by Amitav Ghosh
A frown appeared on Baboo Nob Kissin’s bulging forehead as he looked up from his plateful of daal and puris. His eyes widened as they lingered on Neel and then narrowed; Neel could sense his bafflement as his gaze tried and failed to strip the beard and moustache from his face. He forced himself to stay calm and pasted a bland smile on his face. Nomoshkar, he said, joining his hands together.
Ignoring his greeting, Baboo Nob Kissin gestured to him to sit down. ‘What is your good-name, please?’ he said, switching to English. ‘I did not catch. Clarifications are required.’
‘Anil Kumar Munshi.’
‘And what-type employments you are engaging in?’
‘I am Seth Bahram Modi’s munshi.’
The Baboo’s eyebrows rose. ‘By Jove! Then we are like colleagues only.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I am Burnham-sahib’s gomusta. He is also tai-pan.’
It took all of Neel’s self-control to conceal the shock that went through him at this. ‘Is Mr Burnham here now?’ he said, in a carefully expressionless voice.
‘Yes. He has come in his new ship.’
‘What ship?’
Once again, Baboo Nob Kissin’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as his gaze raked over Neel’s face. ‘Ship is called Ibis. Might be you have heard of it?’
Now, fortunately, a plate of biryani was laid before Neel. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. ‘Ibis? No, I have not heard of it.’
Baboo Nob Kissin let out a sigh and when he spoke again it was in Bengali.
Baboo Anil Kumar, I will tell you about the Ibis while you eat. It was only last year that Burnham-sahib acquired this ship and the moment I set eyes on her I knew she would bring about a great change in my life. You may ask how I, an English-educated Baboo, could know such a thing at one glance. Let me tell you: this person you see in front of you is not who you think. Inside the visible body there is someone else – someone hidden, someone who in another birth was a gopi, a girl who played with cows and made butter for the butter-thieving Lord. I have long known this, just as I know also that some day, the visible body will drop off and the inner form will step out, like a dreamer emerging from a mosquito-net after a good night’s sleep. But when? And how? These questions were much on my mind when I first saw the Ibis and I knew at once this ship would be the instrument of my transformation. On board there was a man by the name of Zachary Reid, a plain sailor you would think to look at him, but I knew at once that he too was not what he seemed. Even before I beheld him, I heard him playing the flute – the flute! – instrument of the divine musician of Vrindavan. I knew beyond a doubt his arrival was a sign, I knew I had to be on that ship – and by good fortune I was able to arrange for myself to be appointed the vessel’s supercargo.
The ship was carrying over a hundred coolies and two qaidis. One of the two convicts was a Bengali – about your age I would say, Anil-babu. He had been a raja earlier, but had lost all his money and committed forgery. He was taken away from his wife and son, his palace and his servants; he was packed off to jail, there was a trial and he was sentenced to transportation – seven years of hard labour in a prison camp in Mauritius. I had seen this man, this raja, on the streets of Calcutta before his fall from fortune: he was like other zemindars, arrogant and lazy, corrupt and debauched. But ships and the sea have a way of changing people, would you not say so, Anil-babu?
Neel looked up from his biryani. Yes, maybe …
I don’t know whether it was he or I who was most changed by the Ibis, but when I saw this one-time raja in chains, on the ship, I felt a strange connection with him. My inner voice whispered in my ear: this is your son; this is the child you have never had. I tried to help him; I would go to see him and his fellow prisoner in their chokey and I would take them food and other things. As the supercargo, I had my own keys to the chokey; one night the qaidis asked me to leave the door open. This too I did, and that night, in the midst of a storm, this young man and some others tried to escape. Next day evidence was found that their boat had capsized and they had all perished. The blame for this incident fell, unfortunately, on the shoulders of the blameless Zachary Reid, who is still in Calcutta trying to clear his name. But for myself, I had to suffer another kind of punishment: I thought I had lost my new-found child – and I felt the pain of it so bitterly that when I returned to Calcutta I went to see his wife and son …
It was all Neel could do, now, to keep his eyes fixed on his biryani. Somehow he managed to keep his head lowered and his jaw working.
… the news of his death had already reached them, but you will be amazed to hear, Anil-babu, that the Rani, a woman deeply observant of Hindu custom, was not wearing widow’s whites. Nor had she broken her bangles or removed the vermilion from the parting of her hair. I discovered then that even though her husband has been declared dead she was certain, in her heart, that he was alive. And I confess to you that she was persuasive enough to convince me too. She asked me to keep my eyes open for him on my travels. I told her that even if he was alive it was unlikely that I would recognize him. He was sure to have changed his name and his appearance; what was more, he would be extremely wary of revealing himself to me, knowing that I work for Mr Burnham, who is the cause of his dispossession and banishment. But she would not listen. She said: if ever, by some miracle, it should happen that your paths do cross, then you must tell him that you would never betray him, for he is still like a son to you, just as he is still my husband …
Stop! Neel looked around to make sure there was no one nearby. Then leaning forward, he said in a whisper: Is it true Baboo Nob Kissin? Did you really see them? Malati, my wife, and my son Raj Rattan? Don’t lie to me.
Yes. I saw them.
How is she, my wife?
She has managed better than you would think. She teaches your boy his letters and some of the local children too. Neither your wife nor your son doubt for a moment that you will return.
Tears came into Neel’s eyes now, and he lowered his head to blink them away unseen. He remembered Malati’s face as he had seen it the first time, on the night of their wedding, when he was fourteen and she a year younger. He remembered how she had hidden behind her veils, even when they were in bed; he remembered how she had turned her face away from him when he tugged at the coverings. He remembered also the day she came to see him in jail, in Calcutta: her ever-present veils were gone and it was as if he were seeing her for the first time. Not till then did he realize that the girl he had married had grown into a woman of uncommon beauty.
That Malati had managed to make the best of her circumstances did not surprise him; what amazed him was her refusal to accept the news of his death. How could she have known? Her certainty suggested a depth of feeling that left him beggared for words.
And my son, Raj Rattan?
He has grown, his mother says, even though it is less than a year since you left. He is a bold, sturdy fellow – she says he often threatens to run away to sea, in search of you.
Neel remembered the day when the police came to arrest him, at the Raskhali Palace in Calcutta. He had been flying kites with Raj Rattan, on the roof, and when he was called away, he had said to the boy: I’ll be back in ten minutes …
I must take him some kites from China, he mumbled. They have beautiful kites here.
His mother says he makes his own now, from odd scraps of paper. She says he remembers you when he flies them.
For a while Neel could not trust himself to speak: the constriction in his throat was caused not merely by the reminders of his wife and son, but also by his remorse for his initial response to Baboo Nob Kissin. But for this strange man, so shrewd in some ways, and yet possessed of such inexplicable conceptions and attachments, he would not be here now, he would not have escaped from the Ibis. The Baboo was, in fact, almost a protective deity, a guardian spirit, and his presence in Canton was nothing to be feared: it was a gift.
I am happy to see you, Baboo Nob Kissin, said Neel, and you must excuse me
for not revealing myself to you immediately. If I sought to deceive you, it was only because of Mr Burnham. If he finds out I am here, it will be all over for me.
There is no reason why he should find out, said Baboo Nob Kissin. I am the only one who knows and you can be sure I will not tell him.
But what if he recognizes me?
Oh you should have no fear of that, said Baboo Nob Kissin with a laugh. Your appearance is so much changed even I did not recognize you in the beginning. As for Mr Burnham, he cannot tell one native from another – unless you give yourself away he will not recognize you.
You are sure?
Yes, quite sure.
Neel breathed a sigh of relief: Achha to aro bolun – tell me more, Baboo Nob Kissin, tell me about my wife, my son …
*
In the latter part of January, as the date of William Jardine’s embarkation for England approached, a consensus emerged amongst Jardine’s friends and followers that his departure could not be allowed to look like a defeat, or worse still, an admission of guilt (for it was no secret that the ‘Iron-Headed Rat’ was regarded as an arch-criminal by the Chinese authorities). As a result, the preparations for his farewell dinner took on a defiant exuberance: long before the date arrived it was evident to all that it would be the most magnificent event ever seen in Fanqui-town.
The dinner was to be held in Company Hall, the largest and grandest venue in the foreign enclave. The hall was in the ‘Consulate’ which was the name by which House No. 1, in the British Factory, was known to foreigners.
The Accha Hong was separated from the British Factory only by the width of Hog Lane, and the approaches to the Consulate were clearly visible from Bahram’s daftar. Although Bahram was not an intimate of Jardine’s, he was by no means immune to the excitement caused by the upcoming dinner: so noisy and visible were the preparations that they even helped him overcome his growing aversion to the view from his window. Looking out again now he spotted, on several occasions, long lines of coolies, winding their way through the Maidan with buckets of vegetables and sacks of grain. One afternoon, hearing a sudden outburst of grunting and squealing, he rushed to the window and saw a herd of pigs racing through: the animals disappeared into the British Hong and were never seen again. The next day he was privy to an even more extraordinary sight: a long line of ducks was waddling through the Maidan, bringing all foot traffic to a halt; before the last bird had stepped off the duck-boat, at Jackass Point, the first had already reached the Consulate.
The very appearance of the British Hong began to change. Attached to Company Hall was an enormous, colonnaded veranda that extended over the entrance, overlooking ‘Respondentia Walk’ – the fenced-in garden in front of the factory. For the purposes of the dinner the veranda was to be turned into a temporary ‘withdrawing-room’: a team of decorators went to work, covering its sides with huge sheets of white canvas. After nightfall, with dozens of lamps glowing inside, the veranda became a gigantic lantern, glowing in the dark.
The spectacle was striking enough to draw sightseers from all over the city: Chinese New Year was not far away now and the illuminated Consulate became one more attraction for the growing number of pleasure-boats on the Pearl River.
In the meanwhile Bahram too had begun to make his own preparations for Jardine’s farewell. As the doyen of Canton’s Achhas he deemed it his duty to ensure that the community did not go unnoticed at the event – if for no other reason then merely to remind the world that the commodity that had made Jardine rich, opium, came from India and was supplied to him by his Bombay partners. He came up with the idea of buying a farewell present for Jardine, by common subscription of the whole Parsi community. In a few days he succeeded in raising the equivalent of a thousand guineas: it was agreed that the money would be remitted directly to a famous silversmith, in England, with orders to prepare a dinner service, complete with Jardine’s monogrammed initials. The gift would be publicly announced at the dinner, and the accompanying speech, Bahram decided, would be given by the most fluent English-speaker in the Bombay contingent – Dinyar Ferdoonjee.
By the evening of the dinner, expectations had been roused to such a pitch that it seemed impossible for the event to live up to its promise. But on entering the Consulate Bahram could find no cause for disappointment: the grand stairway was decorated with silk hangings and soaring floral arrangements; upstairs, in the improvised ‘withdrawing-room’, Jardine’s initials glowed brightly upon the canvas hangings; in the hall, the Doric columns were garlanded with colourful blooms; the chandeliers overhead were ablaze with clusters of the finest spermaceti candles and the gilded mirrors on the walls made the room look twice as large. There was even a band: the Inglis, a merchant vessel anchored at Whampoa, had contributed a troupe of musicians: in celebration of Jardine’s Scottish origins, the diners were regaled with a succession of Highland airs as they filed in to take their places.
Bahram had, from the first, taken charge of the Parsi contingent and he was gratified by the impression made by their white turbans, gold-embossed jooties and brocaded chogas. But so far as seating was concerned, he had decided that it would not be appropriate for a tai-pan like himself to be at an ordinary table, with the rest of the Bombay group. He had arranged to be seated with the Committee, at the head of the room.
On arriving at his table he found he had been placed between Lancelot Dent and a newcomer, a tall, stately-looking man with a glossy beard that covered half his chest. He looked familiar but Bahram could not immediately remember his name.
Dent came to his rescue: ‘May I introduce Benjamin Burnham, of Calcutta? Perhaps you’ve met before?’
Bahram had only a nodding acquaintance with Mr Burnham, but knowing him to be an ally of Dent’s he shook his hand with cordial enthusiasm. ‘You have come to Canton recently, Mr Burnham?’
‘A few days ago,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘Had no end of trouble getting chops. Had to wait a while in Macau.’
Mr Slade was seated to Burnham’s right, and he broke in now with a satirical smile. ‘But your time in Macau was not ill-spent, was it, Burnham? After all, you did make the acquaintance of the exalted Captain Elliott.’
On hearing the British Representative’s name, Bahram threw a quick glance around the room. ‘Is Captain Elliott here with us tonight?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Slade. ‘He has not been invited. And even if he had been, I doubt very much that he would have deigned to break bread with us. It seems that he regards us as little better than outlaws – why, he has actually had the temerity to write to Lord Palmerston describing us as such.’
‘Really? But how did that come to your ears John?’
‘Through Mr Burnham,’ said Slade with a wink. ‘By a stroke of singular genius, he has secured copies of some of Captain Elliott’s recent dispatches to London!’
Mr Burnham promptly disclaimed the credit for this coup. ‘It was my gomusta’s doing. He’s a pucka rascal but not without his uses. He is a Bengali, as is one of the copyists in Elliott’s daftar – I need say no more.’
‘And what does Captain Elliott say in his letter?’
‘Hah!’ Slade pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Where should I begin? Well, here’s a fine little sample. “It is clear to me, my Lord, that the opium traffic will grow to be more and more mischievous to every branch of the trade. As the danger and shame of its pursuit increases, it will fall by rapid degrees into the hands of more and more desperate men and will stain the foreign character with constantly aggravating disgrace. Till the other day, my Lord, I believe there was no part of the world where the foreigner felt his life and properly more secure than in Canton; but the grave events of 12th December have left behind a different impression. For a space of near two hours the foreign factories were within the power of an immense and excited mob, the gate of one of them was absolutely battered in and a pistol was fired, probably over the heads of the people for it is certain that nobody fell. If the case had been otherwise, Her Majesty
’s government and the British public would have had to learn that the trade with this empire was indefinitely interrupted by a terrible scene of bloodshed and ruin. And all these desperate hazards have been incurred, my Lord, for the gains of a few reckless individuals, unquestionably founding their conduct upon the belief that they are exempt from the operation of all law, British and Chinese.” ’
Slade’s face had turned red as he was reading and an exclamation of disgust now burst from his lips. ‘Pah! This from a man who is supposed to be our own Representative! A man whose salary we pay! Why, he is nothing but a Judas – he will bring ruin upon us.’
‘John, you are too ready to take alarm,’ said Dent calmly. ‘Elliott is nothing but a functionary, a catspaw. The question is only whose purpose he will serve, ours or the mandarins’.’
A roll of drums now announced the arrival of the first course, a rich turtle soup. As it was being served the band struck up a lively tune, and under cover of the music Bahram turned to his neighbour: ‘I believe, Mr Burnham, the market has fallen very low in Calcutta. Were you able to make any significant purchases?’
‘So I was,’ said Mr Burnham with a smile. ‘Yes – my present cargo is the largest I have ever shipped.’
Bahram’s eyes widened. ‘You are not concerned then about these recent attempts to impose a ban on the trade?’
‘Not at all,’ said Mr Burnham confidently. ‘Indeed I have sent my ship, the Ibis, to Singapore to buy more. I am quite confident that the attempts to ban opium will wither in the face of growing demand. It is not within the mandarins’ power to withstand the elemental forces of Free Trade.’
‘You do not think the loss of Mr Jardine’s steady hand will affect us adversely, here in Canton?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘I think it is the best thing that could have happened. God willing, with our support Mr Dent will step into the breach. And Mr Jardine’s presence in London will be a great asset for us. Being a man of extraordinary tact and address, he is sure to gain Lord Palmerston’s ear. And he will be able to exert influence on the government in other ways as well. Jardine knows how to spend his money, you know, and has many friends in Parliament.’
