by Amitav Ghosh
Drawing the straight sword from its scabbard he laid it across his knees, beside the talwar. It was a dull grey in colour, with a sharply pointed tip and straight sides. There were no ornamental designs etched upon the blade and it showed no signs of having ever been touched by the hands of a craftsman.
These English swords are all alike, said Bhyro Singh. They make thousands and thousands of them, all exactly the same. Compared to our talwars, they are blunt, ugly things.
He thrust a leaf against the edge of the blade and succeeded only in bruising it.
But when it comes to fighting, said Bhyro Singh, it’s a different matter. He rose to his feet and brandished the unsheathed talwar in front of him.
Look at this talwar, said Bhyro Singh. It is a weapon that cuts with its edge. To use it in battle a soldier must have plenty of space around him. Or else he will hurt his own men.
He motioned to the others to step back and made a slashing motion, so that the tip of the talwar drew crosswise arcs in the air, swinging from shoulder to waist on one side and then the other.
When I use this sword, said Bhyro Singh, none of my own men can be near me. We have to stand at least two swords’ lengths away.
Laying aside the talwar, he now picked up the English sword and held it in front of him.
This weapon is also a sword, he said, but it works in a completely different way. It is meant not for cutting with the edge, but for impaling with the tip. That is what it is meant to do. With these weapons a column of men armed with swords and bayonets can advance shoulder to shoulder: they pose no danger to each other. Even if their numbers are much smaller, their column has more weight because it is more closely packed. When a line of our soldiers meets a line of men with talwars they will always break through. The fighters armed with talwars cannot turn us back, no matter how brave they are, or how highly skilled. If they try to form a mass they will hurt themselves more than us. Their talwars cannot be used in the same way as a straight sword or a bayonet – the curved blade does not allow that. To fight at all, they need space and that becomes their weakness, no matter what their numbers. That is why they always scatter in front of us.
The havildar handed his swords to his men, to be sheathed. Then he turned again to Ram Singh.
You see, Ram Singhji, he said, there are good reasons why there is no army in Hindustan that can withstand the forces of the Company Bahadur. Sometimes armies run away just at the sight of us. If you want your son to fight on the winning side, if you want him to come home alive, with money in his pouch, you will give him to me and I will turn him into a sepoy for the Company.
At this point Bhim intervened, saying to his father in a loud whisper that he had made up his mind: he wished to go nowhere but to Delhi.
That brought the argument to an end. Bhyro Singh gave a dismissive shrug, as if to say he had done what he could: All right, then I will take your leave now, Ram Singhji. I have said what I had to. If anything changes, I will be at the mela tomorrow.
With that he ushered his men to the horse-cart and they went on their way.
*
Shireen was returning from one of her daily visits to the Fire Temple when she was intercepted by a khidmatgar. A visitor had come to the house to offer his respects, he said; the gentleman was waiting for her in a receiving room on the ground floor, with her brother.
Kaun hai? said Shireen. Do you know his name?
The boy could tell her nothing except that the visitor was a topeewala-sahib – a hat-wearing white man.
Veiling herself with the end of her white sari, Shireen went to the door of her brother’s baithak-khana. Seated inside, with her brother, was a tall man with a face like a wind-eroded cliff: his cheeks were scored by deep lines and his temples were marked by protruding, crag-like bones. He was clean-shaven, his complexion a weathered, sunset pink. His jacket and trowsers were a funereal black and he was wearing a dark armband around his sleeve.
In complexion, as in clothing, the visitor looked very much a sahib, yet there was something about his deportment that did not seem entirely European. Nor was there anything Western about the gesture with which he greeted her – a salaam, performed with a cupped hand and a deep bow.
‘Shireen, this is Mr Zadig Karabedian. I am sure his name will be familiar to you – he was a close friend of Bahram-bhai’s. He has come to pay his respects.’
Shireen bowed her head without removing her veil. Bahram had often spoken to her about ‘Zadig Bey’. She remembered that he had befriended him on a journey to England, some thirty years before. Zadig Bey had grown up in Egypt, Bahram had told her: he was an Armenian Christian, a clockmaker who travelled widely in connection with his trade.
Bibiji, said the visitor in fluent Hindustani; please forgive me for not coming earlier, but my visit to Bombay has been much delayed. Like you I have suffered a bereavement.
Oh?
He pointed to his armband: My wife of many years was carried away by a hectic fever a few months ago.
I’m very sorry to hear that, Zadig Bey. Where did it happen?
In Colombo. But I must count it my good fortune that I could at least be with her at the end. God did not grant you even that.
Behind the veil, Shireen’s eyes suddenly filled with tears: No; He did not …
Bibiji, I cannot tell you how much I have been saddened by your husband’s death. Bahram-bhai was my dearest friend.
At the sound of her late husband’s name Shireen’s eyes flew to her brother’s expressionless face. Over the last few weeks Bahram’s name had become almost taboo in the Mestrie mansion; people seemed to avoid mentioning him in order to spare themselves the ignominy of being reminded of his bankruptcy, and of the disgrace he had brought upon his family and relatives.
Shireen herself hardly ever spoke of Bahram now, except with her daughters, and even they talked about him as though he were someone else, a different man: it was as if his death, combined with the catastrophic failure that had preceded it, had become a kind of re-birth, begetting a man who was utterly unlike the person they had known: a man whose career had been doomed to failure from the start; whose every success was a portent of the disaster he would bring upon those he loved most.
The girls had always doted on their father but now they could no longer speak of him except in tones of shame and reproach – and nor could Shireen blame them, since Bahram’s bankruptcy had robbed them not just of their expectations of inheritance, but also of a considerable part of the respect they had previously enjoyed in their husbands’ families.
For Shireen herself Bahram’s name had become an open wound, which she tried alternately to soothe, heal and hide – and to hear it uttered now, in tones of such unalloyed affection, was oddly painful.
My husband often spoke of you, she said quietly.
Bahram-bhai was the kindest, most generous of men, said Zadig. It’s terrible that he went in this way.
Shireen glanced at her brother and saw that he was squirming in his seat. To listen to praise of Bahram was deeply distasteful to him, she knew, and she guessed that he would gladly have left the room if not for the impropriety of leaving her alone with a stranger. To spare him any further discomfort, she leant over and whispered in Gujarati, telling him that he could slip away if he liked – her maid was outside; he could send her in and tell her to leave the door open. It would be perfectly proper; she was veiled anyway – there was nothing to worry about.
He jumped to his feet immediately. All right, he said. I will leave you here for a few minutes.
The maid came in and seated herself beside the open door, with the curtain drawn. Then Shireen turned her veiled face towards Zadig Bey.
May I ask when you last saw my husband?
About two months before the accident. I left Canton soon after the crisis began. He was amongst those who remained behind.
But why did he stay behind? she said. Can you tell me exactly what happened?
Zaroor Bibiji.
Zadig we
nt on to explain that in March that year the Chinese authorities had launched an all-out campaign to end the inflow of opium into China. The Emperor had sent a new governor to Canton by the name of Commissioner Lin; shortly after coming to Canton he had given the foreign merchants of the city an ultimatum, ordering them to surrender all the opium on their ships. When they refused he had posted soldiers and boats around the foreign enclave in Canton, cutting it off completely from the outside. The merchants had been given plenty of food and they weren’t ill-treated, but the pressure was such that they had ultimately agreed to surrender their goods. After that Commissioner Lin had allowed all but the most important merchants to leave: Bahram was one of those who had been required to remain in Canton. He had stayed on with his entourage in his house, in Canton’s foreign enclave.
As you may know, Bibiji, said Zadig, the foreign enclave in Canton has thirteen ‘factories’ – or Hongs as they are called over there. They are not really factories – they are more like big caravanserais. Each factory has a number of different apartments and lodgings, which are rented out to foreign merchants according to their means. Bahram always stayed in the same house, in the Fungtai Factory, with his staff. That was where I went to see him.
How was he?
Zadig paused to clear his throat, and when he spoke again it was in the awkward, hesitant tones of someone who is reluctant to convey bad news.
Bibiji, I don’t know if I should tell you this, but Bahram-bhai was in a very downcast state of mind when I saw him. He seemed quite ill to be truthful. I asked his munshi what the matter was, and he said Bahram-bhai rarely left his daftar: apparently he spent his days sitting by the window, in a chair, watching the Maidan outside.
Grief was welling up in Shireen now; she began to knead the hem of her sari with her fingers.
It is hard for me to believe all this, Zadig Bey. My husband was a man who could never sit still.
He was weighed down by his worries, Bibiji, and it’s not surprising. He stood to lose a great deal of money and of course he was worried about his debts.
Zadig coughed into his fist.
I am sure you know, Bibiji, that nothing mattered to him more than his family. That was his religion – his second religion, I should say.
Shireen reached under her veil to wipe away her tears: Yes, I know that.
Zadig continued: That Bahram-bhai’s health suffered is not surprising. He was already quite weak when I saw him, but still, I could not believe it when I heard that he had fallen from the deck of the Anahita. That is the last thing one would expect of a man who had so much experience of sailing. And the worst part of it is that if he had only lived a little longer he would have known that his losses would be recouped.
Shireen was suddenly alert: You mean there will be compensation for the losses?
Zadig nodded: the foreign merchants had set up a fund, he said, to put pressure on the British government to take action against the Chinese. The merchants had all contributed a dollar for every chest of opium confiscated by Commissioner Lin. A large sum of money had been collected and sent to Mr William Jardine, in London. Jardine was the biggest of the China traders and he had been making very good use of the money; he had paid off many Members of Parliament and a horde of newspapermen. Nothing like that had ever been seen before – merchants and seths using their money to buy up the government! So many speeches had been made, and so many articles had been published that now every Englishman was convinced that Commissioner Lin was a monster. It was rumoured that on Jardine’s advice the British government was preparing to send an expeditionary force to China. The seizure of the opium was to be their reason for declaring war so it was quite certain that they would demand reparations.
Here Zadig leant forward in his seat: You must make sure, Bibiji, he said, that Bahram-bhai’s claims are not overlooked when it is time for the money to be divided.
Stifling a sob, Shireen explained that this was exactly the problem: she had no one to represent her; her brothers and sons-in-law were busy with their own affairs and could not spare the time for a year-long journey to China.
There is no one to fill my husband’s shoes, Zadig Bey – no son, no heir, and in a way he himself is to blame.
What do you mean, Bibiji?
Shireen was now so distraught, and Zadig’s presence was so comforting, that without quite meaning to she began to talk about something that she had never before spoken of with anyone.
Zadig Bey, there is something you perhaps do not know: my husband had some sort of problem, something physical, that prevented him from begetting a son. We were told this by a sadhu who had cured many such cases; he offered to cure my husband too, but he just laughed it off. If he had taken the matter more seriously maybe things would have been different now.
Having listened intently to Shireen’s words, Zadig fell into a ruminative silence. When he spoke again it was in English. ‘Can I ask you a question, Bibiji?’
Shireen glanced at him in surprise and he made a gesture of warning, inclining his head in the direction of the maid. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Please. Go on.’
‘May I ask if Bibiji ever leaves the house?’
The question took Shireen by surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Let me put it like this: how might it be possible to speak to you in private, away from the hearing of your family and servants?’
She thought quickly. ‘Thursday is the anniversary of the death of Mrs O’Brien, my English tutor. I will go to Nossa Senhora da Gloria Church to light a candle for her.’
‘The Catholic church in Mazagon?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time?’
She could hear her brother’s footsteps in the corridor now and she lowered her voice. ‘Eleven o’clock, in the morning.’
He nodded and lowered his voice to a whisper: ‘I will be there.’
*
Tears came into young Kesri’s eyes as he watched Bhyro Singh’s cart receding into the distance: it was as if his own hopes were being ground to dust under its wheels.
No one had listened to the havildar’s words with greater attention than Kesri: the arguments about caste and religion had mattered little to him, but his observations on weaponry and tactics had made a profound impression, re-moulding Kesri’s soldierly aspirations: no longer did he want merely to be a bearer of arms; it was the Company’s army, the havildar’s battalion, that he wanted to join. The attractions of the old ways of fighting had been scorched from his head: this new kind of war was much more attractive. This was what real soldiering was about: winning, adapting, out-thinking the enemy, and through it all, also making money.
That his brother Bhim had turned down such an opportunity seemed almost beyond belief to Kesri. Later, when they were out of earshot of their father, Kesri said to Bhim: Batavo – tell me, why didn’t you go with Havildar Bhyro Singh? Was it because you’re afraid of Babuji?
No, said Bhim, with a shake of his head. It’s Bhyro Singh I’m afraid of. I would rather go with a demon than with that man.
But why do you say that? Can’t you see how good the Company’s terms are?
Bhim merely shrugged and shuffled his feet.
If only, said Kesri bitterly, if only I’d been in your place.
Why? said Bhim. What would you have done? Would you have gone with Bhyro Singh?
Kesri nodded, blinking back the tears that had boiled up in his eyes. If I were in your place, said Kesri, I would not have wasted one moment. I would be on that cart right now, with them …
If the desire to leave had been a dull ache before, it was now a fever raging in Kesri’s belly. The heat of it curdled the rich food he had eaten that morning and he vomited in full view of his family.
In a way this was a blessing, for it gave him an excuse to keep to himself. He spent the rest of the day lying on his mat and went to sleep early. Next morning, when it came time to leave for the Naga sadhus’ mela he could not sto
mach the prospect of having to sit aside as Bhim received blessings for his journey to Delhi: pleading illness, Kesri stayed at home.
After the others had left, Kesri ferreted out his father’s stock of opium and tucked a pinch of it in his cheek. He soon fell asleep, and although he woke briefly when the others returned, he did not stir from his mat. Night had already fallen so no one came to rouse him and he soon drifted off again.
When next he woke it was very late and his brother was whispering in his year: Uthelu Kesri-bhaiya, wake up – come outside!
Still groggy from the opium, Kesri held on to his brother’s elbow and followed him through the sleeping house, to the charpoys under the mango tree.
Listen, Kesri-bhaiya, Bhim whispered. You have to hurry – Bhyro Singhji is waiting for you.
Ka kahrelba? Kesri rubbed his sleepy eyes with his knuckles. What are you talking about?
Yes, said Bhim. It’s true. I spoke to Bhyro Singhji at the mela today: I told him that you wanted to join the Company’s army but that Babuji does not wish it and wouldn’t give his permission. He said that Babuji’s wishes do not concern him at all. Babuji is not his relative, and he doesn’t care about his views. Calcutta is too far for Babuji to do anything about it.
Kesri was suddenly wide awake: So what did you say?
I told him that if you left without Babuji’s permission you would have no money or equipment, or even a horse. He said that this too would not matter – a horse is not necessary because they are travelling to Calcutta by boat. As for other necessities, he will give you a loan, to be paid back later.
And then?
He said that if you were sure in your mind that you want to go, then you should meet him and his men at the ghat by the river, at dawn. That is when their boat will be sailing. They will be waiting for you. Der na hoi – don’t be late.
Is this true? cried Kesri. Are you sure?
Yes, Kesri-bhaiya. Dawn is not so far off. If you start walking you will be there in time to meet them.
Desperate though he was to leave, Kesri was reluctant to leave his brother to face their father’s wrath alone. But Bhim reassured him, saying that he would be all right, their father wouldn’t know of his part in arranging Kesri’s departure so he would suffer no consequences. To the contrary he might even stand to benefit, because with Kesri gone he might well be asked to stay on at home, which would suit him nicely. In all likelihood Kesri would himself be forgiven once he started sending money home.
