by Amitav Ghosh
Never before had she contemplated meeting a virtual stranger without the knowledge of her family. She knew that if any of her relatives – even her daughters – came to know of the assignation there would be much untoward talk. But nor could she forget how warmly Bahram had spoken of his old friend, Zadig Bey. To have him arrive on her doorstep was like being presented with a messenger from Bahram himself: it was almost as if he were reaching out to her from his grave.
Nossa Senhora da Gloria was only a short distance from the Mestrie mansion but to walk there, even with an escort of maids and khidmatgars might have excited comment, so Shireen decided to ask her brothers for a buggy instead. When the morning came she was glad she’d done so, for the sky was heavy with threatening banks of cloud.
The rain came pouring down as the carriage was pulling up to the churchyard gate. Fortunately the syces had come prepared and one of them escorted Shireen down the path with an umbrella. Leaving him to wait under the portico, she bought a few candles and made her way to the church’s doorway. It was dark inside: the tall windows were shuttered against the rain and the interior was lit only by a few flickering lamps.
Shireen’s face was covered with one of the loosely knitted shawls that she used as veils when she left the family compound. Now, looking through the shawl’s apertures, she spotted a tall figure sitting in a pew halfway between the entrance and the altar. She advanced slowly up the nave, holding her veil in place with her teeth, and on drawing level she checked her step for just as long as it took to ascertain that the man was indeed Zadig Bey. Then she made a gesture to let him know who she was, and motioned to him to move further back, to a dark corner that was screened by a pillar. He answered with a nod and she proceeded towards the altar.
The candles had begun to shake in her hands now; she tried to calm herself as she lit them and stuck them in place. Then she turned around and went slowly to the spot where Zadig’s tall figure sat hidden among the shadows. Seating herself at a carefully judged distance, she whispered through her veil: ‘Good morning, Mr Karabedian.’
‘Good morning, Bibiji.’
The rain had begun to drum on the church’s metal roof now: it struck Shireen that this was a lucky thing because they were less likely to be overheard.
‘Please, Zadig Bey,’ she whispered. ‘I do not have much time. My brother’s coach is waiting outside – you can imagine the scandal if I am found here, with you. Please tell me why you wanted to meet me.’
‘Yes, Bibiji … of course.’
She could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and when he fell silent she prompted him again: ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Please forgive me, Bibiji,’ he mumbled. ‘It is a very difficult thing to relate, a very personal thing, and it is especially hard …’
‘Yes?’
‘Because I do not know who I am speaking to.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said in surprise. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, Bibiji, I have seen pictures of you in Bahram-bhai’s rooms in Canton – yet I do not think I would recognize you if I saw you on the street. And there are some things that are hard to speak of with someone whose eyes you have never seen.’
Shireen could feel her face growing flushed. As she fumbled with her shawl, she had a vivid recollection of another time when she had parted her veil to show her face to a stranger: it was on the day of her wedding. Sitting on the dais, she had been so overcome with shyness that she had been unable to raise her head: it was as if a great weight had suddenly descended on her. No matter how hard she tried, she could not make herself look into the eyes of the man with whom she was to share her life. In the end her mother had been forced to reach over and tilt her head back. Years later Shireen had herself done the same for both her daughters – yet now it was as if she were once again a girl, presenting her face to a man for the first time.
There was something unseemly about this train of associations and she forced herself to put them out of her mind. Parting her veil, she held Zadig’s gaze for just long enough to see his eyes widening in surprise. She had already turned away when she heard him exclaim, in surprise: Ya salaam!
‘What is the matter, Zadig Bey?’
‘Forgive me – I’m sorry. I did not expect …’
‘Yes?’
‘That you would look so young …’
She stiffened. ‘Oh?’
He coughed into his fist. ‘The pictures I saw in Bahram-bhai’s rooms – they do not do you justice.’
She gave him a startled glance and drew the shawl over her face again. ‘Please, Zadig Bey.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘That was not right – maaf keejiye – please forgive me.’
‘It’s not important. But please. You must be quick now. Tell me why we are here – why did you want to speak to me in private?’ ‘Yes of course.’
With great deliberation he folded his hands in his lap and cleared his throat. ‘Bibiji, I do not know if what I am doing is right – what I have to say is not easy.’
‘Go on.’
‘Bibiji, you remember when you were talking to me the other day, about Bahram-bhai and how he had left no son to fill his shoes?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I felt that there was something you should know. That is why I asked to meet you here.’ ‘Go on.’
She heard him swallow and saw the Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin, leathery neck.
‘You see, Bibiji – what I wanted to tell you is that Bahram-bhai did have a son.’
The announcement made no immediate impression on her: the sound of the rain was so loud now that she thought she had misheard.
‘I think I did not hear you properly, Zadig Bey.’
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yes, Bibiji, what I say is true. Bahram-bhai was the father of a boy.’
Shireen shook her head and uttered the first words that came to her, in a rush. ‘No, Zadig Bey, you do not understand. What you are saying is impossible. I can assure you of this because we once visited a man who knows of these things, a renowned Baba, and he explained that my husband would not be able to have a son without undergoing a long treatment …’
She ran out of breath and fell silent.
Zadig spoke again, very softly. ‘Bibiji, forgive me, but I would not say it if I were not certain. Bahram-bhai’s son is a young man now. He has had many difficulties over the years. That is one of the reasons why I thought you should know about this.’
‘It’s not true. I know it’s not.’
Under the cover of her shawl, Shireen dug her fingers into her ears. They felt unclean, defiled, and she was filled with disgust at herself for having agreed to meet this man – this man who felt no qualms about uttering such obscenities in a place of God. She thought she might vomit if she continued to sit where she was, within touching distance of him. Struggling to her feet, she said, in as steady a voice as she could muster: ‘I am sorry, sir. You are a liar – a foul, filthy liar. You should be ashamed of yourself, telling such lies about a man who believed you to be his friend.’
Zadig said nothing and sat frozen on the pew, with his head lowered. But as she was pushing past him, she heard him whisper: ‘Bibiji, if you don’t believe me, ask Vico. He knows everything. He will tell you about it.’
‘Please,’ she responded, ‘we have nothing more to say to each other.’
It occurred to her that he might try to follow her outside, in which case he would be seen by the Mestrie coachmen and word would get back to her family.
‘If you have any honour at all,’ she said, ‘you will not move from here until I am gone.’
‘Yes, Bibiji.’
To her relief he stayed seated as she hurried down the nave and out of the door.
September 30, 1839 Honam
Only after I had accepted Zhong Lou-si’s offer did began to worry about the practicalities: what would I do about lodgings? About food? Working for Mr Coolidge was very dull but the job did at least provide me wi
th a place to sleep and eat. What was I to do now?
I decided to speak to Asha-didi, the proprietress of the only Achha eatery in Canton: she is the kind of woman who is known here as ‘Ah Je’ – someone who can manage everything. Although she is from Calcutta’s Chinese community, Asha-didi knows many people here since she is Cantonese by origin. Her husband, Baburao (I’ve tried to get into the habit of using their Chinese names but it’s difficult since they usually speak Bangla with me), also has extensive connections among the boat-people of Canton: I thought for sure they’d know of a place that I could rent. And I was not wrong: no sooner had I mentioned my problem than Asha-didi said that there was a spare room in her own place of residence – the houseboat that she and Baburao share with their children and grandchildren. It is moored on the other side of the Pearl River, at Honam Island. Asha-didi warned me that the room was being used as a storage space and would need to be cleaned out. I told her that I didn’t mind in the least.
But it turned out that the room was being used as a poultry coop as well as an attic. I was completely unprepared for the blizzard of feathers and chicken-shit that was set a-whirl by the opening of the door. When the storm subsided, I saw that the birds were roosting on stacks of oars, yulohs, battens, sprits, rudders, sweeps and coils of bamboo-rope. I thought to myself: How could anyone possibly live here? There isn’t even a bed.
The look on my face made Asha-didi laugh. Bhoi peyo na, don’t worry, she said in Bangla (I have yet to get over the wonder that seizes me when this thin, brisk woman, whose clothes and manner are indistinguishable from that of other Canton boatwomen, addresses me in Bangla, and that too in the dialect of Calcutta – it seems marvellous to me, even though I know very well that it should not be. After all, her family home in Calcutta was separated from mine by only a few streets).
Yet, in some ways Asha-didi is completely Cantonese: she doesn’t like to waste words or time. Minutes after she had shown me the room, she was busy seeing to its cleaning and refurbishment. A poultry-keeper tied the chickens into bunches, by their feet, and carried them away like clusters of clucking coconuts. Then a half-dozen of her sons, grandsons and daughters-in-law got to work, scraping feathers and excrement off the deck, mopping the bulwarks and moving lumber and equipment. Soon, bits of furniture began to appear: chairs, stools and even a charpoy that had travelled all the way to Canton from Calcutta.
Only after the furniture had been arranged did Asha-didi open the door at the far end of the room. That was when I le arnt that the bedroom had a little appendage. There’s a little baranda here, said Asha-didi. Come and have a look!
The ‘veranda’ was heaped with rotting beams, spars and ropes. I stepped out gingerly, expecting another unwelcome surprise – geese maybe, or ducks. Instead, the panorama of the city burst upon me like a breaking wave.
It was a clear day, and I could see all the way to Wu Hill, the ridge that overlooks Guangzhou; I could even see the great five-storey edifice at the hill’s peak: the Zhenhai Lou or Sea-Calming Tower. In the foreground, on the other side of the river, was the foreign enclave; the channel in between was crowded with vessels of many shapes and sizes: Swatow trading junks could be seen towering over rice-boats and ferries; and everywhere one looked there were circular coracles spinning from one bank to another (it is in these that I cross the river every day, for the price of a single cash-coin).
I could not have asked for more: to step out on that veranda is to have a perpetual tamasha unfolding before one’s eyes!
At night, when darkness falls on the city, the river comes alive with lights. Many of Canton’s famous ‘flower-boats’ float past my veranda, lanterns blazing, leaving behind sparkling wakes of music and laughter. Some of the flower-boats have open-sided terraces and pavilions, in which women can be seen entertaining their clients with songs and music. Watching them I can understand why it’s said of Canton that ‘young men come here to be ruined.’
The location too could not be better. The houseboat is moored by the shore of Honam Island, which is much quieter than the heavily built-up northern side, where the city of Guangzhou lies. The contrast between the two banks is startling: the north shore is densely settled, with as great a press of buildings as I have ever seen. On this side we have mainly woods and farmland, along with a few hamlets, monasteries and large estates. The surroundings are peaceful, yet Compton’s print-shop is within easy reach.
The houseboat is itself a constant source of diversion. Asha-didi’s sons sometimes come to chat with me, and often the talk turns to Calcutta. Most of them were very young when their family left Bengal to return to Guangdong but they’ve all preserved a few memories of the city. There’s not one of them who doesn’t remember a few words of Bangla and Hindustani and they all have a taste for masala. The little ones – Baburao and Asha-didi’s grandchildren – also ask about Calcutta and Bengal. The strength of their ties to India is surprising – I think it must have something to do with the fact that their grandfather and grandmother are buried by the Hooghly River, in the Chinese cemetery at Budge-Budge. This creates a living bond with the soil, something that is hard to understand for those such as myself, whose forefathers’ ashes have always been scattered on the Ganga.
Of Asha-didi’s children the one who lived longest in Calcutta is their eldest daughter, who everybody calls Ah Maa. She is perhaps a year or two older than me and has never married. She is very thin and her face has more lines than is merited by her age. Much like the unmarried aiburo aunts of Bengal, she looks after the young children and takes on much of the responsibility for the running of the househo ld. She is never idle for a moment, yet there is something a little melancholy about her. When I first arrived she was the only member of the family who seemed to resent my presence. She would never speak to me or even look at me; instead she would avert her face in the way that a Bengali woman might do with a stranger. This struck me as odd, because here in Canton women of the boat-people community do not keep purdah or bind their feet or observe any of the constraints that prevail among other Chinese. Nor indeed does she display any shyness in dealing with other strangers.
I had the feeling that the sight of me had re-opened some old wound. And just as it sometimes happens with an old scab, she seemed unable to ignore me. Sometimes she would bring me food from Asha-didi’s kitchen-boat. She would hand it over without a word: I could tell that there was something about me that troubled her but I could not think what it might be.
But two days ago she began to speak to me in Bangla, haltingly, as though she were dredging pebbles out of the silt of memory. Her ‘Calcutta name’, she told me, was ‘Mithu’. Then she told me her tale: as a young maiden in Calcutta she had come to know a Bengali boy, a neighbour. But both families had objected; her parents had tried to marry her off to a man from Calcutta’s Chinese community, but she, being stubborn, had refused him.
And so the years had gone by until it was too late for her to marry.
The night before their journey’s end, the recruits stayed up late. By this time they had developed strong bonds with each other. They were all of roughly the same age – in the mid-teens – and none of them had been away from their families before.
A couple of the boys were from remote inland villages and had seen even less of the world than Kesri. The most rustic of them all was a weedy fellow by the name of Seetul, and he was regarded as the clown of the group.
That night they talked about what lay ahead and what it would be like to be under the command of English officers. Seetul was the one who was most concerned about this. One of his relatives, he said, had recently visited a town where there were many Angrez. On his return he had told them a secret about the sahib-log – white-folk – something that could not on any account be repeated.
What is it?
Kasam kho! Promise you won’t tell anyone?
After they had all sworn never to tell, Seetul told them what his relative had said: the sahib-log’s womenfolk were fairies – they each h
ad a pair of wings.
When the others scoffed he told them that his relative had seen proof of this with his own eyes. He had seen a sahib and memsahib going by in a carriage. Not only was she dressed in clothes that were as colourful as a fairy’s wings, but when the carriage came close everyone saw, with their own eyes, that the sahib had put his hands on her shoulder, to prevent her from flying away. There could be no doubt that she was a fairy – a pari.
Kesri and the others laughed at Seetul’s rustic gullibility – but the truth was that they too were apprehensive about encountering the sahib-log; they had also heard all kinds of stories about them, back in their villages.
But the next day, when they arrived at Barrackpore, the novelty of seeing the sahib-log paled before the utter strangeness of everything else. Even before the boat docked they spotted a building that was like nothing they had seen before – a palace overlooking the river, with peacocks on the roof, and a vast garden in front, filled with strange, colourful flowers.
Hukam Singh sneered at the awed expressions on their faces. The Barrackpore bungalow was only a weekend retreat for the Burra Laat – the English Governor-General: it was a mere hut, he said, compared to the Laat-Sahib’s palace in Calcutta.
Once ashore the recruits didn’t know which way to look – everything was a novelty. Marching past a high wall they heard sounds that made their blood run cold: the roars and snarls of tigers, lions and leopards. In their villages they had heard such sounds only from a distance. Here the animals seemed to be right next to them, ready to pounce. The only thing that prevented them from taking to their heels was that they didn’t know which way to run.
Hukam Singh laughed at their panic-stricken faces and told them they were chootiya gadhas to be scared – these animals were just the Burra Laat’s pets. They were kept in cages, on the other side of the wall.
