by Amitav Ghosh
Once, when ‘her shoke was coming on’ as she liked to say, he felt the onset of her tremors and cried out, to urge her on: ‘Oh spend, Cathy, spend! Don’t stint yourself!’
No sooner had the syllables left his mouth than she froze, her shoke forgotten.
‘What? What was that you called me?’
‘Cathy.’
‘No, my dear, no!’ she cried, twitching her hips in such a way as to abruptly unbivouack the sepoy.
‘I am, and I must remain, Mrs Burnham to you – and you must ever remain Mr Reid to me. If we permit ourselves to lapse into “Zachs” and “Cathies” in private then you may be sure that our tongues will ambush us one day when we are in company. In just such a way was poor Julia Fairlie found to be loochering with her groom – for who has ever known a syce to call his memsahib “Julie” as the wretched ooloo was heard to do one day as he was helping her into the saddle? And so was it revealed that much of their riding and saddling was done without horses and in no time at all poor Julia was packed off to Doolally – and all because she’d allowed that halalcore of a syce to be too free with two syllables. No, dear, no, it just will not hoga. “Mrs Burnham” and “Mr Reid” we are, and so we must remain.’
If Zachary bowed to her in this matter it wasn’t only because he accepted her reasoning: it was also because there was something startlingly sensuous about hearing her moan after the passing of a shoke: ‘Oh Mr Reid, Mr Reid! You have made a jellybee of your poor Mrs Burnham!’
The invocation of her married name was a reminder that theirs were stolen, adulterous pleasures, which meant that inhibition was meaningless and restraint absurd: so deadly was the seriousness of their crime that it could only be effaced by frivolity – as when she would cry, with a playful tug: ‘It’s my turn now, to bajow your ganta.’
She deployed these strings of words with the skill of an expert angler, teasing, mocking and egging him on to further advances in the art of the puckrow.
‘Oh Mr Reid, I do not doubt that it is a joy to be a launder of your age, with a lathee always ready to be lagowed – and a dumb-poke is certainly a fine thing, not to be scorned. But you know, my dear mystery, a plain old-fashioned stew can always be improved by an occasional chutney.’
‘You’ve lost me, Mrs Burnham,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh? Have you never heard of chartering then?’
‘You mean like chartering a boat?’
‘No, you silly green griffin!’ She laughed. ‘In India, chartering is what you do with this’ – here she reached between his lips and pinched the tip of his tongue – ‘your jib.’
Thus began a new set of explorations, in which he was soon revealed to be a complete novice, blundering about with all the aptitude of a luckerbaug. ‘Oh no, my dear, no! You are not chewing on a chichky, and nor are you angling for a cockup! Making a chutney dear, is not a blood-sport.’
Her caprices made him long to please her and the mixture of severity and tenderness with which she treated him was far more arousing to him than words of love would have been. On the night when his experiments in chartering finally succeeded in bringing on her shoke, his heart swelled with pride to hear her say: ‘It is a wonder to me, my dear mystery, how quickly you have mastered the gamahuche!’
Her teasing enchanted him, and if he was bewildered by her refusal to take him seriously, he was also captivated by it. He took it for granted that she possessed boundless experience in the amorous arts, and considered it fitting that he should be treated as a neophyte. Yet there was a certain innocence about her too, and sometimes, when she was exploring his body, she would betray an ingenuousness that startled him.
One night when she was toying with the ‘sleeping bawhawder’ and exclaiming over its docile charms, he grew impatient: ‘Oh come now, Mrs Burnham! You are a married woman and have given birth to a child. Surely this is not the first time you’ve handled a co—’
Her hand was on his mouth before he could say the word.
‘No dear, no,’ she said, ‘we will have none of those vulgarisms here. A woman may be bawdy with a woman, and a man with men, but never the one with the other.’
‘But why not?’ he demanded. ‘Why should we not use the words that others use? Why shouldn’t we speak of things by their accustomed names, as all people do?’
Her riposte was swift and unerring: ‘That is exactly why, my dear Mr Reid. Because all people do it, and we are not “all people”. We are you and I; no one is like us, and nor are we like them. Why should we borrow words from others when we can use our own?’
‘But that is unfair, Mrs Burnham,’ he protested. ‘I never was no word-pecker – How’m I to keep pace with you?’
‘Oh fiddlesticks!’ she said, illustrating the exclamation with her fingers. ‘And you a sailor! You should be ashamed to admit to a lack of words!’
‘Very well then, Mrs Burnham,’ he said, ‘I will put my question in ship-language. You are a married woman and have had your mate’s licence for many years. Surely you are not ignorant of the lay of a man’s mast and hatches?’
‘Oh please, Mr Reid!’ she cried with a laugh. ‘Do you imagine that respectable married people would be so wanton as to remove all their clothes and let their hands roam as do you and I? If so, you are much mistaken. I can assure you that for most wives and husbands, coupling is merely a matter of dropping the chitty in the dawk: it is done with a quick hoisting of nightgowns, and that too only when all the batties have been extinguished.’
‘But surely when you were first married …?’
‘No, Mr Reid, you are mistaken again,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Mine was not that kind of marriage: my union with Mr Burnham came about for many purposes, but pleasure was not among them. I was but eighteen and he was twenty years my senior: he wanted respectability and an entrée into circles that had been closed to him. My father was a brigadier-general in the Bengal Native Infantry, as I’ve told you, and it was in his power to open many doors. My dear papa, like many soldiers, was not provident in his ways and was always in debt. He and Mama had pinned their hopes on a brilliant marriage for me – and although a match with Mr Burnham was not quite that, he was a coming man, as they say, and already a Nabob. He offered my parents a very generous settlement.’
There was a confiding note in her voice that Zachary had not heard before; it was as if he were at last being admitted into a recess that was still deeper and more intimate than those he had already explored. Eager for more, he said: ‘Was there no feeling between you and Mr Burnham then? No attachment at all?’
She gave him one of her teasing smiles and tickled him under the chin, as though he were a child. ‘Really, Mr Reid, what are we to do with you?’ she said. ‘Don’t you know that a memsahib cannot allow mere feelings to get in the way of her career? Love is for harry-maids and dhobbins, not for women like us: that is what my mother taught me and it is what I shall teach my daughter. And it is not untrue, you know. One cannot live on love after all, and nor is mine an unhappy existence. Mr Burnham asks nothing of me except that I move in the right circles and run his house as a pucka Beebee should. Beyond that he leaves me to my own devices – so why should I do any less for him?’
‘So did you know all along then,’ Zachary persisted, ‘about what he was getting up to, with girls like Paulette?’
‘No!’ she said sharply. ‘I had my suspicions, but I did not inquire too closely, and if you want to know why I will tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I too have not been the best of wives to him.’
He turned on his side and looked into her face with puzzled, questioning eyes: ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you if you must know,’ she said. ‘It goes back to the night of our wedding. When Mr Burnham came to my bed, I was seized by such dread that I fell into a dead faint. Nor was that the only time: I would fall into a swoon whenever he tried to embrace me. It happened so often that it was decided that I needed medical attention. I was taken to see th
e best English doctor in the city and he told me that I was suffering from a condition of frigidity brought on by hysteria and other nervous disorders. It took years of treatment before I was able to conceive – and suffice it to say that since that time Mr Burnham has come to accept that I am in some respects an invalid, and he has been, in his own way, kind about it. And I, for my part, have long assumed that he had his outlets, as men do – but I had never imagined that it was of the kind that Paulette described to you.’
‘So what did you think …?’
But her mood had already changed, and she cut him short, with a playful tightening of her fist. ‘You are an inquisitive little mystery today, aren’t you, Mr Reid? I confess I would rather answer to your sepoy than to you.’
The rebuff stung him: it was as if she had slammed a door on his face. He pulled himself abruptly free of her hands and reached for his breeches: ‘Well, you need answer to neither of us, Mrs Burnham – it is time for us to go, so we will bid you good night.’
On his way out, when she tried to push some money into his pocket, as she usually did, he brushed her hand brusquely aside. ‘No, madam,’ he said. ‘You insult me if you think that I would rather be paid in silver coin than a few honest words.’
Without waiting for an answer he ran down the stairs.
*
For several weeks, Shireen thought of little else but the journey that Zadig had proposed. Her desire to go was so strong that this was in itself a reason for doubting her motives. Was it in order to escape the house that she wanted to go? Was it out of a vulgar curiosity about her husband’s son? Or was it because of a desire to see Zadig again?
These queries milled about in her head, generating other doubts. Would her family’s objections be quite as insurmountable as she imagined? Or were the difficulties indeed primarily in her own mind, as Zadig Bey had said?
The only way to find out was to try.
One day in early December Vico came by. While talking to him Shireen suddenly came to a decision.
Vico, she said. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to travel to China.
Really, Bibiji?
Vico made no attempt to disguise his scepticism: And what will your brothers say to that?
The question made her bristle. Look, Vico, she said, I am not a child. How can my brothers stop me from going if that’s what I want to do? There is nothing scandalous about a widow going to visit her husband’s grave. Besides, when I explain to them about recovering Bahram’s funds, they will understand – they may not approve, but they are people who understand the value of money.
And your daughters?
They will worry about my safety of course, said Shireen. But if I tell them that I’ll be travelling with a companion they’ll be reassured. It is true, isn’t it, that Rosa would like to go too?
Yes, Bibiji, but you would have to pay for her passage and her expenses. It will not be cheap.
I’ve thought of that, Vico. Wait.
Shireen went to her room, and returned with a jewellery box.
Vico, look – these are some pieces that I’d kept for myself. Do you think they would cover the costs of the journey?
Reaching into the box, Vico weighed a few of Shireen’s pendants and necklaces in the palm of his hand.
These will fetch a lot of money, Bibiji, he said. Certainly enough for your passage, and Rosa’s too. But think about it – do you really want to risk it all on this journey?
Yes, Vico, because it will be well worth it, if things turn out right.
Shireen could tell that Vico was still unconvinced, so she dropped the subject: Anyway, don’t talk about this yet, Vico. Let me work it out first.
Yes of course, Bibiji. It’s a big decision.
Shireen slept very little that night: all she could think about was how best to present her plan to her family.
It was clear to her that she would need her brothers’ consent, at the very least, if she was to travel to China: such was their position in Bombay’s social and commercial world that no reputable shipowner would grant her a passage if it came to be known that her brothers were against it. The only alternative was to steal off in secret and that was a path that she could not contemplate: if she was to go at all she would have to do it openly, but in such a way as to silence Bombay’s busybodies and bak-bak-walas. This would be no easy thing, she knew, for a great gale of disquiet was sure to sweep through the purdah-ed interiors of the city’s mansions when it was learnt that the Mestries’ widowed daughter was planning to travel to China, on her own.
After much thought Shireen decided that a scandal of some kind was probably inevitable – but if her family presented a united front it would be of no great consequence; they would be able to weather it. The matter might even be cast in an advantageous light, to show the world that the Mestries, who had been pioneers in industry, were in advance of their peers in other respects as well.
But how was she to bring around her daughters and brothers? How was she to get her way without causing a rupture in the family?
Shireen could see so many obstacles ahead that she took to reminding herself of one of her late father’s maxims: to scuttle a boat you don’t have to rip out the whole bottom; you just need to remove a few planks, one by one.
The most important planks in this boat, she decided, were her daughters. If only she could enlist their support then it would be much easier to persuade her brothers. Yet she knew also that no one would be harder to convince than her two girls; they would oppose her partly because of concerns about her safety, and partly because they had developed a great dread of scandal after their father’s bankruptcy.
Shireen was still wondering how to broach the subject when kismat presented her with an unforeseen opportunity. One night when her daughters and their husbands had come over for dinner the conversation veered of its own accord to China. One of her sons-in-law happened to mention that Bombay’s leading shipowners had held a secret meeting. It turned out then that her other son-in-law knew exactly what was afoot: Bombay’s wealthiest businessmen were vying with each other to provide support for the British expedition to China. Lakhs of rupees had been pledged, at very advantageous terms, and many shipowners had offered their best vessels to the colonial government to use as troop-transports. It was understood of course that those who were most supportive of the British effort would be the first to be compensated when reparations for the confiscated opium were extracted from the Chinese goverment.
Although Shireen added nothing to the conversation, she made sure that her daughters stopped fussing with their children and listened to what the men were saying. Later, when she was alone with the two girls, she said: Did you hear what your husbands were talking about at dinner?
The girls nodded desultorily: Wasn’t it something about getting compensation, in China?
Yes, said Shireen. Vico tells me that if compensation is paid, our share of it could be as much as two lakh Spanish dollars.
The figure made them start, and Shireen waited a couple of minutes to let it soak in. Then she added: But Vico says that we aren’t likely to receive anything at all unless …
Unless?
Shireen took a deep breath and blurted it out: Unless I go to China myself!
The girls gasped. You? Why you?
Kain ke, said Shireen, because a lot of the money that went into your father’s last shipment of opium was mine, it came from my inheritance. But if I’m to prove this to the authorities I’ll have to go there myself. Vico says that Captain Elliot knew your father; he says that if I go there and petition him directly he will be sympathetic – and your father’s friends from the Canton Chamber of Commerce will support me too.
But why do you have to be there in person? Won’t the money be paid to us anyway?
No, said Shireen. We can’t count on that.
She explained that the money she had given Bahram was considered joint property, and was therefore regarded as a part of his estate. In the normal course of thing
s the estate would be the last to be compensated. But if Shireen were to be personally present when reparations were paid, then Bahram’s friends in the Chamber of Commerce would make sure that she was treated like any other investor; she might even be the first to be compensated.
The girls chewed their lips as they thought this over. A good few minutes passed before they started to voice other objections.
But to go there and back could take a year or more, couldn’t it?
Ne ahenu bhav su? What about the cost?
Shireen went to her wardrobe and unlocked the iron safe in which she kept her jewellery.
Look, she said to the girls, I still have some of my sun-nu – the gold ornaments I received at my wedding. I had kept them for the two of you – but it would be much better, wouldn’t it, if I sold them now and spent the money on the journey? That way they’ll bring back ten times as much.
The girls exchanged glances and chewed their knuckles.
But what will people say …?
A woman of your age … a widow … travelling alone?
Shireen heard them out quietly, lowering her eyes. When they had finished she said: It’s not just the money, you know: I would also like to visit your father’s grave before I die. If we tell people that, who could possibly object?
Having planted the thought, she left it to germinate, making no further mention of the matter that evening.
A few days later Vico came by to say that he had received a letter from Zadig Bey: he had now completed his arrangements for travelling to China – he would be sailing on a ship called the Hind, which was owned by Mr Benjamin Burnham.
Mr Burnham? said Shireen. Isn’t he the one who bought our ship, the Anahita?
Exactly, Bibiji, said Vico. Mr Burnham was also your husband’s colleague on the Select Committee in Canton. Zadig Bey is sure that Mr Burnham would provide a fine cabin for you, on very advantageous terms, if he knew of the circumstances. Zadig Bey will arrange everything – all he needs is a word from you.
