Sea of Poppies: A Novel (The Ibis Trilogy)

by Amitav Ghosh

  Where are you taking me? said Deeti.

  To the girl, said the silahdar. Isn’t that what you wanted?

  Candle in hand, the silahdar led her down another turn of the ladder, stepping off when they came to a warren of storerooms. The smell of the bilges was so strong now that Deeti had to pinch her nostrils between finger and thumb.

  The silahdar came to a halt at a latched door. This is where she is, he said. You’ll find her inside.

  Deeti glanced fearfully at the door. In there? she said. What is that place?

  A bhandar, said the silahdar as he pushed the door open.

  The smell of the storeroom was pungently reminiscent of a bazar, with the gummy, oily reek of heeng overpowering even the stink of the schooner’s bilges. It was very dark, and Deeti could see nothing, but she heard a sob and cried out: Munia?

  Bhauji? Munia’s voice rose in relief. Is it really you?

  Yes, Munia, where are you? I can’t see anything.

  The girl rushed into her arms: Bhauji! Bhauji! I knew you would come.

  Deeti held her off with extended arms. You fool, Munia, you fool! she cried. What were you doing up there?

  Nothing, Bhauji, said Munia. Nothing, believe me – he was just helping me with the chickens. They stole up on us and started beating him. Then they threw him down.

  And you? said Deeti. Have they done anything to you?

  Just a few slaps and kicks, Bhauji, not much. But it’s you they’ve been waiting for . . .

  Suddenly Deeti became aware that someone else was standing behind her now, with a candle in hand. Then she heard a deep, heavy voice, saying to the silahdar: Take the girl away – it’s the other one I want. I’ll talk to her alone.

  In the flickering light, Deeti could see sacks of grain and dal, piled high on the floor of the storeroom. The shelves along the sides were crammed with jars of spices, bundles of onion and garlic, and huge martabans of pickled limes, chillies and mangoes. The air was befogged with white dust, of the kind that is sweated by bags of grain; as the door of the storeroom slammed shut, a flake of red chilli entered Deeti’s eye.

  So?

  Unhurriedly, Bhyro Singh latched the door of the storeroom and stuck his candle upright, in a sack of rice. Deeti had been facing away from him all this while, but she turned around now, holding her ghungta in place with one hand and rubbing her eye with the other.

  What does this mean? she said, in a show of defiance. Why did you want to see me alone?

  Bhyro Singh was wearing a langot and a banyan, and now, as Deeti turned towards him, the mound of his belly surged out of the confinement of the two flimsy garments. The subedar made no attempt to pull his vest down: instead, he cupped his hands under his belly and moved it tenderly up and down, as though he were weighing it. Then, he picked a bit of lint out of the gaping mouth of his belly-button and examined it closely.

  So? he said again. How long did you think you could hide from me, Kabutri-ki-ma?

  Deeti felt herself choke and stuffed a fistful of her ghungta into her mouth, to keep from crying out loud.

  Why so quiet? Nothing to say to me? Bhyro Singh reached for her ghungta: No need to cover up any more. It’s just you and me here. Just us.

  Pulling her veil down, he tipped her head back with a finger and nodded in satisfaction: The grey eyes; I remember them, filled with witchery. The eyes of a chudail, some people thought – but I always said, no, those are the eyes of a whore.

  Deeti tried to strike his hand away from her neck, but it stayed where it was. If you knew who I was, she said, still defiant, why didn’t you say something earlier?

  His lips curled in derision: And bring shame on myself? Acknowledge a tie with a woman like you? A whore who’s run away with a filth-sweeper? An overheated bitch who’s brought shame on her family, her village, her in-laws? You take me for a fool? Don’t you know I have daughters of my own, to marry off?

  Deeti narrowed her eyes and spat back: Be careful. My jora is waiting, above.

  Your jora? said Bhyro Singh. You can forget about that scavenging piece of filth. He’ll be dead before the year’s out.

  I ká káhat ho? she gasped. What’s this you’re saying?

  He ran a finger up her neck and tweaked her ear-lobe: Don’t you know, he said, that I’m the one who’s in charge of your allotments? Don’t you know it’s me who decides who your master will be in Mareech? I’ve already set your jora’s name down for a plantation up north. He’ll never come out from there alive. You can take my word for it: that shit-shoveller you call a husband is as good as dead.

  And me? said Deeti.

  You? He smiled and stroked her neck again. For you I have other plans.

  What?

  The tip of his tongue flicked over his lips and there was a rasp in his voice as he said: What does anyone want from a whore? His hand slipped through the neck of her choli and began to fumble for a handhold.

  For shame, said Deeti, pushing his hand away. For shame . . .

  There’s nothing here that’s new to me, he said, smiling. I’ve seen the grain-bag and I know it’s full – dekhlé tobra, janlé bharalba.

  Áp pe thuki! cried Deeti. I spit on you and your filth.

  He leant forward so that his belly was against her breasts. He smiled again: Who do you think it was who held your legs open on your wedding night? Did you think that green twig of a launda, your brother-in-law, could have done it on his own?

  Have you no shame? said Deeti, choking. Is there nothing you won’t say? Do you know I’m with child?

  Child? Bhyro Singh laughed. A child from that scavenger? By the time I’m done with you, his spawn will be dribbling out of you like an egg-yolk.

  Tightening his hold on her neck, he reached up to a shelf with his other hand. His fist came back to brandish a foot-long rotirolling belan under her nose.

  So what do you say, Kabutri-ki-ma? he said. Are you whore enough for this?

  It wasn’t Deeti’s cry for help but Munia’s echo of it that was audible on the main deck, where Kalua was squatting between two silahdars with his hands bound by a length of rope. He had stayed quietly in place since Deeti was led away, giving careful thought to what he would have to do if it came to the worst. The silahdars were lightly armed, with knives and lathis, and it would be no great matter, Kalua knew, to break away from them. But after that, what? If he were to storm into the guard’s kamra, he would run into many more men, and more armaments too: they would kill him before he could do Deeti any good. Far better to sound an alarm that would be heard in every quarter of the ship – and the perfect instrument for that was no more than a few paces away, the deckhouse ghanta. If he could but set the bell ringing, the migrants would be alerted and the officers and lascars would come on deck in force.

  Back at home, in his ox-cart, it had been a habit with Kalua to count the squeaks of his wheel to keep an accurate measure of time and distance. Now, he found that the same purpose was served by counting the swells that were advancing towards the vessel, lifting her bows and setting them down, as they passed. After ten such had gone by, he knew something must be wrong, and it was exactly then that he caught the sound of Munia’s voice, shouting: Bhauji? What’re they doing . . . ?

  The schooner was in a steep roll, so that Kalua could feel the tilted bulwark lying aslant against the soles of his feet. Ahead of him, the deck was like a hillside, sloping upwards. Using the bulwark as a springboard, he jumped forwards, frog-like, covering half the distance to the bell in one leap. His move was so sudden the silahdars had yet to stir when he reached the lanyard that was attached to the bell’s clapper. But the line had to be unwound from its eyebolt before it could be tugged, and this pause gave the guards the time they needed to fall upon him; one of them brought a lathi crashing down on his hands, while the other threw himself on his back, trying to wrestle him to the deck.

  Kalua made a double fist out of his bound hands and swung out at the lathi-wielding silahdar, knocking him off his feet. Tur
ning with the momentum of the swing, he took hold of the other man’s arm and pulled him off his back, headfirst, slamming him down on the deck. Then he caught hold of the bell’s lanyard, tore it free, and set the clapper swinging.

  As the first, furious chimes were ringing out, another swell took hold of the vessel, tipping her sharply on her side. One of the guards was knocked down as he tried to rise to his feet, and the other, who had been working his way towards Kalua, slipped sideways so that the bulwark caught him in the belly. He lingered on the deck rail for a moment, with half his body hanging overboard, clutching wildly at the slippery stanchions. Then, almost as if to shake him off, the Ibis dipped her flank still further, and a lapping crest of turbulence reached up to claim him for the deep.

  Once again, the ringing of the bell transformed the dabusa into a drum. The migrants gathered together in uncomprehending huddles, as the sound of the feet above them rose to a crescendo. Through the percussive tattoo an even more bewildering sound could be heard – a chorus of alarms and hookums: Admi giráh! Man overboard! Look out aft! Peechil dekho! Dekho peechil! Yet despite the shouts and the noise, there was no change in the schooner’s movement: she went ploughing on as before.

  Suddenly the dabusa’s hatch cover flew open and Deeti and Munia came tumbling through. Paulette lost no time in elbowing through the milling crowd that collected around them: What happened? What happened? Are you all right?

  Deeti was shaking so much she could hardly speak: Yes, we’re all right, Munia and I. It was the ghanta that saved us.

  Who rang it?

  My husband . . . there was a fight and one of the silahdars fell . . . it was an accident, but they’re calling it murder . . . they’ve tied him to the mast, my jora . . .

  What’re they going to do, Bhauji?

  I don’t know, sobbed Deeti, wringing her hands. I don’t know, Pugli: the subedar’s gone to speak to the afsars. It’s up to the Kaptan now. Maybe he’ll have mercy . . . we can only hope . . .

  In the darkness Munia slipped over to Paulette and took hold of her arm: Pugli, tell me: Azad? How is he?

  Paulette glared at her: Munia, after all the trouble you’ve caused how can you even dare to ask?

  Munia began to sob: We weren’t doing anything, Pugli, believe me – just talking. Is that so bad?

  Bad or not Munia, he’s the one who’s paying the price. He’s so badly hurt he’s barely conscious. The best thing now, Munia, is for you to stay well away from him.

  For Zachary, the single most disorienting aspect of life at sea was the peculiar cycle of sleep that resulted from the unvarying rhythm of watch-on-watch. With four hours on and four hours off – except for the dogwatches of dawn and dusk – he often found that he had to rouse himself exactly when he was sleeping most soundly. The result of this was that he slept in the way that a glutton eats, gorging greedily when possible, and resenting every minute subtracted from the feast. While asleep, his hearing would shut out any noise that might disturb or distract – shouts and hookums, the sea and the wind. Yet, his ears would still keep count of the chimes of the ship’s bell, so that even in his deepest slumber, he was never unaware of how much time was left before his next spell on deck.

  That night, being off-watch till midnight, Zachary had taken to his bunk soon after dinner and had drowsed off almost at once, remaining fast asleep until the deckhouse bell began to clang. Waking instantly, he pulled on a pair of trowsers, and went racing to the stern to look for signs of the man who had fallen overboard. The vigil was a short one, for everyone knew that the silahdar’s chances of survival in that choppy sea were too slim to warrant taking in the sails or bringing the ship about: by the time either manoeuvre was completed he would be long gone. But to turn your back on a drowned man was not easy, and Zachary stayed at the stern well after there was any purpose to be served by lingering.

  By the time he went down to his cabin again, the offender had been roped to the mainmast, and the Captain was down in his stateroom, closeted with Bhyro Singh and his translator, Baboo Nob Kissin. An hour later, as Zachary was preparing to go on deck for his watch, Steward Pinto knocked on his door to say that the Captain had sent for him. Zachary stepped out of his cabin to find the Captain and Mr Crowle already seated around the table, with the steward hovering in the background with a tray of brandy.

  Once they had all been served, the Captain dismissed Steward Pinto with a nod: ‘Off with you now. And don’t let me find you lurking about on the quarter-deck.’

  ‘Sahib.’

  The Captain waited for the steward to disappear before he spoke again. ‘It’s a bad business, gentlemen,’ he said gloomily, twirling his glass. ‘A bad business – worse than I thought.’

  ‘He’s a bruiser, that black bastard,’ said Mr Crowle. ‘I’ll sleep easier after I’ve heard him singing the hempen croak.’

  ‘Oh he’ll hang for sure,’ said the Captain. ‘But be that as it may, it’s not my place to sentence him. Case needs to be heard by a judge in Port Louis. And the subedar, in the meanwhile, will have to content himself with a flogging.’

  ‘Flogged and hung, sir?’ said Zachary incredulously. ‘For the same offence?’

  ‘In the subedar’s eyes,’ said the Captain, ‘the murder is the least of his crimes. He says that if they were at home, this man’d be cut up and fed to the dogs for what he’s done.’

  ‘What’s he done, sir?’ said Zachary.

  ‘This man’ – the Captain looked down at a sheet of paper, to remind himself of the name – ‘this Maddow Colver; he’s a pariah who’s run off with a woman of high caste – a relative of the subedar, as it happens. That’s why this Colver signed up – so he could carry the woman off to a place where she’d never be found.’

  ‘But sir,’ said Zachary, ‘surely his choice of wife is not our business? And surely we can’t let him be flogged for it while he is in our custody?’

  ‘Indeed?’ said the Captain, raising his eyebrows. ‘I am amazed, Reid, that you of all people – an American! – should pose these questions. Why, what do you think would happen in Maryland if a white woman were to be violated by a Negro? What would you, or I, or any of us, do with a darkie who’d had his way with our wives or sisters? Why should we expect the subedar and his men to feel any less strongly than we would ourselves? And what right do we have to deny them the vengeance that we would certainly claim as our due? No sir . . .’ The Captain rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the cuddy, as he continued: ‘. . . no sir, I will not deny these men, who have served us faithfully, the justice they seek. For this you should know, gentlemen, that there is an unspoken pact between the white man and the natives who sustain his power in Hindoosthan – it is that in matters of marriage and procreation, like must be with like, and each must keep to their own. The day the natives lose faith in us, as the guarantors of the order of castes – that will be the day, gentlemen, that will doom our rule. This is the inviolable principle on which our authority is based – it is what makes our rule different from that of such degenerate and decayed peoples as the Spanish and Portuguese. Why, sir, if you wish to see what comes of miscegenation and mongrelism, you need only visit their possessions . . .’

  Here the Captain came abruptly to a stop and planted himself behind a chair: ‘. . . And while I am about this, let me speak plainly with both of you: gentlemen, what you do in port is your affair; I hold no jurisdiction over you onshore; whether you spend your time in bowsing-kens or cunny-warrens is none of my business. Even if you should choose to go a-buttocking in the blackest of shoreside holes, it is none of my concern. But while at sea and under my command, you should know that if any evidence of any kind of intercourse with a native, of any mould, were ever to be brought against one of my officers . . . well, gentlemen, let me just say that man could expect no mercy from me.’

  Neither mate had any response to this and both averted their eyes.

  ‘As for this Maddow Colver,’ the Captain continued, ‘he will be flogged to
morrow. Sixty strokes, to be administered by the subedar at noon.’

  ‘Did you say sixty, sir?’ said Zachary in awed disbelief.

  ‘That’s what the subedar’s asked for,’ said the Captain, ‘and I have awarded it to him.’

  ‘But might he not bleed to death, sir, the coolie?’

  ‘That remains to be seen, Reid,’ said Captain Chillingworth. ‘Certainly the subedar will be none too sorry if he does.’

  Shortly after daybreak Paulette heard her name being whispered through the air duct: Putli? Putli?

  Jodu? Rising to her feet, Paulette put her eye to the duct. I want to get a good look at you, Jodu; move back.

  He stepped away and she gave an involuntary gasp. In the scant light from the cracks in the bulwarks, she saw that his left arm was suspended from his neck by an improvised sling; his eyes were swollen and blackened, the whites barely visible; his wounds were still oozing blood and the fabric of his borrowed banyan was striped with stains.

  Oh Jodu, Jodu! she whispered. What did they do to you?

  It’s only my shoulder that hurts now, he said, with an attempt at a smile. The rest looks bad but it doesn’t hurt as much.

  Suddenly angry, Paulette said: It’s that Munia; she’s such a . . .

  No! Jodu broke in. You can’t blame her; it’s my own fault.

  Paulette could not deny the truth of this. Oh Jodu, she said. What a fool you are: why did you do something so stupid?

  There was nothing to it, Putli, he said offhandedly. It was just a harmless time-passing thing. That’s all.

  Didn’t I warn you, Jodu?

  Yes, you did, Putli, came the answer. And others did too. But let me ask you: didn’t I warn you about trying to get on this ship? And did you listen? No – of course not. You and I, we’ve always been like that, both of us. We’ve always been able to get away with things. But I suppose some day it stops, doesn’t it? And then you have to start all over again.