by Amitav Ghosh
Soon word of the pit spread beyond the island and one day a few Royal Marines came across and asked to participate. But it turned out that they were interested in the Angrezi kind of pugilism – mainly boxing, a form of combat that was abhorrent to Kesri, who saw it as no better than mere marpeet or brawling. Kesri told the marines that if they wanted to enter this pit they would have to abide by its rules. They took this in good spirit and became welcome additions to the widening circle of wrestlers.
One day, on returning from a visit to Hong Kong Bay, Captain Mee announced that a young Parsi merchant had just arrived from Manila, on his own ship: amongst his crew there was a lascar who was said to be a trained wrestler. The young Parsi was a great lover of sport and was keen to see how his lascar fared in the pit.
It so happened that the festival of Nag Panchami was just a few days away. This being an occasion of great significance for wrestlers Kesri had planned a tournament to mark the day: only the more accomplished wrestlers were to participate in this special dangal. He told Captain Mee that the lascar was welcome to try his luck.
The dangal was well under way when a cutter, rowed by a dozen oarsmen, drew up. A square-jawed, broad-shouldered young man got out and went to shake hands with Captain Mee – he was dressed in Western clothes and to Kesri’s eye he looked every inch an Angrez. But when Captain Mee brought him over Kesri understood that he was the Parsi shipowner that he had mentioned: his name was Dinyar Ferdoonjee.
After exchanging a few words with Kesri, the young merchant gestured in the direction of his cutter: the wrestler, he said, was one of the oarsmen on his boat. There was no need to point the man out: even while seated he towered over the other rowers. When he started to rise it was as though his body were slowly unfolding, like a ladder with multiple sections. Once he was fully upright his shoulders were seen to be almost as broad as the boat; as for the oar, it looked like a piece of kindling in his hands. Unlike most lascars, he was dressed not in jama-pyjamas but in grey trowsers and a white shirt, which contrasted vividly with his dark skin. His head was of a piece with his frame, square, broad and massive – but as if to compensate for his intimidating dimensions, the expression on his face was one of extreme forbearance and gentleness. In his gait too there was a shambling quality which led Kesri to think that he might be slow of movement, and that his size and weight might be used against him in the pit.
But after he had stripped down to his wrestling drawers the lascar’s demeanour underwent an abrupt change. Kesri watched him carefully as he was loosening up by slapping his arms and chest: his performance of these dand-thonk exercises was impressively fluid and supple. When he stepped into the ring, his stance was as fine as any that Kesri had seen: perfectly balanced, with his head poised over his leading leg, the chin in exact alignment with his knee.
The lascar’s first opponent was a muscular young sepoy, one of Kesri’s best students. The sepoy had recently mastered a move called sakhi and he tried it just as the bout was beginning, lunging for the lascar’s right arm while trying to throw him over by hooking his knee with his foot.
But the lascar countered effortlessly, blocking the foot and pivoting smoothly into the attack, with a hold that Kesri recognized as a perfectly executed dhak. Within seconds the sepoy was pinned and the bout was over.
The next to enter the ring was a powerfully built marine: his best move was a throw called the kalajangh which was intended to flip the opponent over, by sliding under his chest and grabbing hold of his thigh. It was a common move and Kesri guessed that the lascar would know a pech with which to counter it. This proved to be exactly the case. The marine found himself grappling with thin air when he made his lunge; a moment later he was down on his belly, vainly trying to prevent himself from being rolled over.
The curious thing was that the lascar seemed to take little pleasure in his victories: instead of making a winning pehlwan’s customary gestures of triumph he hung his head, as if in embarrassment. This encouraged a couple of others to try their luck; but they fared no better than those who had gone before them: the lascar pinned them both, displaying in the process a mastery of complicated moves like the bhakuri and bagal dabba.
At this point Kesri could feel the eyes of his men turning to him, as if to see whether he would salvage their honour by entering the pit himself. He could not disappoint them – besides, he was curious to see how he would fare against the lascar. Murmuring a prayer to Hanumanji he stepped into the pit.
For a couple of minutes Kesri and the lascar circled experimentally, feinting, each trying to trick the other into a hasty move. Then Kesri went on the attack, with a multani, spinning around on his back foot and trying to come at the lascar from the rear. Instead it was the lascar who ended up behind him, forcing him into a defensive crouch.
In the past Kesri had sometimes turned this position to his advantage by using the dhobi pât – a move in which the opponent was hauled over the shoulder, in the manner of a dhobi beating clothes. But it turned out that the lascar knew the counter-move for this too. All of a sudden Kesri was sprawled on his back, struggling to keep his shoulders off the ground.
Sensing that the pin was near, the lascar stuck his shoulder into Kesri’s chest as he prepared to bring his full weight to bear. Their faces were now less than a foot apart, and suddenly their eyes met and locked. Now, just as the lascar was about to make the final thrust, an extraordinary thing happened: he was jolted into easing his grip – it was as if he had looked into Kesri’s eyes and seen something that he could not quite believe. All at once the fight went out of him and the relentless pressure that he had been exerting lessened. Kesri seized his chance and flipped him over: a second later he had the pin.
The reversal of fortune was so inexplicable that it left Kesri feeling strangely grateful to the lascar: he would not have liked to lose in front of his own men and was glad to have been spared that fate. But he knew also that the lascar was the better wrestler and later, when they were out of the ring he asked: What happened? Kya hua?
Even though he had asked in Hindustani, the lascar answered in Kesri’s own mother tongue: Hamaar saans ruk goel – I just lost my breath.
Taken by surprise, Kesri said: tu bhojpuri kahã se sikhala? Where did you learn Bhojpuri? Where are you from?
The lascar told him that he had been brought up in Ghazipur, in a Christian orphanage; his name came from the surnames of two of the priests: Maddow Colver.
Ghazipur? said Kesri: for him that town was indelibly linked to his sister Deeti. Do you mean the town with the opium factory?
Yes, that very one.
Kesri fell silent, seized by a strange sense of affinity with the man: that they were both wrestlers, that their paths had crossed on Nag Panchami, that they both had associations with Ghazipur – all of this seemed to imply that their fates were somehow intertwined.
All of a sudden a thought came to Kesri and he said to the lascar: Sunn – listen, my unit needs some strong men to haul our heavy guns. Would you be willing to join us? Just for the time that we are here? The pay will be good.
The man took his time in answering, looking towards the sea and scratching his head before turning back to Kesri.
Yes, he said at last, with a slow, thoughtful nod; if you can arrange it and if my present employer agrees, I will join you.
*
Zachary’s return to the Ibis was like a homecoming.
This was the vessel on which he had shipped out from Baltimore, as a novice seaman, a ship’s carpenter. Now, three years later, here he was boarding her again, as the skipper! The change was so great as to suggest the intervention of some other-wordly power: as a sailor Zachary knew that certain ships possess their own minds, even souls – and he did not doubt that the Ibis had conspired in making his transformation possible.
Nor was he surprised when the Ibis seemed to recognize him, bobbing her bowsprit up and down, as if in welcome. Yet, amongst the crew there was not a single face that was familiar to him. Th
e lascars who had sailed with him on his earlier voyages were all gone; the new crew had been recruited in Singapore and consisted mainly of Malays and Manila-men. The mates too were strangers to Zachary: one was a tall, taciturn Finn and the other a dour Dutchman from Batavia. There wasn’t much they could say to each other, beyond what was required for the running of the schooner. But this was soon discovered to be a blessing; lacking the words to run afoul of each other, they got on very well.
Zachary’s instructions were to sail north in convoy with a couple of other opium-carrying vessels, a bark and a brigantine. Both belonged to Free-Traders, the older of whom was a Scotsman by the name of Philip Fraser. Youthful, soft-spoken and always fastidiously clothed, Mr Fraser looked more like a doctor than a sea-captain. It turned out that he had indeed studied medicine at Edinburgh before coming east to join his uncle, who was a well-established figure in the China trade. Being the most experienced of the three skippers he became, by tacit agreement, the leader of their little convoy. It was Mr Fraser who led their Sunday prayers and it was he too who taught them the special code that China coast opium-sellers had started to use, to dupe the mandarins in case their account books were seized by customs officials.
For the first two days the three ships sailed in the wake of the expeditionary fleet as it headed northwards. On the fourth day, at a pre-arranged signal from Mr Fraser, they broke away and turned eastwards. Heading towards the port of Foochow, they hove to just over the horizon; here, said Mr Fraser, they could safely wait for buyers without fear of official harassment – Chinese mandarin-junks rarely ventured so far out to sea. Pirates were a greater concern, but Mr Fraser was confident that they too would steer clear of these waters for fear of the British fleet. Still, for the sake of prudence it was decided that they would mount careful watch through the night, with their guns at the ready.
In the evening the three captains assembled on Mr Fraser’s brigantine, for dinner, each bringing with him a few chests of opium. It was agreed that if boats approached, it would be left to Mr Fraser to decide whether they belonged to bona fide buyers; if so, he would negotiate prices on behalf of all three of them.
Zachary decided that he would sell his own cargo first. He went over to the brigantine with his ten chests of opium, and then returned to the Ibis to make sure that the schooner’s guns were primed and ready.
But in the event, no shooting was called for – the transactions of the night were remarkably quick and easy. Around midnight lights were seen approaching from a north-westerly direction. They were the lanterns of a ‘fast crab’, a kind of boat much favoured by dealers on the mainland. Mr Fraser’s linkister hailed the boat and an agreement was quickly reached. The entire operation, including the transfer of three dozen chests of opium, was over in less than an hour.
Later, when Zachary went to collect his share of the proceeds, he discovered that the chests had fetched more than any of them had dared hope: fourteen hundred Spanish dollars each. Giddy with exultation, he realized that he was now in possession of a fortune large enough to buy a ship like the Ibis. ‘Who bought the chests?’ he said, and Mr Fraser explained that the buyer was an agent for one of the leading wholesalers of opium on the China coast – a man known to fanquis as Lynchong or Lenny Chan.
‘He’s quite a character,’ said Mr Fraser, with a laugh, ‘is our Lenny Chan. To look at him you’d think he was a grand mandarin, full of conceit and frippery. But he speaks English like an Englishman, and a Londoner at that.’
Lenny Chan’s story was as singular as you could wish, said Mr Fraser. As a boy, in Canton, he’d worked as a servant for one Mr Kerr, an English flower-hunter. After a few years Mr Kerr had sent him to London, as the caretaker of a collection of plants. Lenny had stayed on at Kew, spending many years there before coming back to Canton to start his own nursery. Branching out into the ‘black mud’ business, he had succeeded in building up one of the largest retail networks in southern China.
But things had changed for Lenny the year before, after Commissioner Lin came to Canton: he had had to flee the city because of the Yum-chae’s crackdown on opium – his premises had been raided and a huge reward had been offered for his head. But Lenny, ever resourceful, had managed to slip away to the outer islands, to rebuild his network offshore.
After the proceeds had been divided Mr Fraser sent for a bottle of brandy and the three skippers talked for a while. Mainly it was Mr Fraser who spoke, in his quiet, reasoned way. What he had to say was so compelling, so persuasive, that Zachary listened spellbound.
To blame the British for the opium trade was completely misguided, said Mr Fraser. The demand came from Chinese buyers and if the British did not meet it then others would. It was futile to try to hinder the flow of a substance for which there was so great a hunger. Individuals and nations could no more control this commodity than they could hold back the ocean’s tides: it was like a natural phenomenon – a flood. Its flow was governed by abstract laws like those that Mr Newton had applied to the movements of the planets. These laws ensured that supply would match demand as surely as water always seeks its own level.
It was misguided, even sinful, said Mr Fraser, of the Chinese government to cite the public good in opposing the free flow of opium. The truth was that the best – indeed the only – way that the public good could be arrived at was to allow all men to pursue their own interests as dictated by their judgement. This was why God had endowed Man with the faculty of reason: only when men were free to justly calculate their own advancement did the public good – or, for that matter, material advancement, or social harmony – come about. Indeed, the only true virtue was rational self-love, and when this was allowed to flourish freely it resulted, of itself, in a condition vastly more just and beneficial than anything that any government could accomplish.
If there was any country on earth, said Mr Fraser, that stood in breach of these doctrines it was China, with its subservience to authority and its minute control of everyday matters. Only with the destruction of their present institutions, only with the abandonment of their ways and customs, could the people of this benighted realm hope to achieve harmony and happiness. This indeed was the historic destiny of Free-Traders like themselves; opium was but another article of trade, and by ensuring its free flow they were promoting the future good of China.
Some day, following the example of men like themselves, said Mr Fraser, the Chinese too would take to Free Trade: being an industrious people, they were sure to prosper. Of all the lessons the West could teach them, this was the most important. And inasmuch as traders like themselves were helping the Chinese to learn this lesson, they were their friends, not their enemies. From this it followed that the more vigorous and persistent they were in selling opium the more praiseworthy their conduct, the more benevolent their friendship.
‘It is all for their own good after all: China has no better friends than us!’
Zachary raised his glass. ‘Well said, Mr Fraser! Let us drink to that!’
*
The house that Robin Chinnery had rented for Shireen was on a hill, in the centre of Macau. It was one of a row of ‘shop-houses’, flanking a sloping lane – Rua Ignacio Baptista.
The house reminded Shireen of the old Parsi homes of Navsari, in Gujarat: it was long and narrow, with a tiled roof and a small open courtyard at the back. Although sparsely furnished the rooms were cosy enough and it did not take long for Shireen and Rosa to settle in.
As it happened, this was a part of town that Rosa knew well: the São Lorenço Church, where she worshipped, was nearby, as was the Misericordía, where she worked during the day. Also very close was the part of town where soldiers and funçionarios from Goa were quartered, with their families. Rosa was well known to the community, and her friends and acquaintances extended a warm welcome to Shireen as well. Much sooner than she would have thought possible, Shireen felt herself to be perfectly at home in Macau.
Often, at teatime, Zadig would come by; he was lodging with an
Armenian merchant, a few streets away. He and Shireen would sometimes go for walks together, strolling through the town’s winding lanes to the Praya Grande – a sweeping bayside corniche, lined with luxurious villas.
As they walked, Zadig Bey would fill her in on all the latest news.
The north-bound British fleet had called at the ports of Amoy and Ningpo on their way to Chusan. At every stop they had tried to hand over Lord Palmerston’s letter to the Emperor, outlining Britain’s demands and grievances, but the task had proved impossibly difficult: no one would accept it. The British emissaries had been repeatedly rebuffed by the mandarins of the ports they had visited; on a couple of occasions hostilities had broken out.
At Chusan the fleet had entered the harbour to find a small fleet of war-junks at anchor there. The Plenipotentiaries had tried to persuade the local defence forces to surrender without a fight, but to no avail. The Chinese commanders had declared that they would resist, come what may, so the British warships had lined up for battle and opened fire. In exactly nine minutes they had destroyed the Chinese fleet and all the defences along the island’s shore. The troops of the expeditionary force had landed without any further opposition and the next day they had seized the island’s capital, the city of Ting-hae. The Union Jack had been raised above the city and a British colonel had been given command of the island’s civil administration.
Everything had gone exactly as Commodore Bremer and Captain Elliot had planned.
*
Around the middle of July 1840, no doubt because of the pressure of events, Neel’s journal entries became a series of hasty jottings, written mainly in Bangla but sometimes in English as well.
