by Amitav Ghosh
‘Here, quickly, take,’ said the gomusta, rapidly disbursing his trove of fruit, eggs, parathas and jaggery into Neel’s hands. ‘All is for you – extremely tasteful and beneficial to health. Motions may also be enhanced.’
Taken by surprise, Neel switched to Bengali: You are too generous . . .
The gomusta cut him abruptly short. Gesturing conspiratorially in the direction of the silahdars, he said: ‘Kindly eschew native vernaculars. Guards are big trouble-shooters – always making mischiefs. Better they do not listen. Chaste English will suffice.’
‘As you please.’
‘It is advisable also that concealment of edibles is expedited.’
‘Yes of course.’
Neel quickly slipped the food behind him – and just in time too, for the hoard was no sooner hidden than one of the silahdars poked his head through the door, urging the gomusta to be done with whatever he was doing.
Seeing that their time was short, Neel said quickly: ‘I am most grateful to you for these gifts. But may I inquire as to the reason for your generosity?’
‘You cannot connect it up?’ cried the gomusta in evident disappointment.
‘What?’
‘That Ma Taramony has sent? Recognition is not there?’
‘Ma Taramony!’ Neel was perfectly familiar with the name, having often heard it on Elokeshi’s lips – but the mention of it, now, took him by surprise. ‘But has she not passed away?’
Here, after shaking his head vigorously in denial, Baboo Nob Kissin opened his mouth to issue an explanation. But then, faced with the task of finding words that were adequate to the enormous complexity of the matter, he changed his mind and chose instead to make a movement of the hands, a sweeping, fluttering gesture that ended with his forefinger pressed against his bosom, pointing to the presence that was blossoming within.
It was never clear whether it was because of the eloquence of this signal, or merely out of gratitude for the food the gomusta had brought – but it happened anyway that the gesture succeeded in disclosing something of more than trivial importance to Neel. He was left with the impression of having understood a little of what Baboo Nob Kissin was trying to convey; and he understood also that there was something at work within this strange man that was somehow out of the ordinary. What exactly it was he could not say, and nor was there time to think about the matter, for the silahdars had now begun to hammer on the door, to speed the gomusta’s departure.
‘Further discussions must wait for rainy day,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin. ‘I will try to prepone to earliest opportunity. Until then, please note that Ma Taramony has asked to bestow blessings-message.’ With that, the gomusta patted both convicts lightly on their foreheads and plunged headfirst out of the chokey’s door.
After he was gone, the chokey seemed even dimmer than usual. Without quite knowing what he was doing, Neel divided the hoard of food into two parts and held one out to his cell-mate: ‘Here.’
Ah Fatt’s hand stole out of the darkness to receive his share. Then, for the first time since their encounter with the first mate, he spoke: ‘Neel . . .’
‘What?’
‘Was bad, what happen . . .’
‘Don’t say that to me. You should say it to yourself.’
There was a brief silence before Ah Fatt spoke again. ‘I going to kill that bastard.’
‘Who?’
‘Crowle.’
‘With what?’ Neel was tempted to laugh. ‘Your hands?’
‘You wait. See.’
The matter of a sacramental flame was much on Deeti’s mind. A proper fire, even a small one, was not to be thought of, given all the hazards. Something safe would have to be provided instead. But what? The wedding being a special occasion, the migrants had pooled their resources and gathered a few lamps and candles to light the dabusa for the last part of the nuptials. But a shuttered lamp or lantern, like those that were commonly used on the ship, would rob the ceremony of all meaning: who could take seriously a wedding in which the bride and groom performed their ‘seven circles’ around a single, sooty flame? Candles would have to serve the purpose, Deeti decided, as many as could safely be stuck on a single thali. The candles were found and duly lit, but when they were carried to the centre of the dabusa, the fiery thali was found to have developed a mind of its own: with the ship rolling and pitching, it went shooting around the deck, threatening to set the whole dabusa alight. It was clear that someone would have to be stationed beside it, to hold it in place – but who? There were so many volunteers that a half-dozen men had to be assigned to the task, so as not to give anyone cause for offence. Then, when the bridal couple attempted to stand up, it was only to underscore, yet again, that this ritual had not been conceived with the Black Water in mind: for no sooner had they risen than their feet were knocked out from under them by the heaving of the ship. They both flopped belly-first on the deckplanks and went tobogganing towards the jamna side of the hull. Just when a head-cracking collision seemed inevitable the schooner tilted again, to send them shooting off in the other direction, feet first. The hilarity created by this spectacle ended only when the most agile young men came forward to surround the bride and groom with a webbing of shoulders and arms, holding them upright. But soon the young men began to slip and slide too, so that many others had to join in: in her eagerness to circle the flames, Deeti made sure that she and Kalua were among the first to leap into the scrum. Soon it was as if the whole dabusa were being united in a sacramental circle of matrimony: such was the enthusiasm that when it came time for the newlyweds to enter the improvised bridal chamber, it was with some difficulty that other revellers were prevented from accompanying them as they went in.
With the bride and groom closeted in the kohbar, the ribaldry and singing mounted to a crescendo. There was so much noise that no one in the dabusa had the faintest awareness that events of an entirely different order were transpiring elsewhere. Their first inkling of it came when something fell on the deck, above their heads, with a huge thud, shaking the vessel. The sound produced a moment of startled calm, and this was when they heard a scream, in a woman’s voice, echoing down from somewhere high above: Bacháo! They’re killing him! They’ve thrown him down . . .
Who’s that? said Deeti.
Paulette was the first to think of Munia: Where’s she gone? Is she here? Munia, where are you?
There was no answer and Deeti cried: Where could she be?
Bhauji, I think in all the confusion of the wedding, she must have sneaked out somehow, to meet . . .
A lascar?
Yes. I think she hid herself on deck and stayed on after we came down. They must have got caught.
From the roof of the deckhouse to the main deck was a drop of a little more than five feet. Jodu had made the jump many times of his own accord, never with any ill effect. But to be slung down by a silahdar was a different matter: he had fallen headfirst and had been lucky to hit the deck with his shoulder rather than his crown. Now, in trying to rise to his feet, he was conscious of a searing pain in his upper arm and when pushing himself up, he found that his shoulder would not bear his weight. As he was trying to find his footing on the slick, slippery deck, a hand took hold of his banyan and pulled him upright.
Sala! Kutta! You lascar dog . . .
Jodu tried to twist his head around to look the subedar in the face. I didn’t do anything, he managed to say. We were only talking, just a few words – that’s all.
You dare look me in the eye, you son of a pig?
Raising his arm, the subedar winched Jodu bodily off the deck, holding him suspended in the air, legs and arms flailing helplessly. Then he drew his other hand back and drove his clenched fist into the side of Jodu’s face. Jodu felt a spurt of blood, leaking on to his tongue from a newly opened fissure between his teeth. His vision was suddenly blurry, so that Munia, who was now crouching under a longboat, looked like a heap of canvas pickings.
He began again – I didn’t do anything – but the
ringing in his head was so loud he could hardly hear his own voice. Then the back of the subedar’s hand slammed into the other side of his face, knocking the air from his lungs, blowing his cheek out, like a stu’nsail caught by a thod of wind. The force of the blow wrenched him out of the subedar’s grip, sending him sprawling on the deck.
You cut-prick lascar – where did you get the balls to go sniffing after our girls?
Jodu’s eyes were half-closed now, and the ringing in his head made him insensible to the pain in his shoulder. He managed to struggle to his feet, swaying drunkenly as he tried to find his balance on the tilted deck. By the light of the binnacle-lamp he saw that the fana-wale had crowded around to watch: they were all there, Mamdoo-tindal, Sunker, Rajoo, looking over the shoulders of the silahdars, waiting to see what he, Jodu, would do next. His awareness of his shipmates’ presence made him doubly conscious of his hard-earned standing among them, and in a rush of bravado, he spat the blood from his mouth and snarled at the subedar: B’henchod – who do you think you are? You think we’re your slaves?
Kyá? Sheer astonishment at this piece of effrontery slowed the subedar’s reactions by an instant. In that moment Mr Crowle stepped up to take his place, in front of Jodu.
‘Why, in’t it Reid’s little scumsucker, again?’
The first mate had a length of rope in his hands, which he was holding by its bight. Now, drawing his arm back, he lashed the knotted end of the rope across Jodu’s shoulders, forcing him to his hands and knees: ‘Down, y’little claw-buttock.’
The rope came down again, hitting Jodu so hard that he was propelled forwards on all fours. ‘That’s right. Crawl, y’dog, crawl – I’ll see yer crawling like an animal afore I’m done with yer.’
When next the rope came down, Jodu’s arms were knocked out from under him and he fell flat on the deck-planks. The mate took hold of his Osnaburg banyan and pulled Jodu back on all fours, tearing the garment down the middle. ‘Din’t I say crawl? Don’t lie there grindin yer gutstick on the deck – crawl like the dog that y’are.’
A kick sent Jodu tottering forward on his hands and knees, but his shoulder could not long take the weight and after a few more paces, he collapsed on his stomach again. His banyan was torn down the middle now, hanging in shreds under his armpits. There was no handhold to be found on those ragged strips of cloth, so instead the mate reached for his trowsers. Seizing the waistband, he gave it a jerk that ripped the frayed canvas apart at the seams. It was on the bare skin of Jodu’s buttocks that the rope slammed down now, and the pain forced a cry from his lips.
Allah! Bacháo!
‘Don’t y’waste yer breath now,’ said the mate grimly. ‘Jack Crowle’s the one to call on; no one else can save yer bacon here.’
Again the rope descended on the small of Jodu’s back, and the pain was so intense, so numbing, that he no longer had the strength even to fall on his face. He went a couple more paces on all fours, and then, with his head hanging down, he saw, framed in the triangular gap between his naked thighs, the faces of the trikat-wale, watching him in pity and shame.
‘Crawl, y’sonky dog!’
He lurched another couple of paces, and then two more, while in his head a voice was saying – yes, you’re an animal now, a dog, they’ve made a beast out of you: crawl, crawl . . .
He had crawled far enough to satisfy the first mate. Mr Crowle dropped his rope and gestured to the silahdars: ‘Take the shit-heel down to the chokey and lock him in.’
They were done with him now – he was no better than a carcass to be carted away. As the guards were dragging him towards the fana, Jodu heard the subedar’s voice, somewhere aft.
And now, you coolie whore – it’s your turn; it’s time you were taught a lesson too.
The dabusa was now in a state of utter confusion: everyone was milling about trying to make sense of what was happening above. It was as if they were ants, trapped inside a drum, trying to understand what was taking place on the other side of the skin: Was that heavy scraping sound, going agil, an indication that Jodu was being dragged to the fana? Was that tattoo of knocks over there, heading peechil, the sound of Munia kicking her heels as she was dragged away?
Then they heard Munia’s voice: Bacháo! Save me, oh you people, they’re taking me down to their kamra . . .
Munia’s words were cut suddenly short, as if a hand had been clamped over her lips.
Paulette snatched at Deeti’s elbow. Bhauji! We have to do something! Bhauji! There’s no telling what they might do to her.
What can we do, Pugli?
It passed through Deeti’s mind to say no, this wasn’t her burden, she wasn’t really everyone’s Bhauji and couldn’t be expected to fight every battle. But then she thought of Munia, all alone, amongst a roomful of silahdars and maistries, and her body rose as of itself. Come: let’s go to the ladder.
With Kalua clearing a path, she went up the ladder and began to bang on the hatch: Ahó! Who’s there? Where are you – oh, you great paltans of maistries and silahdars?
Receiving no answer, she turned to face the dabusa: And you? she said to her fellow migrants. Why’re you all so quiet now? You were making enough noise a few minutes ago. Come on! Let’s see if we can’t rattle the masts on this ship; let’s see how long they can ignore us.
It began slowly, the noise-making, with the hills-men rising to their feet to stamp on the deck-planks. Then someone began to bang her bangles on a thali and others joined in, beating gharas and pots, or just shouting or singing, and within a few minutes it was as if some uncontainable force had been released inside the dabusa, an energy that was capable of shaking the oakum from the schooner’s seams.
Suddenly, the hatch-cover flew open and the voice of an unseen silahdar came echoing through the opening. The gratings were still in place and Deeti could not see who was speaking nor follow his words. She set Kalua and Paulette to the task of silencing the others and raised her ghungta’d face to the hatch: Who are you up there?
What’s going on with you coolies? came the answer. What’s this noise?
You know very well what’s going on, said Deeti. You’ve taken one of our girls away. We’re worried about her.
Worried, are you? – the sneer was audible – why weren’t you worried when she was whoring herself to a lascar? A Muslim at that?
Malik, said Deeti. Let her come back to us, and we’ll settle the matter amongst us. It’s best that we deal with our own.
It’s too late for that; the Subedar-ji says she has to be kept in a safe place from now on.
Safe? said Deeti. Amongst all of you? Don’t tell me that stuff: I’ve seen it all – sab dekhchukalbáni. Go: tell your subedar that we want to see our girl and won’t rest till we do. Go. Right now.
There was a brief silence, during which they could hear the maistries and silahdars consulting with each other. In a while, one of them said: Keep quiet for now, and we’ll see what the subedar says.
All right.
An excited hubbub broke out in the ’tween-deck as the hatchcover slammed back into place:
. . . You’ve done it again, Bhauji . . .
. . . They’re scared of you . . .
. . . What you say, Bhauji, they cannot but do . . .
These premature comments filled Deeti with dread. Nothing’s happened yet, she snapped; let’s wait and see . . .
A good quarter of an hour passed before the hatch-cover opened again. Then a finger came through the gratings to point to Deeti. You there, said the same voice. The subedar says you can go and see the girl; no one else.
Alone? said Deeti. Why alone?
Because we don’t want another riot. Remember what happened at Ganga-Sagar?
Deeti felt Kalua’s hand slipping into hers, and she raised her voice: I won’t go without my jora, my husband.
This led to another whispered consultation and another concession: All right then – let him come up too.
The gratings creaked open and Deeti climbed slowly
out of the dabusa, with Kalua following behind her. There were three silahdars on deck, armed with long staves, their faces shadowed by their turbans. As soon as Deeti and Kalua stepped out, the gratings and hatch-cover were slammed shut, with such finality that Deeti began to wonder whether the guards had been waiting all along to separate the two of them from the other migrants: could it be that they had walked into a trap?
Her misgivings deepened when the sirdars produced a length of rope and ordered Kalua to put out his hands.
Why are you binding his wrists? cried Deeti.
Just to keep him quiet while you’re gone.
I won’t go without him, said Deeti.
Do you want to be dragged then? Like the other one?
Kalua jogged her elbow: Go, he whispered. If there’s trouble, just raise your voice. I’m here; I’ll be listening and I’ll find a way – ham sahára khojat. . .
Deeti lengthened her ghungta as she followed the silahdar down the ladder that led to the beech-kamra. In comparison with the dabusa, this part of the vessel was brightly lit, with several lamps suspended from the ceiling. The lights were swinging in wide arcs, with the rolling of the ship, and their pendulum-like movement multiplied the shadows of the men inside, so that the cabin seemed to be filled with a crowd of hurtling figures and shapes. Stepping off the last rung, Deeti averted her eyes and clung to the ladder to steady herself. She could tell from the mingled smell of smoke and sweat that there were many men inside the compartment; even with her head lowered she could feel their eyes boring into the shield of her ghungta.
. . . This is the one . . .
. . . Jobhan sabhanké hamré khiláf bhatkáwat rahlé . . .
. . . The one who’s always inciting the others against us . . .
Deeti’s courage almost failed her now, and her feet would have ceased to move if the silahdar had not muttered: What are you stopping for? Keep moving.
