Goddess of Fire

by Bharti Kirchner

  “From what I hear, he’s on his way to England, where he’ll be perfectly safe. Oh, how wrong I’d been about him, despite your warnings.”

  As though to change the topic, Job looked up at me. “I must tell you how proud I am of you, dear. You’ve done all that is required to get a new Factory started single-handedly. The Council gave you the authority, but it was your knowledge and tenacity that made it happen.”

  A beautiful day bloomed about us and we snatched a few moments of happiness together. Then Job stood unsteadily. “I’m off to the punch house now.”

  Many hours later, he entered through the front door, unsteady on his feet, looking past me, as if I wasn’t there. He didn’t hold me or kiss me. His ardor toward me had cooled; the desire I used to see in his eyes had been replaced by an unfocused expression devoid of any emotion.

  “Please tell me what’s troubling you,” I said, lying in bed next to him. “And if I’ve done anything wrong. I am your wife. I love you and want to help.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,”he said, his voice raspy. “I just need time.”

  In the next few days, some color returned to Job’s cheeks, though not the keen look in his eyes. His hair was newly streaked with gray strands.

  “Should I order some new clothes for you?” I asked. “Have a tailor take measurements?”

  “Yes, but no tunic and trousers for me. I want to dress like an Englishman, in doublets, capes, and breeches.”

  I was preparing to give birth to our baby and needed Job’s help to shoulder the responsibility for our new Factory. It would also divert his attention from the humiliation of defeat at the Nawab’s hands.

  “Would you like to pay a visit to Anwar, the clove merchant?” I asked him one morning. “Make sure he fulfils his promises. And, while you’re at the bazaar, could you look for a new source of indigo dye? The old broker has gone on a pilgrimage to Varanasi. And Job, please darling, put on some clean clothes.”

  A gray curl fell over Job’s eyebrows. The eyes beneath them were vacant. “As you wish, my dear.”

  A few days after that, Anwar stopped by to visit me. “I’ve been meaning to send someone to you for a fresh supply of cloves,” I said.

  “But Maria-ji, I haven’t been paid for last month’s delivery.”

  How could Job forget this?

  “A minor oversight,” Job said later, sounding impatient and weary. “I can’t be expected to remember everything.”

  The following week, I noticed a few more ‘oversights’. There was no supervision, records weren’t properly maintained, the taxes weren’t paid, and the cargo wasn’t loaded onto ships on time. During one especially long and tiring discussion, I tried to make him realize that given the stiff competition, we couldn’t afford such mistakes. We operated from a cramped space, nothing like what we had in Cossimbazar, the scope of our business was far more limited, our position more tenuous.

  Scowling, Job rose from his chair, his hair greasy, his doublet creased. “Idris! Boy! Bring me a peg.”

  Where was the Job Charnock who had once lived for the Company, when his voice boomed in the meeting hall, when he had wanted to form his own trading enterprise? He had changed in so many ways, even in the way he spoke to Idris, the man who had helped save his life.

  We’re English. We don’t like to lose, he’d said. The rest of the Factors noticed Job’s behavior and offered me their support in helping him, but no one knew exactly what to do. The Council began to correspond with me directly, knowing they were no longer able to count on Job to get any task done. He was the Chief only on paper.

  In the ensuing days, the fever Job had succumbed to in the past returned. His skin burned at night under the covers, yet he wouldn’t allow me to summon a physician.

  On the 3rd Day of the Bengali month of Kartik, on a night dedicated to the Moon God, our baby girl was born. She had Job’s oval face and blue-green eyes, my olive skin and dark hair, peach-blushed cheeks. When Job held her, shortly after her birth, his face shone with a light I hadn’t seen in a long time. We named her Mary Moorti Charnock in recognition of our different backgrounds.

  Mary filled my heart with joy. Cradling her in my arms, inhaling her faint milky smell, I felt a certain power. Both Rani Mata and Teema came to meet Mary. These two dear friends filled our house with excited chatter, if only for a brief period.

  The shine on Job’s face at Mary’s birth was short-lived. His features sagged and the fever tormented him intermittently. I remember the day when I saw him bending low over his desk, dressed carelessly in a soiled doublet. Light shone on his papers through the open window, and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he looked at them. As I entered the room, his eyes passed over me, unseeing. Once so vigorous, he now slouched, as though shriveled into a brittle husk.

  “Where is my damn hat, Maria?” he shouted. “Where did you put it, woman?”

  I struggled to keep my voice low and peaceable. “I haven’t seen it, but let me look.”

  “Don’t bother. You seem quite able to keep track of all the business details, but when it comes to your husband’s hat …”

  “Job, please tell me what’s wrong.”

  He remained silent.

  “We have a Factory, not a big one, but it’s a start,” I said. “We have each other, and we have Mary. We can rebuild our life.”

  Job rubbed his chest. “Not so easy for me to make a fresh start. Have you forgotten how I was robbed and beaten by that scoundrel Nawab? We English don’t suffer such humiliation lightly.”

  “My stomach sickens every time I think about it. But this is a different town, a different year, and we’re under a different Nawab.”

  “I’d thought we were a superior military power,” Job mused, eyes momentarily closed as though in a dream. “It’d be a simple matter to defeat a rabble of natives, even with a handful of us Englishman.”

  In the silver light streaming through the room, I prepared myself to speak the truth. My eyes were fiery; my voice low. “It had always bothered me how poorly the Factors treated us and not merely because we were servants. We were deemed inferior because of the color of our skin. The Nawab wasn’t taken seriously, either. But he won! Do you now see that my people have enough courage, enough strategy, and enough training to offer resistance? Do you now have a bit more respect for us?”

  Job cringed and sat back for a few moments. “I do see,” he said finally, a light flickering in his eyes. “Painful as it is for me to admit it, I saw the beauty of Hindustan, but made the mistake of underestimating the people. From now on, we shall have to deal with them as equals. No more denying it. That’s the bitter lesson I’ve taken away from this war.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  What a relief it was to see that our new Factory was finally operating fully! The buzz of activity returned, bringing in a minuscule profit. In the three years that had gone by, lacking commercial space, we let the ground floor of our Hooghly residence function as its headquarters. Although the regional administrators looked favorably upon us, we were as yet small in comparison to the Dutch. I had heard rumors that the Dutch were helping build the Mughal navy and were also suppliers of sailors and troops. As a result, they were given tax concessions, which conferred upon them significant competitive advantages. They often tried to lure the local merchants away from us by offering bigger bribes, as did the independent English traders. We had other worries as well. We could never be sure that either the Nawab of Cossimbazar or Charles, from his perch in London, would sit still, without taking further revenge.

  Still, I spent little time worrying. I had a bigger goal in mind, of acquiring more land for business so we wouldn’t be cramped, and in case we needed to expand in future. I would imagine a wide open space in which to build our Factory, proximity to the river to help in transporting goods. I talked at length with the kitchen help, asking for their suggestions; from experience, I knew they always had their eyes and ears open to developments and possibilities.

  Idris,
who had relatives living outside the town, suggested that I visit a trio of villages, only a few miles’ journey from Hooghly. Though he didn’t name the villages, he said, “Plenty of available land, cheap too, away from the bustle of our town. The villagers are gentle. The area is close to the river where boats can anchor. And you like being near water. Worth a look, wouldn’t you say?”

  The next day, sitting inside a palanquin, I peeked out to see grass plains, an occasional swamp, and scattered, sparsely inhabited villages. Job sat next to me, lost in thought. Soon the scenery changed a little; the plains were replaced by marshlands and rice fields, which would surely be flooded during the hightide.

  Before long, I spotted a tiny hamlet located on the east bank of the river. A flat riverine land, fields dotted with ponds, translucent sunlight, and birds calling raucously from the treetops, just like my birthplace.

  I asked the porters to stop. As the palanquin was lowered to the ground, Job and I climbed out. Insects whirred noisily around us.

  “We’re approaching Sutanati,” one of the porters announced. “It is also called ‘The Swamp’. Do you wish to break your journey here?”

  “I do,” I said.

  We walked past marshland reeking of decaying vegetable matter and strolled toward the village. A vista of mud walls, thatch roofs, palm trees, wind-swept meadows, and ponds matted with water lilies spread out before us, the air ripe with the smell of fresh vegetation. A frog hopped out of its mud nest. A peasant cut through the trunk of a neem tree with a hatchet. A young girl plucked a lotus blossom from a pond’s surface. Women carrying earthen waterpots on their heads paused to look at the new arrivals. A man tended his buffalos. Somewhere a wild dog barked. It all seemed familiar, comforting. In my mind, I could see the possibility of establishing the Company headquarters in a place like this, but I had to consider all business angles and also find builders and artisans here who could work for us.

  “What do these people do for a living?” I asked a porter.

  “Forty or so families live here; my cousin is one of them. They fish, grow crops, make salt, raise their children, take care of their livestock, and sell what little goods they make.”

  “I suppose there are a few craftsmen among them,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, quite a few. They don’t have much work, only what’s needed locally, even though some of them have real skills.”

  “Is this place safe enough to live?” I asked.

  “Not by any means,” the porter replied. “Occasionally, a tiger finds its way here. Sometimes the residents are able to capture the beast, but most of the time it gets away. Then there are crocodiles in the river which float to the shore and prey on the children. During the monsoon, stagnant water makes this the ideal home for mosquitoes. And at any time, bandits can break into a house, steal what they see, and abduct a woman or a child. It’s a pitiful existence. Still, the villagers don’t complain much. They assume it’s their fate.”

  Abduct a woman or a child? My two brothers had also been abducted and later killed. “Doesn’t the zamindar who owns this village provide protection for his people?”

  “No. He sends a revenue officer to collect his taxes, which must be paid on time or else the householder will be punished.”

  “Suppose we lease a patch of land from the proprietor,” Job asked the porter. “Drain those marshes, reclaim the forest areas, use the land for our Factory, and offer protection to the people living nearby?”

  The porter nodded. It made me happy to see Job’s mind working and our thoughts proceeding along the same lines. He was willing to give up his visits to the punch house for hours of pleasure to relocate in a rural setting like this. I could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. Finally, he seemed to be closing the door to the past behind him.

  Job must have read my mind. “You know, this reminds me of the time when I was first transferred to Cossimbazar. Everything was new, many doors open, and I had a big vision. Still, things slipped away from me. This time I’ll act more slowly, more cautiously, but it’ll be just as exciting, if not more so.”

  Delighted, I turned to the porter. “Could you show us the other two villages?”

  The porter led us back to the palanquin. In minutes we were on our way, and soon passed through Govindpur, a village similar to Sutanati, with its water, marshes, and greenery. A short time later, we arrived at Kalighat. A village loomed before us and familiar sights greeted my eyes. A group of villagers squatted on the bank of a pond, washing clothes, while a few others harvested brinjal and kolmi greens from their plots. Children ran back and forth. A cow rested under the shade of a tree, its tail twitching, its hooves, horn, and forehead smeared with ceremonial red dye.

  As we approached the outlying huts, the porter pointed to a small temple. “That’s the famous temple of Mother Kali, and this is the hour of worship. People pour in from neighboring areas to receive her blessings.”

  Indeed, a stream of pilgrims, people of all ages, sizes, and shapes strolled toward the temple. My father’s words came floating to me from the distant past. We have a life beyond the life we live and that should be attended to in sacred places.

  “Even Emperor Aurangzeb is afraid of Mother Goddess,” the porter continued. “He has razed countless Hindu temples and replaced them with mosques, but not this one. You see, she’s not a piece of black marble, she’s infinite energy.” The porter pressed his palms together. “Goddess Kali is kind and loving, but should you displease her, she’ll destroy you with a single blow of her sword.”

  “I must visit the temple,” I said to Job. “Will you come with me?”

  Job looked away. “I’ll wait for you.”

  I mounted the steps, walking alongside a woman hauling a wicker basket of fresh marigold flowers, and a family with several boisterous children, each carrying a coconut. Once I reached the main entrance, I was directed to an inner sanctum reserved only for women and children. Although nearly every inch of space had been taken, I managed to squeeze in. In the center of the sanctum stood an altar containing a statue of the dark-faced, four-armed goddess, her tongue protruding, her hair long and wavy. Standing, I offered my prayers before the altar. At first, the sight of the statue filled me with a sense of dread. I wanted to leave. A woman playing cymbals paused as a saffron-robed priest entered and shut the door.

  Taking his seat on a floor mat, an earthenware lamp with nine lighted wicks before him, the priest began chanting sacred hymns, his voice gentle but powerful, soaring high. This was what made people’s lives bearable, journeying here to receive a blessing from the powerful goddess, to be transported to another realm. More than a mere place of worship, this temple was the heart of this locale. It gave meaning to many otherwise dreary lives, the will to go on.

  For the pushpanjali, the flower offering, I picked up a petal from a large platter, approached the statue of the goddess, and placed it in front of her. Then, still bowing, I went out of the room. As I descended the steps, a vision formed in my mind in bits and pieces, floating clouds accumulating. To build an entire town around this temple for the betterment of the people. To give the villagers better opportunities to earn a living. To set traps for the tigers and crocodiles, banish the bandits. To provide safety for the people so no abductions would take place so people could live without fear.

  Job was waiting for me at the foot of the steps. “Did Kali win you over?” he asked, his voice flippant.

  “She did and she gave me an idea. Instead of renting a piece of land from the proprietor, suppose we buy all three villages and string them together to build a settlement? Our Factory will be a part of it, of course. We’ll also establish pathsalas for children to study with a teacher, workshops for artisans, a market and other amenities, with the temple being at the center of it all. It’ll be lively and peaceful.”

  Doubt clouded Job’s face. “That’s a big proposition, which will require our full commitment and occupy all our free time.”

  “Have you forgotten how much you onc
e adored Hindustan?” I asked sadly, nostalgically. “How you loved the rivers, the trees, the fertile fields, the harvest, the people? How you wanted to live nowhere else? Don’t you think this project will be much more worthwhile than simply building a Factory to benefit the Company?”

  Job looked me full in the face, as though expecting me to say more.

  “I haven’t been able to forget the abduction of my brothers, how horribly their life ended, or Bir’s murder. How can anyone get away with stealing children from their families to use for slave labor and doing away with them? How can someone murder a man and receive no punishment? Whatever power I have, I intend to use it to remedy the inequity.”

  Job smiled faintly; for a moment his forehead caught the ruby-colored rays of the sun. “It is a worthwhile idea. Mind you, we will not only need permission from the Council but also their financial backing. That might not be easy to get.” In a more casual tone, he added, “What should we name the settlement? It has to be a name we English can pronounce easily.”

  “Goddess Kali has already named it for us. Kalikata—the Place for Kali.”

  “Kalikata,” he repeated after me. “The Council won’t object to that name, I should think.”

  I smiled. “You’re so loyal to the Company, dear, but do you have to defer to them at every step? I would fight the Council, if I had to.”

  As soon as we reached home, Mary came running into my arms, nearly tripping on the threshold. My heart melted at the sight of her lively eyes.

  “Mama, Papa, did you find a house for us?” She was almost four years of age; her chubby cheeks reflected the color of her red-orange dress.

  I kissed her cheek. “More than a house, darling, we’re going to build a brand new town.”

  In the weeks to come, I consulted with local architects and money-lenders about our plan and how to go about it so as to least disturb the residents. The advisors’ assessment was that first, the zamindar must be willing to sell the villages and all the rights to us; second, the project would require the labor of hundreds of people, take decades to finish, and cost a considerable sum.