by Shona Patel
It was on that premonsoon night, in the moonlit courtyard of his village home, that eight-year-old Biren Roy watched the purpose of his life unfold. It came to him in the parting of the clouds and the full brilliant light of the moon, an uncommon zeal that would guide his journey forward.
CHAPTER
17
Owen J. McIntosh
Proprietor
Victoria Jute Mills
20th July 1880
Dear Mr. Anirban Roy,
Please accept my sincere condolences for the untimely and tragic death of your son Shamol Roy. Shamol Roy was an exemplary human being of great integrity and impeccable courtesy. He was also my most promising employee, and had the potential to go far in his career. I feel privileged to have known this young man. I saw him as a devoted husband and father and admired his honorable commitment to his family.
I would like to reassure you, Victoria Jute Mills is deeply committed to ensure your family is financially compensated in every way. To that effect, you will continue to receive Shamol Roy’s full monthly salary for the next sixteen years—by which time he would have reached the retirement age of fifty—and this includes any bonuses he may be entitled to. After that, his widow will continue to receive a monthly pension until the time of her death.
Mr. Prabhu Mallick, our mill manager, will explain to you in detail the pension scheme and other compensations available to Shamol Roy’s widow. You can also personally contact me if there is any other way I can be of further assistance.
Besides general compensation, I would like to put forward a separate proposal, which I hope you will take into serious consideration. This pertains to the education of Shamol Roy’s sons. I am well aware how committed he was toward the education of his children. I have from him a letter expressing his wishes to admit them to an English school, and to that end I am willing to personally sponsor their schooling in Calcutta. Victoria Jute Mills is affiliated with one of the best schools for boys in India: the Saint John’s Mission. The school offers full boarding, excellent teachers and is noted for its high scholastic record. Many of Saint John’s students go on to study in Oxford and Cambridge on full merit scholarships. Since admission to Saint John’s requires the signature of a British legal guardian, I am willing to offer my services to that effect.
It is my understanding that Shamol Roy would have wanted the best possible education for his sons. I would like to assuage any concerns you may have about the Christian/religious orientation of this institution. Although Catholic missionaries run Saint John’s, it is not mandatory for students to convert to Christianity. I can get a written statement to that effect if you wish. I leave it to Prabhu Mallick to explain the details. One thing to keep in mind is the school session begins in September, which leaves us only six weeks. I will need your answer in the next few days to ensure the older boy’s placement for this academic year. The younger child will have to wait until he is eight before he can be admitted.
I would appreciate your answer at the earliest.
Very truly yours,
Owen McIntosh
“It is completely out of the question,” Biren’s uncle exploded. “These Christian schools, all they care about is religious conversion. They bribe us poor Indians with education and the promise of opportunity and betterment. They are destroying our culture and killing our religion. These belaytis will do anything to control our country.”
“But the letter said conversion to Christianity was not compulsory,” said Grandpa. “Think of the opportunity. The boys will get a good education. It will give them a head start in life. Nobody gave us this chance.”
“But it is an English education,” argued the uncle. “English education gives Indian students false hopes. They will never be on the same rung as a white man. The belaytis dangle the carrot, then they take it away. What is wrong with the village school? Biren can continue to attend the school and pass his matriculation. After matriculation he will be old enough to go to work. He can easily get a job in the jute mill. As it is, he has already impressed McIntosh. Who knows, he may even give Biren an equal or better paying job than Shamol. After that it will be up to Biren to prove himself and move up the ladder.”
“Shamol would not like that,” said the grandma, wiping away a tear. “He always said he wanted his sons to get a better education, to go further than he did. He never wanted the boys to work in the jute mill. There is no future there. Shamol was so brilliant in his studies, but he had to give everything up and go to work to support our family, because you...you...” She sighed. “You are ill.”
“Ill, my left foot!” exploded Grandpa in a fit of rage. “You are bone lazy, that’s what you are. Too high and mighty for any job. So many jobs have come your way but you turn them down because nothing is good enough for your highness. Even if you did a part-time job—which you know very well you are capable of doing—it would have eased Shamol’s burden. He would have had time to pursue his own studies. Shamol was the brilliant one and look at the kind of job he did! Did he once complain? Now you are trying to deprive his children of an opportunity he has paid for with his life. What is wrong with you? Now, you stop all your addabaaj under the banyan and get some kind of a job. It’s high time.”
“Baba, please calm down,” pleaded the older daughter-in-law. “We all want the best for Biren and Nitin. I just don’t think Shamol would have wanted to send his children so far away from home, considering the current circumstances. We think the children should stay close to their mother and be a comfort...”
She froze and her hand crept up to her mouth.
Shibani stood in the doorway with her shaven head and her white borderless sari. Her face was waxen, her eyes cold and dead. She rarely showed herself in public and, when she did, her presence was chilling.
“You really think so?” Shibani said in a soft voice. “You really think my two sons are a comfort to me, sister-in-law?” she repeated, her voice turning hard and cold like marble. “Then, why are they kept away from me? Why are they never allowed to come close to me? Why can I not cook for my own boys, feed them with my hand, comb their hair like a mother should? Because my curse will contaminate their young lives, is it?”
Nobody said a word.
“My children have already been taken away from me,” Shibani continued. “Do they even see me as the mother they once knew? Look at me!” She spat out the words. “Just look at me, will you? Is this the girl you brought into this house as your daughter-in-law? Is this the woman who gave birth to your two grandsons? Is this the way God wanted me to be, or is this your doing? You tell me.” Her eyes, brittle with anger, snapped from one face to another. She exhaled sharply and, as she did, the flat look returned. It drifted over her eyes like scum, covering a splash in a pond. “I lost my beloved husband to snakebite, but I will not lose my sons to ignorance.” Her voice was deadly. “I, as their mother, may not have a say in their future, but remember this—if you don’t let my sons go, I will hang myself. The only reason I am keeping myself alive is to protect my sons, to see their future is not marred.” She looked at her brother-in-law without blinking. “If you stop them from going to this school, you will have a widow’s death on your hands, brother. And this family will be doubly cursed. Remember that.”
With that, she turned around and vanished in a whisper of white, leaving her ominous words hanging like a shroud over the stunned family.
CHAPTER
18
Willis Duff, the twenty-two-year-old assistant engineer of Victoria Jute Mills, felt dreadfully inadequate about his wardrobe. After living three years in the small jute mill town, he had sacrificed fashion for the white ducks and bush shirt he wore to work every day. Now he was going to Calcutta on his furlough and his clothes looked hopelessly avuncular. Willis had looked forward to the Calcutta trip with feverish anticipation. He had saved up a nice bundle of pay and dreamed
of cocktail luncheons at the Great Eastern with the pretty ladies of Calcutta who would hopefully grant him a kiss or two.
Any spare moment he could find, Willis sat at his office desk and browsed the mail-order catalog that had arrived from Cuthbarton and Fink, fine gentleman clothiers of Calcutta. He was just earmarking a page for white pique bow ties when his boss, Owen McIntosh, summoned him to his office.
“Duff, I have a job for you,” he said.
Willis Duff’s heart sank. Was his furlough going to be canceled?
“There is a young Bengali boy I want to send with you to Calcutta. Do you recall the godown clerk, Shamol Roy, who died from a cobra bite some months ago?”
Willis nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He remembered the fine upright young man in his spotless white Indian clothes that looked out of place in that dank and filthy godown. Willis had felt sorry for the man and given him his last butterscotch toffee.
“This boy is Roy’s son,” Owen continued. “Your job is to take the lad and deliver him to the representative of Saint John’s Mission. The priest will meet you both at the steamer docks. He will be carrying documents for the boy. You will need him to sign the documents when you release the boy.”
Willis was so relieved to hear his furlough was not going to be canceled that his face broke into a grin. “That should be no problem at all, sir. No problem at all.”
Owen McIntosh looked at him grimly. “I want you to take this assignment very seriously, Duff. I am entrusting this lad to your care. He is a plucky little fellow, very intelligent. I suspect he has never left the village before, so he is likely to be nervous and upset. Be gentle with him, will you? Don’t leave him alone in the cabin and go off drinking with lascars on the riverboat. I am more than a little worried about the lad, to tell you the truth. He was very attached to his father. I want to make sure he is all right.”
“Of course, sir. I fully understand. Please rest assured.”
Owen’s cryptic words had a sobering effect on Willis. He had indeed toyed with the idea of wild drinking and gambling on the riverboat with the captain and crew, but now he would have to be careful.
* * *
Willis Duff had only to take one look at Biren Roy to feel his heart melt. An orphan himself, he could well understand the terror and uncertainty he saw in the young boy’s eyes as he stood clutching his uncle’s hand at the steamer ghat. The wee lad looked small and lost in his new travel clothes—an oversize pair of matching sky-blue shorts and shirt that flopped on his skinny frame. His only luggage was a cloth bag worn on a long sling that hung past his knees.
“Traveling light, are we?” Willis joked. Seeing the blank look on both their faces, he tried again, speaking more slowly. “Is that all the luggage you have? Only one small bag?”
“Yes,” said the uncle. “Biren is carrying two sets of clothes. The school said not to bring anything else. They will provide everything—uniform, books, toiletries, even pocket money.”
“I dare say they’ll throw in some whiskey, as well.” Willis winked at Biren, who shied behind his uncle.
“No whiskey, no whiskey,” said the uncle uneasily. “This is a strict Christian institution.” The boy peeped out and gave Willis an impish smile. Intelligent little fellow, Willis thought. The uncle on the other hand looked as though he would not have understood a joke even if it jumped up and bit him you-know-where.
“Quite so, quite so,” Willis agreed. He turned to Biren. “Say, Biren, do you know how to play fish?”
Biren’s face brightened. “Can you catch fish from the steamer boat?” he said, momentarily forgetting his shyness.
“Not that kind of fish.” Willis laughed, delighted to hear the boy speak English. He had worried how they were going to communicate. “This fish is a card game. I can teach you how to play it, if you like. But you know what? We may not even have time to play card games. Have you ever traveled by steamer down the big delta to the sea?”
Biren shook his head.
“Oh, you’re in for an adventure, wee man! We will be sailing around the Bay of Bengal, then all the way up the Hoogly River to Calcutta.” As he talked, Willis drew a map on the riverbank with the toe of his canvas boot. “There is so much to see! We will pass through mangrove forests. I am taking my binoculars so we can do some animal watching. You will see gharial crocodiles—you know, the small fish-eating variety with pointy teeth and a funny lump on their nose? Plenty of river otters and monkeys and, who knows, maybe even a Bengal tiger. We will have a cracking time, I guarantee you.”
“What time will the steamer depart?” asked the uncle.
“Oh, I reckon it will be sundown by the time we set sail. We have to wait for the tide to come in. However, there is no need for you to wait here so long, Mr. Roy. Please do not worry about Biren. I will take good care of him. Also, I will be in Calcutta for the next six weeks and I will visit him in the school and make sure he’s doing all right and bring back news for you.”
“Shall I leave, then?” Uncle asked Biren in Bengali.
Biren nodded and turned his face away.
Willis held out his hand to Biren. “All right, wee mannie, let us go take a look at our cabin and settle you in. We can play a game of fish or two out on the deck, what do you say...aye?”
* * *
The riverboat captain was a tall bearded Serang dressed in an embroidered waistcoat and turban. He had under him a contracted crew of lascars who manned the decks. They were strong island people with dazzling teeth and a jaunty walk. Besides the lascars, there were the mistris who shoveled coal and worked in the dark bowels of the engine room as well as cooks, sweepers and other menials who stayed out of sight. The Serang and lascars were natural sailors with the river in their blood. They knew how to feel the pulse of the tide and maneuver the flat-bottomed hull of the steamer through narrow channels and waterways without grounding it on a shoal or sandbank.
Tired after a long and confusing day and lulled by the gently bobbing boat, Biren dropped off to sleep on a long chair on the deck. He woke up bewildered and disoriented when the steamer gave a sudden lurch and, with a great big hum of its engines, moved forward. Darkness had fallen all around. Biren peered over the railing. Everything looked very far down from the top deck. The riverbank slid by, past the blur of lighted tea shops and chickpea hawkers with their flaming torches. They moved into a dark patch of countryside dotted with swaying lanterns of villagers heading home. The river breeze, moist and balmy, whipped through the deck as the engine picked up speed. The steamer gave a steamy-sounding hoot that dissolved into the rhythmic chug-swish, chug-swish of paddles turning water.
“Ship ahoy!” Willis Duff shouted, pulling himself by the railing to the top deck. “We’re off! Hurrah!”
Biren stood there silently. He held the railings of the deck tightly, his knuckles white, his face turned toward the shore.
“Are you all right, my wee man?” Willis asked kindly. He put an arm around the boy’s shoulders and was surprised to find them shaking. He bent down to peer at boy’s face and was aghast to see it streaked with tears.
“There, there,” he said, squatting down, suddenly at a loss for words. He pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Biren. “Wipe your face. There, there, you are a big boy now, aren’t you? Going to boarding school, in Calcutta and all. Dinna cry, laddie. It will be all right, I promise. I know exactly how you feel, believe me.”
Biren clung to the rails and continued to sob uncontrollably. He wailed with such heartbreaking sorrow that Willis began to worry. How was he going to manage the wee lad? He would fall sick at this rate. Not knowing what else to do, he held the boy and patted his back, but said nothing.
What Willis did not know was the steamer had just passed Momati Ghat. Biren could make out the dim outline of the tea shop and the shape of the flame tree a
gainst the darkened sky. Underneath the tree was a circle of small diya lamps and in the center was the figure of a woman dressed in white. She lifted a diya and held it up high in a blessing as the steamer sailed past.
That would be the last image of his mother Biren would carry in his mind as he embarked upon his brave journey into the unknown world.
CHAPTER
19
Located on the banks of the Hoogly River, Saint John’s Mission covered one hundred and forty-five sprawling acres, enclosed by a moss-covered wall and tall iron gates with the letters SJM welded to the center in large metal cutouts. The Catholic school for boys, with five hundred students ranging in ages eight to sixteen, occupied the front end of the property. There was also a seminary for student priests that looked out toward the river next to a small, steepled church with a mossy bell tower. Several whitewashed buildings nestled in shaded mango groves interlinked by walkways lined with leafy neem trees that gave a dappled shade. Every now and then, a white-cassocked priest sailed out on a bicycle from one clump of trees to disappear into another.
Center stage were the administrative offices and a domed assembly hall built in a typical neoclassical style with a circular colonnade and a prominent cornice. Engraved on the frieze above, decorated with swags and ribbons of laurel, was the mission’s motto: Fungar Vice Cotis. Be as a whetstone for others to be sharpened upon.
Biren was left to wait on a bench outside the principal’s office on the second floor. On the facing wall was a framed picture of the Virgin Mary with melancholy eyes holding a strawberry-pink baby Jesus. The clip-clip-clippity-clip sound of a typewriter came through the open doorway of the next room, followed by a ratcheting slide and a pling. The sound stopped, a chair scraped and a young Indian priest came out of the room with a file in his hand. He had shiny, dark skin and wore open-toed sandals underneath his cassock. He lifted his eyebrows, smiled at Biren and glanced quickly inside the principal’s empty office before swishing off down the corridor. A deathly quiet descended, broken only by the sound of a solitary sparrow chirping on the parapet.