I swallowed. I wasn’t as eager as the sahib might have expected. I visualized Job lying in bed, tossing and turning due to his fever. How could I spend two long hours away from him? What if his condition worsened? Moreover, would I be able to handle such an important assignment? I’d done a credible interpretation for Rani Mata, but that had taken place in a pleasant home setting in the presence of only three people, and Job was already somewhat conversant with the native tongue. This was an entirely different matter, an adversarial encounter where I would be expected to outmaneuver an experienced negotiator. It was as though I was staring at a high wall, too high for me to scale.
“You’re the only one who is familiar with the broker’s dialect,” Arthur sahib said. “Although your English is, shall we say, less than adequate at this point, you seem to make yourself understood.”
My heart beat wildly in both eagerness and apprehension. If I failed to bargain effectively on behalf of the Company, I could be dismissed. No, I couldn’t accept this offer. Then I went back to the day when, sitting on a bamboo mat with my father and my husband-to-be in our mud hut, I’d done the dowry negotiation. I had won that day; my father did not have to pay any dowry.
“Yes, sir, I would like to try my hand at this new task.”
“We’ll see how well you do. Don’t deceive yourself that it’s as simple as cooking.”
“I am at your service, sir. But would you kindly ease my kitchen duties so I can fully dedicate myself to this new endeavor?”
“No, that is out of the question. See you at the meeting.” Arthur sahib turned away.
Within an hour, I found myself sitting at the end of an oval table in the meeting hall where only a short time ago, I could enter only to serve a beverage. The ivory wall facing me flushed with the sunshine pouring in through a window. My eyes scanned the familiar space. This was the location where I had, only weeks ago, thwarted an attempt by Charles sahib to assassinate Job.
The Factors, twenty in number, distinguished in their doublets and hats and occupying padded velvet chairs around the table, chatted amongst themselves. I looked down at my attire of a forest green sari in fine cotton, plain but presentable.
Chand, Rani Mata’s emissary, burst into the meeting hall. He hefted a large well-stuffed cloth bag and had a ceremonial dagger at his waist. He didn’t look like someone who could be trifled with; that was clear the very moment he stepped in through the door, his sharp eyes taking in the room and the occupants at a glance. Several distrustful eyes appraised him coolly. He noticed me and smiled faintly. Although intimidated by my role, by the responsibility I’d taken on, by the people who surrounded me in this room, I tried hard not to show it.
Chand pulled a chair up next to mine. Since the sahibs were busy chatting among themselves, he turned to me. “I hear you’re new at this, Maria, and I have been at my job less than a decade, but I am already considered one of the best brokers in the district. I go far beyond my immediate duties. I have helped set up a district-wide network of artisans and intermediaries who will sell their products through me. If I don’t have what you want, I can get it for you. We brokers have a network that stretches across the region and beyond. Rani Mata’s profits have gone up handsomely since she hired me.”
I looked at Chand again. Young, slender, and of medium height, with a prominent nose and mahogany complexion, he sported a neatly trimmed beard that would measure four finger-breadths, as had been specified by Emperor Aurangzeb in Delhi. A white turban decorated with an opal set in gold made Chand a dashing figure. Still, I wondered if this brashly confident man would be able to work effectively with the sahibs or even me.
“So how did you figure out all the intricacies of your profession?” I asked.
“From my father. He was a weaver, a most dedicated one, and made the finest cloths in the district. My mother says that when I was born, he took only a few hours off, then went back to work. She maintained all his weaving tools. My mother still has a renowned design he did, a life-size scene from Mahabharata in red-and-purple brocade worked in gold thread. It shows trees, houses, animals, and stylized human figures. But, even with that much expertize, he couldn’t make a decent living. When he died nine years ago, he was deep in debt. Merchants and brokers always paid him less than he was worth. I promised myself that I would become a broker some day and correct the situation for the artisans I dealt with.”
Arthur sahib cleared his throat. In his role as the facilitator, he addressed the assembly, introduced the agenda, and then signaled Chand to speak a few words, adding that I would interpret for everyone present.
“I come here to offer my greetings and services,” Chand began. It might have been his dagger, his probing eyes, his attitude, or the fact that the sahibs didn’t fully trust me, whatever the reason, an uneasy silence cloaked the room.
“It is my utmost pleasure to represent Rani Mata, the Great Queen of Virganj,” Chand announced, speaking theatrically in his native dialect. The others looked toward me after he had finished.
After I had translated his salutation to the Factors, Chand spoke. “We wish to form an alliance with the Company, but would prefer that the Nawab’s revenue officers remain unaware of our relationship. Our textile products are the finest in the region, but not known beyond our borders, a situation we would like to remedy.”
I translated as well as I could in my broken English, pronouncing every English syllable with equal care, sounding a trifle slow to my own ears, yet trying to make myself understood to the sahibs, staying true to the spirit of what was being said.
Reactions from the sahibs were not long in coming. Gordon sahib, a would-be poet in his spare time, often given to exaggeration, said, “Isn’t Rani Mata also known as the ‘Queen of Nowhere’?”
I pictured the spirited queen blazing in her pink-and-saffron sari, gesturing with a graceful arm adorned with coral-set bracelets, her voice gentle but strong, and wished the sahibs wouldn’t dismiss her so easily. Job’s face, too, swam before my eyes. It was as though this room was brightened by his invisible presence. If he wasn’t still recuperating, he’d have presided over this meeting, and supported Rani Mata.
I interpreted Gordon sahib’s words briefly for the benefit of Chand but without mentioning the insult. “The queen is, of course, a popular figure.”
“Let me show you our swatches, sir, some of which have been personally selected by the queen.” Chand bent down, opened the sack resting on the floor, and retrieved a single rectangular piece of dress material. So this was the tactic he would employ. I had seen it in my own village when retail cloth merchants came to sell their wares. Initially, Chand would show only one sample, although he had hundreds, and watch the reaction of the Factors. If the first sample didn’t engender enough interest, he would show another, and then another. Little by little, he would wear down the resistance. Eventually, they would be ready to buy, and on terms favorable to him.
With a flourish, his eyes circling the room, Chand laid out the first sample on the table, explaining that it was sold by the bolt in the market. It was a breathtaking article, this mustard-and-maroon brocade, lavishly decorated with gold threads and woven with beads and precious stones. “Straight from our master weaver,” Chand said, caressing the length of the fabric.
The colors were dazzling. The quality of the weave was exquisite enough to pass for tapestry work. I had an intense desire to reach out and stroke the cloth, but I resisted the impulse.
“A woman able to adorn her body with such fabric is fortunate indeed,” I said, translating from the heart.
Arthur sahib reached out, picked up the swatch, studied it, and passed it around the room. “And the price?”
I posed the question to Chand. He threw a number in the air, an exorbitant sum, but did so with the flair of a snake charmer.
Words sometimes got stuck, but I made the necessary interpretations; when I scanned the faces of the sahibs, I found only suspicion and condescension.
“He’s a
cheeky little bugger,” Gordon sahib said, slouching in his chair, “but shrewd as the devil.”
William sahib smelled the fabric. “Quite out of his mind,” he said. “It’s a ridiculously high price. Does he take us for fools?”
“No, sir.” I gulped, realizing the delicacy of the situation. “I don’t believe that is his intent.”
“And why do they have to embroider a fabric in such gaudy colors?” William sahib burst out haughtily. “It’s in bad taste. They’re living in a prehistoric age, I suppose.” He erupted in contemptuous laughter, his fleshy cheeks becoming even fuller, but he quickly retreated into silence when no one joined him.
I asked Chand to explain the purpose of the story woven into the fabric. His reply was drowned out by Arthur sahib’s voice: “We’ll pay only half that much.”
Now I understood the strategy. The sahibs, too, were playing a game, trying to outwit Chand by downgrading the quality of his merchandise. I explained Arthur sahib’s response to Chand, but he seemed to have already sniffed the general feeling of discontent in the room. He glowered.
“Obviously they don’t understand our love for nature,” Chand said to me. “We take colors from indigo plants, marigold flowers, pomegranate rind, henna, you name it. We take stories from our scriptures. The English are the crude ones.”
He began folding the piece of fabric. If he walked out of here, that would be it for me. I couldn’t let that happen.
“No doubt what we’ve seen is impressive,” I said to Chand. “But suppose you showed us more ordinary weavings, bhai?” In our region, we treated each other as relatives, addressing even a stranger as‘brother’, ‘uncle’, or ‘cousin’. I hoped to soften Chand’s attitude. I wanted him to understand we could end up together on the losing side of the table.
Chand laid out a larger piece of cloth: fine cotton muslin, gossamer white, smooth, delicate, and nearly weightless. He held it up to the lamp light. “Captured air,” he said. Then he folded it, slid his gold ring off his left middle finger, and before our incredulous eyes, using a long dramatic sweep of his hand, he drew the entire length of the fabric through the ring. He declared the price to be slightly below that of the first sample fabric.
Gordon sahib yawned, Arthur sahib stared into space, and the rest of the sahibs bantered among themselves about how this time would be better spent in the punch house.
I began to interpret the responses for Chand. As before I stayed away from a literal translation, but he had gauged the sahibs’ mood and attitude.
“Why do you work for these barbarians, Maria-behen?” Chand asked.
“Please ignore their behavior, bhai. You’re here to trade goods.”
“In Rani Mata’s land, we’re free,” Chand said. “We trade with whomever we please. The French have a nose for fine things. Even the Portuguese, those reprehensible pirates, are easier to negotiate with. Crude bunch, these English.” Again, he made a move to stand up.
“Please wait,” I said to Chand, raising a hand to stop him. “The English East India Company is a venture already more powerful than you can imagine. They have traders who cross many treacherous seas, islands you have never heard of, countries as far away as China. They return to our shores with goods we’ve never seen, tea, porcelain, lacquer ware. Wouldn’t it be wise to make a partnership with them, even if you have to go through a tough negotiation, even if you have to lose money at the outset?”
“You’re asking me to give my choicest selections away?”
“Less profit in the short run, but more profit in the long run. The Company will be here a long time.”
Chand roared. “Do you believe only Rani Mata is in danger of being annexed by the new Nawab? You should hear about the military preparations that are going on. Unlike his predecessor, our new ruler has no love for the English traders. I predict the Nawab will send his forces to this Factory, loot the money and the valuable goods, and return it to dust. What’ll happen to you then, behen?”
I trembled and struggled to keep my voice calm. “Do you have any basis for making such a prediction?”
“Indeed, I do. Rani Mata has informers who scrutinize the Nawab and the state of his army. Recently he has added more elephants to his cavalry.” Chand paused. “There is discontent in the Nawab’s Court that may have slowed the war preparation a little, but I suspect it will happen.”
“Why is it taking so long?” Arthur sahib interrupted angrily, fixing me with a hard stare. “What kind of rubbish is that blockhead talking now? Dispense with this idle chit-chat, Maria!”
Every eye in the room was fixed on me. I couldn’t take it anymore, the verbal skirmishing, the lack of manners on either side. I stood up and addressed the assembly. “Let us please all work together, shall we?”
“The interpreter is upset,” Gordon sahib said in jest. “Shall we adjourn the meeting?”
“No,” I replied in a resolute voice. “It is in everybody’s interest to reach a price compromise. Our alliance with Rani Mata will extend far beyond this particular transaction, or so I hope.”
I decided not to disclose the grave news about the Mughal army; what if it took the attention away from the transaction at hand? A deep uneasy silence seized the room. Before everyone’s stunned gaze, Chand propelled himself to his feet, drew his dagger out of its wooden sheath in a ceremonial fashion and placed it on the table with a thud. It was a double-edged stabbing knife, with a gold-inlaid handle, which now glittered in the lamp light. Such a knife was usually intended to complement a sword in combat.
“I salute you, behen, by placing my weapon at your disposal,” Chand said to me, dropping to his knees. “You’ve quieted this ill-mannered bunch. You represent the spirit of the Company better than these fools.”
Arthur sahib’s eyes bulged at the sight of the weapon glistening on the table. “Why did he have to get that knife out?” he asked. “What kind of trickery does he have in mind? Tell him to remove it at once.”
Although shaken, I replied, “A dagger is only an accessory, sir. Chand doesn’t mean any harm. In our culture, to bow down and present one’s dagger means to honor, to obey.”
“Remove it!” Gordon sahib said.
I conveyed Gordon sahib’s request to Chand. “The dagger stays,” Chand said, “until we reach an agreement.”
“The dagger helps clear everyone’s thinking,” I interpreted.
As though to break the impasse, Arthur sahib said in half-jest to his colleagues, “I suggest we ‘obey.’” His eyes betrayed a hint of unease as he turned to me, “Shall we proceed?”
I regained my seat and motioned to Chand. “Show us lesser grade, more substantial material.”
He laid out a series of heavier weight swatches next to the dagger: a floral aqua fabric threaded with silver; a second in a green-purple color painted with lotus leaves, symbolic of Hindu mythology; and a third in indigo, soft, glossy, and fringed with gold-worked lace.
“Well, finally!” Arthur sahib burst in approvingly. “Looks like we’ll be able to sell these in London. They can be used for any number of home furnishing items—wall hangings, tablecloths, curtains, even bed spreads.”
“Not to forget gowns for English ladies,” I suggested.
“Right, right,” Arthur sahib said.
Chand quoted individual prices for the fabrics, adding, “Take it or leave it. I will not go any lower.” He mumbled a few words about the plight of independent craftsmen.
“He will not compromise any further, sir, nor would I,” I said to Arthur sahib. “I have known artisans in my village, spinners, weavers, embroiderers, and dyers, who work from dawn till dusk, live from season to season, and still don’t make enough. They have to put rice in their family’s mouths, marry their daughters, take care of their elderly parents. Let’s not be unfair to them.”
“Bloody Hell!” Gordon sahib said. “Another joyless story.”
“How do we know both you and this glib man aren’t telling us lies?” Francis sahib said.
The room was silent. Trembling, I shut my eyes.
Then I heard the triumphant voice of Arthur sahib consenting to the quoted prices. I opened my eyes and leaned forward, eagerly.
We went on to discuss the details—thread count, quantity, the procedure for checking quality, a cash advance for buying raw materials, and the date of delivery. As we eventually reached an agreement satisfactory to both sides, the sound of enthusiastic applause greeted my ears. I rose, stepped to the door, and signaled to Idris who was waiting outside, his body lost in a voluminous white tunic.
“After all the shouting, sneering, bargaining, and dagger-watching,” he whispered, “everyone must be thirsty.”
Bearing a round of beverages, he served each of us, then winking at me once in support, he departed on nimble feet.
Gordon sahib rose from his seat and excused himself. Before leaving the room, he doffed his hat at Chand, a mischievous smile on his lips.
Chand gathered his samples and turned to me. “Should you ever wish to secure another employment,” he whispered, “Rani Mata would be most happy to accommodate you. And you might consider her offer seriously, behen. It’s only a matter of time before the Nawab—”
“Will you be kind enough to inform me if you hear of an imminent attack?”
Chand nodded, put the dagger back into its sheath, and retied it to a loop in his waist belt. “My thousand apologies for any difficulty I’ve caused you,” he said to me. “These cunning people want to make a profit and so do we. They’re proud and so are we. They’re clever, but we’re no less.”
I nodded. Chand bowed to everyone, saying, “Long life and health to thee.” In his native dialect, he said that he would come and visit me again, and indeed, in the next several months I would have the chance to speak with him further.
Chand slipped out the door, the white gem in his headgear shining brighter than before. Arthur sahib thanked me, but the other Englishmen avoided my eyes. My negotiations weren’t over yet. With the sahibs still seated and sipping from their glasses, I dangled another idea before them.
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