by Amitav Ghosh
Through the veil of her sari, Deeti looked up at the masts, towering above. The sight made her a little giddy, so she kept her head bent and her eyes lowered. A number of maistries and silahdars were positioned along the deck, ushering the migrants along with their lathis, shoving them in the direction of the booby-hatch. Chal! Chal! Despite their shouts, progress was slow because of all the clutter on deck; everywhere you looked there were ropes, casks, pipas, bimbas, and even the occasional runaway chicken and bleating goat.
Deeti was almost abreast of the foremast when she became aware of a voice that sounded strangely familiar: it was shouting obscenities in Bhojpuri: Toré mái ké bur chodo!
Looking ahead, through a tangle of ropes and spars, she caught sight of a bull-necked, heavy-bellied man with luxuriant white moustaches; her feet froze and a cold hand took hold of her heart. Even though she knew who it was, there was a voice in her ear telling her that it was not a mortal man at all, but Saturn himself: It’s him, Shani, he’s been hunting you all your life and now he has you in his grasp. Her knees buckled under her, sending her crashing to the planks, at her husband’s feet.
By this time a great press of people had poured on to the deck, and they were being herded steadily aft by the guards and overseers, with their swishing lathis. Had the person behind Deeti been someone of lesser size and strength than Kalua, she might well have been trampled where she lay. But on seeing her fall, Kalua braced himself against the deck and was able to bring the flow of people to a sudden halt.
What’s happening there?
The disturbance had caught Bhyro Singh’s attention and he began to advance upon Kalua, lathi in hand. Deeti lay where she was and pulled her sari tight over her face: but what was the point of hiding when Kalua was standing right above her, in full view and sure to be recognized? She shut her eyes and began to mutter prayers: Hé Rám, hé Rám . . .
But the next thing she heard was Bhyro Singh’s voice, saying to Kalua: What’s your name?
Was it possible that the subedar would not recognize Kalua? Yes, of course: he had been away from the village these many years and had probably never seen him, except as a child – and what interest would he have had in a leather-tanner’s child anyway? But the name, Kalua – that he was sure to know because of the scandal of Deeti’s escape from her husband’s funeral pyre. Oh, fortunate the kismat that had prompted her to be careful with their real names; if only Kalua did not mention it now. To give him warning, she dug a fingernail into his toe: Beware! Beware!
What’s your name? the subedar asked again.
Her prayer was answered. After a moment’s hesitation, Kalua said: Malik, my name is Madhu.
And is that your wife, lying there?
Yes, malik.
Pick her up, said Bhyro Singh, and carry her to the dabusa. Don’t let me see either of you making trouble again.
Yes, malik.
Kalua slung Deeti across his shoulder and carried her down the ladder, leaving their bundles on deck. After he had laid her on a mat, he would have gone back to fetch the bundles, but Deeti would not let him: No, listen to me first: do you know who that man was? He’s Bhyro Singh, my husband’s uncle; it’s he who arranged my marriage, and it’s he who sent people out to look for us. If he knows we’re here . . .
‘Are you ready, ho?’ The pilot’s call was answered promptly by Serang Ali: Sab taiyár, sáhib.
The sun was at its zenith now, and the booby-hatch that led to the dabusa had long since been battened down. Along with every other lascar, Jodu had been set to work on clearing the main deck – stowing pipas of drinking water, tirkaoing hamars, and hauling zanjirs through the hansil-holes. Now, with the chickens and goats safely stowed in the ship’s boats, nothing else remained to be cleared and Jodu was impatient to be up on the trikat-yard again, for it was from aloft that he envisioned himself taking a last look at his native city: his were the first hands on the iskat when at last the command came – ‘Foretopmen aloft!’ – Trikatwalé úpar chal!
From Calcutta to Diamond Harbour, some twenty miles to the south, the Ibis was to be towed by the Forbes, one of several steam-tugs that had recently been put into commission on the Hooghly River. Jodu had seen these diminutive boats from afar, puffing consequentially along the river, towing mighty barques and brigantines as if they weighed no more than his own frail dinghy: not the least part of his eagerness to be under way lay in the prospect of a tow from one of these amazing vessels. Looking upriver, he saw that the round-nosed tug was already approaching, tolling its bell to clear a path through the traffic on the river.
On the far bank lay the Botanical Gardens and Jodu’s perch was high enough that he could see the familiar trees and pathways. The sight made him think, for one fleeting and wistful instant, of what it would have been like to have Putli balancing on the trikat-yard beside him: that it would be sport, there was no denying, and she could have done it too, had it been possible. Of course, such a thing could not be permitted under any circumstances – but still, he couldn’t help wishing that he had parted from her on some better, less contentious note: there was no telling when, if ever, he would see her again.
His attention had strayed so far that he was taken by surprise when Sunker said: Look, over there . . .
The heads of a pair of divers could be seen bobbing around the anchor buoys as they loosed the schooner’s cables. It was almost time now: in a matter of moments they would be pulling away. Mamdoo-tindal tossed back his hair, and closed his long-lashed eyes. Then his lips began to move in prayer, murmuring the first words of the Fatiha. Jodu and Sunker were quick to join in: B’ism’illáh ar-rahmán ar-rahím, hamdu’l’illáh al-rabb al-‘alamín . . . In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Praise to the Lord of all Creation . . .
‘All hands to quarters, ahoy!’ The pilot’s shout was followed by a cry from the serang: Sab ádmi apna jagah!
As the tug drew closer, the hammering of its engine grew louder and louder, and in the enclosed, airless gloom of the dabusa, it sounded as if some enraged demon were trying to rip apart the wooden planks of the hull in order to devour the people who sat huddled within. It was very dark inside, for the maistries had extinguished the candles and lamps on their way out: there was no need for them, they’d said, now that the migrants were all nicely packed in – to keep them burning would only increase the risk of fire. No one had disputed this but everyone understood that the overseers were merely saving themselves an extra expense. With no flame lit and the hatch secured, such light as there was came from cracks in the timber and the openings of the piss-dales. The leaden gloom, combined with the midday heat and the fetid stench of hundreds of enclosed bodies, gave the unstirred air a weight like that of sewage: it took an effort even to draw breath.
Already now, the girmitiyas had moved their mats about to their liking: everyone knew, from the first, that the maistries cared very little about what actually happened below: their chief concern was to escape the heat and stench of the dabusa so that they could settle into their own bunks, in the midships-cabin. No sooner had the overseers departed, shutting the hatch behind them, than the migrants began to disrupt the careful circle of their mats, scuffling and shouting as they fought for space.
As the noise of the tugboat mounted, Munia began to tremble, and Paulette, guessing that she was on the verge of hysteria, drew her closer. Despite her pretence of self-possession, even Paulette was beginning to feel the onset of panic when she heard a voice she knew to be Zachary’s: he was right above her, on the main deck, so close that she could almost hear the shuffle of his feet.
‘Pay out the cable!’ – Hamár tirkao!
‘Haul together!’ – Lag sab barábar!
The hawsers that connected the Ibis to the steam-tug drew tight and a tremor ran through the schooner as if she were waking suddenly to life, like a bird startled out of a long night’s sleep. From below the waterline, the spasms ran upwards, through the dabusa and into the deckhouse, where Steward Pinto c
rossed himself and dropped to his knees. As his lips began to move, the mess-boys, in all their many faiths, knelt beside him and bowed their heads: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum . . . Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .
On the main deck, Mr Doughty’s hands were on the wheel as he shouted: ‘Heave, you dogs, heave!’
Habés – habés kutté, habés! habés!
The schooner lurched to its jamna side and down in the darkness of the dabusa, people slipped and slid and tumbled upon each other like crumbs on a tilted tray. Neel put his eye to the air duct, and saw that a riot had broken out in the adjacent dabusa, with dozens of terrified migrants hurling themselves at the ladder, pounding on the fastened hatch, in a belated attempt at escape: Chhoro, chhoro – let us out, let us off . . .
There was no response from above, except for a series of hookums, ringing across the deck: ‘Haul you bastards! Haul!’ – Sab barábar! Habés salé, habés!
Exasperated by the futile thrashings of the girmitiyas, Neel shouted through the air duct: Be quiet you fools! There’s no escape; no turning back . . .
Slowly, as the vessel’s motion made itself felt in the pit of every stomach, the noise yielded to a pregnant, fearful stillness. Now the migrants began to absorb the finality of what was under way: yes, they were moving, they were afloat, heading towards the void of the Black Water; neither death nor birth was as fearsome a passage as this, neither being experienced in full consciousness. Slowly, the rioters backed away from the ladder and returned to their mats. Somewhere in the darkness, a voice, trembling in awe, uttered the first syllables of the Gayatri Mantra – and Neel, who had been made to learn the words almost as soon as he could speak, now found himself saying them, as if for the first time: Om, bhur bhuvah swah, tat savitur varenyam . . . O giver of life, remover of pain and sorrow . . .
‘Ready about!’ – Taiyár jagáh jagáh!
Up on the foremast, as the shudder of the Ibis’s awakening ran from a-low to aloft, Jodu felt a tremor in the trikat-yard and knew that he had arrived at the moment his life had been building towards through many a long year; now, at last, he was leaving behind these muddy shores to meet the waters that led to Basra and Chin-kalan, Martaban and Zinjibar. As the mast began to sway, his chest swelled with pride to see how fine a figure the Ibis cut amongst the craft that clogged the river – the caramoussals and perikoes and budgerows. At this lofty elevation, it seemed as if the schooner had given him a pair of wings to soar above his past. Giddy with exhilaration, he hooked an arm around the shrouds and tore off his headcloth.
My salams to all of you, he shouted, waving to the unheeding shore: Jodu is on his way . . . oh you whores of Watgunge . . . you crimps of Bhutghat . . . Jodu’s turned a lascar and he is gone . . . Gone!
Seventeen
Twilight brought the Ibis back to the Narrows, at Hooghly Point, and there, in the river’s broad curve, she dropped anchor to wait out the night. Not till darkness had swallowed the surrounding banks were the girmitiyas allowed on deck; until then the gratings of the hatchway were kept firmly closed. The subedar and the overseers were agreed that the migrants’ first taste of shipboard conditions had probably increased the likelihood of attempted break-outs: seen in daylight, the shore might present an irresistible temptation. Even after nightfall, when the attractions of land had been diminished by the howls of foraging jackal-packs, the maistries did not relax their vigilance: past experience had taught them that in every group of indentured migrants there were always a few who were desperate – or suicidal – enough to throw themselves into the water. When it came time to prepare the evening meal, they kept every migrant under watch. Even those who had been designated to serve as bhandaris were kept under guard while they stirred the chattas in the deckhouse chuldan. As for the rest, they were allowed up only in small groups, and were herded back into the dabusa as soon as they had finished their rice, dal and lime-pickle.
While the bhandaris and maistries were seeing to the feeding of the migrants, Steward Pinto and his mess-boys were serving roast lamb, mint sauce and boiled potatoes in the officers’ cuddy. The portions were generous, for the steward had laid in two whole sides of fresh mutton before leaving Calcutta, and the meat was not likely to last long in the unseasonable heat. But in spite of the plenitude of food and drink, there was less conviviality in the cuddy than there was around the chuldan, where, from time to time, the migrants could even be heard singing a few snatches of song.
Májha dhára mé hai bera merá
Kripá kará ásrai hai tera
My raft’s adrift in the current
Your mercy is my only refuge . . .
‘Damned coolies,’ muttered the Captain, through a mouthful of lamb. ‘Bloody Doomsday couldn’t put a stop to their caterwauling.’
A ship could take as long as three days, depending on the weather and the winds, to sail downriver from Calcutta to the Bay of Bengal. Between the river’s estuary and the open sea lay the island of Ganga-Sagar, the last of the holy waterway’s many pilgrimages. One of Neel’s ancestors had endowed a temple on the island, and he had visited it several times himself. The erstwhile Halder zemindary lay about halfway between Calcutta and Ganga-Sagar, and Neel knew that the Ibis would pass his estate towards the end of the second day. This was a journey that he had made so often that he could feel the zemindary’s approach in the river’s bends and turns. As it drew near, his head filled with shards of recollection, some of them as bright and sharp as bits of broken glass. When the time came, almost as if to mock him, he heard the lookout cry out, above: Raskhali, we’re passing Raskhali!
He could see it now: it couldn’t have been clearer if the schooner’s hull had turned into glass. There it was: the palace and its colon-naded verandas; the terrace where he had taught Raj Rattan to fly kites; the avenue of palash trees his father had planted; the window of the bedroom to which he had taken Elokeshi.
‘What is it, eh?’ said Ah Fatt. ‘Why you hitting your head, eh?’ When Neel made no answer, Ah Fatt shook him by the shoulders till his teeth rattled.
‘The place we pass now – you know it, not know it?’
‘I know it.’
‘Your village, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Home? Family? Tell everything.’
Neel shook his head: ‘No. Maybe some other time.’
‘Achha. Other time.’
Raskhali was so close that Neel could almost hear the bells of its temple. What he needed now, was to be elsewhere, in a place where he could be free of his memories. ‘Where’s your home, Ah Fatt? Tell me about it. Is it in a village?’
‘Not village.’ Ah Fatt scratched his chin. ‘My home very big place: Guangzhou. English call Canton.’
‘Tell me. Tell me everything.’
Hou-hou . . .
Thus it happened that while the Ibis was still on the Hooghly, Neel was being transported across the continent, to Canton – and it was this other journey, more vivid than his own, that kept his sanity intact through the first part of the voyage: no one but Ah Fatt, no one he had ever known, could have provided him with the escape he needed, into a realm that was wholly unfamiliar, utterly unlike his own.
It was not because of Ah Fatt’s fluency that Neel’s vision of Canton became so vivid as to make it real: in fact, the opposite was true, for the genius of Ah Fatt’s descriptions lay in their elisions, so that to listen to him was a venture of collaboration, in which the things that were spoken of came gradually to be transformed into artefacts of a shared imagining. So did Neel come to accept that Canton was to his own city as Calcutta was to the villages around it – a place of fearful splendour and unbearable squalor, as generous with its pleasures as it was unforgiving in the imposition of hardship. In listening and prompting, Neel began to feel that he could almost see with Ah Fatt’s eyes: there it was, the city that had conceived and nurtured this new half of himself – a seaport that lay far inland, in the recesses of a nook-shotten coast, separated from the
ocean by an intricate tangle of swamps, sands, creeks, marshes and inlets. It was shaped like a ship, this river port, its hull outlined by a continuous bulwark of towering, grey walls. Between the water and the city’s walls lay a shoulder of land that was as turbulent as a ship’s wake: although it fell outside the city limits, this stretch of shore was so thickly settled that nobody could tell where the land stopped and the water began. Sampans, junks, lorchas and smug-boats were moored here in such numbers as to form a wide, floating shelf that reached almost halfway across the river’s width: everything was jumbled, water and mud, boats and godowns – but the confusion was deceptive, for even in this teeming, bustling length of silt and water, there were distinct little communities and neighbourhoods. And of these, the strangest, without a doubt, was the small enclave allotted to the foreigners who came to trade with China: the extra-Celestials who were known to the Cantonese as Fanquis – Aliens.
It was on this spit of land, just beyond the south-western gates of the walled city, that the Aliens had been permitted to build a row of so-called factories, which were nothing but narrow, red-tiled buildings, part warehouse, part residence and part accounts office for the shroffing of cash. For the few months of the year during which they were allowed to reside at Canton, the Aliens had perforce to confine their devilry to this one narrow enclave. The precincts of the walled city were forbidden to them, as to all foreigners – or so at least the authorities declared, claiming that such had been the case for almost a hundred years. Yet anyone who had been inside could tell you that of certain kinds of Alien there was no lack within the city walls: why, you had only to walk past the Hao-Lin temple, on the Chang-shou Road, to see monks from dark, westerly places; and if you stepped inside the precincts, you could even see a statue of the Buddhist preacher who had founded the temple: nobody could dispute that this proselyte was as foreign as the Sakyamuni himself. Or else, if you ventured still further into the city, walking up the Guang-li Road to the Huai-shang temple, you would know at once, from the shape of the minaret, that this was not, despite the outward resemblance, a temple at all, but a mosque; you would see too that the people who lived in and around this edifice were not all Uighurs, from the western reaches of the Empire, but included, besides, a rich display of devilry – Javanese, Malays, Malayalis and Black-Hat Arabs.
