by Amitav Ghosh
Zachary was now completely crushed. Hanging his head like a chastened schoolboy, he mumbled: ‘All right – let’s go then.’
Turning her back on Zachary, Mrs Burnham issued a stern command. ‘Would you kindly do up the buttons, Mr Reid? Mine, I mean.’
‘Yes, Mrs Burnham.’
‘Thank you, I’m sure.’ She kept her eyes carefully averted from him as she rose to her feet: ‘Mr Reid, are you in a fit condition to step outside? Is your pet under sufficient restraint?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Come then. Let us put a good face on it and make our way back to the carriage.’
With her head held high, she thrust the curtain aside and surged into the crowd. Zachary trailed meekly behind, with downcast eyes, and followed her out of the hall and into the road beyond, where her buggy was waiting.
They got in and seated themselves, as far apart as the breadth of the coach would allow. The horses set off at a brisk trot and for a while they sat in silence, looking out of their respective windows. Then Mrs Burnham said, in a voice that was quiet but firm: ‘You are aware, are you not, Mr Reid, that you have brought this illness upon yourself?’
‘I do not take your meaning, ma’am,’ he responded.
‘Oh do you not?’ Now suddenly she turned to him, eyes flashing. ‘If you think your affliction is a secret you are mistaken, Mr Reid. The world has been alerted to this scourge by a few brave doctors, and you should know that one of them is here right now in Calcutta, attempting to combat the disease. I have attended his lectures and am perfectly well aware, as indeed you should be, that the unnatural excitability of your … pet … is a direct consequence of certain practices … beastly practices … you will forgive me if I cannot bring myself to name them. Suffice it to say that the name evokes a continent of darkness and degradation. To soil our lips with the word is unnecessary in any case for you are not, I think, a stranger to those shores, are you, Mr Reid?’
A rush of anger took hold of Zachary now and he said: ‘I do not know how you dare make such an accusation. On what basis, madam? And on what evidence?’
‘The evidence of my own eyes, Mr Reid!’ she declared. ‘Or rather, of my spyglass. I saw you that day – the day of your arrival, when an attack of morbid excitation caused you to tear off your clothes and fling yourself into the river. You had perhaps imagined that you were unobserved when you were giving release to your condition, though why I can’t think, since you were in full public view.’
Thunderstruck, he protested: ‘But I wasn’t … you are quite wrong, madam. I can assure you that I was not … doing what you think.’
‘What were you doing then?’ she challenged him.
‘I’d be happy to tell you, Mrs Burnham,’ he said. ‘I was merely polishing a pin.’
‘Hah!’ She gave a derisive little laugh. ‘That’s what you choose to call it, do you? But might you not just as well have said that you were flaying a ferret? Or banging the bishop, for that matter?’
‘No, no,’ he protested. ‘You don’t understand, it was a belaying pin.’
‘Which you were no doubt buttering?’ She laughed again. ‘You must not think me a gudda or a griffin, Mr Reid, for I assure you I am neither. I am a good deal older than you and am not easily foozled. I can assure you that the meaning of “jailing the Jesuit” and “soaping the sepoy” are not lost on me. Why, I have even heard of “saluting the subedar” and “lathering the lathee”. But it doesn’t matter, you know: they all add up to the same thing. And it really will not do, Mr Reid, to conceal from yourself the true causes of your unfortunate condition. It is but a disease and the first step towards a cure is to accept that you are a sufferer and a victim.’
Now she reached out and gave his arm a sympathetic pat. ‘You need help, Mr Reid,’ she said, in a softer voice, ‘and I am determined to provide it. I am aware that you are a stranger to this country, friendless and alone – but you should know that while I am here, you will not lack for a pillar to lean upon. I will not begrudge the loss of a small measure of my own modesty in order to rescue you from sin and disease. Mine will be but a trifling sacrifice, compared to those of the missionaries who daily run the risk of being thrown into cooking pots by brutes and savages. For many years my husband has exerted himself to save wayward girls from lives of sin. It is only right that I should do the same, for you.’
They had now reached the compound of the Burnham mansion. The coach came to a stop where a path branched off from the driveway, leading in the direction of the budgerow’s mooring.
Zachary jumped out, mumbled a hasty good night, and was hurrying away, when Mrs Burnham leant out of the window: ‘And remember, Mr Reid – your hands are for prayer. You must be strong. Together we will conquer the continent of darkness that lurks within you – you need have no fear on that score!’
Four
Kesri’s first voyage down the Ganga, to the military cantonment at Barrackpore, was a slow one, in a three-masted pulwar that stopped at every small river port on the way. But it was the most eventful journey of his young life, and for years afterwards he would be haunted by his memories of it.
It was on this journey that he made the acquaintance of his brother-in-law to be, Hukam Singh, Deeti’s future husband. He was a nephew of Bhyro Singh’s and even though he was about the same age as Kesri, he had already served a couple of years in the Pacheesi. He was put in charge of the recruits, of whom there were six altogether, including Kesri.
Hukam Singh was tall and well-built, and he liked to use his physical presence to bully and intimidate those of lesser bulk. But Kesri yielded nothing to him, in either size or strength, and was not as deferential as the other recruits. This did not sit well with Hukam Singh, for he had grown used to lording it over the recruits. He quickly understood that Kesri was unlikely to fear him in the same way the others did so he took another tack, trying to wear him down with insults and spite, ridiculing his dark complexion and constantly reminding him that he had left home without a daam in his purse and was travelling on borrowed money. Nor were his insults always uttered to Kesri’s face: Kesri learnt from the others that out of his hearing Hukam Singh had cast doubt on his origins and parentage, and was putting it about that he had been thrown out by his own family.
Through the first week, Kesri bit his lip and shrugged off the provocations. But then one day, Hukam Singh took it a step further: he threw his soiled langot and vest on the deck and ordered Kesri to pick them up and wash them.
Kesri was left with no option but to take a stand: he shrugged and turned away, which enraged Hukam Singh. Didn’t you hear me? Go on. Do it!
Or what? said Kesri.
Or I’ll tell my uncle, Havildar Bhyro Singh.
Go ahead, said Kesri.
See if I don’t …
Hukam Singh went storming off to look for his uncle and shortly afterwards all the recruits were summoned to the pulwar’s foredeck. This was where Bhyro Singh spent his days, enjoying the breeze. He was lying on a charpoy, taking his ease with a hookah, as the boat wallowed slowly along. He crooked a finger at Kesri, motioning to him to squat on his heels in front of him. Then he went on smoking, in silence, until the discomfort in Kesri’s knees had begun to turn into real pain.
E ham ka suna tani? said Bhyro Singh at last: So what is this I hear? I’m told that you’re beginning to get big ideas about yourself?
Kesri said nothing and nor did Bhyro Singh expect an answer.
I should have known, said the havildar, that a boy who’ll run away with strangers, disobeying his own father, will never be anything but a cunt and chootiya.
Then all of a sudden his hand flashed out and slammed into Kesri’s cheek.
Bhyro Singh’s weight and size far exceeded Kesri’s, for he was, after all, still a stripling. The force of the blow turned his head sharply to the side and sent him sprawling on the deck. There was a ringing sound in his ears and his nose was choked with the smell of his own blood. He brushed his hand ac
ross his face and saw that it was streaked with blood. He understood now that Bhyro Singh had hit him not just with his hand but also with the mouthpiece of his hookah, which had ripped open his cheek. Nothing that he had encountered as a wrestler had prepared him for this.
Then he heard Bhyro Singh’s voice again: It’s time for you to learn that the first rule of soldiering is obedience.
Kesri was still sprawled on the deck. He raised his head and saw that Bhyro Singh was standing over him. Now, the havildar drew one leg back and slammed his foot into Kesri’s buttocks, sending him skidding over the deck-planks. As Kesri rolled away, the havildar followed behind, hitching up his dhoti with his hands. He kicked him again, and then again, aiming the last blow so that the nail of his big toe dug right into the crack of Kesri’s buttocks, tearing through the thin folds of his dhoti and langot.
Kesri brushed his eyes again and then slowly raised himself to a crouching position. He could see the other recruits cowering in the background, their terrified eyes flickering between himself and the havildar, who was standing above Kesri, with the bloody mouthpiece of his hookah in one hand. His other hand was inside his dhoti, scratching his crotch.
Kesri realized then that his beating had no actual cause as such, but was a kind of performance, meant not just for him, but for all the recruits; he understood also that Bhyro Singh wanted them all to know that inflicting pain and humiliation was, for him, a kind of animal pleasure.
Then Bhyro Singh flung the mouthpiece of his hookah at Kesri: Go and clean this – wash your filthy blood off it. Yaad rakhika and remember, this is just your first dose of this medicine. If it doesn’t cure you then there’ll be a lot more.
The beating left Kesri bruised in body – but it did not escape anyone that in enduring it he had also earned a minor victory: for at the end of it Bhyro Singh had not, after all, ordered him to wash his nephew’s underclothing. Nor for that matter had Hukam Singh plucked up the courage to remind his uncle of his original complaint. Kesri took this to mean that Bhyro Singh had no great regard for his nephew. He concluded also that Hukam Singh both feared the havildar and desperately wanted to emulate him; this was the noxious soil in which the young sepoy’s swagger and spite were rooted.
After this incident Hukam Singh’s attitude towards Kesri changed in subtle ways. His barbs became more guarded and he seemed to accept that Kesri would not put up with being treated as a servant. At times he even seemed to acknowledge that Kesri was probably the most soldierly of the recruits.
As the end of the journey approached, the recruits became increasingly interested in learning about the life that awaited them. One thing that particularly intrigued them was the matter of their future wardi, or uniform. It was a great disappointment to them that the sepoys in their contingent were all travelling in civilian clothes – not once did any of them so much as unpack their military clothing.
Shortly before the end of the journey Hukam Singh gave in to the recruits’ entreaties and agreed to show them his uniform: but on no account, said he, would he agree to dress up like a doll for their benefit. If they wanted a demonstration one of them would have to volunteer to be dressed.
Despite their earlier enthusiasm, none of the recruits stepped forward. Kesri was the only one who was of the right size but the bad blood between Hukam Singh and himself made him wary of stepping forward.
In the end it was Hukam Singh who beckoned to Kesri and told him to remove his dhoti and jama. When Kesri had stripped down, Hukam Singh pointed to his string-tied loincloth and said that a langot like that would do for now, but it was not to be worn with a uniform. It was all right to wear it off duty, with a dhoti and a regulation tunic called an ungah, but when in uniform you had to wear a knee-length undergarment known a jangiah; the English officers insisted on it. If there was an inspection and you were caught wearing a langot then you’d find yourself in trouble.
Why? said the recruits.
Who knows? It’s just one of their whims.
Then Hukam Singh went to fetch his knapsack and the boys saw that an almost-spherical brass lota was strapped on top of it: Hukam Singh told them that by regulation this utensil had to be of a size to carry exactly one seer of water, and it had to be tied on with a string, so that it could be lowered into wells if necessary. The lota had to be on your knapsack at all times, even in battle; if it wasn’t properly secured you could get into a lot of trouble. On the parade ground officers loved nothing more than to see a gleaming string of lotas, lined up straight and glinting in the sun. At equipment inspections lotas were the first thing to be examined and punishments were freely handed out if they weren’t properly polished.
Over the next few minutes, with the boys looking on eagerly, an extraordinary array of objects emerged from Hukam Singh’s knapsack, one by one: an iron tawa to make rotis; a six-foot by three-foot durree to sleep on; pipeclay to apply on leather belts and footwear; a chudder to wrap up in at night. The total weight of a fully-packed knapsack, said Hukam Singh, was half a maund, about fifty pounds; it took a long time to get used to it.
Then came a folded garment.
Patloons – these are worn over the jangiah.
The pantaloons puzzled the recruits. The garment looked like a pyjama but they could see no drawstrings. Nor could Kesri understand how he was to climb into something with such a narrow waist.
Hukam Singh showed him how the garment’s waist was unbuttoned – but even then Kesri had some difficulty in wriggling into it. He had never worn anything that clung so tightly to the skin and when he looked down he could hardly recognize his own legs. They seemed much longer than they were in a dhoti – and stronger too, because of the way the fabric hugged his muscles.
The recruits were watching wide-eyed and one of them said: But what do you do if you have to make water? Do you take the whole thing off?
No.
Hukam Singh showed them how the front flap of the pantaloons could be lowered by undoing a couple of buttons.
Kesri could not see that this was of much help. Flexing his knees, he said: But I’m still not able to squat.
When you’re wearing patloons, said Hukam Singh, you can’t squat to piss.
The recruits goggled at him: You mean you pass water standing up?
Hukam Singh nodded. It’s difficult at first, he said. But you get used to it in time.
Reaching into the knapsack again, Hukam Singh produced the next item: it was a sleevelesss vest that was fastened with ties, not unlike those that Kesri normally wore with his dhotis. Then came a bright flash of colour: a scarlet coattee.
This was called a koortee, Hukam Singh explained; it was similar to the red coat of an English trooper, except that they called it a ‘raggy’. He showed Kesri how to get into it, by reaching back and thrusting his arms through the sleeves.
The front of the koortee was fastened with leather laces and when these were drawn tight Kesri had difficulty in drawing breath. He looked down at the jacket and saw that the rows of horizontal stripes on its front had come to life and were stretched like plumage across his chest. Studded between them were shining, metal buttons. Are these made of gold?
No, said Hukam Singh. They’re made of brass, but they’re still expensive. If you lose one they’ll dock your pay for eight annas.
Eight annas! This was more than Kesri had ever paid for an article of clothing. But the price did not seem excessive – if the buttons had been made of real gold they could not have been brighter or more becoming.
At the throat of the koortee there was another set of laces, and before tightening these Hukam Singh took out a bead necklace. He put it on Kesri so that the brightest beads were framed by the koortee’s stiff, gold-edged collar.
The beads too were paid for by the Company, Hukam Singh explained. The officers insisted that sepoys wore them. If lost, two weeks’ wages would be deducted from your salary.
With the laces at the neck drawn taut, the collar was like a yoke. When a kamar-bandh was tightened a
round his waist, it was as if he had been trussed like a chicken. Kesri could barely turn his head, and his chin was pushed up in such a way that his throat hurt when he tried to talk.
How could a man fight all bundled up like this?
Hukam Singh showed him how to stand erect, with his head tilted back.
When you’re in a koortee, you can’t let your head droop, he said. Your eyes have to be up and your shoulders have to be straight.
As he squared his back, Kesri caught a glimpse of the upcurved yellow extensions on the shoulders of the koortee. They were like the tips of an eagle’s wings, and it seemed to Kesri that his shoulder had never seemed so broad or so strong.
All through this Kesri’s head had been covered, as usual, by a cotton bandhna. His hair was tied up under it, in a coil.
Now Hukam Singh reached up and whipped off the bandhna so that his hair fell down over his shoulders. You’ll have to cut your hair shorter, he said. The officers won’t let you tie it in a coil under the topee.
Then, reaching into another bag, he produced a huge, two-foot-high, cloth-covered object that looked like a beehive.
When the topee was placed on his head, Kesri’s chin sagged into the points of the collar, almost choking him. It weighed as much as a pile of bricks.
Hukam Singh laughed at the expression on Kesri’s face. Removing the topee from Kesri’s head, he showed the recruits what was inside: hidden under the outer wrappings of cloth was an iron frame.
It’s heavy when you’re marching, he said, but you’ll be glad of it in a fight. It protects your head.
The recruits took it in turn to try the topee and afterwards they fell silent: its weight conveyed to them more graphically than anything they had yet heard, how different the future would be from the life they had known before.
*
As the anniversary of her English tutor’s death drew closer, Shireen grew increasingly nervous about her planned meeting with Zadig Karabedian. Thinking back, she could not understand why she had so readily agreed to meet with him – and that too without having the least idea of what he wanted.
