flapping of her foretopsail roused him; the sight that met his eyes was so unexpected that he could not immediately respond: he lay motionless in the boat, his gaze locked on the protruding bill of the vessel’s carved figurehead, which seemed now to be bearing directly down on him, as if to snatch him from the water like prey.

  Lying as he was, flat on his back, on the bamboo slats of his dinghy, Jodu could have been an offering to the river, set afloat on a raft of leaves by some pious pilgrim – yet he did not fail to recognize that this was no ordinary ship bearing down on him, but an iskuner of the new kind, a ‘gosi ka jahaz’, with agil-peechil ringeen rather than square sails. Only the trikat-gavi was open to the wind and it was this distant patch of canvas that had woken him as it filled and emptied with the early morning breeze. Some half-dozen lascars sat perched like birds on the crosswise purwan of the trikatdol, while on the tootuk beneath the serang and the tindals were waving as if to catch Jodu’s attention. He could tell, because their mouths were open, that they were shouting too, although nothing was audible of their voices because of the sound of the wave c
reated by the ship’s knife-like taliyamar as it cut through the water.

  The iskuner was so close now that he could see the green glint of the copper that sheathed the taliyamar; he could even see the shells of the siyala-insects that were clinging to the wet, slime-covered surface of the wood. If his boat were to take the impact of the taliyamar squarely in its flank, it would split, he knew, like a bundle of twigs hit by a falling axe; he himself would be pulled under by the suction of the wake. All this while, the long oar that served as the dinghy’s rudder was only a step and a stretch away – but by the time he leapt to put his shoulder to the handle, it was too late to significantly alter the boat’s course; he was able to turn it just enough so that instead of being hit smack in the middle, the boat bounced off the hull of the Ibis. The impact rolled the dinghy steeply to one side, at exactly the moment when the ship’s bow-wave was crashing down on it, like a breaker on a beach; the hemp ropes snapped under the weight of the water, and the logs flew apart. As the boat was disintegrating under him, Jodu managed to catch hold of one of the logs; he clung on as it bobbed under and back again to the top. When his head was clear of the water, he saw that he had floated almost to the stern of the ship, along with the rest of the wreckage; now he could feel the powerful suction of the awari beginning to tug at the log he was holding on to.

  ‘Here! Here!’ he heard a voice shouting in English, and looked up to see a curly-haired man, whirling a weighted rope above his head. The line snaked out and Jodu succeeded in getting a grip on it just as the ship’s stern was sweeping past, sucking the remains of his boat under its keel. The turbulence spun him around and around, but in such a way as to wrap the rope securely around him, so that when the sailor began to pull, at the other end of the line, his body broke quickly free of the water and he was able to use his feet to scramble up the iskuner’s side and over the bulwark, to collapse in a heap on the after-tootuk.