Sea of Poppies

by Amitav Ghosh

  Why, then, were some Aliens allowed in and some kept out? Was it the case that only a certain kind of Alien was truly an extra-Celestial being, to be kept under careful confinement, in the enclave of the factories? So it had to be, for the Fanquis of the factories were undeniably of a certain cast of face and character: there were ‘Red-faced’ Aliens from England, ‘Flowery-flag’ Aliens from America, and a good sprinkling of others, from France, Holland, Denmark and so on.

  But of these many kinds of creature, the most easily recognizable, without a doubt, was the small but flourishing tribe of White-hatted Aliens – Parsis from Bombay. How was it that the White-hatted ones came to be counted as Fanquis, of the same breed as the Red-faces and Flowery-flags? No one knew, since a matter of appearance it surely could not be – for while it was true that some of the white-hatted faces were no less florid than those of the Flowery-flags, it was true also that there were many among them who were as dark as any of the lascars who sat imp-like upon the mastheads of the Pearl River. As for their clothes, the White-hats’ garments were in no whit the same as those of the Fanquis: they wore robes and turbans, not unlike those of Black-hatted Arabs, presenting an aspect utterly unlike that of the other factory-dwellers – whose wont it was to strut about in absurdly tight leggings and jerkins, their pockets stuffed with the kerchiefs in which they liked to store their snot. No less was it plain for all to see that the other Fanquis looked somewhat askance upon the White-hats, for they were often excluded from the councils and revelries of the rest, just as their factory was the smallest and narrowest. But they too were merchants, after all, and profits were their business, for the sake of which they seemed perfectly willing to live the Fanqui life, migrating like birds between their homes in Bombay, their summer chummeries in Macao, and their cold-weather quarters in Canton, where the vistas of the walled city were not the least of the pleasures forbidden them – for while in China, they had to live, as did the other Fanquis, not just without women, but in the strictest celibacy. On no measure did the city’s authorities so firmly insist as on the chop, issued annually, that forbade the people of Guangzhou to provide the Aliens with ‘women or boys’. But could such an edict really be enforced? As in so many things, what was said and what transpired were by no means the same. It was impossible, surely, for those self-same authorities to be unaware of the women on the flower-boats that trolled the Pearl River, importuning lascars, merchants, linkisters, shroffs and whoever else was of a mind for some diversion; impossible, equally, that they should not know that in the very centre of the Fanqui enclave there lay a filth-clogged mews called Hog Lane, which boasted of any number of shebeens serving not just shamshoo, hocksaw and other liberty-liquors, but all manner of intoxicants of which the embrace of women was not the least. The authorities were certainly aware that the Dan boat-people, who manned many of the sampans and lanteas and chop-boats of the Pearl River, also performed many small but essential services for the Fanquis, including taking in their washing – of which there was always a great deal, not just by way of clothing, but also of bed- and table-linen (the latter particularly, since food and drink did not fall within the purview of the luxuries denied to the poor devils). Such being the case, the business of laundering could not be transacted without frequent visits and outcalls – which was how it happened that a young White-hat of devilish charm, Bahramji Naurozji Moddie, came to cross paths with a fresh-faced Dan girl, Lei Chi Mei.

  It began as a prosaic matter of handing over tablecloths soaked in Sunday dhansak, and napkins wetted with kid-nu-gosht, all of which young Barry – as he was known among the Fanquis – had to enter and account for in a laundry-book, this duty being assigned to him by right of his status as the junior-most of the White-hatted tribe. And it was nothing other than a white hat that led to the pair’s first coupling – or rather, it was one of those long spools of cloth which held the headgear in place: for it so happened that one of the great seths of the factory, Jamshedji Sohrabji Nusserwanji Batliwala, discovered a rent in his turban cloth one day and subjected young Barry to such a dumbcowing that when it came time to display the sundered object to Chi Mei, the young man burst into tears, weeping so artfully that the turban wound itself around and around the couple till they were sealed inside a snug cocoon.

  A few years of loving and laundering were still to pass before a child was born to Chi Mei, but when at last the infant made his appearance, the event inspired a great fever of optimism in his father, who bestowed upon him the impressive name of Framjee Pestonjee Moddie, in the hope that it would ease his acceptance into the world of the White-hats. But Chi Mei, who knew far better the probable fate of children who were neither Dan nor Fanqui, took the precaution of naming the boy Leong Fatt.

  The maistries quickly let it be known that the female migrants would be expected to perform certain menial duties for the officers, guards and overseers. Washing their clothes was one such; sewing buttons, repairing torn seams and so on, was another. Eager for exercise of any sort, Paulette elected to share the washing with Heeru and Ratna, while Deeti, Champa and Sarju opted to do the sewing. Munia, on the other hand, managed to snag the only job on board that could be considered remotely glamorous: this was the task of looking after the livestock, which was housed in the ship’s boats and consumed almost exclusively by the officers, guards and overseers.

  The Ibis was equipped with six boats: two small, clinker-built jollyboats, two mid-size cutters, and two carvel-built longboats, each a full twenty feet in length. The jollyboats and cutters were stowed on the roof of the deckhouse, one of each kind being nested in the other, with the whole ensemble held in place by chocks. The longboats, on the other hand, were amidships, swung up on davits. The longboats’ crane-like davits were known to the lascars as ‘devis’, and not without reason, for their ropes and guys intersected with the mainshrouds in such a way as to create small niches of semi-concealment, as might be found in the sheltering lap of a goddess: in these recesses it was not impossible for one or two people to elude the unceasing bustle of the main deck for several minutes at a time. The scuppers, where the washing was done, lay under the devis, and Paulette quickly learnt to take her time over the task, so she could linger in the open air. The Ibis was now deep in the watery labyrinth of the Sundarbans, and she was glad to seize every opportunity to gaze at the river’s mangrove-cloaked shores. The waterways here were strewn with mudbanks and other hazards, so the navigable channel followed a twisting, looping course, occasionally drawing close enough to the banks to provide clear views of the jungle. Some of Paulette’s happiest memories were of helping her father catalogue the flora of this forest, during weeks-long collecting trips in Jodu’s boat: now, as she watched the banks through the screen of her ghungta, her eyes sifted through the greenery as if by habit: there, beneath the upthrust elbow-roots of a mangrove, was a little shrub of wild basil, Ocimum adscendens; it was Mr Voight, the Danish curator of the Gardens at Serampore – and her father’s best friend – who had confirmed that this plant was indeed to be found in these forests. And here, growing thick along the banks, was Ceriops roxburgiana, identified by the horrible Mr Roxburgh, who’d been so unkind to her father that the very sound of his name would make him blanch; and there, on the grassy verge, just visible above the mangroves, was a spiky-leafed shrub she knew all too well: Acanthus lambertii. It was at her own insistence that her father had given it this name – because she had literally stumbled upon it, having been poked in the leg by one of its spiny leaves. Now, watching the familiar foliage slip by, Paulette’s eyes filled with tears: these were more than plants to her, they were the companions of her earliest childhood and their shoots seemed almost to be her own, plunged deep into this soil; no matter where she went or for how long, she knew that nothing would ever tie her to a place as did these childhood roots.

  For Munia, on the other hand, the forest was a place of dread. One afternoon, as Paulette was gazing at the mangroves, under the pretence of scrubbing clothes, Munia appeared beside
her and uttered a horrified gasp. Clutching at Paulette’s arm, she pointed to a sinuous form, hanging from the branch of a mangrove. Is that a snake? she whispered.

  Paulette laughed. No, you ullu; it’s just a creeping plant that grows on the bark. Its flowers are very beautiful . . .

  It was, in fact, an epiphytic orchid; she’d first encountered this species three years ago when Jodu brought one back home. Her father had taken it for Dendrobium pierardii at first, but on examination had decided that it wasn’t. What would you like to call it? he had asked Jodu with a smile, and Jodu had glanced at Paulette before replying, with a sly grin: Call it Putli-phool. She knew he was teasing, that it was his way of making fun of her for being so thin, flat-chested and weedy. But her father was much taken by the idea, and sure enough the epiphyte became Dendrobium pauletii.

  Munia shuddered: I’m glad I’m not down here. It’s much nicer where I work, on the roof of the deckhouse. The lascars pass right by when they’re climbing up to fix the sails.

  Do they ever say anything? Paulette asked.

  Only him. Munia glanced over her shoulder at the trikat-yard, where Jodu could be seen standing on the footropes, at full stretch, reefing the foretopsail. Look at him! Always showing off. But he’s a sweet boy, no denying that, and nice-looking too.

  The terms of their siblingship being what they were, Paulette had given little thought to Jodu’s appearance: now, as she looked up at his boyishly mobile face, his upturned lips, and the coppery glint in his raven’s-wing hair, she could see why Munia might be attracted to him. Vaguely embarrassed by this, she said: What did you talk about?

  Munia giggled: He’s like a fox, that one: made up a story about how a hakim in Basra had taught him to tell people’s fortunes. How? I said, and do you know what his answer was?

  What?

  He said: let me put my ear on your heart, and I’ll tell you what the future holds. Better still, if I can use my lips.

  That Jodu might have a strong amatory streak had never occurred to Paulette: she was shocked to hear of his boldness. But Munia! weren’t there people around?

  No, it was dark; no one could see us.

  And did you let him? said Paulette. Listen to your heart?

  What do you think?

  Paulette slipped her head under Munia’s ghungta, so she could look into her eyes. No! Munia, you didn’t!

  Oh Pugli! Munia gave a teasing laugh and pulled her ghungta away. You may be a devi, but I’m a shaitan.

  Suddenly, over Munia’s shoulder, Paulette saw Zachary stepping down from the quarter-deck. He seemed to be heading forward, on a course that would take him right past the devis. As he approached, Paulette’s limbs tensed involuntarily and she pulled away from Munia to flatten herself against the bulwark. As it happened, she had one of his shirts in her hands, and she tucked it quickly out of sight.

  Surprised by Paulette’s fidgeting, Munia said: What’s the matter?

  Although Paulette’s face was buried in her knees, and her ghungta was drawn almost to her ankles, Munia had no difficulty in following the direction of her gaze. Just as Zachary was walking past, she gave a hiccup of laughter.

  Munia, be quiet, Paulette hissed. That’s no way to behave.

  For who? said Munia, tittering in delight. Look at you, acting the devi. But you’re no different from me. I saw who you had your eye on. He’s got two arms and a flute just like any other man.

  Right from the start, it was made clear to the convicts that their days would be spent largely in picking and rolling istup – or oakum, as Neel insisted on calling it, giving the fibre its English name. At the start of each day, a large basket of the stuff was brought to them, and they were expected to turn it into usable pickings by nightfall. They were told also that, unlike the migrants, they would not be allowed on deck at mealtimes: their food would be sent to them below, in taporis. But once each day, they would be released from the chokey and given time to empty their shared toilet bucket and to wash their bodies with a few mugfuls of water. Afterwards, they would be taken above and given a few minutes’ exercise, consisting, usually, of a turn or two around the main deck.

  This last part of the convicts’ routine, Bhyro Singh was quick to appropriate: the pretence that they were a pair of plough-oxen and he a farmer, tilling a field, seemed to give him endless delight; he would loop their chains around their necks, in such a way that they were forced to stoop as they walked; then, shaking their fetters like reins, he would make a clicking, tongue-rolling noise as he drove them along, occasionally slicing at their legs with his lathi. It wasn’t just that the infliction of pain gave him pleasure (though this was no small part of it): the blows and insults were also intended to show everyone that he, Bhyro Singh, was uncontaminated by the degraded creatures who had been placed in his power. Neel had only to look into his eyes to know that the disgust that he and Ah Fatt inspired in the subedar far surpassed anything he might have felt for more commonplace criminals. Thugs and dacoits, he would probably have regarded as kindred spirits and treated with some respect, but Neel and Ah Fatt did not fit that mould of man: for him they were misbegotten, befouled creatures – one because he was a filthy foreigner and the other because he was a fallen outcaste. And even worse, if possible, was the fact that the two convicts appeared to be friends and that neither seemed to want to overmaster the other: to Bhyro Singh this was a sign that they were not men at all, but castrated, impotent creatures – oxen, in other words. While driving them around the deck, he would shout, for the amusement of the maistries and silahdars: . . . Ahó, keep going . . . don’t weep for your balls now . . . tears won’t bring them back.

  Or else he would rap them on the genitals and laugh when they doubled up: What’s the matter? Aren’t you hijras, you two? There’s no pleasure or pain between your legs.

  In order to turn the convicts against each other, the subedar would sometimes give one an extra helping of food, or make the other take a double turn at cleaning the toilet buckets: Come, let’s see if you have a taste for your sweetheart’s dung.

  In the failure of these stratagems, he evidently perceived a subtle undermining of his own position, for if ever he saw Neel and Ah Fatt coming to each other’s assistance on deck, he would vent his anger with furious lashings of his lathi. What with the swaying of the schooner, the unsteadiness of their legs, and the weight of their fetters, it was difficult for Ah Fatt and Neel to take more than a few steps at a time without falling or faltering. Any attempt by either to help the other would result in kicks and swipes of the lathi.

  It was in the midst of one such flurry of blows that Neel heard the subedar say: Sala, get up. The Chhota Malum’s heading this way: on your feet now – don’t dirty his shoes.

  Neel was struggling to his feet when he found himself looking into a face that he remembered well. Before he could stop himself, he said aloud: ‘Good afternoon, Mr Reid.’

  That a convict should have the spleen to address an officer was so incredible to Bhyro Singh that he slammed his lathi on Neel’s shoulder, knocking him to his knees: B’henchod! You dare look the sahib in the eye?

  ‘Wait!’ Zachary stepped forward to stop the subedar’s hand. ‘Wait a minute there.’

  The mate’s intervention so inflamed the subedar that for a moment he glowered as if he were about to hit Zachary next. But then, thinking the better of it, he stepped back.

  In the meanwhile, Neel had risen to his feet and was dusting his hands. ‘Thank you, Mr Reid,’ he said. Then, unable to think of anything else, he added: ‘I trust you are well?’

  Zachary peered into his face, frowning. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘I know the voice, but I confess I can’t place . . .’

  ‘My name is Neel Rattan Halder. You may remember, Mr Reid, that you dined with me some six months ago, on – on what was then – my budgerow.’ This was the first time in many months that Neel had spoken to anyone on the outside, and the experience was so strangely exhilarating that he could almost have imagined himse
lf back in his own sheeshmahal. ‘You were served, if my memory does not fail me, some duck soup and a roast of Sudden-Death. Forgive me for mentioning these details. Food has been much on my mind of late.’

  ‘Gollation!’ cried Zachary suddenly, in astonished recognition. ‘You’re the Roger, aren’t you? The Raja of . . . ?’

  ‘Your memory does not mislead you, sir,’ said Neel, bowing his head. ‘Yes, I was indeed once the Raja of Raskhali. My circumstances are very different now, as you can see.’

  ‘I had no idea you were aboard this vessel.’

  ‘No more was I aware of your presence on board,’ said Neel, with an ironic smile. ‘Or I would certainly have tried to send up my card. I had imagined somehow that you had already returned to your estates.’

  ‘My estates?’

  ‘Yes. Did you not say you were related to Lord Baltimore? Or am I imagining it?’ Neel was amazed by how easy it was, and how strangely pleasurable, to fall back into the snobberies and small talk of his past life. Those gratifications had seemed insignificant when they were freely available, but now it was as if they were life’s very essence.

  Zachary smiled. ‘I think you may be misremembering. I’m no lordling and possess no estates.’

  ‘In that at least,’ said Neel, ‘our lot is shared. My present zemindary consists of no more than a toilet bucket and a set of rusty chains.’

  Zachary made a wondering gesture as he looked Neel over, from his tattooed head to his unshod feet: ‘But what happened to you?’

  ‘It is a tale that cannot be briefly told, Mr Reid,’ said Neel. ‘Suffice it to say that my estate has passed into the possession of your master, Mr Burnham: it was awarded to him by a decision of the Supreme Court of Judicature.’