by Amitav Ghosh
After a few months of family life even the oppressive hierarchies of military rank seemed more bearable. At least you knew exactly where you stood with everyone around you – and coping with the petty tyrannies of naiks and havildars was no more difficult than dealing with his father. And compared with the complications of the marital bed, his transactions with Gulabi were vastly more satisfying.
But even if Kesri had been inclined to stay, he knew it wouldn’t have been feasible. The family had grown accustomed to the money he sent home; and in different ways they had all come to relish the prestige of being closely related to a man who wore the uniform of a power that was increasingly feared and respected. What was more, by the time his leave drew to an end Kesri could tell that his family – all except Deeti – were tiring of having him at home. He understood that the gap left by his departure from home had been filled by the continuing flow of their lives; his return, although welcome at the start, had now begun to disrupt the new currents.
Strangely, all of this added to the poignancy of his departure: it was as if his family were lamenting not just the fact of his leaving but also their acceptance of its inevitability.
A few months after returning to Barrackpore, his family wrote to say that his wife was expecting a child. In due time there was another letter announcing the birth of a son: his father had named him Shankar Singh.
Kesri spent a week’s salary on sweets and distributed them all over the cantonment.
Punctually on Thursday morning, Zachary walked across the lawn, holding in one hand a box of tools and in the other the two books Mrs Burnham had lent him, neatly wrapped in paper.
At the door of the mansion, Zachary was met by a veiled, sari-clad maid who led him through a maze of staircases and corridors to Mrs Burnham’s sunlit sewing room.
Mrs Burnham was waiting inside, austerely dressed in white calico. She greeted Zachary off-handedly, without looking up from her embroidery. ‘Oh, is it the mystery-sahib? Let him in.’
When Zachary had stepped in she glanced up at the maid, who was still standing at the door. ‘Challo. Jaw!’ she said briskly, waving her away. ‘Be off with you now.’
After the woman had gone, Mrs Burnham went to the door and fastened the bolt. ‘Come, Mr Reid. We haven’t much time so we must use it as best we can.’
In the centre of the room stood an exquisite sewing table, of Chinese make, with sinuous designs painted in gold upon a background of black lacquer. Two chairs had been placed to face each other across the table, on top of which lay a slim pamphlet.
Mrs Burnham gestured to Zachary to take the chair opposite hers. ‘I trust you have brought your tools with you, Mr Reid?’
‘Yes.’
Zachary lifted up his wooden toolbox and placed it on the table.
‘Well then, I suggest you tap your hammer on the box from time to time. This will give the impression that you are at work and will serve to allay the suspicions of anyone who might be listening at the door. The natives are prying little bandars you know, and just as curious. Precautions are always in order.’
‘Certainly, ma’am.’ Zachary took out his hammer and began to tap lightly on the lid.
‘I trust, Mr Reid, that you have read and absorbed Dr Richerand’s chapter on the unfortunate shepherd lad?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Zachary fixed his attention on the toolbox, grateful for an excuse to keep his eyes lowered.
‘May I ask what effect it had on you?’
Zachary swallowed. ‘It was very disturbing, ma’am.’
She was quick to pounce on this. ‘Aha! And is that because you feel yourself to be in danger of arriving at a similar plight?’
‘Why no, ma’am,’ said Zachary quickly. ‘My condition is not, I assure you – nearly so serious as that of the shepherd.’
‘Oh?’ The exclamation was not devoid of some disappointment. ‘And what of the Lecture, Mr Reid? Have you studied it with due attention?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Here she reached into her reticule, took out a handkerchief, and proceeded to dab it on her cheeks. The gesture momentarily drew Zachary’s eyes away from his toolbox to Mrs Burnham’s neck, but he quickly wrenched them away and resumed his tapping.
‘Well then, Mr Reid, could you kindly recount for me the ailments that are associated with your condition? I trust you have committed them to memory?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Zachary. ‘As I remember they include headaches, melancholy, hypochondria, hysterics, feebleness, impaired vision, loss of sight, weakness of the lungs, nervous coughs, pulmonary consumption, epilepsy, loss of memory, insanity, apoplexy, disorders of the liver and kidney—’
She broke in with an aggrieved cry: ‘Aha! I notice you have made no mention of various ailments of the bowels!’
‘Why no, ma’am,’ said Zachary quickly. ‘I did not wish to be … indelicate.’
At this Mrs Burnham gave a laugh that forced Zachary to look up from the table again: he could not help but note that two bright spots of colour had now appeared on her cheeks.
‘Oh Mr Reid!’ she cried. ‘If I were so feeble a creature as to be put to the blush by a mention of kabobs and dubbers I would scarcely have shouldered the burden of helping you to find a cure for your condition!’
But even as she was saying this, her words were contradicted by the expansion of the spots of colour on her cheeks. Now, as if to distract herself, she reached for an embroidery frame and picked up a needle.
‘Please do not be concerned about sparing my ears,’ she said, as her needle began to fly. ‘Our missionary sisters have to endure far worse in order to rescue heathens from sin. If you have encountered any problems in your visits to the tottee-connah you may be frank in confessing it.’
Zachary dropped his eyes again to the toolbox. ‘No, ma’am; I have not.’
‘Oh?’ This too was said on a note of slight disappointment. Again she paused to dab herself, a little lower this time, near the base of her throat. Once more Zachary’s eyes wavered and rose from the toolbox to fasten upon Mrs Burnham’s bosom; only with a great effort did he succeed in forcing them to return to the tabletop.
In the meantime Mrs Burnham had reached for the pamphlet that was lying on the table. Opening it, she pointed to a paragraph that had been marked with a pencil.
‘Dr Allgood has lent me a recent paper of his,’ she said. ‘It concerns the treatment of mental disorders and lunacy brought on by this disease. Would you be good enough to read out the marked passage?’
Taking a deep breath, Zachary started to read: ‘The onset of lunacy, brought on by Onanism, may yet be delayed by the judicious use of the following treatments: the application of leeches to the groin and rectal area; enemas with a very mild solution of carbolic acid. In some cases more advanced treatments may be necessary, such as the application of leeches to the scrotal sac and perineum; injections of small doses of calomel into the urethra with a catheter; cauterization of the sebaceous glands and the membraneous portion of the urethra; and surgical incisions to sever the organ’s suspensory ligament—’
Here Zachary was cut short by a cry: ‘Oh!’
His eyes flew up just as the embroidery ring was tumbling out of Mrs Burnham’s hands; he saw that a drop of blood had welled up on the tip of her index finger. Mrs Burnham winced and fastened a fist upon the finger: ‘Oh dear! I fear I’ve given myself quite a little prick.’
Zachary leant a little closer and his eyes travelled from her pricked fingertip to her throat, now flushed with colour. From there they dropped to her bosom, which was covered by a chaste confection of white netting: he saw that the lace had begun to flutter and heave, and he noticed also that with every exhalation, a tiny triangular shadow seemed to appear beneath, to point to the opening of the crevice that had been the cause of his last undoing.
Mrs Burnham, in the meantime, was staring at her finger in dismay. ‘My mother always said,’ she muttered absent-mindedly, ‘that one must be careful with a prick.’
Zachary’s eyes were still fixed on the tiny, almost invisible triangle at the centre of her bosom – and the little shadow beneath the lace now assumed so seductive an aspect that he suddenly had to move his legs deeper, under the table.
The movement was fleeting but it did not escape Mrs Burnham’s eye. Her gaze moved from her finger to his red face, taking in his oddly upright posture and the way his belly was pressed flat against the edge of the sewing table.
Suddenly she understood. A breathless cry broke from her lips: ‘Dear heaven! I cannot credit it!’
Springing to her feet, Mrs Burnham directed a disbelieving gaze at Zachary’s head, which was lowered in shame. ‘Has it happened again, Mr Reid? Answer me!’
Zachary hung his head, speechless with mortification.
A look of pity came into her eyes and she gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. ‘You poor, unfortunate young man! You are perhaps yourself unaware of the extreme seriousness of your condition. But do not despair – I will not abandon you! We will persist, and you may yet avert the fate that awaits you.’
She walked slowly to the door, and after undoing the bolt, turned to look at him again. ‘I must go now to tend to my pri … my wound. I will leave you here to collect yourself. You shall soon receive more materials from me, and when you have studied them we will meet again. But for now, Mr Reid, may I request that you remain here until your seizure has subsided and you are presentable?
*
Over the next few days Shireen did everything she could to erase her meeting with Zadig from her memory. She mostly succeeded, but at times Zadig’s words would rise to the surface of her consciousness like bubbles ascending from the sediment of a pond, catching her unawares: ‘But it is true, Bibiji … Bahram did have a son … You can ask Vico …’
The words would stir her into a bustle of activity: snatching a duster from one of the maids, she would begin to clean the souvenirs that sat on her shelves, most of which had been brought back by Bahram from China: dolls with nodding heads, painted fans, intricately carved ivory balls and so on. Often she would end up facing the luminous square of glass that had Bahram’s portrait on it – and sometimes within its familiar lines she would glimpse shapes that were not quite visible to her eyes. It was like looking at a cloud in which everyone but you can see a hidden shape.
Yet she could see no profit in pursuing the matter. What good could come of exhuming the lives of the dead? Anything she learnt about Bahram would only bring more disgrace upon herself and her daughters – and hadn’t they been shamed enough already?
Then, unexpectedly one morning, a khidmatgar came to say that Vico was at the door and wanted to speak to her.
Vico? Her heart went cold and she sank into the nearest seat.
What does Vico want?
The man looked at her in surprise: What do I know, Bibiji? Why would he tell me?
No, of course not. Send him in.
She took a deep breath and collected herself. When Vico entered the room she was able to welcome him with a smile. Khem chho Vico? she said in Gujarati. Is everything well?
He looked just the same, with his dark, heavy-set body clothed impeccably, in European style, in a pale, beige suit.
Khem chho Bibiji? he said with a lively twinkle in his large, protuberant eyes.
She was reassured by his wide smile and his affable demeanour. Come, Vico, sit down, she said, pointing to a settee.
He had always been reluctant to sit in her presence and he declined now with a shake of his head: No, Bibiji, it’s not necessary. I just came to ask a question – it won’t take long.
Yes?
Bibiji, I would like to organize a small gathering in memory of your late husband. Despite all that has happened, there are many people in Bombay who would like to pay their respects to Sethji.
Oh? Her eyes swept across the room and came to rest on Bahram’s portrait. Where do you plan to do it?
In my village, Bassein – at my home. And of course we would like you to be there too – it wouldn’t be the same without your presence.
And when will it be, do you think?
Bibiji, I want to do it next week.
Why so soon?
Bibiji, I would like to invite Sethji’s friend, Mr Karabedian. He may be leaving for Colombo soon.
She started: Mr Karabedian? You are planning to invite him?
Vico’s eyebrows rose. Yes of course, Bibiji. He was Sethji’s closest friend.
Shireen turned her face away and was trying to think of something to say when a tearing sound ripped through the room. She looked down at her hands and saw that she had involuntarily torn a rent in the loose end of her sari.
Vico had noticed it too.
What is the matter, Bibiji? Did I say something to upset you?
With her agitation in plain view, it served no purpose to pretend. Listen, Vico, she said, in a shaky voice. I have to ask you something …
Her eyes flew to the portrait on the wall and she muttered under her breath: Heaven forgive me for what I am about to say.
Yes, Bibiji?
Vico, some rumours have come to my ears. About my husband.
Oh? Vico’s voice was guarded now and a watchful look had come into his eyes.
Yes, Vico. It is rumoured that my husband had an illegitimate child, a son.
She watched him carefully as she spoke; he was twirling his hat in his hands, looking at the floor.
Of course there is no truth to it, is there, Vico?
He answered without hesitation. You’re right, Bibiji. There is no truth to it.
Even though his voice was steady, she knew from the evasiveness of his gaze that he was hiding something. She understood also that if she did not insist now she would never find out. And at the thought of this her hesitation disappeared.
Vico, tell me the truth. I must know.
He continued to stare at the floor so she rose to her feet and went up to him.
Vico, she said, I know you are a religious man, a good Catholic. I want you to take an oath, on the crucifix you wear around your neck. If it is the truth, then I want you to swear on the Cross that my husband did not have an illegitimate son.
Vico raised his hands to his crucifix and drew a deep breath. But he faltered as he was parting his lips to speak, and his hands dropped to his sides.
Bibiji, you should not ask this of me. I would like to spare you needless grief, but this I cannot do.
At this something came apart inside her. One of her hands flew out and without quite meaning to, knocked a framed picture of her late husband to the floor.
The crash brought a troop of servants into the room: Bibiji? Bibiji? What happened?
Shireen could not face them and was glad when Vico took charge, in his accustomed manner.
It was just an accident, he said to the servants, in a brisk, offhand voice. Bibiji had a giddy spell. Bring me her smelling-salts – she’ll be fine in a minute.
The fact that Shireen had slumped into a chaise-longue lent this some plausibility. After a few whiffs of her smelling-salts she was able to sit up again. Once the floor had been cleaned she waved the maids out of the room and told them to shut the door.
All right, Vico, she said. Now tell me: who was the boy’s mother?
A Cantonese woman, her name was Chi-mei.
Was she a – a tawaif? Some kind of dancing-girl? A woman of the streets?
No, no, Bibiji, not at all. She was an ordinary person, a boat-woman. You could say a kind of dhobin – she used to wash clothes for foreigners. That was how Sethji came across her.
And how old is the boy? What’s his name?
He is a young man now, in his mid-twenties: Sethji used to call him Freddie – short for Framjee. But he had a Chinese name too, and a nickname – Ah Fatt.
Where is he now? Where did he grow up? Tell me about him, Vico – now that I know about him, I need to hear more.
Bibiji, he was brought up by his mother, in Canton. Sethji was alwa
ys generous with them. He bought her a big boat and she turned it into an eating place. She did quite well, I think, at least for a while. But she died some years ago.
And the boy, Freddie, did he work in the eatery?
Yes, he did when he was little. But Sethji wanted to give him a proper education so he hired tutors for him and made sure that he learnt English. But still, the boy didn’t have an easy time of it. In Canton even ordinary boat-people are treated like outcastes and he wasn’t even a boat-boy.
Shireen could not sit still any more. She went to a window and looked out towards the sea.
Vico, there is something you must do for me.
Yes, Bibiji.
I want to meet quietly with Mr Karabedian. The family must not know, not even my daughters. Can you arrange this? Why not, Bibiji?
How will you do it?
After a moment’s reflection, Vico said: Bibiji, let us do it this way. You inform your family that my wife has invited you to visit our house next week and that we will take you to Bassein in a private boat. They can’t raise any objection to that, no?
No.
And the rest you can leave to me.
October 20, 1839
Honam
Quiet though it is, Honam Island is not without surprises. Nearby lies a Buddhist monastery which is said to be one of the largest in the province. It is called the Haizhuang or ‘Ocean Banner’ monastery – Vico used to talk about it; I’d heard from him that there were many Tibetan monks living there.
I started visiting the Ocean Banner Monastery soon after I moved to Honam. It is a vast honeycomb of a place, with monumental statues, ancient trees and gilded shrines. One could lose oneself there for days.