by Amitav Ghosh
Not long after this there followed another episode that made Kesri even more protective of his butcha. The paltan was then stationed at Ranchi, along with a number of other battalions. The picturesque little town was then listed as a ‘family station’ and many British civil and military officers had their wives and children living with them. As a result there were many parties, hunts and burra-khanas; as for dances there were so many as to wear out the regimental bands.
Mr Mee had plunged into the social whirl with all the energy of a healthy and gregarious young ensign. Kesri knew of his butcha’s doings because word of the officers’ antics would always trickle back to the sepoy lines, either through the soldiers who were on guard duty at the regimental clubs and messes, or by way of the cooks, stewards and punkah-wallahs who worked in the officers’ residences. Sometimes the news would even cause trouble among the sepoys: some were so closely bonded with their butchas that a quarrel between two lieutenants could spark angry exchanges between their orderlies.
So it happened that Kesri found himself being singled out for some good-humoured teasing on account of Mr Mee.
Arré Kesri, do you know what your fellow’s been up to now?
He’s quite the loocher, always got his eyes on a girl.
Wu sawdhan na rahi to dikkat hoé – if he’s not careful, there’ll be trouble.
Through hints like these Kesri was given to understand that Mr Mee was involved in a flirtation with the most sought-after missy-memsahib in the station: she was striking to look at, tall, full-busted with reddish-brown hair; she was also the daughter of a brigadiergeneral who belonged to one of the highest of twice-born military families.
This entanglement of Mr Mee’s put Kesri in a strange situation for it so happened that he was himself acquainted with this missy-mem. A couple of years before, he had accompanied a hunting party organized by her father, the brigadier-general: he had ended up being assigned to the missy-mem, as a gun-loader. She was a fine shot and that day she had outdone herself, bagging a dozen ducks. For some reason she had chosen to give Kesri the credit, claiming that he had brought her luck. After that she would always insist on having him as her gun-loader when she went hunting.
During duck-hunts, Kesri would sit behind her in the blind, and they would talk. Having been reared by Muslim ayahs the missy-mem could speak fluent Hindustani when she wanted to: she would often ask questions about Kesri’s village, his family and how he had found his way into the Pacheesi. She was the only person to whom he had ever told the story of how Deeti had helped him escape from Nayanpur.
It was she too who was responsible, at least in part, for Kesri’s assignment as Mr Mee’s orderly. Soon after Mr Mee joined the battalion, she had asked Kesri whether he would like to be the new ensign’s orderly. When he said yes, she had told him that she would put in a word for him with Mr Mee.
Kesri had been grateful to her but it had not occurred to him that there might be anything between her and Mr Mee other than the usual casual acquaintanceship that existed between subalterns and the children of senior officers. But in Ranchi, when the rumours began to circulate, he realized that their friendship had been blossoming for a while. It worried him because he knew that his butcha stood little chance of gaining this missy-mem’s hand: Mr Mee had no money and was in no position to get married – having given him several loans already, Kesri was well aware of this. The missy-mem, on the other hand, had many suitors, some of whom were extremely eligible. Kesri did not doubt that when it came to marriage her family would compel her to do whatever was best for her future.
When he overheard others gossiping about Mr Mee and the missy-mem, Kesri would scoff, saying that it was just a friendship, of a kind that was common among sahibs and mems; it meant nothing. But this became harder and harder to maintain: after parties and balls Kesri would hear that the missy had given more dances to Mr Mee than to anyone else, even turning down some high-ranked officers. Then one day a steward whispered in Kesri’s ear that while serving soup at dinner the night before, he had seen Mee-sahib and the general’s larki holding hands under the table.
One day Mr Mee fell ill with a fever and had to absent himself from the social whirl for a while. At the end of the week a summons arrived from the general’s house, for Kesri, to accompany his guests and family on a hunt – and as always he was assigned to serve as the missy-mem’s gun-loader. That day the group was a large one and she was constantly surrounded by people. Only for a few minutes were they alone, and she immediately began to ask Kesri about Mr Mee: How was he? Was he being properly looked after? Then she slipped across a thick pink envelope and whispered: Kesri Singh, can you please give him this, mehrbani kar ke?
Kesri had no choice but to accept: he left the envelope on Mr Mee’s bedside teapoy, without a word of explanation. They never spoke of it, but one day the sweeper who cleaned Mr Mee’s rooms came to him and said that there was some hair lying on Mr Mee’s desk: he wanted to know if he should throw it away. Kesri went to take a look and saw a lock of reddish-brown hair, tied up neatly with a ribbon, lying on top of the envelope.
Kesri realized now that things had taken a serious turn. Risking a berating, he picked up the letter, and the enclosed lock of hair, and handed them to Mr Mee, telling him that it was dangerous to leave such things lying around and that people were already talking. Predictably Mr Mee flew into a rage and shouted at him, calling him a blackguard and telling him to mind his own bloody business and keep his maulers off his things.
Kesri understood then that his butcha was possessed, majnoon, mad with love, and he wished that it had happened for Mr Mee in the same way that it had for himself, with Gulabi – that he too had chosen a woman he could have had. This way he knew there would only be trouble.
It wasn’t long before things came to a head. That year the officers and their ladies had taken up a strange new kind of entertainment, apparently in imitation of a fashion in their homeland. They would ride into the jungle with baskets of food and drink; then they would spread out sheets and blankets and sit down to eat – right there, in the open. This was a great annoyance to the orderlies because they would be taken along, to chase away snakes and keep a lookout for tigers and elephants. It seemed senseless to them that anyone should wish to eat in places where they might themselves be eaten by wild beasts – but orders were orders and they went along and did as they were told.
The worst job of all was to look after the horses, for they were like bait for leopards and were in a constant state of agitation. That day Kesri was attending to a horse when he caught sight of Mr Mee and the missy-mem wandering into the jungle. They were gone long enough that her parents began to worry and asked for a search party to be formed. Since Kesri knew which way they’d gone, he slipped away and went ahead of the others, shouting: Mee-sah’b! Mee-sah’b!
In a while he heard an answer and saw Mr Mee and the missy-mem coming towards him. They looked flushed and dishevelled and Kesri thought at first that this was only because they’d lost their way and had been stumbling about. But then he noticed that there was a new glow on the missy’s face; he saw also that Mr Mee’s collar was disarranged. He knew then that something had happened between them. Trying to banish all expression from his face, he whispered a warning to Mr Mee to straighten his collar.
By the time the couple returned to their party, they had had time to compose themselves and were able to persuade the others that they had merely lost their way. The rest of the day passed without incident – but Kesri knew that the matter wouldn’t end there. He was not surprised to learn, a day or two later, that the missy and her mother had left for Calcutta.
Although the girl was never mentioned between Mr Mee and himself, Kesri knew that his butcha had been hard hit by her departure. The bichhanadar who made his bed would often find her letters under his pillow, and Kesri would sometimes find Mr Mee sitting alone in his room, with his head slumped disconsolately on his desk.
Kesri was glad when the battalion received
orders to move back to Barrackpore; he thought the change of scene would be good for Mr Mee. But on arriving at the depot they learnt that the jarnail-sahib’s daughter was soon to be married, to a rich English merchant in Calcutta.
On the day of the wedding, the officers’ quarters were deserted because they were all at the ceremony. Only Mr Mee stayed behind; it was rumoured that he had not been invited.
The next morning Kesri saw that the bichhanadar had put Mr Mee’s pillow in the sun; he touched it and found that it was soaked through.
The cantonment in Barrackpore was large enough that it had a ‘Lock Hospital’, maintained by the army, to ensure that the bazar-girls who were provided for white soldiers and officers were free of disease. Kesri knew that in the past Mr Mee had occasionally visited the ‘Europeans Only’ military brothel in the cantonment’s Red Bazar. That night he found an opportunity to mention to him that he had heard that a nice young girl had just arrived there. In the past Mr Mee had been grateful for tips like these, but this time he shouted at Kesri and told him to mind his own fucking business.
Kesri understood that Mr Mee was seething inside, not just because he had lost the missy-mem but also because he had been humiliated in the eyes of his fellow officers. Knowing how hotheaded his butcha was, Kesri feared that an explosion was inevitable – and it wasn’t long before it happened. One night a steward ran over to tell Kesri that Mr Mee had been involved in a drunken quarrel in the officers’ mess: he had overheard another officer gossiping about him, in the worst kind of language, and had challenged him to a duel.
Kesri was fully in sympathy with his butcha on this: to be called ‘bastard’ and ‘swine’ in a joking way was one thing; but every soldier knew that words like haramzada and soowar-ka-baccha, when used in earnest, had to be answered in blood – only a coward would fail to defend his izzat. This way at least there would be a resolution of some kind – and whatever happened, it was better than shedding solitary tears for an unattainable woman.
The onething Kesri regretted was that the duel was to be fought with pistols: had swords been the chosen weapon he would have had no doubt that his butcha would win. Not that Mr Mee was a bad shot – but with guns luck always played a large part, especially if the gunman was overwrought, as Mr Mee would probably be.
Sure enough, Mr Mee was in a state of wild-eyed agitation when he returned to his room. Anticipating this, Kesri had already made preparations. He handed him a glass and told him to drink the contents: he would sleep well and his hand would be steady when he woke up.
‘What’s in it?’ said Mr Mee.
‘Sharbat – with afeem.’
Nothing was said between them about the duel and nor was it necessary. After Mr Mee had drunk the sharbat, Kesri fetched his pistols and wrapped them in a velvet cloth. He took them to his hut and spent several hours cleaning and oiling them. Then, as was the custom before a battle, he took the pistols to the regimental temple, laid them at the foot of the deity and had them blessed by the purohit. In the morning, after handing over the guns, he dipped the tip of his little finger in a pot of vermilion and placed a tika high up on his butcha’s temple. Mr Mee did not object, although he made sure that the tika was well hidden by his hair.
When the time came, and Mr Mee’s seconds arrived to take him to the field, Kesri was glad to see that his butcha was perfectly calm, even cheerful. It was Kesri who was fearful now, much more so than he would have been had he himself been stepping into the field. His hands trembled as he went to join the throng of spectators who had gathered at a discreet distance.
Duelling between officers was not uncommon, even though the high command disapproved of the practice. Kesri had watched duels before, but this time, when the signal to fire was called out, he closed his eyes. Only when the men around him began to pound him on his back did he know that his butcha had won – and in the best possible way, not by killing his opponent but by felling him with a flesh wound.
In some ways the duel had a palliative effect on Mr Mee, restoring his sense of honour and draining him of some of his rage and grief. But he was to feel the repercussions of that episode for years afterwards: it meant that promotions were always slow to come his way, despite his qualities as an officer.
His entanglement with the general’s daughter was also to have a lasting effect on his personal life: Kesri did not doubt that it was the principal reason why his butcha had never married. He had thought that once the general-sahib’s daughter was safely out of reach Mr Mee would begin to run after some other missy or memsahib. But nothing like that came to pass. When on the march, Mr Mee would sometimes patronize Gulabi’s girls; while in a cantonment he would occasionally visit its military brothel when he was in need of a little chivarleying, as he put it. But he showed no signs of wanting to find himself a wife, which was not unusual in itself, since many of the British officers put off marriage till they were in their forties – but Kesri knew that Mr Mee’s was no ordinary bachelorhood: he was still haunted by the lost missy. Kesri knew this because he was with Mr Mee once when he suffered a chest wound in a skirmish: later, when the medical orderlies were trying to get his jacket off, a small package had fallen out of the inner pocket. Kesri knew at a glance that it contained the missy’s letter: evidently Mr Mee had taken it into battle, wearing it next to his heart.
Since then a lingering bitterness had slowly crept into Captain Mee’s life. The light-hearted exuberance of his youth had been replaced by resignation and resentment. The one thing that seemed to sustain him now was his bond with the sepoys.
It saddened Kesri to think how different his butcha’s life and career might have been if not for that unfortunate entanglement with the missy-mem. But none of this was ever spoken of between them, not even during the long journey from Rangpur to Calcutta when they talked more as friends than as officer and sepoy. Of course Captain Mee did not neglect to ask after Kesri’s wife and children – and had the captain been married Kesri would have done the same. But that was different: the family of a married man was safe ground – this other thing was not.
On the last day of the journey, Captain Mee said: ‘So, havildar, what will you do when we return from this expedition? Do you think you’ll put in for your pension and go back to your family?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Then Captain Mee made a disclosure that was not entirely unexpected. ‘Well, havildar, I wouldn’t be surprised if I put my papers in myself,’ he said. ‘I don’t know that the Pacheesi has been any better for me than it’s been for you.’
*
After his second tryst with Mrs Burnham, Zachary’s burden of contrition became far less oppressive: it wasn’t that guilt ceased to weigh on him – it was just that his eagerness to return to the boudoir made him less mindful of it.
But the next visit did not come about as soon as he would have liked: there was a long, almost unendurable, wait before he heard from Mrs Burnham again. A full fortnight passed before the next message arrived, hidden inside a weighty tome of sermons: it consisted of a single cryptic marking, on a scrap of paper – 12th. The reference was clearly to a date, one that happened to be two days away.
In preparation for the assignation, Zachary made a careful study of the routines of the chowkidars and durwans who guarded the compound; he learnt to listen for their footsteps and tracked the glow of their lanterns. When the night of the 12th came he evaded the gatekeepers with ease: this part wasn’t difficult, he told Mrs Burnham; he had figured out how to navigate the grounds without the watchmen being any the wiser.
His certainty on this score buttressed Mrs Burnham’s confidence and they began to meet more often. Instead of exchanging messages, they would settle on a date at the time of parting. No longer did they care whether the servants were away or not; it was always in the small hours of the night that Zachary stole over to the mansion anyway, and at that time the grounds were usually deserted. As his familiarity with the grounds increased, he learnt to make good use of every scrap of co
ver, including the wintry mists that often rolled in from the river, at night.
In no way did the increased frequency of their meetings diminish Zachary’s appetite for them: each assignation was a fresh adventure; every visit seemed to conjure up a new woman – one who was so unlike the Mrs Burnham of the past that he would not have imagined that she existed if their connection had not taken this unforeseen turn. Yet he knew also that there was nothing accidental about what had happened between them: it had come about because his body had sensed something that was beyond the grasp of his conscious mind – that hidden within the Beebee of Bethel’s steely shell there existed another, quite fantastical and capricious creature; a woman who was endlessly inventive, not just with her body but also with her words.
One night he got caught in a shower of rain and arrived at the top of the staircase completely drenched. Mrs Burnham was waiting for him in the goozle-connuh. ‘Oh look at you, my dear, dripping pawnee everywhere. Stand still while I take off your jammas and jungiah.’
After stripping him of his clothing, she made him sit on the rim of the bathtub and knelt between his parted thighs. Pulling up her chemise, she draped the hem over his legs and pressed herself against his belly. Murmuring gently, she began to dry his head and shoulders with a towel, clasping him ever closer as she reached around to rub his back. Suddenly she looked down at the unlaced throat of her chemise and gave a little cry: ‘Oh look! I see a helmet! A brave little havildar has climbed up my chest and is raising his head above the nullah, to take a dekko! Oh, but look! He is drenched, even under his topee!’
She delighted in tantalizing him with unfamiliar words and puzzling expressions yet, no matter how intimate their bodily explorations, no matter how much they indulged their appetite for each other, there remained certain matters of decorum on which she would not yield: even when the organ that she had nicknamed the ‘bawhawder sepoy’ was entrenched within her, its master and commander remained Mr Reid, the mystery, and she was never anything but Mrs Burnham, the Beebee of Bethel.
