Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  Three days later, Idris reported the Nawab’s death. “May God protect us all. He’s the only Nawab in our memory that we respect.”

  I stopped sorting through the rice. What would happen to the custom of Sati? Idris said the late Nawab had declared it illegal and put an end to it before his death, giving widows the right to remarry. “How long do you suppose the Nawab’s decree will last?” I asked.

  “His officers began enforcing it even before he died,” Idris said. “The new Nawab will have to go along with that for now.”

  “Someone must set a precedent for widows to remarry,” Jas said with a sly glance at me. “I have a friend who’s looking for a bride.”

  Idris stood dead still. I followed his gaze to the tray of limeade resting on a table, each tumbler garnished with a sliver of lime, the only bright spot in the room.

  “Why don’t I take over the serving?” I suggested, wanting to take a break from the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen. I could slip into the expansive meeting hall and find out how the news of the Nawab’s death had affected the Factors. Job sahib had called an emergency meeting, though it was rather early in the day for the sahibs to convene. Still, it was understandable as this news affected the Factors as much as the rest of us.

  “But, but …” Idris broke off, reminding me, once again, of the unspoken custom that women weren’t fit to serve food or beverage to men in public.

  I was stung by the sense of inferiority that was imposed on me. You, the country girl, everyone seemed to say, you’re not as yet fully conversant with the rules and manners of this grand mansion, and you hope to serve at a formal meeting?

  “So I’ll break another rule,” I said aloud. “And for all I know, the sahibs might not even notice.”

  “What if Tariq finds out? We’ll both be in trouble.”

  “I’ll explain to him that I speak English much better now, and it’s an altogether silly custom. I’ll also tell him that I am responsible for this, not you.”

  Idris was uneasy, but I picked up the silver tray. Balancing it in my hands, I entered through the curtained door of the high-ceilinged meeting hall. The walls were a polished ivory hung with colorful brocades, the windows draped with gilt-edged sheer cotton. For a brief moment, I stood in a corner, an invisible fly on the wall, and trained my eyes on Job sahib. He was settled in a padded yellow chair at the head of a large oval mahogany table. His eyes were sunken, cheeks dark with stubble. He was still recovering from a recent bout of fever, and now, seeing his flushed forehead, I feared that the fever had returned.

  At least twenty equally somber subordinates were seated around the table. On this overcast morning, shadows clung to the corners of the room, deepening the saffron-and-blue tapestries on the wall. The atmosphere felt heavy, suffocating; the sour aroma of stale wine from the previous night permeated the air.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve asked you to join me on this day of mourning,” Job sahib said in a heavy voice. “The Nawab’s death is a big loss for us all, but especially for me. He was a friend, a most generous person, who helped me adjust to this land. I would not have survived without him, nor would I have remained here as long as I have. I had the privilege of access to much inside information from his Court. For that and all the other courtesies extended to me and the Company, I’ll remain forever grateful to him.”

  In the pause that ensued, I came forward and began serving the limeade, placing the tumblers to the left of each man. No one seemed to notice me. Charles sahib took off his high-crowned hat, slapped it down on the table, and said in a condescending tone, “Let’s keep our sentiments separate from our Charter. Did we double our profits because of the late Nawab? No, even though we should have. Did we have to pay illegal levies to his officers? Yes, even though we shouldn’t have. Our policies have been sadly misguided.”

  I kept serving and hoped that Charles sahib in his annoyance wouldn’t notice me. How could he speak so casually and disrespectfully to his superior? His eyes seemed to gleam with a naked lust for power.

  “You’re in unusually good spirits, Charles.” Gordon sahib put his tumbler down on the table. Occupying the position of a recorder, otherwise known as the Writer, he kept account of all commercial activities, but he was believed to compose poems in his spare time. “At least your personal profit must have soared overnight, in spite of our sadly misguided policies.”

  At this reference to the amorous night he’d spent with Anne memsahib. Charles sahib leaned back with a smug smile and glanced at Job sahib.

  His forehead creased, Job sahib pressed his lips together tightly, dignified even under pressure.

  “I’ll tell you what the fuss is about, Charles,” Arthur sahib said. “Last month in Surat, a school chum of mine and his bodyguard, walking down the street at night, were impaled with spears and died on the spot. Who committed such a heinous crime? No one knows. It’s all hush-hush. But one thing is clear; my friends didn’t get protection from their rulers like we do.”

  The remark remained suspended in the air. I placed a tumbler before Job sahib, taking an extra moment to do so. He darted a glance at me, caught my eye, and his face brightened. I felt as though he’d pulled out a chair for me at the table.

  In the next moment, Francis sahib spoke up, and I cringed in revulsion at the sound of his voice. “I hear Emperor Aurangzeb in Delhi, who calls himself ‘Conqueror of the Universe’, is also ill. When he goes, his Hindustan will crumble like a dry leaf. There will not be a functioning government and that should open up opportunities for us to expand our influence.”

  “Right now, we must concern ourselves only with trade,” Job sahib replied. “That is our Charter.”

  Charles sahib brought his palm down on the table forcefully. “But we have the Crown behind us. I’ve noticed there isn’t much unity among the independent kings, the citizens, or the tribal groups. Many of them want freedom from Mughal rule. We could get them to fight each other. Let’s also look for every weakness we can find in the next Nawab’s administration and try to exploit it. All this will begin to tie Hindustan’s destiny to that of England’s. We’re not here for trade alone.”

  I took a step back. So, if the opportunity arose, they’d take over, like other foreign powers in the past?

  “We have to proceed cautiously and not cause chaos, always keeping the citizens in mind,” Job sahib said. “We want expansion, not exploitation. We’re as yet few in number, isolated, and lacking in administrative experience. If we’re to sustain our position, we must have at least the tacit consent of the population. If we’re seen as yet another occupation, they will rise up against us and all will be lost. We must be patient.”

  “Patient?” Charles sahib stared mockingly at Job sahib. “Your patience seems to have brought you little.”

  At this veiled reference to Anne memsahib, Job sahib’s eyes flashed with fury and the veins on his temple stood out. He rose and walked over to the window, his back turned to Charles sahib. His face was even more flushed than when I’d entered the room and I wished that he would sit down.

  “Let’s cease all this nonsense, Charles, and get down to business,” Arthur sahib said. “Our Chief Officer is correct. We really are in trouble. With the Nawab’s death, it’s not clear who’s in charge of his army and who’s maintaining order, if anybody. This morning, I saw a group of hooligans loitering by the river.”

  My people. “Carry a pistol!” Charles sahib roared. “That’s the only way to deal with people you don’t trust.”

  I slipped out of the room and reached the courtyard. The English weren’t our guests; they intended to stay, not merely as traders, but as rulers. Our attitude of “Guests are God” had indirectly paved the way to this. Slowly, they would seek to reign over our beloved land like so many foreign powers had done in the past—looting, burning, seizing properties, and subjugating the citizens. Who then would grant the common people their food, shelter, and dignity?

  SIXTEEN

  Two days later, on my way to
the river ghat in the morning, I looked out over the shore. In the blue mist, the harbor was lined with vessels. Fresh-faced children frolicked in knee-deep water. From a boat moored nearby, a boatman delivered a song, his lyrics praising the river, the notes blending with the sound of the flowing water. After finishing my bath and changing clothes, I was about to step away from the water when a commotion on the north end of the shore caught my attention. A babble of voices, vultures flying overhead … I pushed through the muttering crowd. About fifteen people had gathered around a man lying on the ground, his left cheek flat against the earth.

  Bir!

  Unmoving, his wet tunic clinging to his frame, to his muscular shoulders, arms, and thighs, his hair dripping water, Bir lay on the ground, one cheek against the wet earth.

  I knelt on the ground and touched his arm. Lifeless. A ghastly circular hole showed through his bloody torn shirt, and, to my horror, I saw into his chest.

  I buried my face in my hands, my mind churning with questions, stomach lurching.

  A fisherman spun out from the gathering. Gesturing wildly with his hands, he said to me, “I found his body floating on the river, caught him with my net, and dragged him to the shore. Do you know him?”

  “Yes,”I said, nearly out of breath. “His name is Bir. Is he alive?”

  “Allow me to check,” said another man standing near me. “I am a doctor.” He lowered himself and put an ear to Bir’s chest, only to stand up again and pronounce him dead.

  A hush fell over the spectators.

  In the chill that ensued, my gaze returned to Bir. None of it made any sense. I could see the shock on his face as he was silenced by death. It was abrupt and final, this dark decision on someone’s part to do away with him. I knew Bir. As a bachelor, all he cared about was this river, his friends, his card games, and his job. Then he met with an assassin who snatched it all away from him. Did he whistle as he drew his last breath, as he did in life?

  I couldn’t feel my legs as I turned and sped toward the Factory. Within minutes, I burst into the kitchen, panting. “In the name of Shiva,” I said, my voice turning feeble. “How could this happen?”

  Standing by the stove, Idris looked up at me. So did Jas and Pratap.

  Haltingly, I described the tragedy on the river bank. All activities in the room ceased. His head cocked to one side, Idris asked, his voice full of disbelief, “Are you sure it was Bir?”

  I stood there trembling. Jas poured me a glass of water from a large earthen pitcher kept in a corner. I gulped it down and replied, “Yes, yes, I am. In the name of Goddess Laxmi, he’d been shot and thrown into the river.”

  Idris slapped his forehead with a hand. “Oh, God, why didn’t I go with him? We’d played cards last night in a shop by the river. Bir wanted to take a stroll by the river, catch some fresh air, and see the new moon. But I declined. He’d walked away, whistling.”

  I rinsed a washcloth with water and pressed it to my forehead. “I don’t suppose you were near the punch house by any chance?”

  “Well, it was next door.” Idris paused briefly. “What are you saying? Just because the sahibs carry pistol doesn’t mean …”

  I saw evasion in Idris’s eyes as he looked away. How could this have happened to Bir? Was it an accident or a murder? If murder, why? Who? Charles sahib? A person of power, easy to suspect but hard to pin down, the man who had once invited Bir to his bedchamber and had failed to have his way with him. I could see him pulling his drawer open, picking up his pistol …

  Tariq marched into the room. “Why is no one working?”

  “Do you know where Bir is?” I asked.

  “I am responsible for him, not you. I’ll look for him. Go back to work. The sahibs’ breakfast must be on time.” He strode out of the room.

  “If we hurry, we might be able to pay our last respects to Bir before they take his body away,” I said to everyone present.

  We scrambled out of the room and through the entrance gate toward the riverbank. Sahibs’ breakfast would be late but for once no one expressed any concern. Bir was only a few years older than me. I simply couldn’t believe that he would no longer be part of my life, that we would never see him again in the kitchen. He’ll be back, I kept saying to myself. He’ll be back. In another life, with a new name and guise, he’ll be there.

  I pushed my way through the crowd. Had Bir recognized his assailant? He must have. This couldn’t have been a random accident. At the final moment, with the assailant pulling the trigger, he must have fallen back a few steps, first in recognition, then in revulsion, and finally in regret.

  Idris stumbled forward. He dropped on his knees and stooped over Bir’s body. Face tear-stained, his shoulders shaking, Idris wailed: “Please forgive me, Bir, please forgive me.”

  “Oh, dear God,” mumbled Jas, tears sliding down his cheeks.

  A priest in orange robes materialized from somewhere. He chanted a short prayer and offered to lead the assembly in a collective prayer of peace.We folded our hands. Under the dense blue of the still silent sky, we prayed: May the soul of the departed soar above in tranquility. We raised our hands, pointing them to the sky, and ended the ritual by chanting: Haribol. With the ancient sounds throbbing in my ears, I could almost see Bir’s spirit merging with the white clouds above and ascending to heaven, leaving behind all that was impure.

  Several pallbearers approached with a bamboo trellis, lowered it to the ground, arranged the corpse on it respectfully, and bore our friend away.

  We retraced our steps to the Factory and the kitchen. None of us could speak, not even to console one another. My mind swirled with questions, doubts, and deep sorrow.

  Jas broke the silence. “If what they say is true—that a victim knows his attacker—then we should be able to make a guess as to who it is.”

  “Best not to gossip,” Idris said.

  “But Idris,” I began.

  “No, Maria, no,” Idris said quickly and glanced back at the kitchen entrance, as though expecting Tariq to return. “We must be about our work. Breakfast is already late and if it gets delayed any further we will find ourselves without jobs. Come now.” He clapped his hands together and we all knew that a discussion on suspects would have to wait.

  I had just finished arranging mango slices on a dish when I noticed Idris slipping out of the room. I was already suspicious. I waited only a brief moment, and without alerting the others, I followed him silently at a distance.

  At the far end of the courtyard, I saw Charles sahib on his way to his chamber. He gave Idris a sidelong glance. Standing behind the bamboo hedges, I watched both men.

  The sahib signaled to Idris, his arm raised in an imperious gesture. “Boy!”

  His gaze to the ground, Idris said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Not a word to any one—you follow?”

  “As you like, sir.”

  Charles sahib glared at Idris, then departed on quick feet.

  I tried to make sense of the conversation. The possible implications struck me so hard in the stomach that I had to hold onto a bamboo branch. I returned to the kitchen and finished preparing the breakfast.

  Half-an-hour later, still in a flustered state, I went to the verandah for my English lesson. This would give me a chance to find out about Charles sahib’s involvement in Bir’s murder. I took a chair and stared vacantly at the shoots of a nearby jasmine bush creeping around a pillar. My kitchen friends were like family to me, the only family I had. An assailant, possibly a Factor, had taken away part of my family. Yesterday, at the meeting, I’d learned that the British had more than trade in mind. This loss had struck closer home. Who had really committed the crime? Idris who might have been privy to the murder, seemed to be reluctant to speak. Like the blazing sky above, I burned with rage.

  The familiar flock of pigeons walked nervously down the walkway, their heads bobbing. A sparrow took flight, leaving me alone with my sense of injustice. An ailing rose, shorn of most of its petals, hung limply at the end of a
stem on a rose bush. Where was Charles sahib? This was the first time he’d failed to turn up for a lesson. I must see him up close, look closely into his eyes. At the door of Charles sahib’s bedchamber I hesitated. The emotions brewing inside me had pushed my heart to my throat. My limbs were alert, as though ready to respond to an emergency; my mind was incapable of thinking too far ahead. Drawing the curtain aside, I tapped on his door and stepped aside. What was I doing? An unspoken law forbade a servant from infringing on a sahib’s privacy. In my present mood, I was beyond propriety, the compulsion inside me to address a heinous crime too strong.

  Charles sahib emerged, clutching a crystal decanter filled with a pale liquid, his face drawn and gray. A frown creased his forehead. “Maria …”

  “My pardons, sir, sorry to interrupt. I waited for you, for … for my lesson and thought I would check with you.”

  “It slipped my mind.” He sounded far away.

  “If you ask me, I too am not in a mood to study. It will suit me to postpone our lesson till tomorrow morning.”

  “Time has come for me to give up my tutorial duties.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry; the lessons have meant so much to me.”

  He gave out a small meaningful smile. “Anne is still in town.We are getting married.”

  The mention of Anne memsahib’s name stung me. I could almost see her complaining to Charles sahib that he was spending too much time on a servant girl. I swallowed and peeked past him to see if she was there. She wasn’t.

  “Congratulations, sahib. I am sure you’ll be very happy together.”

  Gazing into the distance, looking forlorn, he seemed to think out loud. “She loves money, and I have lots of it. That’s a good match.” Then, perhaps becoming aware of my presence, he said, “I must rest now,” and turned away.

  “Please, wait,” I called out, wringing my hands. “Have you heard about Bir?”

  The sahib faced me, his face suddenly florid and the red-rimmed eyes filled with fury. “Do you know what happens to a servant girl who is persistent, nosy, ill-mannered, and … pretty?”