by Amitav Ghosh
The matter was resolved by the entry of a platter of fish: a crumbed fillet of bhetki, with an accompaniment of crisp vegetable pakoras. Mr Doughty subjected the dish to careful scrutiny. ‘Cockup, if I’m not mistaken – and with fuleeta-pups too! Why, sir, your bobachees have done us proud.’
Neel was about to mouth a polite demurral when he made a discovery that shocked him to his core. His eyes having strayed to the wilted water lilies at the centre of the table, he realized to his utter horror that the flowers were sitting not in a vase, as he had thought, but in an old porcelain chamber-pot. Evidently the budgerow’s present generation of boatmen had forgotten the function and history of this vessel, but Neel remembered very well that it had been purchased expressly for the use of an elderly district magistrate whose intestines had been sorely beset by worms.
Stifling an exclamation of disgust, Neel tore his eyes away and cast about for a subject that would keep his guests distracted. When one such suggested itself, he uttered a cry in which a lingering trace of revulsion could still be heard. ‘But Mr Burnham! Are you saying the British Empire will go to war to force opium on China?’
This elicited an instantaneous response from Mr Burnham, who placed his wineglass forcefully on the table. ‘Evidently you have mistaken my meaning, Raja Neel Rattan,’ he said. ‘The war, when it comes, will not be for opium. It will be for a principle: for freedom – for the freedom of trade and for the freedom of the Chinese people. Free Trade is a right conferred on Man by God, and its principles apply as much to opium as to any other article of trade. More so perhaps, since in its absence many millions of natives would be denied the lasting advantages of British influence.’
Here Zachary broke in. ‘How so, Mr Burnham?’
‘For the simple reason, Reid,’ said Mr Burnham patiently, ‘that British rule in India could not be sustained without opium – that is all there is to it, and let us not pretend otherwise. You are no doubt aware that in some years, the Company’s annual gains from opium are almost equal to the entire revenue of your own country, the United States? Do you imagine that British rule would be possible in this impoverished land if it were not for this source of wealth? And if we reflect on the benefits that British rule has conferred upon India, does it not follow that opium is this land’s greatest blessing? Does it not follow that it is our God-given duty to confer these benefits upon others?’
Neel had been listening to Mr Burnham with less than half a mind, his attention having been thoroughly distracted: he had just realized that the business of the chamber-pot might well have turned out a great deal worse than it had. What, for instance, would he have done if it had been presented at the table as a tureen, filled to the brim with steaming soup? Considering all that could have happened, he had every reason to be grateful for his deliverance from social ruin: indeed, the matter smacked so much of divine intervention that he could not help saying, in a tone of pious rebuke: ‘Does it not trouble you, Mr Burnham, to invoke God in the service of opium?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ said Mr Burnham, stroking his beard. ‘One of my countrymen has put the matter very simply: “Jesus Christ is Free Trade and Free Trade is Jesus Christ.” Truer words, I believe, were never spoken. If it is God’s will that opium be used as an instrument to open China to his teachings, then so be it. For myself, I confess I can see no reason why any Englishman should abet the Manchu tyrant in depriving the people of China of this miraculous substance.’
‘Do you mean opium?’
‘I certainly do,’ said Mr Burnham tartly. ‘Why, let me ask you, sir: would you like to return to such a time when men had to have their teeth pulled and their limbs sawn off without benefit of any palliative to ease the pain?’
‘Why no,’ said Neel, with a shudder. ‘I certainly wouldn’t.’
‘I thought not,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘So you would do well to bear in mind that it would be well nigh impossible to practise modern medicine or surgery without such chemicals as morphine, codeine and narcotine – and these are but a few of the blessings derived from opium. In the absence of gripe water our children would not sleep. And what would our ladies – why, our beloved Queen herself? – do without laudanum? Why, one might even say that it is opium that has made this age of progress and industry possible: without it, the streets of London would be thronged with coughing, sleepless, incontinent multitudes. And if we consider all this, is it not apposite to ask if the Manchu tyrant has any right to deprive his helpless subjects of the advantages of progress? Do you think it pleases God to see us conspiring with that tyrant in depriving such a great number of people of this amazing gift?’
‘But Mr Burnham,’ Neel persisted, ‘is it not true that there is a great deal of addiction and intoxication in China? Surely such afflictions are not pleasing to our Creator?’
This nettled Mr Burnham. ‘These ills you mention, sir,’ he replied, ‘are merely aspects of the fallen nature of Man. Should you ever happen to walk through the rookeries of London, Raja Neel Rattan, you will see for yourself that there is as much addiction and intoxication in the gin shops of the Empire’s capital as there is in the dens of Canton. Are we then to raze every tavern in the city? Ban wine from our tables and whisky from our parlours? Deprive our sailors and soldiers of their daily dose of grog? And these measures being enacted, would addiction disappear and intoxication vanish? And would every member of Parliament bear the blame for every fatality should their efforts fail? The answer is no. No. Because the antidote for addiction lies not in bans enacted by Parliaments and emperors, but in the individual conscience – in every man’s awareness of his personal responsibility and his fear of God. As a Christian nation this is the single most important lesson we can offer to China – and I have no doubt that the message would be welcomed by the people of that unfortunate country, were they not prevented from hearing it by the cruel despot who holds sway over them. It is tyranny alone that is to blame for China’s degeneracy, sir. Merchants like myself are but the servants of Free Trade, which is as immutable as God’s commandments.’ Mr Burnham paused to pop a crisp fuleeta-pup in his mouth. ‘And I might add, in this regard, that I do not think it sits well on a Raja of Raskhali to moralize on the subject of opium.’
‘And why not?’ said Neel, steeling himself for the affront that was sure to follow. ‘Pray explain, Mr Burnham.’
‘Why not?’ Mr Burnham’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, for the very good reason that everything you possess is paid for by opium – this budgerow, your houses, this food. Do you think you could afford any of this on the revenues of your estate and your half-starved coolie farmers? No, sir: it’s opium that’s given you all of this.’
‘But I would not go to war for it, sir,’ Neel said, in a tone that matched Mr Burnham’s in its sharpness. ‘And I do not believe the Empire will either. You must not imagine that I am unaware of the part that Parliament plays in your country.’
‘Parliament?’ Mr Burnham laughed. ‘Parliament will not know of the war until it is over. Be assured, sir, that if such matters were left to Parliament there would be no Empire.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Mr Doughty, raising his glass. ‘Truer words were never spoken . . .’
He was interrupted by the arrival of the next course, the presentation of which had required the mobilization of much of the budgerow’s crew. They arrived one by one, bearing brass bowls of rice, mutton, prawns, and an assortment of pickles and chutneys.
‘Ah, at last – the karibat,’ said Mr Doughty. ‘Just in time too!’ As the covers were removed from the dishes, he cast an anxious glance over the table. When he found what he was looking for, he pointed a jubilant finger in the direction of a brass bowl that was filled with spinach and tiny slivers of fish. ‘Isn’t that the famous Rascally chitchky of pollock-saug? Why, I do believe it is!’
The smells had no effect on Neel, who had been so deeply stung by Mr Burnham’s remarks that all thought of food, as well as worms and chamber-pots, had been purged from his mind. ‘You mu
st not imagine, sir,’ he said to Mr Burnham, ‘that I am an ignorant native, to be spoken to like a child. If I may say so, your youthful Queen has no more loyal subject than myself, and none who is more keenly aware of the rights that are enjoyed by the people of Britain. Indeed I am thoroughly familiar, I might add, with the writings of Mr Hume, Mr Locke and Mr Hobbes.’
‘Please do not speak to me, sir,’ said Mr Burnham, in the chilly tone of a man who wishes to snub a name-dropper, ‘of Mr Hume and Mr Locke. For I would have you know that I have been acquainted with them since they served on the Bengal Board of Revenue. I too have read every word they’ve written – even their report on sanitation. And as for Mr Hobbes, why I do believe I dined with him at my club just the other day.’
‘Fine fellow, Hobbes,’ Mr Doughty broke in suddenly. ‘Got a seat on the Municipal Council now, if I’m not mistaken. Went pig-sticking with him once. The shikarees scared up an old sow and a brood of piglets. Came charging at us! Scared the Nick’s knackers out of the horses. Old Hobbes was tossed – right on a little suckling. Dead on the spot. The piglet I mean. Hobbes was unscathed. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Made a fine roast too. Piglet I mean.’
Mr Doughty had not quite finished his tale when another distraction presented itself: a tinkling sound, like that of anklets, now made itself heard in the purdah-screened alcove behind Neel. Evidently Elokeshi and the girls had come to take a look at the dinner guests: there followed some whispering and shifting of feet as they took turns at the peep-holes, and then Neel heard Elokeshi’s voice, rising in excitement. Eki-ré – look, look!
Shh! said Neel over his shoulder, but his warning went unheard.
Do you see the fat, old one? Elokeshi continued, whispering in loud and urgent Bengali. He came to me twenty years ago; I couldn’t have been more than fifteen; oh the things he did, báp-ré! If I told you, you would die laughing . . .
Neel noticed now that a silence had fallen over the table: the experienced older men were staring studiedly at the ceiling or at the table – but Zachary was looking around in astonished inquiry. Even less than before, could Neel think of a way to explain the situation to the newcomer: how was he to be told that he was being observed, through chinks in a curtain, by four dancers? At a loss for something to say, Neel muttered an apology: ‘Just the ladies-in-waiting. Passing some wind.’
Now Elokeshi lowered her voice, and despite himself, Neel strained to follow: No really . . . made me sit on his face . . . chhi, chhi! . . . and then licked there with his tongue . . . no silly, right there, yes . . . shejeki chatachati! . . . Oh what a licking! You’d think he was tasting a chutney . . .
‘Hot cock and shittleteedee!’ There was a crash as Mr Doughty sprang suddenly to his feet, knocking his chair over. ‘Damned badzat pootlies. You think I don’t samjo your bloody bucking? There’s not a word of your black babble I don’t understand. Call me a cunnylapper, would you? ’D rather bang the bishop than charter your chute. Licking, did you say? Here’s my lattee to give you a licking . . .’
He began to advance on the alcove, with his cane upraised, but Mr Burnham jumped nimbly from his chair and headed him off. Zachary came quickly to his aid, and between the two of them they were able to get the pilot out of the sheeshmahal and on to the fore-deck, where they handed him over to Serang Ali and his team of lascars.
‘Catchi too muchi shamshoo,’ said Serang Ali matter-of-factly, as he took hold of the pilot’s ankles. ‘More better go sleep chop-chop.’
This did nothing to soothe Mr Doughty. As he was being wrestled into the jollyboat, his voice could be heard, railing: ‘Hands off my gander! . . . Avast with your launderbuzzing! . . . or I’ll stuff your laurels between your teeth . . . tear out your jaunties . . . chowder your chutes . . . damned luckerbaugs and wanderoos! . . . where’s my dumbpoke and pollock-saug . . . ?’
‘How-fashion to chow-chow this-time?’ scolded Serang Ali. ‘Too muchi shamshoo hab got inside. Allo come topside, no?’
Leaving Zachary behind to restrain the pilot, Mr Burnham came back to the sheeshmahal, where Neel was still sitting at the head of the table, contemplating the ruins of the dinner: would the evening have taken such a turn if his father had been presiding over the table? He could not imagine that it would.
‘Very sorry about that,’ Mr Burnham said. ‘Just had a nipperkin too much of shrob, our good Mr Doughty: a bit out of his altitude.’
‘But it is I who should apologize,’ said Neel. ‘And surely you are not leaving already? The ladies have planned a nách.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mr Burnham. ‘Well you must give them our apologies. I’m afraid I’m not up for that kind of thing.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Neel. ‘Are you not feeling well? Did the food not agree with you?’
‘The food was splendid,’ said Mr Burnham gravely. ‘But as for a nautch – you may be aware that I have certain responsibilities to my church. It is not my practice to participate in spectacles that are injurious to the dignity of the fairer sex.’
Neel bowed his head in apology. ‘I understand, Mr Burnham.’
Mr Burnham took a cheroot from his waistcoat and tapped it on his thumb. ‘But if you don’t mind, Raja Neel Rattan, I would like to have a few words with you in private.’
Neel could think of no way to refuse this request. ‘Certainly, Mr Burnham. Shall we proceed to the upper deck? There some privacy should certainly be available.’
Once they were on the top deck, Mr Burnham lit his cheroot and blew a plume of smoke into the night air. ‘I am very glad to have this opportunity to speak with you,’ he began. ‘It is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Thank you,’ said Neel warily, every defensive instinct on the alert.
‘You will recall that I wrote to you recently,’ Mr Burnham said. ‘May I ask if you have been able to give some thought to my proposal?’
‘Mr Burnham,’ Neel said flatly, ‘I regret that at the present time, I cannot restore to you the funds that are owed. You must understand that it is impossible for me to entertain your proposal.’
‘And why so?’
Neel thought of his last visit to Raskhali and the public meetings where his tenants and managers had pleaded with him not to sell the zemindary and deprive them of the lands they had farmed for generations. He thought of his last visit to his family’s temple, where the priest had fallen at his feet, begging him not to give away the temple where his forefathers had prayed.
‘Mr Burnham,’ Neel said, ‘the zemindary of Raskhali has been in my family for two hundred years; nine generations of Halders have sat in its guddee. How can I give it away to settle my debts?’
‘Times change, Raja Neel Rattan,’ Mr Burnham said. ‘And those who don’t change with them, are swept away.’
‘But I have a certain obligation to the people,’ said Neel. ‘You must try to understand – my family’s temples are on that land. None of it is mine to sell or give away: it belongs also to my son and his yet unborn children. It is not possible for me to make it over to you.’
Mr Burnham blew out a mouthful of smoke. ‘Let me be honest with you,’ he said quietly. ‘The truth is you have no option. Your debts to my company would not be covered even by the sale of the estate. I am afraid I cannot wait much longer.’
‘Mr Burnham,’ said Neel firmly, ‘you must forget about your proposal. I will sell my houses, I will sell the budgerow, I will sell everything I can – but I cannot part with the Raskhali lands. I would rather declare bankruptcy than hand over my zemindary to you.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Burnham, not unpleasantly. ‘Am I to take that as your final word?’
Neel nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Well then,’ said Mr Burnham, staring at the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘Let it be understood then, that whatever happens, you have only yourself to blame.’
Six
The candle in Paulette’s window was the first to pierce the predawn darkness that surrounded Bethel: of all the residents of the house, maste
r and servant alike, she was always up the earliest and her day usually began with the hiding of the sari she had slept in at night. It was only in the seclusion of her bedroom, sheltered from the prying gaze of the staff, that she dared wear a sari at all: Paulette had discovered that at Bethel, the servants, no less than the masters, held strong views on what was appropriate for Europeans, especially memsahibs. The bearers and khidmutgars sneered when her clothing was not quite pucka, and they would often ignore her if she spoke to them in Bengali – or anything other than the kitchen-Hindusthani that was the language of command in the house. Now, on rising from her bed, she was quick to lock her sari in her trunk: this was the one place where it would be safe from discovery by the procession of servants who would file through to clean the bedroom later in the day – the bed-making bichawnadars, the floor-sweeping farrashes and the commode-cleaning matranees and harry-maids.
The apartment that Paulette had been assigned was on the uppermost floor of the mansion, and it consisted of a sizeable bedroom and a dressing room; more remarkably, it also had an adjoining water-closet. Mrs Burnham had made sure that her residence was among the first in the city to do away with outhouses. ‘So tiresome to have to run outside,’ she liked to say, ‘every time you have to drop a chitty in the dawk.’
As with the rest of the mansion, Paulette’s water-closet boasted of many of the latest English devices, among them a comfortable, wood-lidded commode, a painted porcelain basin and a small footbath made of tin. But from Paulette’s point of view the water-closet lacked the most important amenity of all – it had no arrangements for bathing. Through years of habit, Paulette had grown accustomed to daily baths and frequent dips in the Hooghly: it was hard for her to get through a day without being refreshed at least once, by the touch of cool, fresh water. At Bethel a daily bath was permitted only to the Burra Sahib, when he returned, hot and dusty, from a day at the Dufter. Paulette had heard rumours that Mr Burnham had created a special contraption for the purpose of this daily wash: holes had been bored into the bottom of a common tin balty, and the bucket had been strung up in such a way as to permit it to be constantly filled by a bearer, while the sahib stood underneath, revelling in the flow. Dearly would Paulette have loved to make use of this device, but her one attempt to broach this subject had scandalized Mrs Burnham, who, with her usual indirection, had made puzzling reference to the many reasons why frequent cold baths were necessary for a man but unseemly, even perverse, in the gentler, less excitable sex; she had made it clear that, so far as she was concerned, a bathtub was the pucka amenity for a memsahib, to be used at decent intervals of every two or three days.