by Amitav Ghosh
Mr Rowbotham had been watching Neel closely in the meantime and he leant over now to whisper in his ear. ‘I’m afraid there is some other, somewhat unwelcome news . . .’
‘Oh?’ said Neel. ‘What is it?’
‘I have only this morning received an official chitty from the government’s solicitor. They are to introduce a new piece of evidence: a sworn affidavit.’
‘From whom?’ said Neel.
‘A lady – a woman I should say – who claims to have had a liaison with you. I gather she is a dancer . . .’ Mr Rowbotham peered closely at a sheet of paper. ‘The name I think is Elokeshi.’
Neel’s disbelieving eyes moved away, to glance once again at the assembled crowd. He saw that his wife’s oldest brother had appeared in the courtroom and taken a seat at the rear. For a brief but nightmarish instant he wondered whether Malati had come too and great was his relief when he noted that his brother-in-law was alone. In the past he had sometimes regretted Malati’s strictness in the observation of the rules of caste and purdah – but today he felt nothing but gratitude for her orthodoxy, for if there was any one thing that could possibly make the situation even worse than it already was, it was the thought of her being present to witness his betrayal by his mistress.
It was this consideration that sustained him through the ordeal of Elokeshi’s affidavit, which proved to be a fanciful account, not just of the incriminating conversation in which Neel had spoken of the Raskhali estate’s dealings with Mr Burnham, but also of the circumstances in which it had taken place. The Raskhali budgerow, the stateroom, even the coverings on the bed, were described in such painstaking, even salacious, detail that each fresh revelation was greeted by gasps of surprise, exclamations of shock and outbursts of laughter.
When at last the reading was over, Neel turned in exhaustion to Mr Rowbotham: ‘How long will this trial last? When will we know the outcome?’
Mr Rowbotham gave him a wan smile: ‘Not long, dear Raja. Perhaps no more than a fortnight.’
When Deeti and Kalua went down to the ghat they saw why the duffadar had been in such a hurry that morning: now, the river ahead was clogged by a huge fleet that was bearing slowly down on the ghats of Chhapra, from upstream. In the lead was a flotilla of pulwars – single-masted boats, equipped with oars as well as sails. These quick-moving craft were ranging ahead of the main body of the fleet, clearing the waterways of other traffic, scouting the navigable channels, and marking the many shoals and sandbars that lurked just beneath the water’s surface. Behind them, advancing under full sail, were some twenty patelis. Double-masted and square-rigged, these were the largest vessels on the river, not much smaller than ocean-going ships, and they carried a full complement of canvas on each mast, both dols being hung with three sails – bara, gavi and sabar.
Deeti and Kalua knew at a glance where the ships were coming from and where they were going: this was the fleet of the Ghazipur Opium Factory, carrying the season’s produce to Calcutta, for auction. The fleet was accompanied by a sizeable contingent of armed guards, burkundazes and peons, most of whom were distributed among the smaller pulwar boats. The large vessels were still a good hour away when some half-dozen pulwars pulled in. Squads of guards jumped ashore, wielding lathis and spears, and set about clearing the ghats of people, securing them for the docking of the stately patelis.
The opium fleet was commanded by two Englishmen, both junior assistants from the Ghazipur Carcanna. By tradition, the senior of the two occupied the pateli that headed the fleet while the other sailed in the ship that brought up the rear. These two vessels were the largest in the fleet and they took the places of honour at the shore. The ghats at Chhapra were not of a size to accommodate many large vessels at one time and the other patelis had to drop anchor at midstream.
Despite the line of guards around the ghat, a crowd soon assembled to gape at the fleet, their attention being drawn particularly to the two largest patelis. Even by daylight, these vessels presented a handsome sight – and after nightfall, when their lamps were lit, they looked so spectacular that few of the townsfolk could resist taking a dekho. From time to time, prodded by lathis and spears, the crowd would be forced to part, clearing a path for those of the local zemindars and notabilities who wished to offer their salams to the two young assistants. Some were sent away without being granted an audience, but a few were accorded a brief reception, on board: one or the other of the Englishmen would come on deck for a few minutes, to acknowledge the proffered obeisances. At each such appearance, the crowd pressed forward to get a closer look at the white men, in their jackets and trowsers, their tall black hats and white cravats.
As the night wore on, the crowd thinned and those of the spectators who remained were able to press a little closer to the stately patelis – Deeti and Kalua among them. The night was hot and the windows in the patelis’ staterooms were left open to invite in the breeze. These openings provided occasional glimpses of the two young assistants, as they sat down to their meal – not on the floor, it was observed, but at a table that was brilliantly illuminated with candles. Transfixed with curiosity, the transients of the waterfront kept watch as the two men were served their food by a team of more than a dozen khidmutgars and khalasis.
While jostling for a better view, many spectators speculated about the food that was being put before the white men.
. . . That’s a jackfruit they’re eating now, look, he’s cutting up the katthal . . .
. . . It’s your brain that’s a jackfruit, you fool – what they’re eating is the leg of a goat . . .
Then, all of a sudden, the crowd was put to flight by a detachment of guards and chowkidars, from the kotwali that was responsible for policing this part of the town. Deeti and Kalua scattered into the shadows as the kotwal himself came waddling down the steps that led to the ghats. A large, officious-looking man, he seemed none too pleased to be summoned to the riverfront at this time of night. He raised his voice in annoyance as he made his way down to the water: Yes? Who is it? Who asked for me at this hour?
He was answered in Bhojpuri, by one of the men who had accompanied the fleet: Kotwal-ji, it was I, sirdar of the burkundazes, who wanted to meet with you: might I trouble you to come down to my pulwar?
The voice was familiar, and Deeti’s instincts were instantly alert. Kalua, she whispered, get away from here, run to the sandbanks. I think I know that man. There’ll be trouble if you’re recognized. Go, hide.
And you?
Don’t worry, said Deeti, I’ve got my sari to hide me. I’ll be all right. I’ll come as soon as I find out what’s happening. Go now, chal.
The kotwal was flanked by two peons who were carrying burning branches, to show him the way. When he had reached the water’s edge, the light from the torches fell on the man in the boat, and Deeti saw that he was none other than the sirdar who had let her into the opium factory on the day of her husband’s collapse. The sight of him inflamed her ever-combustible curiosity: what business could the sirdar have with the kotwal of Chhapra’s river-ghat? Determined to know more, Deeti crept closer, through the shadows, until the two men were just within earshot. The sirdar’s voice came wafting through the darkness, in snatches:
. . . Stole her from the cremation fire . . . they were seen here together recently, near the Ambaji temple . . . you’re of our caste, you understand . . .
Kya áfat – what a calamity! It was the kotwal speaking now: What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything I can . . . tauba, tauba. . .
. . . Bhyro Singh will pay generously for any help you can offer him . . . as you can understand, the family’s honour won’t be restored till they’re dead . . .
I’ll put the word out, the kotwal promised. If they’re here, you can be sure we’ll catch them.
There was no need to wait any longer: Deeti hurried into the sandbanks, where Kalua was waiting. When they were a safe distance away, they found a place to sit and she told him what she had learnt – that her dead husband’s family w
as determined to hunt them down, and had somehow come to know of their presence in Chhapra. It would not be safe to remain there one more day.
Kalua listened thoughtfully but said little. They lay beside each other on the sand, under a crescent moon, and neither of them spoke. They lay awake until the hooting of the owls ceased and the call of a hoopoe signalled the approach of day. Then Kalua said, quietly: The girmitiyas will leave at daybreak . . .
Do you know where their boat is moored?
It’s just outside the town, to the east.
Come. Let’s go.
Keeping away from the waterfront, they circled through the centre of the town, drawing howls from the packs of dogs that roamed the lanes at night. On reaching the town’s eastern boundary, they were intercepted by a chowkidar, who took Deeti for a prostitute and was seized by a desire to take her into his chokey. Instead of arguing, she told him that she had been working all night and was too soiled to go with him without first taking a bath in the river. He let them go after making her promise to return, but by the time they got away from him, the sun had already risen. They reached the river just in time to see the migrants’ boat pushing off from its moorings: the duffadar was on deck, supervising the boatmen as they hoisted the sails.
Ramsaran-ji! They ran down a sandy slope shouting his name. Ramsaran-ji! Wait . . .
The duffadar looked over his shoulder and recognized Kalua. It was too late to bring the pulwar back to the shore, so he made a beckoning motion with his hands: Come! Come through the water; it’s not too deep . . .
Just as they were about to step into the river, Kalua said to Deeti: There’s no turning back after this. Are you sure about going on?
Is it even something to ask? she snapped impatiently. Is this the time to stand there like a tree? Come! Let’s go – chal, na . . .
Kalua had no other questions, for his own doubts had been resolved a while before, in his heart. It was without any hesitation now that he swept Deeti into his arms and strode through the water, towards the pulwar.
Jodu was on deck when Captain Chillingworth and Mr Crowle came to inspect the Ibis, so he was one of the few to see the whole tamasha from the start. The timing could not have been worse: they came the day before the Ibis was due to be towed to the dry docks, when things were a little out of sneer anyway. Worse still, they arrived shortly after the midday meal, when every crewman’s head was slowed by the heat and their bodies were sluggish and replete. For once, Serang Ali had allowed the watch to go below for a siesta. He had stayed on deck himself to keep an eye on Jodu, whose turn it was to wash the utensils – but the heat was such as to wilt anyone’s vigilance, and soon enough he too was stretched out under a strip of shade beneath the binnacle.
With the passage of the sun, the shadows of the masts had dwindled into small circles of shade, and Jodu was sitting in one of these, clothed in nothing but a chequered langot, scouring metal khwanchas and earthen chatties. The only other man on deck was Steward Pinto, who was on his way back to the galley, tray in hand, after having taken Zachary’s midday meal to the cuddy. It was the steward who first spotted Mr Crowle and it was his expression of alarm – Burra Malum áyá! – that alerted Jodu: pushing the pots and pans aside, he took refuge in the shadows of the bulwark and thought himself lucky when the Burra Malum’s gaze passed over him without pause.
The Burra Malum had the look of a man who expected nothing but trouble from the world; although tall and broad-chested, he walked with his shoulders hunched and his neck braced, as if in readiness to run head-on into all impediments and obstructions. He was neatly, even carefully, dressed in a dark, broadcloth jacket, narrow pantaloons and wide-brimmed hat, but on the sides of his narrow face there was a coarse, reddish stubble that gave him a look of indefinable slovenliness. Jodu observed him carefully as he went by, and noticed that his mouth had an odd twitch, which laid bare the tips of a few cracked and wolfish teeth. Elsewhere, he might well have been a nondescript, unremarkable kind of man, but here, as a sahib amongst a shipload of lascars, he knew himself to be a figure of command, and it was clear, from the start, that he was looking to establish his authority: his blue eyes were darting here and there, as if in search for things to take issue with. And it wasn’t long before they chanced upon one such: for there, stretched out beneath the binnacle, was Serang Ali in a tattered banyan and lungi, stupefied by the heat, his chequered bandhna covering his face as he snored.
The sight of the sleeping lascar seemed to light some kind of wick in the malum’s head and he began to swear: ‘. . . drunk as a fiddler’s bitch . . . at midday too.’ The Burra Malum pulled back a foot and was about to unloose a kick, when Steward Pinto bethought himself of a ruse and dropped his tray: the clatter of the metal did what it was meant to, and the serang jumped to his feet.
Cheated of his kick, the Burra Malum swore even louder, telling the serang he was an over-shrubbed sniplouse, and what did he think he was doing lying incog on deck at this time of day? Serang Ali was slow to answer, for he had stuffed, as was his custom, a large wad of paan into his cheek after his midday meal: his mouth was now so full that his tongue could not move. He turned his head, to spit over the rails, but for once his aim failed him and he spewed the macerated red remains over the bulwarks and the deck.
At this, the Burra Malum snatched a bitt-stopper off the bulwark and ordered the serang to get down on his knees and clean up the mess. He had been swearing all the while, of course, but now he used an oath that everyone understood: Soor-ka-batcha.
Son of a pig? Serang Ali? By this time, several other members of the crew had emerged from the fana to see what was happening, and Muslim or not, there was not one among them who did not bridle at this curse. Despite his oddities, Serang Ali was a figure of unquestioned respect and authority, occasionally harsh but usually fair, and always supremely competent in his seamanship: to insult him in this way was to piss on the whole fana. Some of the men bunched their fists and took a step or two in the Burra Malum’s direction, but it was the serang himself who signalled to them to stay back. To defuse the situation he got down on his knees and began to swab the deck with his bandhna.
All this had happened so quickly that Zikri Malum had yet to emerge from the cuddy. Now, running up on deck, he found the serang on his hands and knees: ‘Hey, what’s going on here? What’s all this bellerin?’ Then he caught sight of the first mate and cut himself short.
For a minute the two officers eyed each other from a distance, and then a heated argument began. To look at the Burra Malum, you’d think a flying gob-line had hit him on the nose: that a sahib should speak up for a lascar, and that too, in front of so many others, was more than he could stand. Brandishing the bitt-stopper, he stepped towards Zikri Malum in a distinctly threatening way: he was by far the bigger man, and much older too, but Zikri Malum didn’t give any ground, standing toe to toe with him, and keeping himself under control in a way that won him a lot of respect among the fanawale. Many of the lascars thought he might even get the better of it in a fight, and they would have been none too sorry to see the malums come to blows – whatever happened, it would have made a rare spectacle to see two officers beating each other up, and they’d have had a tale to tell for years to come.
Jodu was not among those who was hoping for an all-out fight, and he was unreservedly glad when another voice rang across the deck to put an end to the altercation: ‘Avast there . . . Bas!’
With the two malums going at it hank for hank, no one had noticed the Kaptan coming on deck: spinning around now, Jodu saw a large, bald sahib holding on to the labran ropes, trying to catch his breath. He was much older than Jodu would have expected, and clearly not in the best of health, for the effort of climbing up the side-ladder had robbed him of his wind, sending streams of perspiration down his face.
But well or not, it was in a voice of authoritative assertion that the Kaptan put a stop to the malums’ dispute: ‘Stash it there, you two! Enough with your mallemarking.’
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p; The Kaptan’s hookum sobered the two mates and they made an effort to put a good face on the incident, even bowing and shaking hands. When the Kaptan headed off to the quarter-deck, they followed in step.
But after the officers had disappeared, there was yet another surprise in wait. Steward Pinto, whose dark face had turned a strange, ashy colour, said: I know this Burra Malum – Mr Crowle. I served on a ship with him once . . .
Word flew from lip to lip, and by common consent, the lascars retreated into the gloom of the fana, where they gathered in a circle around the steward.
It was some years ago, said Steward Pinto, maybe seven or eight. He won’t remember me – I wasn’t a steward then; I was a cook, in the galley. My cousin Miguel, from Aldona, was on that ship too: he was a little younger than me, still a mess-boy. One day, while serving dinner in bad weather, Miguel spilled some soup on this Crowle. He flew into a rage and said Miguel wasn’t fit to be a mess-boy: took hold of him by the ear, led him out on deck, and told him he would be working up on the foremast from then on. Now Miguel was a hard worker, but he couldn’t climb well. The thought of going all the way up to the tabar scared him half to death. He begged and begged – but Crowle paid him no mind. Even the serang went and explained the problem: whip the boy, he said, or make him scrub the heads, but don’t send him up there; he can’t climb and he’ll fall and die. But the serang’s efforts only made things worse – for do you know what this Crowle bastard did? When he heard of Miguel’s fears, he deliberately made the climb even harder, by taking down the iskat: without the ladders, the trikat-wale could only go aloft by climbing the labran, which were made of coir rope and could slice up your hands and toes. It was hard even for experienced men because you were often climbing with your body hanging down, like a weighted jhula. For someone like Miguel it was close to impossible, and Crowle must have known what would come of it . . .
