by Amitav Ghosh
To Zachary’s surprise there were no goods on display: he was at a loss to understand what exactly was being bought and sold – and it didn’t help much when Baboo Nob Kissin explained that this was not a bazar for opium as such; rather it was a place in which people traded in something unseen and unknown: the prices that opium would fetch in the future, near or distant. In this bazar there were only two commodities and both were pieces of paper – chitties or letters. One kind was called tazi-chitty or ‘fresh letter’; the other kind was mandi-chitty – ‘bazar letter’. Buyers who thought that the price of opium would go up at the next auction would buy tazi-chitties; those who thought it would go down would buy mandi-chitties. But similar chitties could be written to cover any period of time – a month, a year or five years. Every day, said Baboo Nob Kissin, lakhs, crores, millions of rupees passed through this bazar – there was more wealth here than in any market in Asia.
‘See! In every nook and corner there are beehive activities!’
The riches evoked by Baboo Nob Kissin’s words cast a new light on the bazar: Zachary’s pulse quickened at the thought that fortunes could be made and lost in this dirty little alley. Through the odour of dust and dung he recalled the perfumed scents of Mrs Burnham’s boudoir. So this was the mud in which such luxuries were rooted? The idea was strangely arousing.
‘You see the men who are sitting there?’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, pointing at the stalls. ‘They are shroffs – brokers. From all over India they have come. Many are from far-away places – Baroda, Jodhpur, Mathura, Jhunjhunu. All are lakhaires. Some are millionaires and some are even crore-patters. So much money they have, they can buy twenty ships like Ibis.’
Zachary looked at the shroffs with renewed interest: their clothing seemed to be of the simplest cotton and there was nothing of any expense on their persons, apart from a sprinkling of gold jewellery – mainly studs in the ears, and neck-chains. Elsewhere in the city these men would scarcely have attracted a second glance. But here, enthroned upon their counters, with their solemn, unsmiling faces, they exuded a gnomic aura of authority.
Soon it became clear that Baboo Nob Kissin was intimately familiar with the sellers and their procedures. Zachary watched carefully as he went up to one of the counters to greet the proprietor.
Now began a curious charade: without saying a word aloud, both men began to make rapid gestures with their hands and fingers. All of a sudden, the Baboo thrust his hands under the shawl that lay draped over the broker’s lap. The shawl began to bounce and writhe as their hidden fingers twined with each other, twisting and turning in a secret dance. Gradually these motions built to a climax and a shudder of understanding passed through both of them; then their hands fell inert under the shawl and they exchanged a quiet smile.
Hardly a word had been said all this while, but when Baboo Nob Kissin stepped away the broker bent quickly over his ledger and began to make rapid notations with a pencil.
It was through hand-language, Baboo Nob Kissin explained, that most transactions were done in this market; that way others did not know what was being purchased and at what price.
To Zachary’s surprise it turned out that Baboo Nob Kissin had placed his money in tazi-chitties: the cost of a chest of the best Benares opium had fallen to nine hundred rupees at the last auction and the general feeling in the marketplace was that it would fall still further because of the troubles in China. Baboo Nob Kissin, on the other hand, was sure that there would be a modest rebound in the price.
Zachary took alarm when he realized that his savings had been wagered on an outside chance. ‘But Baboo,’ he protested, ‘you just told me the market was flooded with opium. Doesn’t that mean the price will go down?’
Baboo Nob Kissin put a finger to his lips. ‘Never mind, dear – it is just an eyewash. No need for you to take up tensions. Just only trust me.’
That night Zachary experienced spasms of anticipation that were no less intense than those that had seized him before his assignations with Mrs Burnham. It was as if the money that she had given him had suddenly taken on a new life: her coins were out there in the world, forging their own destiny, making secret assignations, colliding with others of their kind – seducing, buying, spending, breeding, multiplying.
The next day Zachary and Baboo Nob Kissin arrived early at the Opium Exchange, but only to find bailiffs at the door, holding back a large and noisy group of men. Baboo Nob Kissin had nothing but contempt for this crowd – ‘Just only riff-raffs!’ – these men were but messengers and runners, he said, waiting to relay the outcome of the auction to speculators across the country. He led Zachary through the throng, to the entrance, where he was recognized by the stern-looking bailiffs who were standing guard. They waved him through to the building’s capacious lobby, with Zachary following at his heels.
The auction room was on the second floor, Baboo Nob Kissin explained, and only ticket-holders were allowed to enter. This was a highly privileged group: a ticket to Calcutta’s opium auctions was the most valuable asset that any trader could acquire, anywhere in the world, and businessmen from many countries competed fiercely for them.
Although Baboo Nob Kissin was not a ticket-holder himself he was permitted, as Mr Burnham’s gomusta, to observe the auction from a small gallery above the room: this was where he led Zachary.
The gallery was like a box in a theatre: it projected over the auction room and was fenced off by brass rails. Leaning over the rails, Zachary saw that the room was merely a large hall with several rows of chairs laid out in neat rows, facing in the direction of an auctioneer’s lectern. A ceremonial armchair stood beside the lectern: this was the seat of the director who presided over the proceedings. On the wall behind hung an enormous velvet curtain imprinted with the seal of the East India Company.
Mr Burnham’s commanding figure was prominently visible in the auction room: he was seated in the front row dressed in a suit of sombre colour, with his glossy beard flowing down his chest. In the rows behind were some of the city’s most prominent personalities, among them several scions of Bengal’s grandest families – Tagores, Mullicks and Dutts. There were also Parsis from Bombay, and Marwaris and Jains from the distant villages and market-towns of Rajputana and Gujarat. As for the rest, they were as variegated a gathering as the crew of a transoceanic ship: Greeks, Turks, Armenians, Persians, Jews, Pathans, Bohras, Khojas and Memons. Looking down from above it seemed to Zachary that he had never seen such a profusion of headgear: turbans and astrakhans, calpacs and a varied assortment of prayer caps – Muslim and Jewish, embroidered and lacy, colourful and plain.
A hush fell when the director and the auctioneer walked solemnly up the aisle and took their places at the head of the room. The proceedings began after a brief prayer for the health of Queen Victoria: the auctioneer held up a board with a number and immediately hands shot up, signalling in an unintelligible semaphore.
The opium would be sold in lots of five chests each, Baboo Nob Kissin explained; the bidders would purchase them sight unseen – a chest of the East India Company’s opium was as sound as any currency note, and no inspections were permitted or expected. Bidders were required to cover only ten per cent of their purchase; they were allowed a full thirty days to make good on the rest.
As the auction proceeded the bidders’ enthusiasm began to build. Even though Zachary couldn’t quite follow what was going on, he soon found himself caught up in the excitement. There was something wild about the way the men were bidding, jumping up and down, waving their hands and shouting: it reminded him of a mêlée in a tavern – even the smell was similar, a rancid brew of sweat, fear and ambition.
The fiercest of the bidders was none other than Mr Burnham himself: every few minutes he would jump up, shouting, waving, holding up fingers. The sight excited Zachary’s envy as well as his awe. He would have given anything to be down there himself, bidding like Mr Burnham, snatching away the lots he most desired from under the noses of his competitors.
This was one of the mos
t thrilling spectacles Zachary had ever witnessed. That he was merely a spectator, watching from the gallery, made him seethe: he swore to himself that he too would be a ticket-holder one day; this was where he belonged; there was nothing he wanted more than to be a player, lavishing his unspent energies upon the pursuit of wealth.
By the time the last lot of opium was sold Zachary was drenched in sweat: when he looked at his watch, he could not believe that the auction had lasted only forty-five minutes. He felt drained; no less spent than he was after a bout of love-making. Only in bed with Mrs Burnham had he felt such a fierce onrush of passion. It was as if his hoarded essence had at last found the true object of its desire.
Down below many of the bidders had gathered around Mr Burnham and were thumping him on the back.
With a beaming smile Baboo Nob Kissin explained that Mr Burnham had ended up as the day’s biggest buyer, acquiring three thousand chests of opium at a price of thirty lakh rupees, equal to almost one and a half million Spanish dollars. He had single-handedly pushed up the price, against all expectations, to one thousand rupees per chest. This meant that Zachary had earned a great bonanza. The bets Baboo Nob Kissin had placed for him had paid off handsomely – his savings were now worth double what they were the day before.
Zachary gasped: ‘I’ll be dad-boggled! When can I have the money?’
This amused Baboo Nob Kissin: with an indulgent smile he explained to Zachary that his money was gone; it had been spent in buying the wherewithal with which to launch his new career – twenty chests of raw opium, of which he now owned ten per cent. He had thirty days to cover the rest.
‘But how, Baboo?’ cried Zachary, aghast. ‘Where am I going to find so much money in thirty days?’
‘Do not worry, dear,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, ‘I have already looked ahead – arrangements will be made. What you must do now is to go to Singapore and China, to sell your cargo.’
‘But Baboo,’ said Zachary. ‘You’ve spent all my money. How’m I going to buy a passage?’
‘For that too I have made bandobast,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin. ‘I have already oiled the boss – he will do the needful. You will travel without pocketing any expenses.’
He would not explain any further, but on the way out, as they were making their way through the crowded lobby a voice cried out: ‘Reid! Hold on there!’
It was Mr Burnham himself. Zachary saw that many heads had turned to look in his direction, no doubt wondering who this young newcomer was to be singled out for special attention by the victor of the day.
Despite himself, Zachary was flattered and a blush rose to his face. ‘I’m glad to see you, sir!’ he said, energetically pumping Mr Burnham’s hand.
‘I’m glad to see you too, Reid. Especially here. Is it true that you’ve decided to try your hand at trading?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Zachary.
‘Good man, good man!’ said Mr Burnham, patting him on the back. ‘We need more Free-Traders, especially young, energetic white men like yourself. I’ll visit the budgerow soon – I have a proposition that I think will interest you.’
‘I’ll look forward to hearing about it, sir.’
With a nod and a smile Mr Burnham walked away, leaving Zachary transfixed, almost unable to believe his luck.
*
It was not till late February that some of the expedition’s British soldiers began to arrive in Fort William: one battalion of the 26th, known as the Cameronian, and another battalion from Her Majesty’s 49th Regiment. Together with the two companies of Bengal Volunteers, the total strength of the force assembled in Calcutta now came to a little over a thousand men. To Kesri this seemed a paltry number with which to launch an invasion of a country like China. He was glad to be told by Captain Mee that the force was to be strengthened by a battalion from the 18th Royal Irish Regiment, which was now stationed in Ceylon, as well as a small detachment of Royal Marines. But the single largest contingent was to be contributed by the 37th Madras Native Infantry Regiment – more than a thousand sepoys and a sizeable number of sappers, miners and engineers. In total the force would consist of about four thousand men.
The Cameronians were the first to arrive, after a long march from Patna. They had campaigned all over the subcontinent, over a period of several years, and it soon became evident that their years in India had hardened them against Indians: they never missed an opportunity to hurl abuse at sepoys. Particularly offensive was a colour-sarjeant by the name of Orr, who would unloose torrents of galees for no good reason: ‘cowardly kaffirs’, ‘filthy niggers’, ‘black bastards’ and so on. Kesri had to confront him several times and on a couple of occasions they almost came to blows.
Fortunately the Cameronians were billeted at a fair distance from B Company so it wasn’t hard to stay out of their way; Kesri dreaded to think of what might have happened if they had moved into the empty building that adjoined the Bengal Volunteers’ barracks.
Luckily for the sepoys the neighbouring building was assigned to the 49th who were a rowdy but easy-going lot. To live next to them was an interesting novelty for the sepoys: even though they often campaigned with British units they were rarely billeted in adjoining quarters.
With their loud mouths and swaggering ways the men of the 49th quickly transformed what had previously been a quiet corner of the fort. Every evening they would be off drinking, privates and NCOs alike, each in their own canteens. They would remain in them until the firing of the night gun, which was the signal for the closing of all the canteens on the fort’s precincts. Nor was that the end of their revelries, for they, like many other British soldiers, were ingenious in finding ways to procure illicit liquor. The sweepers and bhisties who serviced their barracks made fortunes by smuggling liquor to them, in all kinds of containers – tubes of hollowed-out bamboo and bladders of goatskin that they would conceal under their dhotis. At all times of the night, cries would break out: ‘Where’s that fuckin beasty? I swear I’ll beat the beast out’a him if I don’t get my grog soon!’
The men of B Company watched these antics with bemused curiosity. Among sepoys it had long been said that alcohol was the white soldier’s secret weapon: it was what made him such a fearsome fighter. It was widely believed that this was the reason why British units were almost always chosen to lead charges in the battlefield – because the stiff doses of liquor that they were given beforehand made them almost suicidally reckless.
Amongst sepoys too it was common to take intoxicants before a battle: this was something that soldiers had always done in Hindustan. But the sepoy’s preferences were for hashish, ganja, bhang and a form of opium known as maajun: these drugs acted on the nerves to create a sense of calm and to make the body insensible to the exertion and fatigue of battle. Alcohol was different: it served as a fuel for the faculties of aggression and it was common knowledge that it was precisely in order to nurture this ‘fighting spirit’ that British commanders paid so much attention to providing liquor to their men.
A wise old subedar had once said to Kesri: It’s alcohol that gives the sahibs their strength; that’s why they drink it from morning to night – if ever they stop they will become weak and go into decline. And if a day comes when they start taking ganja like we do, then you can be sure that their empire is finished.
Kesri began to see the sense of it now. He was by no means averse to sharaab himself – he was especially partial to gin although he liked beer and rum well enough. But European-style liquor of any kind was difficult for sepoys to acquire because they were not allowed to enter the canteens that served white soldiers. Except on certain occasions when they were issued special ‘wet-battas’ of grog, the sepoys had to get their supplies from Native Liquor Shops, which often sold foul-tasting rotgut. A better, though more expensive, alternative was to buy liquor from British soldiers – they all received a daily ration of two drams, which they were sometimes willing to exchange for money. Another option was to pay them to procure liquor from their canteens, and with the
arrival of the 49th Kesri found a friend who was more than willing to oblige. He was a burly, weather-beaten sarjeant called Jack Maggs: it turned out that he had once been a fairground pugilist and within a few days of arriving he insisted on leaping into the wrestling pit with Kesri. There followed a hard-fought bout and it was only because Sarjeant Maggs was unfamiliar with the rules of Indian wrestling that Kesri managed to prevail. But the sarjeant took his defeat in good part and he and Kesri soon began to share the odd glass of gin.
At a certain point it fell to Kesri to be of assistance to Sarjeant Maggs in a little matter of a girl in the Laal Bazar who was charging him a good deal more than the approved army rate. Kesri managed to resolve the situation by telling the girl that he would send a police-peon to take her to the Lock Hospital to be checked for venereal disease: the threat was enough to subdue her.
After that the sarjeant became quite forthcoming and it was from him that Kesri learnt that the expedition’s British soldiers were being trained in the use of a new weapon – a percussion-fired musket. Sarjeant Maggs could not stop singing the gun’s praises; he said that it was a huge improvement on their old flintlocks.
Kesri was very attached to his own flintlock, an ‘India-pattern’ Brown Bess, almost six feet long without its bayonet. With the new cylindrical bullets, the musket had a maximum range of about two hundred yards although it was accurate only up to half that distance. But at one hundred yards or less, fired in mass, with volleys of three shots every forty-three seconds, the Brown Bess was lethal. Its long thick barrel, when topped with a bayonet, also made it handy in skirmishes and close combat, which was one reason why Kesri was so attached to it.
Yet, despite all the care that he had lavished on his beloved bandook, Kesri would dearly have loved to get his hands on one of the new percussion-fired muskets, but Sarjeant Maggs told him that there was no immediate chance of that, for they were still being tried out.
Kesri assumed that it was only a matter of time before the sepoys too were trained in the handling of the new guns. But many weeks went by and when there was still no sign of any moves in that direction he decided to dispense with discretion: he confronted Captain Mee, asking if he knew about the new guns and whether they were to be issued to the sepoys or not.
