by Amitav Ghosh
Sometimes I would come across groups of Tibetan monks. Recognizing me as an ‘Achha’ they’d smile and nod. I would have liked to speak with them, but there was no language in common. The monks speak very little Cantonese.
But one day, while I was wandering through the inner courtyards of the monastery, I made the acquaintance of an elderly lama. His face is like some ancient river-bed, cross-hatched by deeply scored grooves. Clinging to the cracks and wrinkles, like tenacious plants, are a few white hairs. That day he was sitting in the shade of a banyan tree and he called me over with a wave. As I approached, his lips parted in a smile, revealing a few pebble-like teeth. Then he joined his hands together and uttered a greeting – Ka halba?
Bhojpuri? In Canton? Spoken by a Tibetan lama?
At first I was literally bereft of speech.
The lama told me that he had spent many years in Sarnath, where the Buddha first preached the Dharma; that was where he learnt Bhojpuri. He even has a Bhojpuri name: Taranathji.
I asked what other places he had seen and a flood of stories came pouring out.
Taranathji is almost eighty now, and he has travelled very widely. At the time of the Qing dynasty’s Gurkha wars, he served as a translator for the Chinese commander, the Manchu General Fukanggan; he spent many years in the retinue of the last Panchen Lama, serving as his interpreter when the British sent a Naga sadhu, Purangir, as an emissary to Tibet. He has disputed theological matters with Russian Orthodox priests and has preached in the lamaseries of northern Mongolia. The mountains, deserts and plains that lie sprawled across this vast continent are like rivers and seas to him: he has crossed them many times. He has travelled to Beijing, with the Panchen Lama; he was even present at one of his meetings with the Qianlong Emperor.
He said something that amazed me: was I aware, he asked, that the Qianlong Emperor, the greatest ruler of the Qing dynasty, had written a book about Hindustan?
I stared at him, astounded, and confessed that I had no knowledge of this.
Taranathji’s eye twinkled. Yes, he said, such a book did indeed exist. In the latter years of his life the Qianlong Emperor had been much concerned with Yindu – or Enektek, as the Manchus called it. This was because the Qing had extended the borders of China into Tibet, up to the very frontiers of India, which had resulted in many new problems for them. Perhaps the most bothersome was that of Nepal and its Gurkha kings, who had harboured designs on Tibet. After repeated provocations, the Qianlong Emperor had sent an army into Nepal and the Gurkhas had been soundly beaten. At one stage the Gurkhas had even tried to get assistance from the British – unsucces sfully however, for the East India Company had demurred, for fear of jeopardizing its lucrative trade relations with China. The Gurkhas were thus vanquished, and became tributaries of China; in the years since they have served as Beijing’s chief channel of information about Bengal and Hindustan.
Taranathji told me also that over the years the Gurkhas have given the Qing many warnings about the British and their ever increasing appetites. If China did not act quickly, they had told them, then the British would threaten them too one day; they had even proposed joint attacks on the East India Company’s territories in Bengal, by a combined Gurkha and Qing expeditionary force. If only their warnings had been heeded in Beijing, if only the Emperors had acted decisively at that time, then China would have been in a different situation today. But the Gurkhas’ warnings were ignored because the Qing did not entirely trust them; nor were they convinced that the Firingees the Nepalis spoke of were the same people as the Yinglizis who traded at Canton.
All of this was new to me. After a while I could no longer contain my amazement. I told Taranathji that he was a living treasure and that he should meet Zhong Lou-si.
Taranathji told me then that he knows Zhong Lou-si and has spoken at length with him and other highly placed officials, not just in Guangzhou but also in Beijing. They have questioned him about his travels and he has tried to share his knowledge of the world to the best of his ability. How much of it they have actually taken in he does not know.
It is not a lack of curiosity that hinders the mandarins, he says: their problem lies with their methods and procedures. They have an instinctive distrust of spoken reports; they place far greater reliance on written documents. When they hear something new, they are reluctant to give it credence unless they can reconcile it with everything they have learnt from older books.
Since then I have paid Taranathji a few more visits. Every time I go I am amazed by his stories. When I took up residence in Baburao’s houseboat, I had not imagined that there would be so much to learn, so close by.
The next parcel from the big house arrived sooner than Zachary had expected. He opened it with much trepidation, expecting to find a lengthy reproof of his conduct in the sewing room, but Mrs Burnham’s note made no reference to that incident.
October 25, 1839
Dear Mr Reid
Dr Allgood has lent me another book – a Treatise by Dr Tissot, a very famous Practitioner of medicine. This volume is, I gather, the most comprehensive and up-to-date study of your Condition that is presently available. I have spent two days reading it, and I must confess that it has made me quite ill. My sympathy for you grows ever more keen when I imagine you labouring in the grip of this frightful Malady.
I implore you to read the Book with the greatest care, and when you are done, I shall arrange a Meeting. Until then, I beg you to be mindful of the Author’s warnings – let us hope that it is not too late already.
Yours & c.
C.B.
The letter so alarmed Zachary that his fingers began to shake as he tore apart the parcel’s paper wrappings. Nor did the book’s title – Onanism, or a Treatise upon the Diseases Produced by Masturbation: or, the Dangerous Effects of Secret and Excessive Venery – allay his fears in the slightest. When he started to read, his apprehensions turned quickly into a horrified fascination and he could not stop turning the pages. Dr Tissot provided ample evidence to show that onanism was not only a disease in itself, but that it also served as a gateway for a great host of other diseases: paralysis, epilepsy, feeble-mindedness, impotence and various disorders of the kidneys, testes, bladder and bowels.
These warnings caused Zachary so much disquiet that he was hardly able to sleep or eat, that day or the next. When Mrs Burnham’s next note arrived, he greeted it with relief.
October 30, 1839
Dear Mr Reid
I am sure you have read Dr Tissot’s Treatise by now, and are impatient to discuss its contents. I too am impatient to proceed with your Treatment, and I am pleased to report that an unforeseen circumstance has greatly augmented my ability to be of Assistance to you.
Yesterday, I again sought, and was granted, an interview with Dr Allgood. But it so happened that soon after I was admitted to his study he was called away, to inspect a seizure of the disease in a Native Victim. He was occupied with the young man for quite a while and in his absence I was able to examine a notebook that was lying on his desk – it happened to be the journal in which the doctor records his interviews with your Fellow-sufferers. This has given me a much clearer idea of how the Treatment should proceed.
It is amply evident from the doctor’s notes that any Cure must be preceded by Inquiries of a somewhat Delicate nature. Needless to add, such an interview will require an extraordinary degree of privacy, especially since your condition is such (as was evident at our last meeting) that untoward Occurrences cannot be ruled out.
This has created a Quandary for me, and I have had to rack my brains to think of a Venue for our Consultation. After weighing every possibility it has become apparent to me that the only safe location is the one that I am most loath to contemplate – my own Boudoir. But now that we have set out on this path I can see no other means of Proceeding, and being fortified by the example of such a martyr as Dr Allgood, I am willing to over-ride my reservations for the sake of our Medical Collaboration.
I need scarcely i
mpress on you the attendant Risks, for I am sure that you are well aware that this house is filled, on most days, with an abundance of prying eyes and idle hands. But fortunately the Natives are as whimsical as they are inquisitive, and on certain days and nights they become so possessed by their heathenry that they completely vanish from view, having run off to join in mummeries of one kind or another. One such pageant is to be held Friday week and I think it very likely that the house will be, if not empty, then certainly much less full.
But while this may reduce the Risks, it will not eliminate them, so it will be necessary to employ some other Precautions. My Boudoir faces the river and is on the first floor: it is situated at the corner of the house that is furthest from the budgerow. Below is a small doorway: this is a servants’ entrance, and is used mainly by the muttra-nees who clean my Goozle-connuh (or Powder room). It would be advisable I think, for you to make use of this doorway to effect your entry. It is usually locked at night, but I will make sure that it is off its latch on that day. When you open the door, you will see a flight of stairs – I will leave a candle there for you. The stairs will lead you to my Goozle-connuh, which directly adjoins my Boudoir.
By eleven at night the house will be quiet and the nokar-logue will have left: it will be best if you come then. And of course you must not forget to bring the Treatise, for Dr Allgood is most anxious to have it back.
Yours &c
C.B.
About a year after his wedding, Kesri found himself back in the Arakan. But this time he went not by ship but by land: he marched there with his battalion as a part of a large expeditionary force.
The campaign got off to a bad start. While the force was still being assembled, in Barrackpore, the troops learnt that they would have to bear many of the expenses of the march – they would even have to buy bullocks for the baggage-train with their own money. Nor would there be any extra battas to offset the cost.
This caused a great deal of discontent, especially in one regiment, which was notorious for the laziness and incompetence of its English officers. Feelings ran so high that one morning the regiment refused to parade when ordered to do so.
On the following day the Jangi Laat (or ‘War Lord’ as the Commander-in-Chief was known) arrived suddenly in Barrackpore, bringing with him two British regiments and a detachment of cannon. The sepoys who had refused to fall in were called out and ordered to surrender their arms. When they hesitated to obey the artillery opened fire: many sepoys were killed and the rest ran away or were taken prisoner. Eleven men were hanged and a large number were sentenced to hard labour or transportation to distant islands. The regiment was disbanded, its colours were destroyed and its numbers were struck from the Army List.
The violence of these measures silenced the rest of the force, but morale was low and declined even further on the arduous march down the coast of Bengal. Things got still worse when they crossed the Naf River and entered the Arakan. Their route led through dense forests and long stretches of marshland. The Burmese were experienced in jungle warfare and did not offer the set-piece battles at which the British excelled; nor was the terrain such that the British could fully exploit their advantage in artillery. Provisioning was extremely difficult for there was little cultivation along the route. Most of the villages had been abandoned, so it was impossible to procure food locally.
On top of all this, fevers and disorders of the stomach took a terrible toll. Such was the rate of attrition that the naik of Kesri’s platoon was twice replaced, the second time by none other than Hukam Singh.
One day, Kesri’s platoon was sent ahead of the column to reconnoitre a village. The settlement was just a cluster of huts, shaded by coconut palms – the very picture of tranquillity. But by the time the sepoys got there they were tired out, having been on the march for several hours. In any case, they had passed through many such villages before, without incident. They were not at their most vigilant, as a result of which they walked straight into a close-quarters ambush.
Hukam Singh was in the lead and he was the first to be cut down, with multiple wounds to his thigh and groin. Kesri happened to be with him at the time. He fought off the attackers until the platoon regrouped and drove the Burmese away.
Hukam Singh was still alive but was bleeding profusely. They tied up his wounds, made a litter, and took turns carrying him back. For much of the way Hukam Singh seemed to be in a delirium, alternately thanking Kesri for saving his life and expressing remorse for his past treatment of him. At the end, when they finally rejoined the column and handed him over to the battalion’s medical orderlies, Hukam Singh caught hold of Kesri’s hand and said: You saved my life – my life is yours now. I cannot forget what you did for me.
Kesri didn’t put much store by these words, thinking them to be a part of his delirium. But a few days later he received a summons from Bhyro Singh, who was now a jemadar. Bhyro Singh told Kesri that on the basis of a strong recommendation from Hukam Singh the battalion’s CO had decided to promote him to the rank of naik.
Kesri was so elated that it was only at the end of the interview that he remembered to inquire about Hukam Singh’s condition. Hukam Singh kaisan baadan? How is Hukam Singh?
Bhyro Singh did not mince his words: Hukam Singh’s soldiering days were over, he said. If he recovered from his wounds, he would have to go back to his village.
Many months went by before Kesri saw Hukam Singh again. In the interim the Pacheesi saw a great deal of fighting, in the Arakan and in southern Burma. Kesri was himself wounded again, in an action near Rangoon. Fortunately for him the wound was a ‘lucky’ one in that it wasn’t severe. It also got him a bonus that excited much envy among his friends – so much so that Seetul said: Kesri, tu ne to hagte me bater maar diya!, ‘Kesri, you dropped a turd and killed a partridge!’
As a bonus, instead of having to march all the way back to Calcutta, Kesri returned on a ship: the first steam-powered vessel ever seen in the East – the Enterprize.
After returning to Barrackpore Kesri went to see Hukam Singh at the cantonment hospital. He found him so changed that it was as though he had become a different man. He was walking now, but with a pronounced limp; he was also much thinner, and looked as if the flesh of his face had wasted away. But the changes in his speech and demeanour were even greater than the alterations in his appearance. A look of resigned melancholy had replaced the malice that had so often lurked in his eyes before. He seemed almost gentle, like a man who had found some kind of inner peace.
Over the next few years, the men of the Pacheesi were almost continuously in the field, fighting in Assam, Tripura and the Jungle-Mahals. Occasionally sepoys would go home on leave, and since many of them were related to Hukam Singh, Kesri would occasionally get news of him. He learnt that Hukam Singh had gone back to his village, near Ghazipur, and that Bhyro Singh had got him a good job at the opium factory.
Then one day, some three years after the Arakan campaign, Kesri was summoned by Bhyro Singh, who was now at the very top of the ladder of sepoy ranks – a subedar. His brother, Nirbhay Singh, now a jamadar, was also with him.
Was it true, they wanted to know, that Kesri had a younger sister who was still unmarried?
This was completely unexpected but Kesri gathered his wits together and said yes, it was true that his youngest sister, Deeti, was still unmarried.
They explained to him that they had received a letter from Hukam Singh: he and his brother Chandan had gone to the mela near Nayanpur, and had learnt about Deeti from the sadhus. Hukam Singh was keen to marry her and had asked Kesri to intercede with his parents.
But is Hukam Singh well enough to get married? said Kesri. He wasn’t in good health when I last saw him.
Bhyro Singh nodded: Yes, Hukam Singh has recovered his health, although he will always walk with a limp. He wants nothing more than to marry.
Seeing that Kesri was still unconvinced, Bhyro Singh added: What is to lose? I hear your sister’s stars are not good, and she is already
of an age when it will be hard for her to find a husband. Hukam Singh has a good job and several bighas of land. Isn’t this a good offer?
The truth of this could not be denied: Kesri knew that his parents were worried about Deeti’s marital prospects and he did not doubt that they would be overjoyed by the proposal. And nor would Hukam Singh, in his present state, make an objectionable husband: he was a changed man now; no longer was he the vicious bully he had been in the past.
Yet, something in Kesri jibbed at the thought of handing his beloved Deeti to a member of Bhyro Singh’s family.
Bhyro Singh must have read his reluctance on his face, for he said: Listen, Naik Kesri Singh, there is another thing you should consider: this marriage would link your family to ours and it would make you one of us. And if you were one of us, we would see to it that you were quickly promoted to havildar. What do you say? Why don’t we settle it right now? I am going home on leave soon, and I would like to see Hukam Singh settled and married while I am there.
Kesri realized then that this was not just an offer but also a threat. A promotion had been due to him for a while and he knew that the only reason he had not received it was because Bhyro Singh, as the battalion’s subedar, had not supported it. If he turned down this offer now another promotion might never come his way.
He took a deep breath.
Hokhe di jaisan kahtani, he said. Let it be as you say; I will send a letter home.
Within a few months the marriage was arranged. Kesri was unable to attend the wedding but he heard about it from Bhyro Singh, who told him that everything had gone exactly as it was meant to and the marriage had been duly consummated on the wedding night. Deeti had been found to be a virtuous woman, a virgin.
At the end of the year, he heard from his family that Deeti had given birth to a daughter, by the name of Kabutri.
The next year Kesri went on leave again, for the fourth time in his twelve years of service. He was now the father of three children, one boy and two girls. His second daughter had been born after his last visit and he had yet to see her.