Extract

Deeti's Vision

Between the rows of flowers, the ground was carpeted in papery petals and she scooped them up in handfuls, dropping them into her basket. A week or two before, she would have taken care to creep sideways, so as not to disturb the flowers, but today she all but flounced as she went and was none too sorry when her swishing sari swept clusters of petals off the ripening pods. When the basket was full, she carried it back and emptied it next to the outdoor chula where she did most of her cooking. This part of the threshold was shaded by two enormous mango trees, which had just begun to sprout the dimples that would grow into the first buds of spring. Relieved to be out of the sun, Deeti squatted beside her oven and thrust an armload of firewood into last night's embers, which could still be seen glowing, deep inside the ashes.

Kabutri was awake now, and when she showed her face in the doorway, her mother was no longer in a mood to be indulgent. So late? she snapped. Where were you? Kám-o-káj na hoi? You think there's no work to be done?

Deeti gave her daughter the job of sweeping the poppy petals into a heap while she busied herself in stoking the fire and heating a heavy iron tawa. Once this griddle was heated through, she sprinkled a handful of petals on it and pressed them down with a bundled-up rag. Darkening as they toasted, the petals began to cling together so that in a minute or two they looked exactly like the round wheat-flour rotis Deeti had packed for her husband's midday meal. And 'roti' was indeed the name by which these poppy-petal wrappers were known although their purpose was entirely different from that of their namesake: they were to be sold to the Sudder Opium Factory, in Ghazipur, where they would be used to line the earthenware containers in which opium was packed.

Kabutri, in the meanwhile, had kneaded some atta and rolled out a few real rotis. Deeti cooked them quickly, before poking out the fire: the rotis were put aside, to be eaten later with yesterday's leftovers - a dish of stale alu-posth, potatoes cooked in poppy-seed paste. Now, her mind turned to her shrine room again: with the hour of the noontime puja drawing close, it was time to go down to the river for a bath. After massaging poppy-seed oil into Kabutri's hair and her own, Deeti draped her spare sari over her shoulder and led her daughter towards the water, across the field.

The poppies ended at a sandbank that sloped gently down to the Ganga; warmed by the sun, the sand was hot enough to sting the soles of their bare feet.The burden of motherly decorum slipped suddenly off Deeti's bowed shoulders and she began to run after her daughter, who had skipped on ahead. A pace or two from the water's edge, they shouted an invocation to the river - Jai Ganga Mayya ki . . . - and gulped down a draught of air, before throwing themselves in.

They were both laughing when they came up again: it was the time of year when, after the initial shock of contact, the water soon reveals itself to be refreshingly cool. Although the full heat of summer was still several weeks away, the flow of the Ganga had already begun to dwindle. Turning in the direction of Benares, in the west, Deeti hoisted her daughter aloft, to pour out a handful of water as a tribute to the holy city. Along with the offering, a leaf flowed out of the child's cupped palms. They turned to watch as the river carried it downriver towards the ghats of Ghazipur.

The walls of Ghazipur's opium factory were partially obscured by mango and jackfruit trees but the British flag that flew on top of it was just visible above the foliage, as was the steeple of the church in which the factory's overseers prayed. At the factory's ghat on the Ganga, a one-masted pateli barge could be seen, flying the pennant of the English East India Company. It had brought in a shipment of chalán opium, from one of the Company's outlying sub-agencies, and was being unloaded by a long line of coolies.

Ma, said Kabutri, looking up at her mother, where is that boat going?

It was Kabutri's question that triggered Deeti's vision: her eyes suddenly conjured up a picture of an immense ship with two tall masts. Suspended from the masts were great sails of a dazzling shade of white. The prow of the ship tapered into a figurehead with a long bill, like a stork or a heron. There was a man in the background, standing near the bow, and although she could not see him clearly, she had a sense of a distinctive and unfamiliar presence.

Deeti knew that the vision was not materially present in front of her - as, for example, was the barge moored near the factory. She had never seen the sea, never left the district, never spoken any language but her native Bhojpuri, yet not for a moment did she doubt that the ship existed somewhere and was heading in her direction. The knowledge of this terrified her, for she had never set eyes on anything that remotely resembled this apparition, and had no idea what it might portend.

A Strange Meeting

None of the visitors had been on the Raskhali budgerow before, so they accepted readily when Neel offered them a tour of the public parts of the barge. On the upper deck they came upon Raj Rattan, who was flying kites by moonlight. Mr. Doughty made a harrumphing sound when the boy was introduced: 'Is this little Rascal your Upper-Roger, Raja Nil-Rotten?'

'The upa-raja, yes,' Neel nodded. 'My sole issue and heir. The tender fruit of my loin, as your poets might say.'

'Ah! Your little green mango!' Mr Doughty shot a wink in Zachary's direction. 'And if I may be so bold as to ask - would you describe your loin as the stem or the branch?'

Neel gave him a frosty glare. 'Why, sir,' he said coldly, 'it is the tree itself.'

Mr Burnham took a turn with a kite and proved to be adept at the sport, sending his kite soaring and dipping, its glass-coated string flashing in the moonlight. When Neel commented on the dabness of his hand, his response was: 'Oh I learnt in Canton: no better place to learn about kites!'

Back in the sheeshmahal, a bottle of champagne was waiting in a balty of muddy river water. Mr Doughty fell upon the wine with an expression of delight: 'Simkin! Shahbash - just the thing.' Pouring himself a glass, he gave Neel a broad wink: 'My father used to say, "Hold a bottle by the neck and a woman by the waist. Never the other way around." I'll wager that would have rung a ganta or two with your own father, eh Roger Nil-Rotten - now he was quite the rascal, wasn't he, your father?'

Neel gave him a chilly smile: repelled as he was by the pilot's manner, he could not help reflecting on what a mercy it was that his ancestors had excluded wine and liquor from the list of things that could not be shared with unclean foreigners - it would be all but impossible, surely, to deal with them, if not for their drink? He would have liked another glass of simkin but he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that Parimal was making signals to indicate that dinner was ready. He took the folds of his dhoti into his hands. 'Gentlemen, I am being given to believe that our repast has been readied.' As he rose to his feet, the sheeshmahal's velvet curtain was swept back to reveal a large, polished table, set in the English fashion, with knives, forks, plates and wineglasses. Two immense candelabra stood at either end, illuminating the settings; in the centre was an arrangement of wilted water lilies, piled together in such profusion that almost nothing could be seen of the vase that held them. There was no food on the table, for meals in the Raskhali household were served in the Bengali fashion, in successive courses.

Neel had arranged the seating so that he would have Mr. Burnham across the table from him, with Zachary and Mr Doughty to his left and right, respectively. There was a bearer behind each chair, as was the custom, and although they were all dressed in the Raskhali livery, Neel noticed that their uniforms - pyjamas, turbans and belted chapkan coats that came down to the knees - were strangely ill-fitting. It was then that he remembered that they were not bearers at all, but young boatmen, who had been hastily pressed into service by Parimal: their discomfort with the role was evident in their nervous twitches and shifty glances.

Now, on arriving at the table, there was a long pause during which Neel and his guests stayed on their feet, waiting for their chairs to be pushed forward. Catching Parimal's eye, Neel realized that the boatmen had not been told about this part of the ceremony: they in turn, were waiting for the guests to come to them; clearly they were under the impression that the diners were to be seated at a distance of several feet from the table - and how indeed were they to know, it occurred to Neel to wonder, that chairs and tables belonged in much closer proximity?

In the interim, one of the young boatmen took the initiative and gave Mr. Doughty's elbow a helpful tap, to indicate that his chair was empty and waiting to be occupied, some three feet to the rear. Neel saw the pilot reddening and intervened hastily in Bengali, ordering the boatmen to bring the chairs closer. The command was so sharply uttered that the youngest of the boatmen, a boy who happened to be attending upon Zachary, brought his chair forward in a startled rush, as though he were pushing a dinghy down a mudbank. The lip of the chair caught Zachary from behind, scooping him up and delivering him to the table - breathless, but otherwise unharmed.

Paulette

At seventeen, Paulette was unusually tall, of a height where she could look over the heads of most of those around her, men and women alike. Her limbs, too, were of such a length that they tended to wave like branches in a wind (years later, this would be her chief complaint about the way she was represented in Deeti's shrine - that her arms looked like the fronds of a coconut palm). In the past, Paulette's awareness of her unusual stature had led to a shy indifference to her appearance: but in a way this awkwardness had also amounted to a charter of freedom, in that it had rid her of the burden of having to care about her looks. But since her arrival at Bethel, her diffidence about her appearance had been transformed into an acute self-consciousness: in repose, her nails and fingertips would seek out small blemishes and tease them until they became ugly blotches on her pale complexion; while walking she would lean forward as if she were striding into a powerful wind; while standing, she would stoop, with her hands clasped behind her back, swaying back and forth, as though she were about to deliver an oration. In the past, she had worn her long, dark hair in pigtails, but of late she had taken to tying it back, in a severe little knot, as if it were a corset for her skull.

On her arrival at Bethel, Paulette had found four dresses laid out on her bed, with all the necessary chemises, blouses and petticoats: Mrs. Burnham had assured her that they had all been properly altered to fit and were ready to be worn to dinner. Paulette had taken Mrs. Burnham at her word: she had dressed hurriedly, ignoring the cluckings of the maid who'd been sent to help her. Eager to please her benefactress, she had run enthusiastically down the stairs and into the dining room. "But only regard, Mrs. Burnham!," she'd cried. "Look! Your robe is perfectly of my cut."

There was no answer: only a sound like that of a large crowd collectively drawing its breath. Coming through the doors, Paulette had noticed that the dining room seemed strangely full, especially considering that this was meant to be a family supper, with only the Burnhams and their eight-year-old daughter, Annabel, at table. Being unaccustomed to the ways of the house, she had not allowed for the others who were present at every meal: the turbaned bearers who stood behind each chair; the masalchie with the sauceboat; the chobdar whose job it was to ladle soup from the sideboard tureen; the three or four young chuckeroos who always followed at the feet of the more senior retainers. And nor were these the only servants present that night: curiosity about the newly arrived missy-mem had spread to the bobachee-connah and many of the kitchen staff were lurking in the anterior vestibule, where the punkah-wallahs sat, pulling the overhead fans by means of ropes attached to their toes: among them were the curry consumah, the caleefa who roasted the kabobs and the bobachees who were responsible for the stews and the joints of beef. The indoors' servants had even contrived to smuggle in a few whose place was strictly out-of-doors - malis from the garden, syces and julibdars from the stables, durwauns from the gatehouse, and even some beasties from the gang that kept the house supplied with water. The servants held their breath as they waited for their master's response: the sauce boat wobbled on the masalchi's tray, the chobdar lost his ladle, and the ropes on the punkah-wallahs' toes went slack as they watched the eyes of the Burra Sahib and the Burra BeeBee descending from Paulette's ill-fitting bodice - the stays of which had come undone - to the hem of her dress, which was so short as to expose Paulette's ankles, in all their nakedness. The only voice to be heard was little Annabel's who gave a gleeful shout of laughter: "Mama! she forgot to bundo her jumma! And oh dekko mama, do: there's her ankle! Do you see it? Look what the puggly's done!"

The name stuck, and from then on Paulette was Puggly to Mrs. Burnham and Annabel.

The Funeral Pyre

Ever since that night by the river, when Deeti had come to his help, Kalua had kept count of the days on which he was granted a glimpse of her, and the empty days in between. The tally was kept neither with any specific intention, nor as an expression of hope - for Kalua knew full well that between her and himself, none but the most tenuous connection could exist - yet the patient enumeration happened in his head whether he liked it or not: he was powerless to make it cease, for his mind, slow and plodding in some respects, had a way of seeking the safety of numbers. Thus it was that when Kalua heard of Deeti's husband's death, he knew that exactly twenty days had elapsed since that afternoon when she asked for his help in bringing Hukam Singh back from the opium factory.

The news came to him by chance: it was evening, and he was on his way back to his dwelling, in his cart, at the end of the day, when he was stopped by two men who were travelling on foot. Kalua knew they had come a long way because their dhotis were dark with dust and they were leaning heavily on their sticks. They held up their hands as he was passing by, and when his cart rumbled to a stop, they asked if he knew the dwelling of Hukam Singh, the former sepoy. I know it, said Kalua, and he pointed down the road and told them that to get there they would have to walk straight for two kos, and turn left after reaching a large tamarind tree. Then, after following a path through the fields for one hundred and twenty paces, they would have to turn left again, to walk another two hundred and sixty. The men were dismayed: It's almost dark, how will we find these paths? Just keep looking, said Kalua. And how long will it take? An hour, said Kalua, but maybe less.

The men began to plead with him to take them there in his cart: or they would be late, they said, and would miss everything. Late for what? Kalua asked, and the older of the two men said: For Hukam Singh's cremation and . . .

He was about to say something else, when his companion nudged him sharply with his stick.

Has Hukam Singh passed away? Kalua asked.

Yes, late last night. We set out as soon as we heard the news.

All right then, said Kalua. Come. I'll take you there.

The two men climbed on to the rear of the cart and Kalua shook his reins to set his oxen moving. After a good while had passed, Kalua inquired cautiously: And what of Hukam Singh's wife?

Let's see what happens, said the older man. Maybe we'll know tonight . . .

But here again he was interrupted by his companion and the sentence was never finished.

The oddly surreptitious behaviour of the two men set Kalua to wondering whether something untoward was under way. He made it his practice to think hard about everything he saw around him: as the cart rolled down the road, he asked himself why these men, who didn't know Hukam Singh well enough to be aware of the location of his dwelling, would come such a great distance to be present at his cremation. And why was the cremation to be near the dead man's home rather than in the cremation ghat? No: there was something in this that was out of the ordinary. Kalua became more and more convinced of this as they approached their destination - for he saw now that there were a great many others heading towards the same place, more than seemed likely to attend the funeral of a man like Hukam Singh, known by the world to be an incorrigible afeemkhor. When they reached the dwelling, his suspicions deepened, for he saw that the pyre was a great mound of wood, on the banks of the Ganga. Not only was it far larger than was necessary for the cremation of a single man, it was surrounded by a profusion of offerings and objects, as if it were being readied for some larger purpose.

It was dark now, and after the two travellers had alighted, Kalua tethered his ox-cart in a field, some distance away, and returned on foot to the pyre. There were some hundred or so people there, and by listening to their conversations, he soon picked up the whispered sibilance of a word - 'sati'. It was all clear now: he understood. He made his way back, in the dark, to his tethered cart, and lay in it a while, to think through his next move.

The Convicts

Even with fetters on his wrists, Ah Fatt possessed a sureness of hand that was astonishing to Neel. That he should be able to pluck flies out of the air - not swat, but pluck, trapping the insects between the tips of thumb and forefinger - was remarkable enough, but that he should be able to do this in the dark seemed scarcely credible. Often, at night, when Neel was ineffectually flailing his hands at a fly or mosquito, Ah Fatt would catch hold of his arm and tell him to lie still: 'Shh! Let me listen.'

To ask for silence in the chokey was to expect too much: what with the creaking of the ship's timbers, the lapping of the water beneath the hull, the tread of the sailors above, and the voices of the migrants on the far side of the bulwark, it was never quiet within its confines. But Ah Fatt seemed to be able to use his senses in such a way as to block out some noises while focusing on others: when the insect made itself heard again, his hand would come shooting out of the darkness to put an end to its drone. It didn't seem to matter even if the insect settled on Neel's body: Ah Fatt would pluck it out of the darkness in such a way that Neel would feel nothing but a slight pinch on his skin.

But tonight it was neither the hum of an insect nor Neel's flailing that made Ah Fatt say: 'Shh! Listen.'

'What is it?'

'Listen.'

Suddenly Ah Fatt's fetters moved, and their rattle was followed by a frantic, high-pitched squeaking. Then there was a snapping sound, like that of a bone breaking.

'What was it?' said Neel.

'Rat.' An odour of excrement filled the chokey as Ah Fatt removed the cover of the toilet bucket to drop the dead creature inside.

Neel said: 'I don't understand how you can catch it with your bare hands.'

'Learnt.'

'To catch flies and mice?'

Ah Fatt laughed. 'No. Learnt to listen.'

'From whom?'

'Teacher.'

Neel, for all his connoisseurship of teachers and tutors, could think of none who would teach this particular skill. 'What kind of teacher would teach you that?'

'Teacher who teach to box'

Neel was more than ever mystified. 'A boxing teacher?'

Ah Fatt laughed again. 'Strange no? Father made to learn.'

'But why?'

'He want me be like English Man,' said Ah Fatt. 'Want me learn things that Man must know - rowing, hunting, cricket. But in Guangzhou, there is no hunting and there is no garden for cricket. And rowing is done by servant. So he makes to learn boxing.'

'Your father? Did you live with your father then?'

'No. Live with Grandmother. In junk.'

The vessel was actually a Canton kitchen-boat, with a wide, flat prow, where dishes could be washed and pigs butchered. Aft of the prow was the galley, with a four-fire oven, sheltered by a bamboo roof; the middle section was sunken, and shaded by an awning, with a low table and benches for customers; the stern was square and high, with a double-decked house perched on it: this was where the family lived - Ah Fatt, his mother, his grandmother and whichever cousins or other relatives happened to be passing through.

The kitchen-boat was a gift from Ah Fatt's father, and it was a step up in the world for the family: before the boy was born they had lived in a snail-boat that was half the size. Barry would have liked to do still better by his son, the guilt of whose illegitimacy lay heavy on him: he would gladly have bought Chi Mei and her family a house, in the city or in one of the nearby villages - Chuen-pi, for instance, or Whampoa. But this was a Dan family, bred to the river and unwelcome on land. Barry knew this, and raised no objection, although he did make it clear that he would have liked them to acquire a vessel that did him some credit: a big, colourful pleasure-barge, for instance, of the kind that he could have boasted of to his comprador, Chunqua. But Chi Mei and her mother were of thrifty stock, and a dwelling that provided no income was, to them, as useless a thing as a barren sow. Not only did they insist on buying a kitchen-boat, they moored it within sight of the Fanqui-town, so it happened that when Ah Fatt was put to work, helping with customers - which began almost as soon as he learnt to keep his footing on a tilted deck - he could be seen clearly from the windows of the White-hat factory.

Kyá-ré? the other Parsis would laugh; fine fellow you are, Barry - letting your bastard grow up like a boat-boy. For your daughters you're building mansions on Queensway - nothing for this bugger? True he's not one of us, but there's something there, no? Can't just turn your back on him . . .

This was unjust, for it was patent for all to see, Parsis and others alike, that Barry was an indulgent and ambitious father, who had every intention of providing his only son with the wherewithal to set himself up as a gentleman of good standing: the boy was to be erudite, active and urbane, as handy with rod and gun as with book and pen; a Man who spouted Manliness like a whale exhales spray. If schools refused to accept the illegitimate son of a boatwoman, then he would hire special tutors, to teach him reading and penmanship, in Chinese and English - that way, he could always make a career for himself as a linkister, translating between the Fanquis and their hosts. There were many such in Canton, but most were utterly incompetent; the boy could easily learn to outdo them all and might even make a name for himself.

To find tutors who were willing to teach in a Dan kitchen-boat was no easy matter, but through Chunqua's good offices, some were found. Ah Fatt took readily to his lessons and every year when his father returned to Canton for the season, the records of his progress grew longer and longer, the calligraphy ever more stylish. Every year, Barry would bring extravagant gifts from Bombay, to thank his comprador for keeping an eye on the progress of the boy's education; every year Chunqua in turn would reciprocate with a present of his own, usually a book for the boy.

In Ah Fatt's thirteenth year, the present was a fine edition of that famous and beloved tale, Journey to the West.

Barry was much enthused when the name was translated for him: 'It'll do him good to read about Europe and America. Some day I will send him on a visit.'

Not without some embarrassment, Chunqua explained that the West in question was somewhat nearer at hand; in fact it was intended to be none other than Mr Moddie's very own homeland - Hindusthan, or Jambudvipa as it was called in the old books.

'Oh?' Although no longer so enthusiastic, Barry gave the boy his present anyway, little knowing that he would soon regret this off hand decision. Later, he came to be convinced that it was this book that was responsible for the fancies that entered Ah Fatt's head: 'Want to go West . . .'

“The Language of Sea of Poppies: The Ibis Chrestomathy” is available as a pdf download.