Sea of Poppies: A Novel (The Ibis Trilogy)

by Amitav Ghosh

  From his perch on the foremast, high up in the kursi of the crosstrees, Jodu had as fine a view as ever he could have wished: the wharves, the river and the schooner were spread out beneath him like treasure on a moneylender’s counter, waiting to be weighed and valued. On deck, the subedar and his men were busy making preparations for the embarkation of the convicts and the migrants. All around them, lascars were swarming about, coiling hansils, rolling bimbas, penning livestock and stowing crates, trying to clear the deck of its last-minute clutter.

  The convicts arrived first, preceding the migrants by some fifteen minutes: they came in a jel-bot, a large vessel of the budgerow type, except that all its windows were heavily barred. It looked as if it could hold a small army of cutthroats, so it came as a surprise when it disgorged only two men, neither of whom looked very threatening despite the chains on their ankles and wrists. They were wearing dungaree pyjamas and short-sleeved vests, and each had a lota under one arm and a small cloth bundle in the other. They were handed over to Bhyro Singh without much ceremony, and the jail-boat left almost immediately afterwards. Then, as if to show the convicts what they were in for, the subedar took hold of their chains and herded them along like oxen, prodding them in the arse and occasionally flicking the tips of their ears with his lathi.

  On the way to the chokey, before stepping into the fana, one of the convicts turned his head, as if to catch a last glimpse of the city. This brought Bhyro Singh’s lathi crashing down on his shoulder with a thwacking sound that made the trikat-wale wince, all the way up in their perch.

  Haramzadas, these guards and maistries, said Mamdoo-tindal. Squeeze your balls at any chance.

  One of them slapped Cassem-meah yesterday, said Sunker. Just for touching his food.

  I’d have hit him back, said Jodu.

  You wouldn’t be here now if you had, said the tindal. Don’t you see? They’re armed.

  In the meantime, Sunker had pulled himself upright, so that he was standing on the footropes. Suddenly he called out: They’re here!

  Who?

  The coolies. Look. That must be them in those boats.

  They all rose to their feet now, and leant over the purwan to look down below. A small flotilla of some half-dozen dinghies was coming towards the schooner, from the direction of Tolly’s Nullah; the boats were filled with groups of men, uniformly clad in white vests and knee-length dhotis. The dinghy in the lead was a little different from the rest in that it had a small shelter at the back: when it pulled up alongside the side-ladder, a sunburst of colour seemed to explode inside it, with eight sari-clad figures stepping out of the shelter.

  Women! said Jodu, in a hushed voice.

  Mamdoo-tindal was not impressed: so far as he was concerned, few indeed were the women who could match the allure of his alterego. Hags the lot of them, he said darkly. Not one a match for Ghaseeti.

  How do you know, said Jodu, with their faces hidden?

  I can see enough to know they’re bringing trouble.

  Why?

  Just count the number, said the tindal. Eight women on board – not counting Ghaseeti – and over two hundred men, if you include the coolies, silahdars, maistries, lascars and malums. What good do you think will come of it?

  Jodu counted and saw that the tindal was right: there were eight sari-clad figures advancing towards the Ibis. It was the number that led him to suspect that they might be the same people he had rowed to the camp: had there been seven women in the group that day, or eight? He could not remember, for his attention had been focused mainly on the girl in the pink sari.

  Suddenly, he leapt up. Stripping the bandhna from his head, he began to wave, with a foot in the tanni and an elbow hooked through the labran.

  What’re you doing, you crazed launder? snapped Mamdoo-tindal.

  I think I know one of the girls, said Jodu.

  How can you tell? said Mamdoo-tindal. Their faces are all covered up.

  Because of the sari, said Jodu. See the pink one? I’m sure I know her.

  Shut your chute and sit down! said the tindal, tugging on his pants. You’re going to be lundbunded if you don’t take care. The Burra Malum’s already got it in for you after your stunt with Zikri Malum yesterday. If he sees you honeying up to those coolie girls you’re going to be a launder without a mast.

  Down by the boat, the sight of Jodu, rising to his feet to wave, gave Paulette such a scare that she nearly fell into the water. Although her ghungta was certainly her most important means of concealment, it was by no means the only one; she had also disguised her appearance in a number of other ways: her feet were lacquered with bright vermilion alta; her hands and arms were covered with intricate, hennaed designs that left very little of her skin visible; and under the cover of her veil, the line of her jaw was obscured by large, tasselled earrings. In addition, she was balancing her cloth-wrapped belongings on her waist, in such a fashion as to give her the gait of an elderly woman, shuffling along under the weight of a crushing burden. With these many layers of masking, she had felt reasonably confident that not even Jodu, who knew her as well as anyone in the world, would harbour any suspicions about who she was. Yet, evidently, all her efforts had been in vain, for no sooner had he set eyes on her than he had begun to wave, and from a long way off, at that. What was she to do now?

  Paulette was convinced that Jodu, whether out of a misplaced brotherly protectiveness, or by reason of the competitiveness that had always marked their quasi-siblingship, would stop at nothing to prevent her from sailing on the Ibis: if he had recognized her already, then she might as well turn back right now. She was contemplating exactly that when Munia took hold of her hand. Being close in age, the girls had gravitated towards each other on the boat; now, as they were going up the stepladder, Munia whispered in Paulette’s ear: Do you see him, Pugli? Waving at me from all the way up there?

  Who? Who do you mean?

  That lascar up there – he’s crazy for me. Do you see him? He’s recognized my sari.

  You know him then? said Paulette.

  Yes, said Munia. He rowed us to the camp when we came to Calcutta. His name’s Azad Lascar.

  Oh, is that so? Azad Lascar, is he?

  Paulette smiled: she was halfway up the stepladder now, and as a further test of her disguise, she tilted her face upwards so that she was looking directly at Jodu, through the cover of her ghungta. He was hanging from the shrouds in an attitude she knew all too well: exactly so had they played together in the tall trees of the Botanical Gardens across the river. She was aware of a twinge of envy: how she would have loved to be up there, hanging on the ropes with him; but instead, here she was, on the stepladder, swathed from head to toe, while he was free and at large in the open air – the worst of it was that it was she who had always been the better climber. Ushered along by the maistries, she stepped on deck and paused to look up again, defiantly, daring him to expose her – but he had no eyes except for her companion, who was giggling as she clung to Paulette’s arm: See? Didn’t I tell you? He’s mad for me. I could make him dance on his head if I liked.

  Why don’t you? said Paulette tartly. He looks like he needs a lesson or two.

  Munia giggled and glanced up again: Maybe I will.

  Be careful, Munia, Paulette hissed. Everyone’s watching.

  And so they were: not just the lascars and mates and maistries, but also Captain Chillingworth, who was standing at the weather end of the quarter-deck, with his arms folded over his chest. As Paulette and Munia approached, the Captain’s lips curled into an expression of disgust.

  ‘I tell you, Doughty,’ he declared, in the confident voice of a man who knows that his words will be understood only by the person for whom they are intended: ‘The sight of these miserable creatures makes me long for the good old days, on the Guinea Coast. Look at these hags, treading five over five to Rotten Row.’

  ‘Theek you are,’ boomed the pilot, who was standing beside the wheelhouse. ‘About as sorry a lot of pootlies as I eve
r did see.’

  ‘This old crone here, for instance,’ said the Captain, looking directly at Paulette’s hooded face. ‘A virgin-pullet if ever I saw one – often trod and never laid! What conceivable purpose is served by transporting her across the sea? What will she do there – a bag of bones that can neither bear a burden nor warm a bed?’

  ‘Damned shame,’ agreed Mr Doughty. ‘Probably ridden with disease too. Shouldn’t be surprised if she spreads it through the herd.’

  ‘If you ask me, Doughty, it’d be a mercy to have her put down; at least she’d be spared the pains of the journey – why tow a frigate on fire?’

  ‘Save on provisions too: I’ll wager she eats like a luckerbaug. The scrawny ones always do.’

  And, at this very moment, who should appear before Paulette but Zachary? And he too was looking directly into her ghungta, so that she could see his eyes fill with pity as they took in the bent shape of the ageless hag in front of him. ‘A ship’s no place for a woman,’ she remembered him saying: how smug he had looked then, just as he did now, doling out his sympathy from on high; it was as if he’d forgotten that he owed his mate’s berth to nothing more than the colour of his skin and a few misbegotten muscles. Paulette’s fingers quivered in indignation, loosening her hold on her load. Suddenly the bundle slipped from her grasp and landed heavily on the deck, so close to Zachary’s feet that he leant over instinctively to help her pick it up.

  The gesture drew a shout from the quarter-deck. ‘Leave her be, Reid!’ Mr Doughty called out. ‘You’ll get no thanks for your bawhawdery.’

  But the warning came too late: Zachary’s hand was almost on the bundle when Paulette slapped it smartly away: her father’s manuscript was concealed inside, along with two of her most beloved novels – and she could not take the risk of letting him feel the bindings through the cloth.

  A look of injured surprise appeared on Zachary’s face as he dropped his reprimanded hand. As for Paulette, her only thought was of escaping to the ’tween-deck. Picking up her bundle, she hurried over to the booby-hatch and took hold of the ladder.

  Halfway down, she remembered her last visit to the dabusa: how quickly she had skipped down that ladder then – but now, with her sari wrapped around her calves, and her bundle on her head, it was another matter altogether. Nor was the ’tween-deck immediately recognizable as the same dabusa she’d been in before: its dark, unlit interior was now illuminated by several lamps and candles, and she saw, by their light, that dozens of mats had been laid out in concentric circles, covering most of the floor space. Strangely, the dabusa seemed to have shrunk in the meanwhile, and she discovered why when she glanced ahead: its forward end had been cut short by a new wooden bulwark.

  There was a maistry inside, directing operations, and he pointed Munia and Paulette towards the newly made partition. The women’s section’s over there, he said, right next to the chokey.

  You mean there’s a chokey behind that wall? cried Munia, in fright. Then why have you put us right next to it?

  Nothing to worry about, said the maistry. The entrance is on the other side. There’s no way the qaidis can get at you. You’ll be safe over there, and you won’t have the men stepping all over you to get to the heads.

  There was no arguing with this: as she was making her way to the women’s enclosure, Paulette noticed a small air duct, in the chokey’s bulwark; if she stood on tiptoe it was on a level with her eye. She could not resist peeking in as she went past, and having stolen one glimpse, she returned quickly for another: she saw that there were two men inside the chokey, as curious a pair as ever she had laid eyes on. One had a shaven head, a skeletal face, and looked as if he might be Nepali; the other had a sinister tattoo on his forehead and appeared to have been dragged in from the Calcutta waterfront. Stranger still, the darker one was weeping while the other one had an arm around his shoulder, as if in consolation: despite their chains and bindings, there was a tenderness in their attitudes that seemed scarcely conceivable in a couple of criminal transportees. After yet another stolen glance, she saw that the two men were now speaking to each other, and this further excited her curiosity: what could they be saying – and with such absorption as not to notice the commotion in the adjoining compartment? What language might they share, this skeletal Easterner and this tattooed criminal? Paulette moved her mat around, so that it was placed right beside the bulwark: when she put her ear to a seam in the wood, she found, to her astonishment, that she could not only hear what was being said, but understand it too – for, amazingly, the two convicts were conversing in English.

  Moments after Zachary’s hand had been slapped, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander appeared at his side. Although the gomusta was wearing his accustomed dhoti and kurta, his shape, Zachary noticed, had acquired a curious, matronly fullness, and when he swept his shoulder-length hair off his face, it was with the practised gesture of a stout dowager. The expression on his face was at once indulgent and admonitory as he wagged a finger in Zachary’s face: ‘Tch! Tch! Despite beehive activities you still cannot suspend your mischiefs?’

  ‘There you go again, Pander,’ said Zachary. ‘What the hell you talkin bout now?’

  The gomusta lowered his voice: ‘It is all right. No formalities. Everything is known to me.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Here,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, helpfully. ‘I will show what is hidden in the bosom.’

  The gomusta thrust a hand through the neckline of his kurta, reaching so deep inside that Zachary would not have been surprised to see a plump breast laid bare. But instead, the hand emerged holding a cylindrical copper locket. ‘See how nicely I have hidden? This way maximum securities can be maintained. However, one warning I must give.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I regret to inform that this place is not apt.’

  ‘Apt for what?’

  Leaning towards Zachary’s ear, the gomusta hissed: ‘For mischiefs with cowgirls.’

  ‘What the hell you talkin bout, Pander?’ cried Zachary in exasperation. ‘I was just tryin to help the woman pick up her stuff.’

  ‘Better to leave ladies alone,’ said the gomusta. ‘Flute also better not show. They may get too much excited.’

  ‘Show my flute?’ Not for the first time, Zachary wondered whether the gomusta was not merely eccentric but actually mad. ‘Oh hie off, Pander; leave me alone!’

  Zachary turned on his heel and took himself off to the deck rail. The back of his hand was still red from the woman’s slap; Zachary frowned as he looked at it – it disturbed him in a way that he could not quite understand. He had noticed the woman in the red sari well before she dropped her baggage: she had been the first to come up the gangplank, and something about the tilt of her head had given him the impression that she was watching him, from the shelter of her headcloth. Her tread had seemed to grow slower and heavier as she came on deck. Even when her sorry little bundle was giving her such a hard time, she would not allow herself to use more than one of her gnarled, henna-veined hands in wrestling with her burden; the other claw, similarly disfigured, was employed solely in holding her shroud in place. There was a fervour in her concealment which seemed to suggest that a man’s glance was as much to be feared as a tongue of fire – the thought made him smile, and a twinge of memory reminded him suddenly of the burning scowl that Paulette had directed at him, at the end of their last meeting. This notion, in turn, made him look towards the shore, wondering if she might be somewhere nearby, keeping watch on the Ibis. He had heard, from Jodu, that she had recovered from her illness: surely she wouldn’t allow the ship to leave without saying goodbye – if not to him, then at least to Jodu? Surely she would see that both he and Jodu had acted in her own best interest?

  Suddenly, as if conjured up by some rite of divination, Serang Ali appeared at his elbow. ‘No hab heard?’ he whispered. ‘Lambert-missy hab run way to marry nother-piece man. More better Malum Zikri forgetting she. Anyway she too muchi thin. China-side can catch one nice pi
ece wife-o. Topside, backside same-same. Make Malum Zikri too muchi happy inside.’

  Zachary banged a despairing fist on the deck rail: ‘Oh, by all the hoaky, Serang Ali! Will you stop it? You with your damned wife-o and Pander with his cowgirls! To listen to you two anyone’d think I was some crazy crannyhunter on the prowl . . .’

  He was cut short by Serang Ali, who pushed him suddenly to one side, with a shout: ‘Mich’man! ’Ware! ’Ware.’ Zachary looked over his shoulder just in time to see Crabbie, the ship’s cat, racing along the deck rail as though she were fleeing from some unseen predator. Launching into a flying leap, the cat touched down once upon the side-ladder, and then bounced off to land on a boat that was moored alongside the schooner. Then, without so much as a glance at the vessel that had carried her halfway around the world, the tabby disappeared.

  On deck the lascars and migrants stared aghast after the vanished animal, and even Zachary experienced a touch of apprehension: he had heard superstitious old sailors speaking of misgivings that ‘made buttons in the belly’, but had never before known what it meant to have his own stomach serve up such a tremor.

  Up above, Mamdoo-tindal’s knuckles had turned white on the yard.

  Did you see that? he said to Jodu. Did you see?

  What?

  That cat jumped ship: now there’s a sign if ever I saw one.

  The last woman to come on board was Deeti, and she was climbing up the side-ladder when the cat leapt across her path. She would gladly have fallen in the water rather than be the first to cross the line of its flight, but Kalua was right behind her, holding her steady. At his back there were so many others, crowding on to the ladder, that there was no resisting their collective weight. Driven on by the maistries, the migrants surged forward and Deeti was carried across the invisible mark, to be deposited on the schooner’s deck.