Sea of Poppies

by Amitav Ghosh

  Zachary whistled in surprise: ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘I am but another of Fortune’s fools, Mr Reid.’ Now, with a guilty start, Neel remembered Ah Fatt, standing mutely beside him. ‘Forgive me, Mr Reid. I have not introduced my friend and colleague, Mr Framjee Pestonjee Moddie.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Zachary was about to stick out his hand when the subedar, provoked beyond endurance, shoved his lathi into the small of Ah Fatt’s back: Chal! Hatt! Move on, you two.

  ‘It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr Reid,’ said Neel, wincing under the subedar’s blows.

  ‘For me too . . .’

  As it turned out, the encounter produced nothing to be glad of, either for Zachary or the convicts. For Neel it earned a slap across the face from the subedar: You think you can impress me with two words of angrezi? I’ll show you how this ingi-lis is spoken . . .

  For Zachary, it earned a summons from Mr Crowle: ‘What’s this I hear about you jawin with the quoddies?’

  ‘I’d met one of them before,’ said Zachary. ‘What was I to do? Pretend he doesn’t exist?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mr Crowle. ‘Pretend he don’t exist. ’S not yer place to be talkin with the quoddies and coolies. Subby-dar don like it. He don’t like you too much neither, to be honest. There’ll be trouble if’n you try it agin. Warnin you I am, Mannikin.’

  The encounter between Zachary and the convicts had another witness – one on whom it produced a more momentous effect than on anyone else. This was Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, who had woken that morning to a powerful and prophetic rumbling in his bowels. As was his wont, he had paid close attention to these symptoms and had been led to conclude that the spasms were too forceful to be ascribed entirely to the motion of the schooner: they seemed more akin to the tremors that betoken the coming of a great earthquake or upheaval.

  With the progress of the day, this sense of foreboding and expectation had grown steadily stronger, driving the gomusta finally to make his way agil, to the fo’c’sle-deck, where he positioned himself between the bows, allowing the wind to fill out his loose-flowing robes. As he peered ahead, at the silvery waters of the ever-broadening river, the mounting suspense made his stomach go pit-a-pat and he was forced to cross his legs, to hold back the threatened eruption. It was in the process of squirming and twisting that he caught sight of the two convicts being marched around the deck by Subedar Bhyro Singh.

  The countenance of the former Raja was not unknown to Baboo Nob Kissin: he had glimpsed it several times, in Calcutta, through the window of the Raskhali phaeton. Once, when the carriage was thundering past, the gomusta had lost his footing and toppled backwards in fright: he remembered well the smile of disdainful amusement with which Neel had regarded him, as he wallowed haplessly in a pool of mud. But the pale, refined countenance of his memory, with its rosebud mouth and world-weary eyes, bore no resemblance to the gaunt, swarthy face that he saw before him now. Had Baboo Nob Kissin not known that the disgraced Raja was one of the two convicts on the Ibis, he would not have imagined this to be the same man, so striking was the change, not just in his appearance but also in his demeanour, which was just as alert and watchful now as it had been bored and languid then. It was somehow thrilling to imagine that he, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, had played a part in humbling this proud and arrogant aristocrat, in subjecting this effete, self-indulgent sensualist to privations that he could not have envisioned in his worst nightmares. In a way it was like midwiving the birth of a new existence – and no sooner had this thought crossed his mind than the gomusta experienced the upwelling of a sensation that was so intense and so unfamiliar that he knew that Taramony had to be its source. What other provenance could there be for the tumult of pity and protectiveness that seized him at the sight of Neel’s begrimed face and chained extremities? Who else could be responsible for the upsurge of maternal tenderness in his bosom, as he watched the convict being driven around the deck like a draught animal? He had always harboured the suspicion that the great regret of Taramony’s life was that she had no child of her own. This was confirmed now by the welter of emotions emanating from the presence inside him, the instinct that made him yearn to wrap his arms around the convict to shield him from pain: it was as if Taramony had recognized, in Neel, the son, now grown, whom she had been unable to bear for her husband, Baboo Nob Kissin’s uncle.

  So powerful indeed were the gomusta’s maternal stirrings that had not the fear of an embarrassing accident compelled him to keep his legs knotted, he might well have gone racing down the deck to interpose himself between Neel and the subedar’s flailing lathi. And could it be a coincidence that it was exactly then that Zachary stepped forward to stop the subedar’s hand and anoint the convict with his recognition? It was as if two aspects of Taramony’s capacity for womanly love had been brought into conjunction: that of the mother, longing to nurture a wayward son, and that of the seeker, yearning to transcend the things of this world.

  The sight of the encounter between these two beings, both of whom concealed inner truths known only to him, was so moving as to actually set in motion the long-threatened earthquake: the gurgling in the gomusta’s interior was now like that of molten lava, and even the fear of embarrassment could not prevent him from racing aft, in search of the heads.

  During the day, when the schooner’s movement could be felt in the pit of every stomach, the heat and stench of the dabusa were made bearable only by the knowledge that every moment of it brought the end of the voyage a little closer. But there was no such consolation when the schooner anchored at night in the bends of the jungle: with tigers roaring and leopards coughing nearby, even the least excitable of the migrants were seized by wild imaginings. Nor was there any lack of people to stoke rumours and set people against each other. The worst of these was Jhugroo, who had been bundled out of his own village because of his propensity for making trouble: his face was as ugly as his disposition, with a jutting, twisted lower jaw, and tiny bloodshot eyes, yet his tongue and his wits were quick enough to earn him a certain kind of authority among the younger and more credulous girmitiyas.

  On the first night, when no one could sleep, Jhugroo began to tell a story about the jungles of Mareech and how the younger and weaker migrants were destined to be used as bait for the wild animals that lived in those forests. His voice could be heard through the whole dabusa, and it terrorized the women, especially Munia, who broke down in tears.

  In the suffocating heat, her fear had the virulence of a fever and soon infected those around her: as the women collapsed, one after another, Paulette realized that she would have to act quickly if she was to stem their panic. Khamosh! Quiet! she cried out. Listen to me, listen: what this man is telling you is all bakwás and nonsense. Don’t believe these stories – they aren’t true. There are no wild animals in Mareech, except for birds and frogs and a few goats, pigs and deer – most of them brought there by human beings. As for snakes, there’s not one on the whole island.

  No snakes!

  This pronouncement was so remarkable that the crying stopped and many heads, including Jhugroo’s, turned to stare at Paulette. It fell to Deeti to ask the question that was foremost in every mind: No snakes? Can there really be such a jungle?

  Yes, there are such jungles, said Paulette. Mainly on islands.

  Jhugroo would not let this pass unchallenged. How would you know? he demanded. You’re just a woman: who can take your word for it?

  Paulette answered calmly: I know because I’ve read it in a book. It was written by a man who knew about such things and had lived a long time in Mareech.

  A book? Jhugroo gave a satirical laugh. The bitch is lying. How would a woman know what’s written in a book?

  This stung Deeti, who retorted: Why shouldn’t she be able to read a book? She’s the daughter of a pandit – she’s been taught her letters by her father.

  Lying rundees, Jhugroo cried. You should clean your mouths with dung.

  What? Kalua rose slowly to his feet, s
tooping low to keep his head clear of the ceiling. What was that you said to my wife?

  Confronted with Kalua’s massive frame, Jhugroo retreated into a sulky, vengeful silence, while his followers edged away to join those who had gathered around Paulette: Is it true? There are no snakes there? What trees do they have? Is there rice? Really?

  On the other side of the bulwark, Neel too was listening intently to Paulette. Although he had spent a fair amount of time peering at the migrants, through the air duct, he had not paid her much attention till then: like the other women, she was always ghungta’d, and he had not set eyes on her face, nor indeed on any other part of her, apart from her henna-darkened hands and alta-reddened feet. From the intonations of her voice, he had surmised that she differed from the other migrants in that her language was Bengali rather than Bhojpuri, and it had struck him once that her head was sometimes inclined in such a way as to listen in on his conversations with Ah Fatt – but this seemed absurd. It was impossible surely, that a coolie-woman would understand English?

  It was Deeti who brought Neel’s attention to bear on Paulette anew: if what she’d said was true – that this female was educated – then it seemed to Neel that he would almost certainly know her parents or relatives: small indeed was the number of Bengali families who encouraged their daughters to read, and few among them were unrelated to his own. The names of the handful of Calcutta women who could claim any kind of punditry were well known in his circle, and there was not, to his knowledge, one among them who would publicly admit to knowing English – that was a threshold that even the most liberal families had yet to cross. And here was another puzzle: the educated women of the city were almost all from well-to-do families; it was inconceivable that any of them would allow a daughter of theirs to sail off with a boatload of indentured labourers and convicts. Yet here, apparently, was one such: or was she?

  Only when the general interest in the girl had waned did Neel put his lips to the air duct. Then, addressing her ghungta-draped head, he said, in Bengali: One who has been so courteous in dealing with her interlocutors will have no objection, surely, to answering yet another query?

  The silky phrasing and refined accent put Paulette instantly on her guard: although her back was turned towards the chokey, she knew exactly who had spoken and she understood immediately that she was being put to some kind of test. Paulette was well aware that her Bengali tended to have a raffish, riverfront edge to it, much of it having been acquired from Jodu; she was careful now in choosing her words. Matching her tone to the convict’s, she said: There is no harm in a question; should the answer be known it will certainly be provided.

  The accent was neutral enough to deny Neel any further clues to the speaker’s origins.

  Would it be possible then, he continued, to inquire after the title of the book that was referred to earlier: this volume that is said to have contained such a rich trove of information about the island of Mareech?

  Paulette, playing for time, said: The name eludes me – it is of no consequence.

  But indeed it is, said Neel. I have searched my memory for a book in our language that might contain these facts and I can think of none.

  There are many books in the world, parried Paulette, and surely no one can know all their names?

  Not of all the books in the world, Neel conceded, that is certainly true. But in Bengali the number of books in print is yet to exceed a few hundred, and I once prided myself on possessing every single one of them. Thus my concern – is it possible that I had missed a volume?

  Thinking quickly, Paulette said: But the book of which I speak has yet to see print. It is a translation from the French.

  From the French! Indeed? And would it be too much to ask the name of the translator?

  Paulette, thoroughly rattled, uttered the first name to come to mind, which was that of the munshi who had taught her Sanskrit and helped her father with the cataloguing of his collection: His name was Collynaut-baboo.

  Neel recognized the name at once: Really? Do you mean Munshi Collynaut Burrell?

  Yes, that is he.

  But I know him well, said Neel. He was my uncle’s munshi for many years. I can assure you he speaks not a syllable of French.

  Of course not, said Paulette, parrying quickly. He was collaborating with a Frenchman – Lambert-sahib of the Botanical Gardens. Since I was Collynaut-baboo’s pupil, he sometimes gave me pages to transcribe. That is how I read them.

  Not a word of this was convincing to Neel, but he could think of no way to shake the story. May I presume to ask, he said at last, what the good-name of the lady’s family might be?

  Paulette was ready with her riposte. Would it not be intolerably forward, she answered politely, to speak of so intimate a matter upon such a brief acquaintance?

  As you please, said Neel. I will say no more except that you are wasting your time in trying to educate these oafs and bumpkins. They might as well be left to rot in ignorance, since rot they surely will.

  All this while, Paulette had been sitting so that she would not have to look at the convict. But now, nettled by the arrogance of his tone, she turned her ghungta-covered face in his direction and allowed her eyes to travel slowly up to the air duct. All she could see, in the dimness of the dabusa, was a pair of eyes, glowing crazily in the depths of a stubbled face. Her anger turned to a kind of pity and she said, softly: If you are so clever, then what are you doing here with us? If there was to be a panic or a riot in here, do you think your learning would save you? Haven’t you ever heard of the saying: we’re all in the same boat? – amra shob-i ek naukoye bháshchhi?

  Neel burst into laughter. Yes, he said, triumphantly: I have heard it said – but never in Bengali. It’s an English saying that you’ve just translated – very prettily, if I may say so – but it begs the question of where and how you learnt the English language.

  Paulette turned away without answering, but he persisted: Who are you, my good lady? You may as well tell me. You can be sure I’ll find out.

  I’m not of your kind, said Paulette. That is all you need to know.

  Yes, indeed it is, he said, in a tone of mockery – for in uttering her final retort, Paulette’s tongue had betrayed just enough of the waterfront’s sibilance for the mystery to be solved. Neel had heard Elokeshi speak of a new class of prostitute who had learnt English from their white clients – no doubt this was one such, on her way to join some island brothel.

  The space which Deeti and Kalua had chosen for themselves lay under one of the massive beams that arched over the ’tween deck. Deeti’s mat was pushed right up to the side, so that the hull provided a backrest when she sat up. But when she lay down, the wooden ridge was no more than an arm’s length from her head, so that a moment’s inattention could mean a nasty blow to the head. After cracking her brow against the edge a few times, she learnt to slip out safely, and after that, she quickly came to be grateful for the shelter of the beam: it was like a parental arm, holding her in place when everything else was becoming more and more unsteady.

  Never was Deeti more grateful for the beam’s proximity than during the first days of the voyage, when she was still unaccustomed to the vessel’s motion: it gave her something to hold on to, and she found that she could lessen the whirling sensation in her head by focusing her eyes on the wood. In this way, despite the half-light of the dabusa, she became intimately familiar with that length of timber, learning to recognize its grain, its whorls and even the little scratches that had been carved into its surface by the nails of others who had lain where she lay. When Kalua told her that the best remedy for queasiness was to look up at the open sky, she told him tartly to look where he pleased, but for herself, she had all the sky she could deal with in the wood above her head.

  For Deeti, the stars and constellations of the night sky had always recalled the faces and likenesses of the people she remembered, in love or in dread. Was it this, or was it the shelter afforded by the arched limb that reminded her of the shri
ne she had left behind? It happened anyway that on the morning of the third day she dipped the tip of her index finger into the vermilion-filled parting of her hair and raised it to the wood to draw a tiny face with two pigtails.

  Kalua understood at once: It’s Kabutri, isn’t it? he whispered – and Deeti had to jab him in the ribs, to remind him that her daughter’s existence was a secret.

  Later that day, at noon, when the migrants were making their way out of the dabusa, a strange affliction took hold of everyone who climbed up the ladder: when they set foot on the last rung, they became immobile and had to be shoved up bodily by those who were following at their heels. No matter how loud or impatient the voices below, everyone was stricken in turn as they stepped on the main deck, even those who had but a moment before been cursing the clumsy clodhoppers who were weighing down the line. When it was her turn to emerge from the hatch, Deeti too was seized by the malady: for there it was, dead ahead of the schooner’s bows, the Black Water.

  The wind had fallen off, so there was not a fleck of white visible on the surface, and with the afternoon sun glaring down, the water was as dark and still as the cloak of shadows that covers the opening of an abyss. Like the others around her, Deeti stared in stupefaction: it was impossible to think of this as water at all – for water surely needed a boundary, a rim, a shore, to give it shape and hold it in place? This was a firmament, like the night sky, holding the vessel aloft as if it were a planet or a star. When she was back on her mat, Deeti’s hand rose of itself and drew the figure she had drawn for Kabutri, many months ago – of a winged vessel flying over the water. Thus it happened that the Ibis became the second figure to enter Deeti’s seaborne shrine.

  Eighteen

  At sundown, the Ibis cast anchor at the last place from which the migrants would be able to view their native shore: this was Saugor Roads, a much-trafficked anchorage in the lee of Ganga-Sagar, the island that stands between the sea and the holy river. Except for some mudbanks and the pennants of a few temples, there was little to be seen of the island from the Ibis, and none of it was visible in the unlit gloom of the dabusa: yet the very name Ganga-Sagar, joining, as it did, river and sea, clear and dark, known and hidden, served to remind the migrants of the yawning chasm ahead; it was as if they were sitting balanced on the edge of a precipice, and the island were an outstretched limb of sacred Jambudvipa, their homeland, reaching out to keep them from tumbling into the void.