Sea of Poppies: A Novel (The Ibis Trilogy)

by Amitav Ghosh

  And with that her chalk came swooping down on the slate, like the finger of fate, and wrote Zachary’s name on the seat to Paulette’s left: ‘There you are.’

  Paulette snatched the tablet from the BeeBee and went racing upstairs, only to find her rooms under invasion by a troop of cleaners. For once, she summarily bundled them all out, the farrashes, bichawnadars and harry-maids – ‘Not today, not now . . .’ – and seated herself at her desk, with a stack of place-cards.

  Mrs Burnham liked the cards to be inscribed in an elaborately ornamental script, with as many curlicues and flourishes as could possibly be squeezed in: even on ordinary days it often took Paulette an hour or two to fill them to the BeeBee’s satisfaction. Today, the task seemed to stretch on endlessly, with her quill spluttering and faltering: of all the letters, it was the ‘Z’ that gave her the most trouble, not only because she had never before had cause to inscribe it in capitals, but also because she had never known that it offered so many curves and curls and possibilities: in exploring its shape and size, her pen turned it around and around, shaping it into loops and whorls that seemed, somehow, to want to knot themselves with the humble ‘P’ of her own initials. And when she grew tired of this, she felt impelled, inexplicably, to stare at herself in the mirror, taking alarm at the straggling mess of her hair, and at the blotches of red where her nails had dug into her skin. Then her feet took her to the wardrobe and held her imprisoned in front of it, rifling through the dresses that Mrs Burnham had given her: now, as never before, she wished that they were not all so severe in their colour, nor so voluminous in shape. On an impulse, she opened her locked trunk and took out her one good sari, a scarlet Benarasi silk, and ran her hands over it, remembering how even Jodu, who always laughed at her clothes, had gasped when he first saw her wearing it – and what would Zachary say if he saw her in it? That notion took her eyes straying out of the window, in the direction of the bungalow in the Gardens, and she fell on her bed, defeated by the impossibility of everything.

  Ten

  As he stepped past the tall mahogany doors of Mr Burnham’s Dufter, it seemed to Baboo Nob Kissin that he had left the heat of Calcutta behind and arrived in another country. The dimensions of the room, with its apparently endless stretch of floor and soaring walls, were such as to create a climate peculiar to itself, temperate and free of dust. From the massive beams of the ceiling, an enormous cloth-fringed punkah hung down, sweeping gently back and forth, creating a breeze that was strong enough to paste the gomusta’s light cotton kurta against his limbs. The veranda that adjoined the Dufter was very broad, so as to keep the sun at bay by creating a wide threshold of shade; now, at midday, the balcony’s khus screens were hanging low, and the tatties were being wetted constantly, by a team of punkah-wallahs, to create a cooling effect.

  Mr Burnham was sitting at a massive desk, bathed in the muted glow of a skylight, far above. His eyes widened as he watched Baboo Nob Kissin walking across the room. ‘My good Baboon!’ he cried, as he took in the sight of the gomusta’s oiled, shoulder-length hair and the necklace that was hanging around his neck. ‘What on earth has become of you? You look so . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘So strangely womanish.’

  The gomusta smiled wanly. ‘Oh no, sir,’ he said. ‘It is outward appearance only – just illusions. Underneath all is same-same.’

  ‘Illusion?’ said Mr Burnham scornfully. ‘Man and woman? God made them both as they were, Baboon, and there’s nothing illusory about either, nor is there anything in between.’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, nodding enthusiastically. ‘That is what I am also saying: on this point no concession can be made. Unreasonable demands must be strenuously opposed.’

  ‘Then may I ask, Baboon,’ said Mr Burnham, frowning, ‘why you have chosen to adorn yourself with that’ – he raised a finger to point at the gomusta’s bosom, which seemed somehow to have attained an increased salience within the contours of his body – ‘may I ask why you are wearing that large piece of jewellery? Is it something you got from your sammy-house?’

  Baboo Nob Kissin’s hand flew to his amulet and slipped it back inside his kurta. ‘Yes, sir; from temple only I got.’ Improvising freely, he rushed to add: ‘As such it is mainly for medicinal purposes. Made from copper, which enhances digestion. You can also try, sir. Bowel movements will become smooth and copious. Colour will also be nice, like turmeric.’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ said Mr Burnham with a gesture of distaste. ‘Enough of that. Now tell me, Baboon, what’s this urgent business you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘Just I wanted to raise up some issues, sir.’

  ‘Yes, go on. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘One thing is about camp for coolies, sir.’

  ‘Camp?’ said Mr Burnham. ‘What do you mean, camp? I know of no camp for coolies.’

  ‘Yes, sir, that is the discussion I want to raise up. What I am proposing is, why not to build a camp? Here, just see and you will be convinced.’ Taking a sheet of paper from a file, Baboo Nob Kissin laid it in front of his employer.

  The gomusta was well aware that Mr Burnham considered the transportation of migrants an unimportant and somewhat annoying part of his shipping enterprise, since the margins of profit were negligible in comparison to the enormous gains offered by opium. It was true that this year was an exception, because of the interruption in the flow of opium to China – but he knew that he would still have to present a strong case if he was to persuade the Burra Sahib to make a significant outlay in this branch of his business.

  ‘Look here, sir, and I will show . . .’ With the numbers written down, Baboo Nob Kissin was able to demonstrate, quickly and graphically, that the cost of buying the campsite, erecting huts and so on, would be earned back in a couple of seasons. ‘One big advantage, sir, you can sell camp to gov’ment in one, two years. Profit could be healthy.’

  This caught Mr Burnham’s attention. ‘How so?’

  ‘Simple, sir. You can tell to Municipal Council that proper immigrant depot is needed. Otherwise cleanliness will suffer and progress will be delayed. Then to them only we can sell, no? Mr Hobbes is there – he will ensure payment.’

  ‘Splendid idea.’ Mr Burnham sat back in his seat and stroked his beard. ‘There’s no denying it, Baboon, from time to time you do serve up some excellent notions. You have my permission to do whatever’s necessary. Go on. Don’t waste any time.’

  ‘But, sir, one other issue is also raising its head.’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Sir, supercargo for Ibis has not been appointed yet, no sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘Not yet. Do you have someone in mind?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The proposal I would like to moot out, sir, is that I myself should go.’

  ‘You?’ Mr Burnham looked up at his gomusta in surprise. ‘But Baboo Nob Kissin! Whatever for?’

  The gomusta had his answer ready: ‘Just, sir, the reason is to observe the field situation. It will facilitate my work with coolies, sir, so I can provide fulsome services. It will be like plucking a new leaf for my career.’

  Mr Burnham cast a dubious glance at the gomusta’s matronly form. ‘I am impressed by your enthusiasm, Baboo Nob Kissin. But are you sure you’ll be able to cope with the conditions on a ship?’

  ‘Definitely, sir. Already I have been on one ship – to Jagannath temple, in Puri. No problem was there.’

  ‘But Baboon,’ said Mr Burnham, with a satirical curl of his lip. ‘Are you not afraid of losing caste? Won’t your Gentoo brethren ban you from their midst for crossing the Black Water?’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ said the gomusta. ‘Nowadays all are going for pilgrimage by ship. Pilgrims cannot lose caste – this can also be like that. Why not?’

  ‘Well I don’t know,’ said Mr Burnham, with a sigh. ‘Frankly, I don’t have time to think about it right now, with this Raskhali case coming up.’

  This was the time, Baboo Nob Kiss
in knew, to play his best card. ‘Regarding case, sir, can I kindly be permitted to forward one suggestion?’

  ‘Why, certainly,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘As I recall, it was all your idea in the first place, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the gomusta with a nod, ‘it was myself only who suggested you this scheme.’

  Baboo Nob Kissin took no little pride in having been the first to alert his employer to the advantages of acquiring the Raskhali estate: for some years, it had been rumoured that the East India Company was to relinquish its control on opium production in eastern India. Were that to happen, poppies might well become a plantation crop, like indigo or sugar-cane: with the demand rising annually in China, merchants who controlled their own production, rather than depending on small farmers, would stand to multiply their already astronomical profits. Although there was, as yet, no clear sign that the Company was ready to make the necessary concessions, a few far-sighted merchants had already started looking for sizeable chunks of land. When Mr Burnham began to make inquiries, it was Baboo Nob Kissin who reminded him that he need look no further than the hugely indebted Raskhali estate, which was already within his grasp. He was well acquainted with several crannies and mootsuddies in the Raskhali daftar, and they had kept him closely informed of all the young zemindar’s missteps: like them, he regarded the new Raja as a dilettante, who had his nose in the air and his head in the clouds, and he fully shared their opinion that anyone so foolish as to sign everything that was put before him, deserved to lose his fortune. Besides, the Rajas of Raskhali were well known to be bigoted, ritual-bound Hindus, who were dismissive of heterodox Vaishnavites like himself: people like that needed to be taught a lesson from time to time.

  The gomusta lowered his voice: ‘Rumours are reaching, sir, that Raja-sahib’s “keep-lady” is hiding in Calcutta. She is one dancer, sir, and her name is Elokeshi. Maybe she can provide affidavits to seal his fate.’

  The shrewd glint in Baboo Nob Kissin’s eye was not lost on his employer. Mr Burnham leant forward in his chair. ‘Do you think she might testify?’

  ‘Cannot say for sure, sir,’ said the gomusta. ‘But there is no harm in launching efforts.’

  ‘I’d be glad if you would.’

  ‘But then, sir,’ the gomusta allowed his voice to trail away softly so that it ended on a note of interrogation: ‘what to do about appointment of supercargo?’

  Mr Burnham pursed his lips, as if to indicate that he understood precisely the bargain that was being proposed. ‘If you can provide the affidavit, Baboon,’ he said, ‘the job is yours.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, reflecting, once again, on what a pleasure it was to work for a reasonable man. ‘You can repose all trust, sir. I will do maximum best.’

  On the eve of Neel’s first appearance in court the monsoons came crashing down, which was regarded as a good sign by all his well-wishers. To add to the general optimism, the Raskhali estate’s court astrologer determined that the date of the hearing was extremely auspicious, with all the stars aligned in the Raja’s favour. It was also learnt that a clemency petition had been signed by Bengal’s wealthiest zemindars: even the Tagores of Jorasanko and the Debs of Rajabazar, who could agree on nothing else, had put aside their differences in this matter since it concerned a member of their own class. These bits of news provided so much cheer to the Halder family that Neel’s wife, Rani Malati, paid a special visit to the Bhukailash temple where she provided a feast for a hundred Brahmins, serving each of them with her own hands.

  The news was not enough, however, to dispose entirely of Neel’s apprehensions, and he could not sleep at all the night before his first court appearance. It had been arranged that he would be transported to the courthouse before daybreak, under light guard, and his family had been given permission to send a team of retainers to help with his preparations. Dawn was still a couple of hours away when a rattle of wheels announced the approach of the estate’s phaetongari; shortly afterwards, the Raskhali retinue arrived at Neel’s door and from that point on, mercifully, he had no time to worry.

  Parimal had brought two of the family priests with him, along with a cook and a barber. The Brahmin purohits had come bearing the most ‘awake’ of the images in the Raskhali temple, a goldencrusted statue of Ma Durga. While the outer room of the apartment was being prepared for the puja, Neel was taken off to the bedchamber inside, where he was shaved, bathed and anointed with fragrant oils and flower-scented attars. By way of clothing, Parimal had brought along the finest Raskhali regalia, including a chapkan jacket ornamented with Aljofar seed-pearls, and a turban fitted with the famous Raskhali sarpech – a gold spray, inlaid with rubies from the Shan highlands. It was Neel himself who had asked for these accoutrements, but once they had been laid out on his bed he began to reconsider. Might it make the wrong impression if he presented himself in court in such a rich array of finery? But on the other hand, wasn’t it also possible that a simpler outfit might be seen as an acknowledgement of guilt? It was hard to know what the proper attire was for a forgery trial. In the end, deciding that it would be best not to call attention to his clothes, Neel asked Parimal for a kurta of plain mushru’ mulmul and an unbordered dhoti of Chinsura cotton. Parimal was kneeling to tuck in his dhoti when Neel asked: And how is my son?

  He was busy with his kites till late last night, huzoor. He thinks you are away in Raskhali. We’ve made sure that he knows nothing of all this.

  And the Rani?

  Huzoor, said Parimal, since the moment you were taken away, she is without sleep or rest. She spends the days in prayer and there is not a temple or holy man she has omitted to visit. Today again she will spend the day in our temple.

  And Elokeshi? said Neel. Has there been any word of her yet?

  No, huzoor, none.

  Neel nodded – it was best that she stay in hiding till the trial was over.

  With his clothing completed, Neel was impatient to be on his way, but there was much else still to be done: the puja took the better part of an hour and then, after the priests had smeared his brow with sandalwood paste and sprinkled him with holy water and sacred durba grass, he was made to eat a meal composed of various kinds of auspicious foods – vegetables and puris, fried in the purest ghee, and sweets made with patali syrup, from his household’s own sugar palms. When at last it was time to leave, the Brahmins led the way, clearing Neel’s path of such impure objects as jharus and toilet buckets, and ushering away all carriers of ill-omen – sweepers, porters of night-soil and such. Parimal had already gone ahead to make sure that the constables who were accompanying Neel to the court were Hindus of respectable caste and could be entrusted with his food and water. Now, as Neel was climbing into the shuttered carriage, his retainers joined together to remind him, yet again, to make sure of keeping the windows closed, so that his gaze would encounter no ill-augured sights – on this of all days, it was best to take every possible precaution.

  The carriage was slow and took the better part of an hour to cover the distance from Lalbazar to the New Courthouse, on the Esplanade, where Neel’s case was to be tried. On arriving there, Neel was whisked quickly through the damp, gloomy building, past the vaulted room where most prisoners were held while awaiting their turn in court. The corridors filled with hisses and whispers as the other defendants began to speculate about who Neel was and what he’d done.

  The ways of zemindars were not unfamiliar to these men:

  . . . If this was the one who crippled my son, even these bars couldn’t hold me . . .

  . . . Let me get a hand on him – he’ll get a touching he won’t forget . . .

  . . . Give his chute the ploughing my land’s longing for . . .

  To get to the courtroom they had to climb several staircases and pass through many corridors. It was clear, from the noise that was reverberating through the New Courthouse, that the trial had drawn a large crowd. Yet, even though Neel was well aware of the public interest in his case, he was in no wa
y prepared for the sight that was waiting for him when he stepped into the venue of his trial.

  The courtroom was shaped like a halved bowl, with the witness stand at the bottom, and the spectators ranged in rows along the steep, curved sides. On Neel’s entry the hubbub ceased abruptly, leaving a few last threads of sound to float gently to the floor, like the torn ends of a ribbon; among these was a clearly audible whisper: ‘Ah, the Rascally-Roger! Here at last.’

  The first few rows were occupied by whites, and this was where Mr Doughty was seated. Behind, stretching all the way to the skylights at the top of the room, were the faces of Neel’s friends, acquaintances and kin: at one glance, he could see, arrayed before him, all his fellow members of the Bengal Landowners’ Association as well as the innumerable relatives who had accompanied him on his wedding procession. It was as if every male of his class, all of Bengal’s acreocracy, had assembled to watch the progress of his trial.

  Looking away, Neel caught sight of Mr Rowbotham, his advocate. He had risen to his feet when Neel entered, and he now proceeded to make a confident show of welcoming Neel to the courtroom, ushering him to his seat with much ceremony. Neel had just seated himself when the bailiffs began to bang their maces on the floor, to announce the entry of the judge. Neel stood a moment with his head lowered, like everyone else, and on raising his eyes he saw that the man who was to preside over his trial was none other than Mr Justice Kendalbushe. Being well aware of the judge’s friendship with Mr Burnham, Neel turned to Mr Rowbotham in alarm: ‘Is that indeed Justice Kendalbushe? Is he not closely linked with Mr Burnham?’

  Mr Rowbotham pursed his lips and nodded. ‘That may be so, but I am confident he is a man of unimpeachable fairness.’

  Neel’s eyes strayed to the jury-box, and he found himself exchanging nods with several of the jurymen. Of the twelve Englishmen in the box, at least eight had known his father, the old Raja, and several had been present at the celebration of his son’s First Rice ceremony. They had brought gifts of silver and gold, ornamented spoons and filigreed cups; one of them had gifted little Raj Rattan an abacus from China, made of ebony and jade.