Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  We walked past a field where cattle grazed, then a row of thatched-roof and mud-walled houses. The afternoon light had nearly faded when we arrived at the trading post, a large brick-walled compound, occupying at least a bigha of land, its sheer size frightening. A moat surrounded the compound’s exterior walls. Inside, there stood a two-storey stone mansion, illuminated by large windows, and furnished with cannon. I’d only heard about cannons in stories, heard of the damage they cause, the horror.

  Wrapping the sari train closer to my chest, I forced myself to look again. My fear at the time was understandable but in retrospect, it was unnecessary. The Mughal-style building was embellished with columns, archways, and eaves, adorned with a red-and-white flag and fronted by a four-quartered garden in which flowers bloomed in pink, white, yellow, and crimson. For an instant, I stared at an outer wall etched with fancy floral designs. Another fear of mine at the time was how I, a girl of modest means, would fit in the magnificent edifice taller than our village temple. I’d ask myself that question over and over that day and in the subsequent months.

  Job sahib, accompanied by Tariq, walked ahead of me. As I held back, he turned to look at me and stopped. He must have noticed the bewildered look in my eyes, for he said, “Perhaps we should explain to Maria what this building is about, Tariq, what the English East India Company is about?” A trace of pride rang in his voice.

  Silently, I repeated the name English East India Company, imitating the sahib’s sounds.

  “Yes, sir.” Turning to me, Tariq said, “You’ve not heard of this bit of history, so let me tell you. It goes as far back as the early part of this century. On a day the stars were lined up right, the first English ship arrived on our shores with Sir Thomas Roe. He had brought with him a large number of gifts for Emperor Jahangir: pistols, knives, European paintings, an ornate carriage, and liquor. Of course you wouldn’t know this either, but emperors can be childish. They have everything, but they still want more. Emperor Jahangir was flattered by the gift items from England. ‘What do you wish in return?’ He asked Sir Thomas. ‘I’d like to open a Factory in Surat,’ Sir Thomas replied. ‘And I wish to conduct trade with you.’ These weren’t small wishes, but he had pleased our childish emperor. He got both.”

  “Of course it took years and years,” Job sahib interjected. “My fellow countrymen established bases in Madras, Patna, Dacca, Ahmedabad, and Surat, about twenty of them. Now we have one in Cossimbazar as well.” He smiled.

  The smile would reveal itself one day.

  Job Charnock was a man of few words. He could have elaborated upon the Factory’s work and responsibilities, his role for its growth, its future potential as he thought about it, but he had said enough for the time being. The girl wouldn’t quite understand the complexities; she didn’t need to, he’d thought, little knowing what the future held for him and for her.

  He wanted his trading station to be one of the three most important ones in Hindustan. Yes, he saw great possibility, here in the Bengal province, one of the richest in the land, with its fertile alluvial soil, abundant monsoon rains, several great rivers, well-functioning markets, expert craftsmen, and a friendly population. He could easily envision an enormously profitable trade route from here to England; ships loaded with jute, cotton, silk, indigo dye, opium, and saltpeter would arrive at regular intervals in London in exchange of gold and silver. Merchants would be excited by the prospect of introducing novel products from the East to the consumer. High profits and much rejoicing in the English parliament would follow, not to mention considerable personal benefit as well.

  “This sahib is our Chief Factor,” Tariq said to me. “He’s new here, having recently been transferred from Patna. This mansion, which now houses our operation, was built by a Mughal prince but abandoned because it’s too close to the river and open to attacks by pirates. Don’t you think it’s a beauty?”

  I gave a half-nod. Beautiful, yes. Imposing enough to scare me? Yes.

  A uniformed watchman, positioned at the iron gate, rose from his low stool. He flung the massive gate open; it creaked loudly. He stepped aside, gave me a condescending look, and saluted Job sahib. “Did you get some fresh air, sir?” He asked in Bangla. “Did you have a chance to shop?”

  “Aye, it was a memorable trip. We didn’t shop and I am happy to return. I trust all is well here.”

  Standing behind Job sahib, I hung on to every inflection of his speech; his words were like a lifeline extended to me. He put unnecessary stress on some Bangla words, but they sounded charming to my ears. Standing close by, Tariq kept an eye on me.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the watchman replied glumly. “Something unexpected happened. I was taking a short break when a goonda managed to get inside the compound. I saw him running away with a sack of saltpeter. I ran fast, caught up with him, and we had a fist fight. He managed to escape, blood running down his nose but without the sack, .”

  Saltpeter. Why would someone want to get a bloody nose for this thing? What was it? I followed Job sahib’s eyes to the warehouse on the left. A uniformed guard patrolled it. Several laborers loaded plump jute bags into the building. Already, this place had taken on a menacing edge for me.

  “Why didn’t you have the gate locked?” Job sahib asked. “From now on, make sure no stranger gets in under any circumstances. Understand?”

  He gave an explanation to the watchman, which I would recall and understand only when I was older, more familiar with the ways of this Factory and the world in which it functioned.

  Saltpeter, a kind of rock salt used to make gunpowder and found naturally in our land, was loaded in big ships for England. There it was in demand as ammunition for war. To me, a young girl, as yet untutored in the ways of the world, war meant death, destruction, and the toppling of order. I who had already stared at death wanted to be as far away as possible, even from a skirmish. That day, as I stood behind Job sahib and listened to him instructing the watchman, I didn’t realize that someday I’d find myself embroiled in a war that would forever alter my life.

  Drops of rain burst from the clouds and pelted us, striking my forehead, my arms, my back; soon it was heavy enough to obscure my vision. Was the sky crying for me?

  “This way,” Tariq beckoned, his voice strained.

  I looked toward Job sahib to see if I should follow Tariq, but the sahib and his escorts strode in the opposite direction, with no apparent concerns about me. Disappointed, I trailed behind Tariq.

  We undertook a long walk, cutting through a beautifully tiled courtyard dotted with trees and flower bushes toward the back of the compound. Here the ground was bare, dusty, full of rocks, and so treacherous that I wobbled. The rain had eased a little, but looking around I wondered about where I was being led. A series of dilapidated, thatch-roofed huts loomed before me, small, uncared for, and hidden from the rest of the compound by a bank of bamboos, quite in contrast to the magnificence of the mansion, and well away from it.

  A feeling of desolation swept over me. “Are these the servants’ quarters?”

  “You’ve understood correctly.” Tariq pushed open the door of a hut and guided me to a tiny windowless chamber. “Go in.”

  Repulsed by the smell of cow dung, I took tentative steps into a dark, low-ceilinged room. Tariq swung away and returned in a short while, bearing a small wick lamp in the shape of a saucer. It threw a tortured dim yellow light on the walls. I remember thinking that these mud walls could cave in if it rained any harder. A snake could be hiding under the floor of bare earth. A wild animal could force its way through the flimsy door. A robber could break in. Even in my village, we Brahmins lived in better conditions. Job sahib? Where was he?

  Unease prodded me to speak. “Women born in my caste …”

  Tariq broke in. “Caste? You’re lucky you don’t have to sleep on the kitchen floor. We don’t even know if you’re any good at housework.”

  I bowed my head. Anger and disgust twisted Tariq’s face as he swiveled around and went out of
the hut.

  Holding the wick lamp, its oily odor in my nostrils, I surveyed the meager surroundings: an uneven mud floor flecked by insects, a soiled mat, a thin worn sleeping rug not large enough to cover the mat, a few wooden pegs on the wall for hanging clothes, a pillow, a kantha no larger than a cradle cover, and a water pitcher.

  My eyelids were so heavy that I didn’t have either a word of protest or a word of prayer in me. Why should I expect any better, a woman who had no status left?

  Arms heavy and lifeless, I made my bed. The night deepened outside, rain hammered the roof, the wind howled, and insects chirruped. I extinguished the lamp and tucked myself under the quilt, flinching at even the smallest sound. I shut my eyes, only to listen to a mosquito buzzing overhead. Soon the high-pitched whine of the insect was drowned out by wailing from the next room. Waves of laments rose and dipped, echoing the despair inside me. I listened as the cries filtered through the walls.

  “How could you abandon me?” A woman sobbed. “How could you?”

  I lay there, horrified. Was that an unhappy maidservant? A ghost? To whom was she speaking? What a scary, lonely, unlucky place!

  Then I heard pounding, and I knew it was this unknown woman, slamming her hands upon the wall that separated us. She kept a beat, the rhythm of a disturbed heart. Worried that the wall might collapse, I dragged myself upright, my shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

  The wailing continued, tearing through the space and lodging inside me, making me feel tenser than I already felt.

  To divert my mind, I thought of the name Job sahib had given me. I took a deep breath and whispered: Maria. The music of this new appellation soothed me. It conveyed hints of the grandeur of a faraway kingdom, so much so that I fancied myself attired in a silk sari, dripping with jewels, perched on a throne. I laughed to myself at the absurdity of such an image, a laugh drenched with deep sorrow. After a while I fell asleep.

  As the day dawned, golden sunshine flooded the room through the gaps in the door. Sal’s voice boomed good-naturedly outside.

  “Up yet, Maria?”

  He sounded as gentle as when he’d fed me on the boat. Again my new name brought with it a glimpse of hope. Maria could do anything. At a minimum I could start this day afresh, in the company of a man who’d called me sister. I also made up my mind to search for Job sahib and speak with him about my concerns. His mere presence would comfort me.

  As I rolled out from under the quilt, I noticed the mosquito bites on my arm. “I’m up, bhai.” I called to my new brother.

  “I could show you around this place.Will you come now?”

  “I am not ready to leave my quarters yet, bhai.”

  “I’ll come back in a while, then.”

  I folded the quilt and put it away, veiled my head, flung my sari tighter around my shoulders, and did my morning ablutions. A short time later, I emerged from my room. It struck me hard in the white clarity of daylight that I was in a strange place, with no one to call my own. Yet I also knew that if my in-laws traced me, they’d hack me to death, so being alone here with these strangers seemed safer.

  Sal’s all-white garment contrasted with the bronze of his skin. Appearing clean and well rested, he smiled as pleasantly as at the time we’d met on the boat. He led me across a large well-kept ground, past a well and a champa tree brimming with fragrant yellow flowers. Somewhere a pigeon cooed. I looked up momentarily at the bright sky where clouds floated soft and serene.

  “The sahibs are in a meeting,” Sal said. “Perfect time for you to get to know our Factory.”

  With his homely ways, Sal put me at ease.

  Hearing the swish of a skirt, I turned to see a maidservant emerging from the servants’ hovels wearing an ankle-length black dress and carrying a long-handled broom of twigs, the ornaments at her ankles jangling. Solemn-faced but graceful, a black scarf covering her head, silver armlets over her arms, she appeared to be young, about nineteen years of age. I was excited at the presence of another woman. She must be a stranger like me, I thought, thrilled by the prospect of making friends with someone who was in the same situation as I. No such luck. She marched past us without acknowledging my presence; my heart sank. There was nothing friendly about her. In my society, women usually sought each other’s company, but this woman disappeared behind a rhododendron bush without even looking my way.

  “That’s Proteema, the sweeper,” Sal said. “We call her Teema. She lives next door to you.”

  What had made Teema cry so pitifully the night before? Who had abandoned her? What secrets did this place hold? Secrecy bothered me, like a thorn stuck in my foot.

  “Why didn’t she stop to talk with us?”

  Sal’s gaze shifted. “She’s late in getting started this morning. By now, she should have swept the yard. Here you must get your work done on time, or the sahibs will call you lazy, and you won’t get your wage.”

  As we trooped through the tiled part of the courtyard, a pink-necked duck, which must have flown up from the river, appeared. It quacked and hurried off at our presence. I was about to chase the duck in a playful manner when Sal steered me away.

  “Another house rule,” he said. “The sahibs don’t like us to amuse ourselves when we’re on duty. We have to keep our heads low and behave like we don’t exist. Maintain the place, take care of the sahibs’ needs, and don’t be seen or heard. If you do …”

  Job sahib doesn’t want me to be invisible, I said to myself, neglecting to listen to the rest of Sal’s comment. Job sahib had called me beautiful.

  We climbed a steep, stone staircase, reached a winding verandah, and glided through a door which led to an entrance hall, the ‘public section’, Sal said. We peered from behind silk curtains into a smoke-filled lounging area illuminated by several windows and smelling of tobacco and rose water. Several Englishmen reclined against yellow-and-gold bolsters placed on the carpet. They argued in English, taking sips of a beverage from ornate cups, their silver hookahs resting nearby. I searched the faces and every corner of the room. Job sahib wasn’t there.

  At Sal’s signal, we slipped away into a covered passageway. “They were talking about being underpaid,” Sal whispered. “Underpaid! They get room and board and luxury, and get to act like pampered princes.”

  A group of four Englishmen swept out of the hall, one humming a tune, another scowling at a shaft of bright sunlight. We stepped aside to let them pass. All wore breeches, broad hats, and unbuttoned doublets. I liked the air of freedom they had about them—open, expansive, unfettered—as though they were masters of their environment. Someday I would walk proud like they did.

  I smiled at an Englishman as I would smile at anyone in my village upon meeting them and mumbled a greeting in Bangla. Short and heavy, with a scowling pink face, a wide linen collar round his neck, and carrying an umbrella, he cast a red-eyed glance at me.

  “That’s Arthur sahib,” Sal whispered, staring at his back. “He always carries an umbrella to ward off sunshine or the lightest drizzle. He’s been sick for days. English people always seem to be catching something or the other.”

  “Why?”

  “They can’t tolerate the water or the food. Our steamy climate is too difficult for them to handle. It kills whatever appetite they have. They die like flies, suffering from gout, bloody flux, fever, drunkenness. Poor creatures! Most of them are still in their twenties. They’re supposed to serve for five years, but most don’t survive more than three monsoons.”

  “Why do they come here then?”

  “Some are lured by the prospect of not having any responsibility, you know, being away from home, drinking like the world’s ending, and going to the brothel; but mostly they want money. Our silks and spices sell for high profit in the markets of London. Muslin alone can make an Englishman fabulously rich. They can return to their home in England, carrying with them textile goods worth a bagful of pounds, that’s their currency, and retire with a nice little fortune. Some buy big houses and entertain titled friends
. Some have the opportunity to serve the King.”

  “They get so much from here, but they treat us like …”

  “Right.” Sal interrupted. “You must know how to behave in front of a sahib; keep your head low when you run into one. Don’t stare. Speak only when you’re spoken to. Don’t show your teeth when smiling. We’re like specks of dirt. They can flick us off whenever they like.”

  My mouth tasted sour; I almost lost my footing but kept the turbulence I felt to myself. The palace had much going on behind the scenes, bad manners being the least of it. In order to survive, even in my constricted role, I needed to figure out what really went on here, and as I could already understand, proficiency in English was the key to everything.

  I asked Sal if he’d teach me the language.

  “Yes, sure, I’ll help you, if we can manage any free time.”

  As we strolled further, I learned many other things from Sal. Emperor Aurangzeb, whose name meant ‘Ornament to the Throne’, ruled Hindustan, much of the northern and eastern regions and even parts of the south, from his palace in Delhi. An ascetic man, given to reading the Koran daily, he was known to be partial to Muslims. They were given the first chance at employment at the Royal Court; Hindus were left out. Though Sal was a Muslim, he found this unfair. On the other hand, our local governor, Nawab Haider Ali, who administered this district from his seat in this very town, Cossimbazar, was ‘kind of heart’. He welcomed people of all faiths as his ally.

  I had barely digested this bit of information, when Sal said, “Now let me tell you about your duties. You’ll work as part of a team of four khansamas, male cooks. Tariq will come down shortly and show you what needs to be done. Follow his orders to the letter. He’s the king among us servants. He has one eye, but double the ambition of the rest of us.” Sal paused. “I’ll now go to milk the buffaloes. Is there anything you need?”