Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  Kesri had never known his brother to think anything through so carefully. Was it you who came up with this plan? he said. Did you think of it yourself?

  Bhim shook his head. Me? No. It was Deeti. It was all her doing. She told me to seek out Bhyro Singhji and she told me exactly what to say to him. She thought of everything. Even this.

  He handed over a cloth bundle: It is a spare dhoti and some sattu. That is all you’ll need. Now hurry!

  September 2, 1839

  Guangzhou

  Yesterday I was again invited to Compton’s print-shop, to meet with Zhong Lou-si.

  It was a nice afternoon so we were able to sit outside, in the courtyard, under the cherry tree. For a while we spoke of inconsequential things, and then the conversation came around again, to the question of a British attack on China. Zhong Lou-si was a little more forthcoming today; he gave me to understand that he has been aware of the rumours for some time.

  After a while he cleared his throat and spoke in a very gentle voice, as if to indicate that he was broaching a difficult and delicate subject.

  Tell me, Ah Neel, he said. You are from Ban-gala are you not?

  Haih, Lou-si.

  We have heard, Ah Neel, he continued, that in Ban-gala there are many who are unhappy with British rule. It is said that the people there want to rise up in rebellion against the Yinglizi. Is this true?

  It took me some time to compose my thoughts.

  Lou-si, I said, there is no simple answer to your question. It is true that there are many in Bengal who are unhappy with foreign rule. But it is also true that many people have become rich by helping the British: they will go to great lengths to help them stay in power. And there are others who are happy to have them just because they have brought peace and security. Many people remember the turmoil of past times and they don’t want to go back to that.

  Folding his hands in his lap, Zhong Lou-si leant forward a little, so that his eyes bored into mine.

  And what about you, Ah Neel? What do you feel about the Yinglizi?

  I was caught off-guard.

  What can I tell you? I said. My father was one of those who supported the East India Company and I grew up under British rule. But in the end my family lost everything. I had to leave home and seek my living abroad. So you could say, that for me and my family British rule has been a disaster of our own making.

  Compton and Zhong Lou-si were listening intently and they exchanged glances when I finished. Then, as if by pre-arrangement, Compton began to speak.

  Ah Neel, Zhong Lou-si wants me to convey to you that he is mindful of the help you have given us in the past and very much appreciates it. Earlier this year, during the crisis, you gave us a lot of useful information and advice. He thinks that there is more that we can learn from you – and as I’ve told you he is now in charge of a bureau of translation and information-gathering.

  He paused, to let his words sink in, and then continued: Zhong Lou-si wants to know if you would like to work with us. In the months ahead we may need someone who has a knowledge of Indian languages. You would be paid, of course, but it would mean that you would have to live here in Guangzhou for some time. And while you are working with us, you would have to cut off your relations with India and with foreigners. What do you think of this?

  To say that I was astounded would not express a tenth part of what I felt: I suddenly realized that I could not answer Compton without picking sides, which is alien to my nature. I have always prided myself on my detachment – doesn’t Panini say that this is essential for the study of words, languages, grammar? This too was why I had liked Compton from the first, because I had recognized in him a kindred soul, someone who was interested in things – and words – merely because they existed. But I realized now that I was faced with a choice of committing my loyalties not just to a friend but to a vast plurality of people: an entire country, and one with which I have few connections.

  Faced with this prospect my life seemed to flash past me. I remembered my English tutor, Mr Beasley, and how he had guided and encouraged my reading; I thought of the pleasure and excitement with which I had read Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift, and the long hours I’d spent committing passages of Shakespeare to memory. But I remembered also the night I was taken to Alipore Jail, and how I had tried to speak English with the British sarjeant who was on duty there: my words made no more difference to him than the chattering of crows. And why should I have imagined otherwise? It is madness to think that knowing a language and reading a few books can create allegiances between people.

  Thoughts, books, ideas, words – if anything, they make you more alone, because they destroy whatever instinctive loyalties you may once have possessed. And to whom, in any case, do I owe my loyalties? Certainly not to the zamindars of Bengal, none of whom raised a finger for me when I was carted off to jail. Nor to the caste of my birth, which now sees me as a pariah, fallen and defiled. To my father then, whose profligacy ensured my ruin? Or perhaps to the British, who if they knew that I was still alive, would hunt me to the ends of the earth?

  And as against this, what Compton and Zhong Lou-si were asking of me was to share the one thing that is truly my own: my knowledge of the world. For years I’ve filled my head with things that serve no useful purpose; few indeed are the places where the contents of my mind might be regarded as useful – but as luck would have it, this is one of them. Somehow, in the course of my life, I have acquired a great trove of information about things that might well be useful to Compton and Zhong Lou-si.

  In the end it was this – not loyalty or belonging or friendship – that swung the balance: the thought that someone as useless as myself might actually be of use.

  I was silent for so long that Compton said: Ah Neel, neih jouh mh jouh aa? Will you do it or not? Or do you need more time to think?

  I put down my teacup and shook my head: No, Compton; there is nothing more to think about. I am glad to accept Zhong Lou-si’s offer; I’d be glad to remain here in Guangzhou. There is nowhere else I need to be.

  He smiled: Dihm saai – it’s all settled then?

  Jauh haih Loi I said. That’s right – it’s all settled.

  The costume that Mr Doughty had chosen for the Harbourmaster’s Ball was a simple one: a couple of loosely draped sheets, held in place by a few pins and brooches.

  ‘A toga, my boy! Best thing the Romans ever came up with! Nautches would be a nightmare without ‘em.’

  The sheets and other accoutrements had been laid out in Mr Doughty’s dressing room. Following his host’s lead, Zachary stripped down to his drawers and banyan and then wrapped the sheets around his body.

  ‘Now bunnow that corner into a little flap and lagow it with a pin – yes, just like that. Shahbash!’

  It took a good hour of tucking and folding before the toga was properly bunnowed and lagowed. By the time they stepped into the baithak-khana for a pre-dinner brandy-pawnee, Zachary and Mr Doughty were identically dressed, in costumes that were held together with pins and brooches and finished off, a little incongruously, with socks, garters and polished shoes.

  At dinner they were joined by Mrs Doughty, who was dressed as Helen of Troy, in a flowing white robe and tinsel tiara. She blushed modestly when Zachary complimented her on her costume. ‘Oh, I shall be cast into the shade by the other Beebees,’ she said. ‘Why, I believe Mrs Burnham has decided to be Marie Antoinette!’

  Here Mr Doughty flashed Zachary a wink: ‘I gather her corset alone is worth a tola or two of pure gold!’

  After dinner they went downstairs and stepped into the hackery-gharry that Mr Doughty had hired for the night. It took them down Chowringhee to the Town Hall, on Esplanade Row, where the ball was to be held.

  The building was one of Calcutta’s grandest, with massive columns and an imposing set of stairs in front. Music was already pouring out of the hall’s four wide doorways when the gharry stopped to deposit its passengers at the foot of the steps. As they joined the flow of guests,
Mr Doughty whispered in Zachary’s ear, pointing out the notables: ‘That’s the Jangi Laat, General Sir Hugh Gough and that over there is Lord Jocelyn, dancing attendance on Miss Emily Eden, the Laat-Sahib’s sister.’

  The Town Hall’s main assembly room had been cleared for the ball: gas-lamps blazed all around it and the ceiling was strung with bunting and coloured ribbons. One of the walls was lined with curtained alcoves where fatigued dancers could catch a little rest, on a chair or a chaise-longue. At the far end of the hall sat the band of a Highland regiment, costumed in kilts and sporrans.

  On reaching the entrance, Mr Doughty came to a halt and gestured expansively at the whirling dancers, the glittering band, the lavish decorations and the brilliant lighting: ‘Take a dekko, Reid: it’s not often that you’ll see such a chuckmuck sight!’ And Zachary had to admit that the spectacle was indeed as splendid as any he had ever seen.

  Scarcely had he had time to look around when Mrs Doughty took hold of his toga-draped elbow. ‘Come along now – I’ll introduce you to a couple of lassies and larkins.’

  ‘Oh but Mrs Doughty,’ Zachary protested. ‘I was going to ask you for the first dance.’

  Mrs Doughty dismissed his offer with a laugh. ‘You can do your duty by us Beebees later. The missy-mems would never forgive us if we monopolized you from the start.’

  It took only a few introductions for Zachary to discover that many of the missy-mems at the ball had read about him in the Calcutta Gazette and were keen to know more about his travels. He found partners aplenty, and between the punch, the music and the dancing, he was soon having a rollicking time.

  But even so, when Mrs Burnham stepped into the hall, Zachary did not fail to notice her entrance: she was dressed in an unusual and eye-catching costume – a wide silk skirt, with a very narrow waist and tight bodice. Her lavishly powdered hair was piled high on her head, like a great white beehive.

  Mrs Burnham was immediately swept off to the floor by Mr Justice Kendalbushe. After that Zachary caught only occasional glimpses of her within the whirling throng: although she gave no sign of having noticed his presence his eyes kept straying in her direction. Yet he would not have ventured to ask her for a dance if Mr Doughty had not suggested it: ‘Have you put your name on Mrs Burnham’s dance-card yet? It’s the tradition at the Harbourmaster’s Ball for the young Tars to give the Beebees a whirl. You’d better look to your duties, my fine young chuckeroo.’

  It was not until midnight that an opportunity arose: during a pause in the music, finding himself elbow-to-elbow with Mrs Burnham, Zachary bowed: ‘I wonder if you would care to dance, Mrs Burnham?’

  She looked at him with a frown and for a moment he thought he was going to be rebuffed. But then she shrugged in her usual imperious way. ‘Well I do not see why not: it is the Harbourmaster’s Ball after all, so one mustn’t be too particular.’

  The band was playing a polonaise and they began to circle sedately to its rhythm. Although the tempo was slow, Zachary noticed that Mrs Burnham was not breathing easily; he soon became aware also of an odd, creaking sound, like that of bone scraping on bone. He had been at pains so far not to look at Mrs Burnham too closely, but a quick glance showed him that her bustline was even more ample than usual: he realized then that her corset had been pulled so tight that it was now creaking under the strain.

  Averting his eyes, he said quickly: ‘It’s very crowded, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ekdum! A dreadful squeeze,’ she agreed. ‘And so frightfully hot! I can scarcely breathe.’

  The band switched to a waltz now, forcing them to quicken their pace. After a few minutes of energetic whirling Mrs Burnham’s face became so florid as to cause Zachary some concern. He was about to suggest a break when she pulled her hands free and clasped her palms to her chest.

  ‘Oh Mr Reid! I’m suffocating!’

  ‘Shall I lead you to a chair, Mrs Burnham?’

  ‘Would you please?’

  Zachary looked to his right and to his left, and finding no chair on either side he turned on his heel to see if there was one behind him. Instead he spotted a curtained alcove, only a step away: a tug on the curtain revealed an unoccupied chaise-longue inside, illuminated by a cluster of candles.

  ‘There’s a couch in here, Mrs Burnham.’

  ‘Oh thank heaven …!’ She hurried over to the chaise-longue and eased herself into it. ‘Please Mr Reid – would you be kind enough to draw the purdah? I wouldn’t care to be seen in this condition.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Drawing the curtain across the entrance, Zachary turned to look at Mrs Burnham’s face: there were scarlet patches on her cheeks and she was still labouring to catch her breath.

  ‘Would you like me to fetch someone? Mrs Doughty perhaps?’ said Zachary. ‘Maybe she could help?’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Reid!’ cried Mrs Burnham. ‘I fear there isn’t time. What if I have a seizure while you’re gone?’

  ‘Is it as bad as that?’ said Zachary, in alarm.

  ‘Yes, there is not a moment to lose.’ She patted the spot beside her, on the chaise-longue. ‘Could you come here for a minute, Mr Reid?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  After he had seated himself she turned her back to him: ‘I would be most grateful, Mr Reid, if you could undo the buttons at the top of my gown. You will see there the end of a leather fastening. All you need to do is to pull on it.’

  Zachary was quite nervous now, but he swallowed his apprehensions. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Fortunately the alcove was brightly lit, so he had no difficulty in locating the cunningly concealed buttons of her gown. When he had tweaked them out of their silken eyes, the cloth parted, just as she had said, to reveal something that looked like a leather shoestring. He gave it a tug and there was a loud creak, followed by a sudden easing in Mrs Burnham’s constricted posture.

  ‘Oh thank you, Mr Reid! You’ve saved me – I’m most grateful!’

  Now, as Mrs Burnham’s bosom began to rise and fall, in a steady rhythm, Zachary’s eyes were drawn over her shoulder, to the jewelled pendant that lay at the centre of her chest. On its tip, suspended just above the bustline of her gown, was a sparkling diamond: it pointed towards the triangle of velvety darkness where began the valley that ran between her breasts. The dark little hollow seemed to grow when she exhaled: Zachary’s gaze was drawn so powerfully towards it that he unconsciously edged a little closer.

  Mrs Burnham in the meantime, had braced herself for an even deeper intake of breath: squaring her shoulders, she suddenly flung back her arms, in the manner of a bird spreading its wings. The motion carried her right hand towards Zachary in such a fashion that the tips of her fingers brushed lightly across his lap.

  The touch was no more than the skimming of a feather, but it drew a muted shriek from Mrs Burnham’s throat: ‘Oho!’

  Quicker than Zachary could move, she whipped around, with her eyes wide open. He too looked down now, following her gaze. He saw to his horror that his toga had parted to reveal his drawers: the fabric had risen through the folds of the white sheets, and was now standing poised over them, like a tent hoisted upon a pole.

  He snatched at the cloth, hurrying to cover himself, but it was already too late. Mrs Burnham had collapsed against the armrest of the chaise-longue, with her eyes shut and her hands clasped to her chest.

  ‘Oh! Oh! Oh! … Never did I think …! Not in a hundred years …! Oh my eyes! … If I could but wipe them clean …!’

  Zachary had turned a colour that was closer to mauve than red; such was his shame that he could think of nothing to say except: ‘Oh please, Mrs Burnham, please – I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Is that all you can say?’

  Zachary’s throat had gone dry; if he could have fainted from mortification he would gladly have done so – but his treacherous body offered him no such relief.

  ‘Look, Mrs Burnham,’ he mumbled, ‘it’s just that I’ve been rather ill of late.’

  She made a hissi
ng sound and he began to fumble for words: ‘You got’a understand, it just happens sometimes. It’s like having a pet that sometimes slips its leash.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘Is that what it is, a pet?’

  Zachary was now incoherent with shame. ‘I’m sorry …’ He stood up and reached for the curtain. ‘That’s all I can say, Mrs Burnham – I’m sorry. I think I’d better go now.’

  He had thought that she would be glad to see the last of him but he was wrong. She stopped him with an emphatic gesture. ‘Absolutely not! I will not hear of it! I cannot let you go back to the dance, Mr Reid, my conscience will not allow it! If a woman of my age can cause your … your pet … to misbehave like that then I dread to think of the antics that may be provoked by some fetching young missy-mem. And can you imagine, Mr Reid, what would happen if some tender little pootlie were to have an encounter with your … pet? Why, I shouldn’t be surprised if she went completely poggle and ran screaming out of here! Just imagine the scandal if people found out that we had sheltered you on our grounds! Why, I should not be surprised if we were ruined!’

  She paused to catch her breath. ‘No, Mr Reid, I cannot allow it: it would be criminal to set you loose in that ballroom in your condition. You are right to say that you are ill – you are indeed in the grip of an illness, a disease. It is my good fortune that I am neither impressionable nor in the first blush of youth. I am fortunate also in having the blood of a long line of soldiers in my veins. My grandfather fought at Wandiwash, I’ll have you know, Mr Reid, and my father was at Assaye. I am a strong woman and will not flinch from my duty. While you are under my supervision you can do no harm; it is my civic obligation to see to it that you are safely removed from these premises. I will take it upon myself to escort you back to the budgerow. At once.’