Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, Maria, you stay here. I must go alone. I’ll sneak Job sahib out of the Factory and put him on a boat.”

  Listening to Idris’s unwavering voice and seeing the light of sincerity in his eyes, I knew he’d do his best. Under a sky darkened by rain clouds, I made a silent resolve. While Idris was away, I’d send a messenger to Surat, at least a ten-day ride to the west, to the Council of Directors. I, an Agent of the company and Job’s wife, would seek the Council’s help. Surely, they wouldn’t want their most loyal Factor to be hurt and one of their major factories reduced to rubble. Yet, watching the waves crash on the river bank and shrivel into foam, I couldn’t be sure of any assistance from that office.

  “I’ve already hired a maid-servant for you,” Idris said. “Her name is Sahira. She’s related to a cousin of mine. She’ll report for duty tomorrow. In my absence, she’ll take good care of you.”

  “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  “It might be days,” Idris said. “We’ll have to take a longer route to get back here. But I promise I’ll return with Job sahib. May Allah, the infinitely compassionate, protect you.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Two weeks since Idris’s departure. No word from him or from anybody else from Cossimbazar.

  The silence oppressed me, especially since I grew tired easily due to my pregnancy. I had sent several messengers to Cossimbazar, but each time the ferryboat failed to land there. Still, at the slightest sound, I would run to the door, hoping for news.

  Remembering the schedule of ferryboats arriving from nearby villages, I left the house mid-morning and hurried up the river bank. “Do you have any news of Cossimbazar?” I asked the every sailor and fisher boy I met, but to no avail. Finally, exhausted, desperate, I ran up to a newly arrived boat and began to question two passengers who had disembarked.

  “You want to hear what’s going on in Cossimbazar?” asked a young male passenger. “I live only a few miles west of there.” He reported that boats to and from there had been stopped by the order of the Nawab. His officials had put heavy metal chains across the river to keep any boat from entering or leaving the town. “Fortunately, my village has been spared, and our ferry is running.”

  “Oh, it’s much worse,” said his older companion. “Rumor says bodies are lying at the gate of the English Factory. At least two people have been beheaded. Many are injured. Their blood is washing the ground.”

  After they left, I sat down on a boulder, unable to think or act.

  When I eventually reached home, Sahira, my new maid-servant, greeted me at the door. A graceful woman in her thirties, she was dressed in soft pink and had covered her head.

  She served up a plate heaped with big-grained rice and a tangle of greens. “You don’t look well. You haven’t had any food in hours. You must eat regularly, if not for yourself, for your child.”

  During the meal, as I spoke to her about my plight, she listened with respectful attention. “Your husband will return soon,” she said. “Not only has he a will to win, but also, with a wife and a baby on the way, he has reasons of the heart, a much stronger pull, if you ask me.”

  I took solace in Sahira’s simple but powerful belief. Still, the hours hung long and tense, too dark to bear. I perched on a chair in the balcony and listened to the murmur of the river.

  In the afternoon, I heard a knock at the door.

  Teema! She stood with a bouquet of rare water lilies. The air took on a sudden verve, as though a nightingale was about to break out singing.

  She handed me the flowers, saying she’d plucked them from a pond and they were meant to cheer me. As I pressed the bouquet against my chest and inhaled its fragrance, I was transported back to the Factory, the sunlit marble verandah, the frolicking pigeons, and the rhythm of life with Job.

  In the balcony, as we sat down, Teema placed a leaf box on the table. Inside, there rested square-shaped sweetmeats made of milk, in white, yellow, and orange.

  “I came to say goodbye,” she said solemnly. “I need to run away once more.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my family. You see I came to the big city to dance. Now that I can’t perform anymore, I’ve decided to leave. Two nights ago, Egon left for the Netherlands. He cried on my shoulder and said I’d given him more than any other woman ever had. He is in love with me, but we have no future together.”

  We watched the water, the cluster of sails and fishing nets; a sense of emptiness engulfed me. “I hope you have carefully considered what you’re about to do,” I said.

  “Yes, I have. My decision might seem strange to you, but here’s the truth. My journey is in many ways the reverse of yours. You were like a tight bud when I first met you. Now you’re beautifully open. For me, things haven’t gone the way I had hoped for. This town has used me and tossed me aside. It is time for me to go back to the place I came from and restore myself.” She paused. “But will you send word when your baby is born?”

  “It’ll be only a matter of months,” I said. “Why don’t you come and stay with me for a while when the baby is born? Otherwise we might never see each other again.”

  “I’d like that.” She paused, a flicker of envy in her eyes. “I always wanted a child, but I don’t think I’ll ever be blessed with one.”

  “Suppose you became my daughter’s godmother?”

  “Oh, Maria, nothing would make me happier.”

  I reached for a piece of sweetmeat, tasting its softness against my palate, and finished it in no time. Our conversation drifted to my concerns regarding Job, our shared memories of the Factory: the lavish grounds, long hours of toil, rationed food, Tariq’s frequent rebukes. These things had strengthened our bond. Together, we let our hurt go. From behind the clouds, the setting sun blazed a deep purple over the western sky.

  Teema rose to her feet. “I won’t see this sunset in a while, or you.”

  I stood up slowly. My lips quivered as I bade her farewell. “Hope it won’t be too long before we meet again.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The following weeks were painted a deep blue-black. Though the sun shone, without Job beside me, everything seemed dark, fruitless.

  And then one day, there was a knock at the door.

  Factors, about ten strong, including Arthur, Gordon, William, and Francis, stood in torn and soiled doublets, fatigue etched on their faces, each with a large sack slung over their shoulders.

  I greeted them and beckoned them in. “Where’s Job?”

  “The Lord only knows,” Arthur replied. “The four of us fled soon after you left on Job’s orders. The rest of the Factors stayed behind to help him.” He went on to say that they’d taken a land route to reach Hooghly, hiding from the Nawab’s soldiers and robbers on the way, carrying with them these huge sacks containing ledgers and other import-ant Factory paperwork.

  I served them a large meal and made sure they had all the necessities, but I was even more anxious. For long hours afterwards we continued to talk of the trouble that had besieged us. It fell upon me to find housing for them, arrange for their meals, get them comfortably settled, and store the documents, while still looking for every opportunity to get the latest from Cossimbazar. We were a family now, bound by our love for a life we had left behind and loyalty to the Company. If only Job and Idris were here, I lamented frequently.

  Sahira helped me at every step, constantly reminding me that I mustn’t toil too hard. “If you run around so much, your baby will get restless, too,” she said. “You don’t want that. I was the same way before my first-born.”

  Less than a month after the arrival of the Factors, the courier I had sent to the Council of Directors in Surat finally returned carrying a sealed document. My fingers slipped a few times as I opened the document. The first half said that Job should call for a truce with the Nawab. As if I hadn’t thought about that already, as if I had a way of reaching him. The second h
alf declared that the Council gave me permission to open a new Factory in Hooghly. They’d made the decision based on Hooghly’s rising prominence as a port and the fact that it had far bigger potential for trading than Cossimbazar. The Council was ready to send financial help. In the absence of Job, the directors wanted me to be in charge.

  “We’re cognizant of how much you have already done for the Cossimbazar Factory,” the letter said. “We trust you’ll be able to bring this new venture to fruition as well until Job Charnock returns.” I clutched the letter and felt the weight of the paper, as well as the confidence the Council had invested in me, yet a corner of my mind fervently wished Job was a part of this new venture with me.

  A week later, the Factors assembled in the drawing room; I presided over the meeting. I read the letter from the Council and waited for everyone’s reactions. The air was heavy with their resentment, the goodwill of the past few weeks dissipating instantly. The room vibrated with murmurings.

  “They could at least have chosen someone who speaks proper English,” Francis said.

  Hurt, angry, and embarrassed, I could feel my cheeks blushing, my eyes blazing.

  “Perhaps they preferred someone who speaks proper Bangla?” Gordon interjected. “It’s after all the language of those with whom we wish to trade.”

  Francis’ face reddened.

  My hands were steady; I held my head high.

  “You will do well to consider your good fortune, gentlemen,” Arthur said, with barely concealed anger in his voice. “Many independent traders will be more than happy to take your places, should taking direction from Maria prove to be an insufferable burden. They may still do so if this insubordination continues.”

  “Allow me to outline for you the tasks that need immediate attention,” I said. “Someone must go across town to apply to the local Court for permits, and then keep going back until the process is completed. Visit local merchants and artisans and set up meetings, several per day. Rent space to warehouse the goods we receive.”

  “The Council believes in Maria,” Gordon said eventually. “And they’ve given her the authority. Whether you all agree with it or not, it is their will. We’ll be happy to carry out your orders, Maria-ji, our respected Factor.”

  “These are difficult times,” I said. “I need your support. In turn, you’ll have mine.”

  Though most were still skeptical, they acquiesced in order to keep their positions secure within the Company.

  I plunged into the arduous task of establishing a new English Factory in Hooghly. On the ground floor of the house, I set up an office from which we conducted most of our trade. Soon the local brokers began visiting me. My pregnancy was visible now through my sari layers and I needed to rest often.

  There was still no news from Cossimbazar.

  Slowly, the Factors began to fall in line, but I was still not fully used to the rigors of being a leader.

  One day, hearing footsteps at the door, I rose from my desk by the window and went to answer it.

  As I opened the door, I almost staggered back from the shock and joy of the sight I beheld. Job stood, pale, gaunt, and shivering, Idris behind him.

  “My love.” I clung to Job. “Welcome back.”

  He smiled faintly, his eyes dark-rimmed, his breath warm on my cheek. “My dear heart.” As I led him inside the house, he asked, “Our baby. Three more months?”

  I nodded, breathing in the staleness of his tattered linen robe. My courageous husband. His hair was disheveled, his shoes mud-crusted, a finger-nail was missing. There was a deep purple scar on his right hand. I could only imagine the intrigue behind his escape, the harrowing journey, the secrecy he had had to maintain at every step. How many more such scars might he be concealing beneath the stained clothing?

  Idris followed us at a respectful distance, his clothes soiled, face filthy with dust, the lines on his forehead deeper than I’d ever seen them.

  After they had bathed and eaten, we lounged in the garden under swaying palm trees as Idris related the sad news about our magnificent mansion in Cossimbazar. The army had confiscated the furniture, artwork, and our store of saltpeter, looting it all with glee. As a last act, they’d torched the building. Within hours the Factory had been reduced to a smoldering skeleton, with only a few blackened columns standing witness to the turbulence. Every inch of the ground was strewn with stones, charred wood, and ash. The trees were scorched. Wild dogs prowled the area, growling menacingly.

  The marble-white beauty of the mansion existed only in our memory.

  Idris shook his head. “We lost five dear friends, five brave souls.” Jas and Pratap were no more. Both had died fighting to keep the army from advancing to our mansion. Their bodies had been thrown into the river by the Nawab’s soldiers.

  I sat stiffly. Lines of misery etched in the corners of his eyes, Job’s gaze seemed to search the past. I could see he was mulling over his plans, decisions, and actions time and time again.

  “The sahib fought with his sword and killed many enemies,” Idris said.

  “Still, I couldn’t save five of our courageous people,” Job said.

  “I saw them acting as a shield from behind a barricade,” Idris said. “I shouted out a warning, but it was too late. They were trampled by that evil man’s elephants and died on the spot.”

  “My wounds bother me far less than their deaths.” Head down, shoulders hunched, Job sobbed. I’d never seen him shed tears before. He groaned as though in protest, sounding utterly desperate, covering his eyes with a handkerchief.

  He stood up suddenly. “I’m going to the punch house.”

  “When will you return?”

  He didn’t answer me. He spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening in that dark, noisy, and rowdy place, which he had shunned in the past, and returned late in the evening. That night in bed, Job showed me the wounds on his body, at least ten, deep and purple. Wincing, he touched the gash on his upper arm.

  “How did you get that one?” I asked.

  Eyes swollen with tiredness, he said, “When I severed the iron chains placed across the river by the evil Nawab. You see, he was trying to stop boats from leaving.”

  I woke up in the middle of the night. Job wasn’t in bed. I peeked from the top of the stairs and saw him pacing about the house, a ghost in his white nightclothes.

  In the next few days, as we mourned the loss of our staff, the air remained heavy with grief, the days bereft of their zest. Had Job given in to the Nawab, our staff would still be alive and the Factory would still be standing.

  In due time, when our moods had lifted a bit, I asked Job about the incident of the metal chains. “What exactly happened?

  “Oh, I severed them.”

  “How?”

  “With blows from my sword. I was determined not to be held down.”

  Idris, who stood nearby, joined in the conversation. “It happened at dawn, with the sun as a brilliant witness to what we were about to do. Residents of our town who happened to be on their way to the mosque or the temple gathered and watched. They were on our side.”

  “I took off my turban and waded into the river,” Job said. I could picture the scene as he described it, even the way his body shivered in the cold water. He unsheathed his sword, gripped it, bent it at an angle, readjusted it, and went after the chains. He struck time after time. A huge clattering sound followed as the chains began to fall into pieces. One struck him on his upper arm. Onlookers also jumped into the water. Some helped him stop the bleeding while others began collecting and removing the metal pieces.

  “Where was the Nawab?” I asked gleefully.

  “The bastard was probably resting in his bed, a smug smile on his face, dreaming he still had his English enemy locked up in the Factory.” Job paused to catch his breath, looking decidedly smug himself.

  “Who would dare to wake up a blood-thirsty ruler?” Idris added. “Pity the poor fellow who brought him the news the next morning. His was probably the
first of many heads that had rolled. By then, Job sahib and I were long gone.”

  I stared at Job. “Where did you find such strength?”

  “Why, from you, dear! I pictured your beautiful face and that helped me strike the chains time after time, even when I thought I could strike no more.”

  “The rest of the journey wasn’t easy, either,” Idris continued. “Our boat took us to a tiny village where we hid for a few days.” He paused, as though urging Job to speak. In saving each other from death, they’d formed a bond.

  “I couldn’t eat or sleep or speak with anyone for fear of being found out,” Job said. “Oh, the pain of having to flee your own Factory, your own mansion, like a common thief. To lose your possessions and your status. I wanted to slit that bastard’s throat. Only now I realize I was ill-prepared and too proud to see my shortcomings.” Job met my eyes and added, “You were right.”

  I drew closer and held his hand.

  With what seemed like grudging respect for the Nawab, he added, “His forces were far better organized and led than I ever thought possible. They fought well.”

  “But the sahib will forever be remembered by the townspeople for his valor,” Idris said after a while. “In the next few days when we were far away, we began to talk to local people. No matter where we went, I heard the story repeated. ‘You’re Job sahib?’ people would ask. ‘You defied the tyrant who taxes us into poverty? You’re our Prince of Swords.’”

  Sad, depleted, haunted, Job stared into space. “I am told Charles had a hand in it. He’d conspired with the Nawab against me. He certainly had enough inside knowledge to give the Nawab the upper hand. If I ever get my hands on him …” His eyes flashed, and for an instant he was the Job of old. Then his shoulders slumped and he transformed again into a broken man.

  “Charles can’t get away with this,” I said. “Where’s he now?”