by Amitav Ghosh
As a rule, when the Captain had to be ferried ashore, it was a tindal or seacunny who rowed him over in the ship’s gig – a small but handy little rowboat that was kept permanently tethered to the stern while the schooner was in port. But today the Ibis was shorthanded because many of the lashkar were still ashore, either recovering from their pre-departure excesses or making preparations for the long absence ahead. With every available hand occupied in snugging the ship down, Zachary went to Mr Crowle and offered to row the Captain’s gig himself.
The offer was made on an impulse, without any forethought, and Zachary regretted it the moment it was out of his lips – for Mr Crowle took a while to chew over it, and his face darkened as he tried the taste of his conclusions.
‘So what’d you think, Mr Crowle?’
‘What do I think? I’ll tell y’Mannikin: I don’t think the skipper needs to be jibbering the kibber with yer. If he has to be rowed, then it’s best I be the one to do it.’
Zachary shifted his weight uncomfortably. ‘Sure. Suit yourself, Mr Crowle. Was just tryin to help.’
‘Help? It’s no help to anyone to have yer pitching the gammon to the skipper. Ye’ll stay where ye’re needed and look sharp about it too.’
This exchange was beginning to attract attention from the lascars, so Zachary brought it to an end: ‘Yes, Mr Crowle. As you please.’
The first mate went off in the gig, with the Captain, while Zachary stayed on board, to oversee the lascars who were unbending the topgallants and royals. By the time the mate returned, the sky was beginning to turn colour and spectators were gathering along the embankments, to wait for the bore.
‘Take y’self aft, Reid,’ the first mate growled as he came aboard. ‘Don’t need yer swilkering about for’ard.’
Zachary shrugged this off and went aft, to the wheelhouse. The sun had set now and the fishermen onshore were hurrying to secure their upturned boats. Zachary was looking downstream, watching for the first signs of the wave, when Steward Pinto came running to the stern. ‘Burra Malum calling Chhota Malum.’
‘What for?’
‘Problem with langar-boya.’
Zachary hurried forward to find the first mate standing between the bows, squinting at the water ahead. ‘Something amiss, Mr Crowle?’
‘You tell me, Reid,’ said the first mate. ‘What do y’see over there?’
Shading his eyes, Zachary saw that Mr Crowle was pointing to a cable that linked the schooner’s bow to the underside of a buoy, some fifty feet ahead. Having been on board during the initial berthing of the Ibis, Zachary knew that the Hooghly’s bore entailed special procedures for the mooring of ocean-going sailing ships: they were usually berthed far out in the river’s stream, where, instead of dropping their anchors, they were tethered between buoys anchored deep in the river’s muddy bed. The holdfasts to which the ship’s cables were attached lay on the underside of the buoys, beneath the water’s surface, and could only be accessed by divers who were accustomed to the near-blind conditions of the muddy river. It was one such mooring-cable that had attracted Mr Crowle’s attention – but Zachary was at a loss to see why, for there was not much to be seen of the rope, which disappeared underwater halfway to the buoy.
‘Don’t see nothing wrong, Mr Crowle.’
‘Don’t you now?’
There was just enough light to get another look: ‘Sure don’t.’
Mr Crowle’s index finger rose to pick a morsel from his teeth. ‘Don’t say much for yer know, Mannikin. What if I told you the cable’s a-foul of the buoy’s anchor-chain?’ He raised an eyebrow as he examined his fingernail. ‘Didn’t think o’that, did ye now?’
Zachary had to acknowledge the truth of this. ‘No, Mr Crowle. I didn’t.’
‘Care to go out in the gig and take a look?’
Zachary paused, trying to reckon whether he would have time enough to get to the buoy and back before the wave came bearing down. It was hard to judge because of the current, which was flowing so swiftly as to carve deep fissures on the river’s surface.
As if to preclude his doubts, the first mate said: ‘Not a nidget are ye, Reid?’
‘No, Mr Crowle,’ Zachary said promptly. ‘I’ll go if you think it’s necessary.’
‘Stubble yer whids then, and heave on.’
If he was to do it, Zachary knew he would have to be quick. He went aft at a run, heading for the stern where the gig was still tethered – pulling it out of the water was to have been the last item in the preparations for the bore. Looking at it now, Zachary decided that it would take too long to draw the boat around to the side-ladder: better, if trickier, to vault over the stern-rail. He was tugging on the boat’s painter when Serang Ali stepped out of the wheelhouse to whisper: ‘Malum ’ware: gig-bot broken.’
‘What . . . ?’
Zachary’s question was cut short by the first mate, who had followed him aft: ‘What’s this now? Fraid o’ wettin yer feet, Mannikin?’
Without another word, Zachary handed the gig’s painter to Serang Ali who looped it around a stanchion and pulled it taut. Climbing over the stern-rail, Zachary took hold of the rope and lowered himself into the gig, signalling to Serang Ali to set the boat loose. Almost at once the current took hold of the little craft and pulled it along the length of the schooner, propelling it towards midstream.
The gig’s oars were on the floorboards and on reaching for them, Zachary was surprised to find that there was a good inch or so of water sloshing around the bottom. He thought nothing of it, for the boat’s sides were so low that waves often lapped over them, even when the craft was stationary. When he began to row, the gig responded well enough until he was some twenty feet past the schooner’s bow. He noticed then that the water in the boat’s bottom had risen past his ankles and was creeping up his calves. He had, so far, concentrated his attention on the buoy, so he was taken aback when he looked over the gig’s side – for only an inch or two remained between the gunwale and the fast-flowing river. It was as if holes had been drilled into the gig’s hull, with great care, so as not to open up fully until the boat was under oar.
He pushed his shoulders hard against the oars now, trying to turn the gig about, but the stern was wallowing so deep in the water that the bows would not respond. The buoy was only some twenty feet ahead, clearly visible even in the rapidly dimming light, but the current was sweeping the boat wide of its mark, towards the middle of the river. The schooner’s cable was tantalizingly close and Zachary knew that if he could but reach it, he would be able to pull himself to safety. But the gap was widening quickly, and although he was a strong swimmer, Zachary guessed that it would not be easy to get to the cable before the wave swept in, not with the current flowing against him. Clearly, his best hope lay in being picked up by another boat – but the Hooghly, usually so tightly packed with river craft, was ominously empty. He looked towards the Ibis and saw that Serang Ali knew he was in trouble. The lascars were labouring to lower the starboard longboat – but there was nothing to be hoped for here, for the process could take as much as fifteen minutes. Glancing shore-wards, he saw that he was being observed by a great number of spectators – fishermen, boatmen and others – all of whom were watching with helpless concern. The sound of the approaching bore was clearly audible now, loud enough to leave no doubt that anyone who ventured into the water would do so at the risk of his life.
This much was clear: it wouldn’t do to remain in the foundering gig. Using his toes and heels, Zachary worked his sodden shoes off his feet and tore off his canvas shirt. Just as he was about to jump, he saw a boat sliding down the mudbank: the slim, long craft hit the water with such force that its momentum carried it halfway to Zachary.
The sight of the boat lent Zachary’s arms a burst of strength, and he did not pause for breath until he heard a voice, shouting: ‘Zikri Malum!’ He raised his head from the water and looked up to see a hand reaching towards him; looming behind it was Jodu’s face; he was stabbing a finger to point downri
ver, where the sound of the wave had risen to a rumble. Zachary didn’t stop to listen; snatching at Jodu’s hand, he tumbled into the boat. Pulling him upright, Jodu thrust an oar into his hands and pointed to the buoy ahead: the wave was too close now to think of rowing back to shore.
As he dug his oar into the water, Zachary threw a glance over his shoulder: the wave was streaking towards them and its foaming crest was a blur of white. He turned away, rowing furiously, and did not look back again till they had drawn level with the buoy. Behind them, the bore was rearing out of the water at an impossible angle, as if springing into a leap.
‘Zikri Malum!’ Jodu had already leapt on the buoy and was knotting the boat’s rope to the hooped holdfast on its crown. He gestured to Zachary to leap too, extending a hand to steady him as he stepped on the slippery, algae-covered surface.
Now, with the wave almost upon them, Zachary threw himself flat, beside Jodu. There was just enough time to pass a rope around their bodies and loop it through the holdfast. Linking one arm with Jodu’s, Zachary hooked the other through the iron hoop and sucked a huge draught of air into his lungs.
Suddenly everything went quiet and the wave’s deafening sound was transformed into an immense, crushing weight, flattening them against the buoy, holding them down so hard that Zachary could feel the barnacles on its surface slicing into his chest. The heavy float strained against its cable, spinning around and around as the water swept past. Then suddenly, like a windswept kite, it changed direction and shot upwards, with a momentum that lifted it out of the water with a skip and a bounce. Zachary shut his eyes and let his head fall against the metal.
When his breath returned, he extended his hand to Jodu. ‘Thank you, my friend.’
Jodu flashed him a grin and grasped his hand with a slap: eyebrows dancing wildly in his face, he said, ‘Cheerily there! Alzbel!’
‘Sure,’ said Zachary with a laugh. ‘Alzbel that’s end’s well.’
Miraculously Jodu’s boat had survived unscathed and he was able to row Zachary back to the Ibis before going off to return the hired craft to its owner.
Zachary hauled himself aboard the schooner to find the first mate waiting, with his arms crossed over his chest. ‘Had enough, Reid? Changed yer mind yet? Still time to turn around and get y’self ashore.’
Zachary glanced down at his dripping clothes. ‘Look at me, Mr Crowle,’ he said. ‘I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere the Ibis isn’t going.’
PART III
Sea
Sixteen
It happened that Deeti went early to the nullah next morning, so she was among the first to come upon the rowboats that were moored around the camp’s jetty: the scream that broke from her lips – nayyá á gail bá! – was such as to freeze your liver, and by the time its echoes had faded, there was not a soul in the campsite who was still at rest. In twos and threes they came creeping out of their huts to ascertain that the boats were real and that this was indeed the day when they would take leave of the camp. Now that disbelief was no longer possible, a great uproar broke out and people began to mill around, gathering together their belongings, taking down their washing, and hunting for their pitchers, lotas and other necessary utensils. The long-planned-for rituals of departure were forgotten in the confusion, but strangely, this great outburst of activity became itself a kind of worship, not so much intended to achieve an end – their bundles and bojhas were so small and so many times packed and unpacked that there was not much to be done to them – but rather as an expression of awe, of the kind that might greet a divine revelation: for when a moment arrives that is so much feared and so long awaited, it perforates the veil of everyday expectation in such a way as to reveal the prodigious darkness of the unknown.
Within minutes the maistries were going from hut to hut, swinging their lathis, rooting out those who had shrunk fearfully into corners, and kicking loose the knots of whispering men who were blocking the campsite’s paths and doorways. In the women’s hut, the prospect of departure caused such a rout that Deeti had to put aside her own fears in order to organize the evacuation: Ratna and Champa could do little but cling to each other; Heeru had prostrated herself on the floor and was rolling from side to side; Sarju, the midwife, had buried her face in her precious bundles and bojhas; Munia could think of nothing but braiding tassels into her hair. Fortunately, Deeti’s own bundle of possessions was packed and ready, so she could apply herself fully to the task of organizing the others, prodding, slapping and shouting as was necessary. To such good effect did she apply herself that by the time Kalua appeared in the doorway, every last belonging, the smallest pot and the thinnest shred of cloth, had been accounted for and packed away.
A pile of baggage was clustered around the doorway: picking up her own, Deeti led the women out of the hut with their saris draped carefully over their heads and faces. The women kept close to Kalua’s giant frame, as they made their way through the milling migrants. Nearing the jetty, Deeti caught sight of Baboo Nob Kissin: he was in one of the boats, wearing his hair loose so that it fell to his shoulders in shining ringlets. He greeted the women almost as if he were an elder sister, ordering the maistries to let them through first.
When Deeti had crossed the quaking gangplank, the gomusta pointed her to a thatched section at the rear that had been screened off for the women: there was someone already seated inside, but Deeti did not notice her – she had no eyes now but for the pennant-topped temple at the edge of the camp, the sight of which filled her with remorse for her unperformed devotions. No good could come, surely, of a journey embarked upon without a puja? She joined her hands together, closed her eyes, and was soon lost in prayer.
The boat’s moving! squealed Munia, and her cry was quickly echoed by another voice, an unfamiliar one: Hã, chal rahe hãi! Yes, we’re on our way!
It was only now that Deeti realized that there was a stranger in their midst. Opening her eyes, she saw, sitting opposite her, a woman in a green sari. Deeti’s skin began to prickle, as if to tell her that this was someone she had seen before, perhaps in a dream. Seized by curiosity, she pulled her own ghungta back from her head, laying bare her face. We’re all women here, she said; ham sabhan merharu. We don’t need to be covered up.
Now the stranger too pulled back her sari, revealing a face that was long and finely shaped, with an expression in which innocence was combined with intelligence, sweetness with resolution. Her complexion had a soft, golden glow, like that of the cosseted daughter of a village pandit, a child who had never worked a day in the fields and had never had to endure the heat of the sun.
Where are you travelling to? said Deeti, and such was her sense of familiarity with the stranger, that she had no hesitation in addressing her in her native Bhojpuri.
The girl answered in the bastardized Hindusthani of the city: I’m going where you are going – jahã áp játa . . .
But you aren’t one of us, said Deeti.
I am now, said the girl smiling.
Deeti was not so bold as to ask the girl directly about her identity, so she chose instead the more circuitous course of revealing her own name and those of the others: Munia, Heeru, Sarju, Champa, Ratna and Dookhanee.
I’m called Putleshwari, said the girl in response, and just as everyone was beginning to wonder how they were ever going to pronounce this tongue-tripping Bengali farrago, she rescued them by adding: But my nickname is Pugli, and that’s what people call me.
‘Pugli?’ Why, said Deeti, with a smile. You don’t look at all mad.
That’s just because you don’t know me yet, said the girl, with a sweet smile.
And how is it that you are here with us? Deeti asked.
Baboo Nob Kissin, the gomusta, is my uncle.
Ah! I knew it, said Deeti. You are a bamni, a Brahmin’s daughter. But where are you travelling to?
To the island of Mareech, said the girl, just like you.
But you’re not a girmitiya, said Deeti. Why would you go to such a place?
A marriage? Deeti was amazed to hear her speaking of crossing the sea for a wedding, as if it were no different from going to another village downriver. But aren’t you afraid, she said, of losing caste? Of crossing the Black Water, and being on a ship with so many sorts of people?
Not at all, the girl replied, in a tone of unalloyed certainty. On a boat of pilgrims, no one can lose caste and everyone is the same: it’s like taking a boat to the temple of Jagannath, in Puri. From now on, and forever afterwards, we will all be ship-siblings – jaházbhais and jaházbahens – to each other. There’ll be no differences between us.
This answer was so daring, so ingenious, as fairly to rob the women of their breath. Not in a lifetime of thinking, Deeti knew, would she have stumbled upon an answer so complete, so satisfactory and so thrilling in its possibilities. In the glow of the moment, she did something she would never have done otherwise: she reached out to take the stranger’s hand in her own. Instantly, in emulation of her gesture, every other woman reached out too, to share in this communion of touch. Yes, said Deeti, from now on, there are no differences between us; we are jahaz-bhai and jahaz-bahen to each other; all of us children of the ship.
Somewhere outside, a man’s voice was shouting: There she is! The ship – our jahaz . . .
And there she was, in the distance, with her two masts and her great beak of a bowsprit. It was now that Deeti understood why the image of the vessel had been revealed to her that day, when she stood immersed in the Ganga: it was because her new self, her new life, had been gestating all this while in the belly of this creature, this vessel that was the Mother-Father of her new family, a great wooden mái-báp, an adoptive ancestor and parent of dynasties yet to come: here she was, the Ibis.