Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  I looked down at the coarse jute sari I was wearing. I’d get new clothes!

  At the servants’ quarters, I collected my meager belongings and looked back one last time at the hovel from where I’d started my journey in this Factory. I’d come some way since then.

  In my new room, after I’d arranged my few personal effects, I picked up the looking-glass. The shine hadn’t fully returned to my dark eyes, my complexion didn’t quite have the bloom of my village days, and my hair, in the past luxuriously black and abundant, was barely long enough to caress my shoulders.

  During my afternoon break, I took a broom from the storage room and humming a happy tune, I headed to my new abode. Charcoal clouds gathered in the sky. A red-beaked bird scampered ahead of me.

  Rain began to fall. Like all girls, I’d been taught folk songs in my childhood; lyrics praising the harvest, the river, and the rain, or simply describing the toils of a villager, but I had never considered myself to be a songstress. I couldn’t carry a tune, yet, my voice, after yesterday’s perilous journey, felt free, as though my throat had opened wider and I’d snatched a perfect melody floating in the air. Now I sang a farmers’ simple rhyme: Come, come, gentle rain.

  I pranced past the meeting hall that, on certain days of the month, was occupied by the sahibs for business debates. Usually, we were informed about a scheduled meeting far ahead of time, so we would be prepared to serve a beverage. The sahibs had their choice of limeade, ghol, tisane, or on rare occasions, the China drink, a cup of precious black tea made from expensive leaves. After serving, one of the menservants would squat outside the hall, ready to carry out further errands. At the conclusion of the proceedings, the sahibs would continue to chit-chat. Some would demand hookah for smoking, tobacco flavored with country sugar and burning brightly on charcoal, to while away the time. Later, alone in his chamber, a sahib might indulge in a pill of opium to cope with the strains of the day.

  Today, however, wasn’t a meeting day, and most of the sahibs had retreated to the punch house by the river, so when I caught Job sahib’s angry voice coming out of the meeting room, I halted in surprise. The door, hung with an orange curtain, was slightly ajar.

  “Rubbish!” Job sahib bellowed. “Pure rubbish!”

  Not since the incident with Pratap had I heard him speak with such wrath.

  “Damn it!” said another voice.

  Charles sahib! His spiteful tone piqued my curiosity. I stood still. “You’re a blackguard, you are, Job! Take the next boat back to England! I’ll run this Factory better than you!”

  Were the two rivals merely angry, or was this more serious? I peered through a gap in the curtains. The two sahibs sat across from each other at the curved end of the oval table at the far end of the room. His opponent was about to hurl more threats when Job sahib stood up hastily. Gaunt-faced, the corners of his eyes crinkled, a reddish cast to his complexion, worn out, he stepped over to the window and rubbed his forehead. His fever was still apparent in his face, made worse by the arduous mission to visit Rani Mata. I didn’t trust Charles sahib. He rose to his feet; he was wearing boots, and stood like a pillar. There was something in his movement, stealth mixed with malice; it sent a shiver through my body. The vengeful expression on his face was like that of a tiger about to leap at its prey.

  Charles sahib dropped his cloak and from his waist-belt he drew a pistol. From where I stood he seemed drunk, unsteady on his feet.

  At the sight of the firearm, I began to tremble, but I wasn’t willing to only stand and watch as Job sahib was shot down. The brief time with Rani Mata had helped bring out the warrior in me. I tiptoed into the room, fast but like a shadow, holding the broom upside down in my hand. The carpet muffled my footsteps. Job sahib still lingered at the window, slightly stooped.

  Charles sahib’s fingers began to tighten on the trigger. I lunged at Charles sahib from behind and with all my bodily strength I struck him on the head with the broom. My humble weapon, consisting solely of sticks and twigs, made hardly any noise, but the blow was so sudden that Charles sahib became disoriented. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, blinking at the dust that had been shocked from the bristles.

  Before he could turn around, I hit him on his neck with the side of my hand, a hand strengthened by kneading and scrubbing and stirring in the kitchen. Almost simultaneously, I struck Charles sahib’s right hand with a sweep of my broom. The sahib loosened his grip on the pistol. As he began to fall, I grabbed an empty brass tumbler from the table and hit him in the back with it; the force of the blow sent me staggering back for a moment.

  Charles sahib collapsed to the floor. The pistol slid from his hand and landed on the carpet. Flailing, he pushed the pistol further away with his feet. Panting, trying to catch my breath, I stood ready for the next move.

  Job sahib turned away from the window. He glanced at me with incredulous eyes, then at Charles sahib, and darted toward the fallen pistol even as Charles sahib struggled to get up.

  As Job sahib advanced toward me, Charles sahib, still on the floor, kicked him, but Job sahib managed to push the pistol away with his other foot.

  Charles sahib staggered to his feet. Again, I was ready with my tumbler, but he struck me in the stomach with a sharp elbow. Severe pain shot through my belly, followed by a wave of nausea. Charles sahib reached for the pistol. I too leaned toward it, but he got hold of the weapon before I did.

  Turning toward the door, I let out a shout, hoping that one of the servants would hear me.

  As Charles sahib aimed the barrel towards me, Job sahib lurched forward and shouted: “For heaven’s sake, Charles, no, no.”

  Job sahib’s arm moved out. He shielded me, facing the barrel himself. I pressed my face into the warmth of his back. O, Shiva, please come to our aid.

  Eyes bright with malevolence, unsteady on his feet, Charles sahib faced his rival and me. “You blackguard! You heathen! I’m going to …”

  “No, you won’t.” Job sahib made a sudden move and struck out with a well-aimed kick at Charles sahib’s wobbly legs. He drew back a powerful fist and struck his opponent squarely on the jaw, knocking him down to the floor. The pistol glistened on the carpet.

  “Maria!”

  Idris’s loud voice was followed by the sound of footsteps racing down the corridor. Accompanied by Pratap, the wrestler, Idris rushed into the room. Charles sahib began to writhe in discomfort, occasionally opening an eye and shooting hostile glances at those who surrounded him, but he had no strength left. Job sahib had grabbed the pistol and now pointed it at his rival, his other arm wrapped around my shoulders. Charles, the Factor hated by everyone present, was outnumbered.

  Job sahib stood guard, his expression one of quiet determination. He seemed to be deliberating his rival’s fate. Pratap kept his eyes on the captive as well. If Charles sahib made the slightest move, both men would be ready to tackle him.

  All the help—some ten of them, the cooks, the gardener, the laundrymen, the valet, the watchmen—now streamed into the room. Idris recounted the episode, whatever he’d seen of it.

  “Look who’s on the floor for a change,” the watchman said. “You should be ashamed of yourself, planning to assault our chief!”

  Charles sahib, with his limited vocabulary of Bangla and squirming on the floor, must have understood some of this, for he muttered, “You’ll be sent to narak.”

  “We’ll feed you to the crows first!” said Pratap.

  “The filthiest swine,” snarled Idris. “We’ll have you put in chains!”

  “No,” said Job sahib. “Tie him up with ropes.” As he shoved the pistol in his trousers’ pocket, I gave it a quick look. It had an octagonal-shaped muzzle and a barrel etched with a foliage pattern. However handsomely designed, the weapon made me shudder.

  Idris fetched coils of thick strong jute ropes, and as the servants bound his hands and feet, Charles sahib began to kick, scream, and curse, all at once.

  In this perversely sweet moment, while everyone
’s attention was centered on Charles sahib, Job sahib seized me in his arms, brought his face down to mine, and planted a kiss on my lips, a warm whispery delight. I opened my eyes, unaware of how much time had elapsed, and looked up at him.

  Idris looked over his shoulder at Job sahib and cleared his throat. “We’re ready to escort the sahib to his room, sir.”

  At the sound of Idris’s voice, I disengaged, took a few paces back, my heart clenched. I was sure Idris had noticed the joy radiating from my face. The frown on his forehead was unmistakable.

  Job sahib struggled to collect himself. “Lock Charles up in his room overnight, keep him in seclusion, but give him food and drink and have a guardsman watch him closely at all times.”

  Pratap wagged a finger at Charles sahib. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Tariq entered at the very moment that everybody else erupted in mocking laughter. He nearly screamed at the sight that met his eyes—Charles sahib rolling back and forth on the floor, hands bound at the wrist, legs tied at the ankles. After he had heard the story, his face darkened with hostility toward us. Disheveled, his face blotchy, Charles sahib was dragged unceremoniously to his feet. As he was being carried out of the room, he cast a malevolent glance at me.

  I blinked and shook off my misgivings, glad that the ordeal was over.

  “What will happen to him?” Idris asked Job sahib.

  “Charles will be immediately sent away from this Factory. Tomorrow he’ll go to Hooghly, accompanied by Tariq. From there he’ll be packed off to Surat where the Council, a body of Factors which administers all the British factories, and of which I am a member, will decide on a suitable course of action. I will dispatch an express note to the Council. Charles will be charged with attempted assassination.”

  “You will not notify the Nawab’s police at all?” Tariq asked.

  “No. I’d like to use our own judicial system.”

  Tariq stood uneasily, displeased. “As you wish, sir.”

  All around the room, there were smiles and exclamations of relief. “We’ll protect you with our lives,” Pratap said to Job sahib.

  Job sahib nodded and acknowledged the remark, his face ashen.

  My voice low, lips still warm from his kiss, mind anxious because of it, I said, “You’re pale. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  The sahib’s lips twitched. “I ache all over. I suppose I could go to my bedchamber and rest for a bit. Will you attend me this evening?”

  His tone was intimate; still warm from his embrace, I couldn’t have asked for more. As Job sahib slipped out of the room, I saw pain and relief in his eyes, and delight, too. I asked Pratap to call on the best herbal doctor in town. Then I made for the kitchen and quickly prepared some vegetable broth, what my mother served me in my childhood whenever I had fever.

  Idris came by and stood silently, looking decidedly troubled.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I must now confess what I’ve hidden from you and everyone else all this time.” His voice was thick with grief. “It has to do with Bir’s murder.”

  I felt a knot in my stomach. “Are you admitting that Charles sahib …?”

  Idris nodded. “Yes. I could have prevented it, perhaps, but I didn’t.” He folded his hands, as though to calm himself, as though uttering a silent prayer.

  “Please tell me the details if doing so will help relieve your burden. It’ll certainly relieve mine.”

  Idris squinted. “You might recall that the sahib had an eye for Bir. On that night, after playing cards at a shop by the river, Bir and I parted company. He went toward the water for the cooling breeze and moonlight and I … I hate myself for it, I headed for the Factory. My eyes were nearly closing from the fatigue, even though I had a feeling … You see, Maria, the shop was situated right next door to the punch house and I saw Charles sahib coming out. The whole area was poorly lit and no one else was about. From a distance, I saw the sahib call out to Bir. Oh, Shiva! I knew it then. The sahib rushed toward Bir and they exchanged a few words. It was obvious what the sahib had in mind from the way he leaned toward Bir and tried to embrace him. Bir pushed him away. The sahib staggered back a step. My insides screamed to me; something terrible was about to happen. Coward that I was, I began to run in the opposite direction; I knew well the consequences Bir would suffer for refusing the sahib’s advances. I’d gone only a short distance when I heard a gunshot from behind. I went numb, stumbled, got up, and ran faster, without ever looking back.”

  “And you stayed silent the next day and the next day,” I cried out. “You never accused the sahib!”

  Idris paled. “How could I take action when I am well aware I’d never get justice and might even lose my job? I have a family to consider. Our lives don’t mean much to either our Mughal rulers or the sahibs, and we can do nothing to change that.” He turned, his voice broken. “Forgive me, if you ever can, Maria.” I stood rigid for a moment, thinking: We must try to change all this, we must.

  Then, with a steaming bowl in my hand and my mind reeling with this new revelation, I mounted the staircase to Job sahib’s private quarters.

  TWENTY

  The door was half-open. Inside the room, Job sahib rested on his back under a canopy and a quilted white silk cover. I had never been to this chamber, accessible only with permission. Job sahib appeared to be asleep, his chest rising and falling, slowly and deeply. I lingered in the doorway for a moment and took in his well-chiseled profile in repose. Quietly, I slipped in, put the soup bowl gently on a side table, and was about to tiptoe out when Job sahib opened his eyes.

  “Maria!” he cried out, trying to prop himself up on the pillows.

  I flushed from the excitement of hearing him say my name, worried at the same time about how weak he appeared.

  “Please, don’t try to get up. I’ve sent for a doctor. He should be here shortly.”

  He fell back, eyes misty and swollen, and expelled a breath. “Sit by me,” he said; his tone was affectionate. I was almost afraid to linger. My reputation could suffer from being alone in the sahib’s quarters.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t worry; I won’t let anyone harm you.”

  Seeing him vulnerable and longing for my company, I let go my worries and sat on the edge of the bed.

  How satisfying that I could be so near him when he needed me. What a thrill to experience his feverish warmth, to be able to help ease his discomfort. He pulled the blanket tightly around him. “Oh, God, what a time it has been! I’d be a dead man by now, if it weren’t for your quick response.”

  I closed my eyes for a brief instant, recalling what I had heard from Idris about Bir’s murder only minutes ago. Wishing not to overburden Job sahib, I simply said, “We cooks had suspicions about Charles sahib all along.”

  “It was my fault, given everyone’s misgivings about his character and actions.” Job sahib rubbed his forehead. “But his family is influential in England and they can cause great damage to me and the Company. Only the future will tell if I’ve made the right decision.”

  “Many eyes will be watching, many ears will be listening for indications of anyone trying to harm you or us, sahib.”

  “You were there when I needed help. That means a lot to me. And, please, don’t call me sahib again.”

  My heart swelled, bringing with it long-suppressed feelings.I turned my attention to the soup. I needed to rein in my feelings for the time being, pay attention to the caution that reared its head in my mind. “You must have nourishment,” I said. “Here’s some vegetable broth, specially prepared for you.”

  His eyes softened with gratitude. “Oh, my sweet, capable girl!”

  He raised himself up into a sitting posture; I spooned a little soup into his mouth, and he slid back down onto the bed.

  “Stay a little longer, will you?” he asked. “Your presence soothes me.” He rolled onto his side and took my arm. For a moment he seemed to struggle with an inner battle, and the
n his eyes cleared. He reached out slowly, took my hand, and gently kissed it. Speechless, I didn’t resist as he reached for my face and drew me closer to his chest.

  “We’re entering a dangerous zone, Maria, but I can no longer contain how I feel about you. I’ve always wanted to be a successful trader in this beautiful land, doing the work I love. And now I have a bigger dream; to have you by my side.”

  I lifted my head in wonder and gazed into his eyes; he pulled me closer and smothered me with kisses. A wave of warmth surged through my body, but I drew back momentarily and managed to whisper, “I have been yours since the moment we met. But all this time, I had no idea that …”

  “I am shy. I should have expressed myself sooner, but I might as well confide in you now. I was sixteen, still living at home, and fancied a neighbor girl, also sixteen. Her name was Rose, a pretty thing, aptly named. I would stare at her in the field, at the shop, on the street; whenever I ran into her, whenever I heard the rustle of her skirt, the day would turn into a song for me. Then one day, I gathered enough courage to approach her. She looked at me with her expressive, violet eyes. My heart thumped so terribly that I almost choked. I managed to tell her how I felt about her, how I dreamt all night about her. She screamed at me. ‘Stupid boy! I don’t like you. Don’t ever bother me again, or else,’ and she ran away. I … I was crushed. I remember how I simply sat down on the ground and cried. Since then, I always thought I’d never again fall in love. I thought that part of me had died. But then, many years later, I met you.”

  Job paused, his eyes caressing my face, and I sat with the gift of that which he had confided in me. He enfolded me in his arms; the remnants of my resistance crumbled in his embrace. For the first time, in a very long time, I experienced a deep sense of security.

  “I am so happy, Job.” I saw myself through his eyes: a woman more capable, confident, loving, and worthy than I had ever deemed myself to be. No, fate never intended me to be a mere servant. How eagerly my mother had listened to the astrologer’s prediction that I would one day sit on a throne, dressed in silk and jewels.