Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  By this time Kesri’s personal authority over the men was strong enough for his words to have a steadying effect: through the wrestling pit he had built close personal connections with many of the sepoys, and they had come to trust him. Besides, it was reassuring to them to know that they were serving under a havildar who had campaigned overseas before. As the days went by their performance on the parade ground improved and Captain Mee even went so far as to congratulate Kesri: ‘Shahbash havildar! The men are shaping up well.’

  In late February Captain Mee held a briefing for Kesri and the other NCOs. With the aid of a large map and two interpreters, he explained that their company had been assigned to the Hind, a civilian transport ship that would take them to Singapore, and from there to southern China. Depending on the weather, the first leg of the journey would take fifteen to twenty days; the next might take a little less, but sailing times could not be predicted with any certainty. They could expect to leave after the retreat of the northerly monsoon, and before the onset of the summer rains – probably in March or April, which meant that their departure was now only a few weeks away.

  The length of the voyage came as a surprise even to Kesri. None of his previous sea-journeys had lasted more than a week – it was daunting to think of spending a month or more at sea. It was not that he was concerned about the discomforts of the voyage: what worried him was the question of how to keep up the men’s morale so that they would be in a condition to fight when they reached their destination. Very few of them had ever sailed before and they all harboured that dread of the kalapani – the black water – that was prevalent in their home regions.

  Kesri knew that Captain Mee’s briefing would stir the men’s misgivings and he was not wrong. One day a medical orderly came to tell him that one of the company’s sepoys had suffered a serious bayonet wound. When Kesri went to the infirmary to inquire, the man claimed that he had hurt himself accidentally. But Kesri knew at a glance that he was lying – the wound was in the fleshiest part of the thigh, where it would do the least harm. He guessed that the man had done it to himself, in the hope of getting out of the army with an unblemished record of service, so that he could keep all his battas and perhaps get a pension as well.

  Captain Mee agreed with Kesri that they would have to make an example of this man if they were to prevent an outbreak of self-inflicted wounds: a court martial was quickly convened and the man was given a seven-year sentence of transportation, to be served on Prince of Wales Island.

  *

  Baboo Nob Kissin’s gaze was usually wary and vigilant, like that of a ruminant watching out for hungry predators. But Zachary’s presence often had a transformative effect on him, and now, as he pushed open the door of his stateroom, the Baboo’s eyes grew dewy and moist in anticipation of beholding the object of his devotion.

  A year and several months had passed since Baboo Nob Kissin had last laid eyes on Zachary. Through most of that time he had been in China, with Mr Burnham; he had returned to Calcutta with his employer, on the Anahita. Had circumstances permitted he would have come at once to visit Zachary – but Mr Burnham had decided otherwise. On the very day of their return he had dispatched Baboo Nob Kissin to Patna and Ghazipur, to make inquiries about that season’s poppy crop. Now, having completed his mission, Baboo Nob Kissin had come hurrying to the budgerow, in the spirit of an eager pilgrim: as the door of the stateroom swung slowly open, he saw to his shock that Zachary was lying sprawled across the bed, clothed in nothing but his drawers, with his fingers still fastened on the neck of an almost empty bottle of rum.

  In other circumstances the odour of sweat and liquor would have aroused Baboo Nob Kissin’s utmost revulsion, but this being Zachary he took the signs of drunkenness to be intimations of something unknown and unexpected, some perplexing mystery that would lead him towards illumination. Tiptoeing inside, the Baboo slowed his steps so that he could take full advantage of this rare opportunity for an unguarded darshan: as he contemplated the snoring, sweating figure his heart swelled up with the almost uncon-tainable emotion that Zachary sometimes inspired in his breast, transporting him back to the moment of his epiphany, when he had stepped on the Ibis for the first time.

  That day walking aft, towards the officers’ cabins, Baboo Nob Kissin had heard the piping of a flute, the instrument of the divine flautist of Vrindavan, god of love as well as war. The sound of the flute had aroused a sudden stirring in his vitals. After a moment of alarm he had realized that the rumbling was not intestinal – it had been caused by the awakening of his late Gurumayee, Ma Taramony, who had transmigrated into his own body after shedding her earthly form. He had felt her coming to life and beginning to grow, like an embryo inside an egg, and he had known that the process would end only when the occupation of his body was complete and his own outward form was ready to be discarded, like a broken shell. He had fallen to his knees at the door of Zachary’s cabin; and just then it had flown open to reveal the flute-player himself – a sturdily built young man dressed in shirt and breeches, with a dusting of freckles and a head of dark, curly hair.

  It was a comely vision, not unworthy of a messenger of the beautiful Banka-bihari of Vrindavan: only in one respect was it disappointing and this was in the colour of his skin, which was of an ivory tint and utterly different from the blue-black hue of the Dark Lord. But the Butter-Thieving Imp was nothing if not playful and Baboo Nob Kissin had always known that when the Sign came its carrier would be wrapped in many disguises in order to test his powers of perception. The truth, he knew, would be hidden in some unexpected place – and sure enough, he had found it while examining the Ibis’s crew list: there, recorded against the name ‘Zachary Reid’, was the word ‘black’ under the column of ‘race’.

  Baboo Nob Kissin had needed no other confirmation; it was exactly as he had known it would be: the outward appearance of the messenger was but a disguise for his inner being, an aspect of the flux and transformation of the material world, of Samsara. He had torn the page from the log-book and hugged the secret to himself: it had become his bond with Zachary, the relic that marked the beginning of his own transformation.

  From that day on the barrier that separated Baboo Nob Kissin’s spiritual and material lives had begun to dissolve. Till then he had always been careful to separate the sphere of his inward striving from the domain of his profane existence as a cunning and ruthless practitioner of the worldly arts who prided himself on promoting the interests of his employer, Mr Benjamin Burnham. The transformation initiated by Zachary’s arrival had swept away the embankment that separated the two rivers of Baboo Nob Kissin’s being; like a tide surging over a bund, the love and compassion of his inner life had flooded into the channel of his gomusta-dom and the two streams had gradually merged into one vast, surging flow of love and compassion.

  None of this would have happened, Baboo Nob Kissin knew, but for Zachary’s advent into his life: this was the emissary’s singular gift: that he possessed the power of animating mighty emotions in the hearts of all who came into his orbit – love and desire, rage and envy, compassion and generosity. Yet – and this too was a sign of who he was – the youthful emissary was utterly unaware of the effect he had on those around him.

  The trance was not broken even when Zachary opened his eyes, and snapped irritably, ‘Hey Baboo, I didn’t hear you knock. What’re you gawpin at like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ said the gomusta.

  ‘Like a pig lookin at a turd.’

  Baboo Nob Kissin was not unused to being sharply addressed by the vessel of his devotion; indeed he expected and even craved these outbursts, thinking of them as reminders of the obstacles that lay strewn upon the path he had embarked upon. But for the sake of appearances, he made a pretence of huffiness, puffing up his chest in indignation until it filled out his capacious alkhalla robe: ‘Arré? But who is staring? Just only looking and keep-quieting. Why I should stare? Mind also has eyes no? Earthly forms are not necessary for those who can perceive hidd
en meanings.’

  As with many of the gomusta’s utterances, the meaning of this pronouncement was lost on Zachary. ‘Just wish I’d known you were coming, Baboo,’ he grumbled. ‘Shouldn’a jumped me like that – knocked me flat aback.’

  ‘How to inform? Too much busy no? After returning back from China with Burnham-sahib, I was issued orders to go to Ghazipur to inspect opium harvest. As soon as I could make my escapade I came to catch hold of you.’

  ‘So how was your voyage to China then?’

  ‘Nothing to grumble, all in all. And I also have a good news for you.’

  Zachary sat up and pulled on his shirt. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I paid call on Miss Paulette.’

  This brought Zachary quickly to his feet. ‘What? What was that you said?’

  ‘Miss Paulette,’ said the gomusta, beaming; ‘I met her on island called Hong Kong. She has obtained employment as assistant to an English botanist. They have made nurseries on the island, where they are putting all junglee trees and flowers.’

  Zachary turned away from Baboo Nob Kissin and sank on to the bed again. It was a long time since he had thought of Paulette; he recalled now with a twinge of nostalgia his nightly quarrels with her and how she would step out of the shadows to come to him – but then he remembered also that this Paulette was merely a phantom, born of his own imaginings, and that the real Paulette had subjected him to a deception that he would not have discovered but for Mrs Burnham.

  He rose to his feet, scowling, and turned to Baboo Nob Kissin. ‘Did Paulette ask about me?’

  ‘Most certainly. A copy of Calcutta Gazette had fallen on her hands and she had read the report about you. She was cognizant that all charges were cleared off your head and you were planning to proceed to China. She made copious inquiries about when you would come. She is getting heartburns all the time waiting, waiting. I told that most probably you will sign up on a ship and go. After all you are sailor, no?’

  Zachary response was instantaneous. ‘No, Baboo. I’m sick of that shit – sailing, risking your life every day, never having any money in your pocket. I don’t want to be one of the deserving poor any more.’ He sighed: ‘I want to be rich, Baboo; I want to have silk sheets and soft pillows and fine food; I want to live in a place like that.’ He pointed in the direction of the Burnham mansion. ‘I want to own ships and not work on them. That’s what I want, Baboo; I want to live in Mr Burnham’s world.’

  Zachary’s incantatory repetition of the word ‘want’ sent a shaft of illumination through Baboo Nob Kissin: he remembered that Ma Taramony had always said that the present era – Kaliyuga, the age of apocalypse – was but a yuga of wanting, an epoch of unbounded craving in which humankind would be ruled by the demons of greed and desire. It would end only when Lord Vishnu descended to the earth in his avatar as the destroyer Kalki to bring into being a new cycle of time, Satya Yuga, the age of truth. Ma Taramony had often said that in order to hasten the coming of the Kalki a great host of beings would appear on earth, to quicken the march of greed and desire.

  And it struck Baboo Nob Kissin suddenly that perhaps Zachary was the incarnate realization of Ma Taramony’s prediction. With that everything fell into place and he understood that it was his duty to assist Zachary in his mission of unshackling the demon of greed that lurks in every human heart.

  As to how it could be done Baboo Nob Kissin knew exactly the right means: a substance that had a magical power to turn human frailty into gold.

  ‘Opium is the solution,’ he said to Zachary. ‘That is how people can be made to want: opium can stroke all desires. That is what you must do: you must learn to buy and sell opium, like Mr Burnham. You are most apt for the part.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Baboo,’ said Zachary. ‘I’ve never had a head for business – don’t know if I’d be any good at it.’

  Baboo Nob Kissin clasped his hands together, in an attitude of prayer. ‘Do not worry, Master Zikri – if you channelize energies and indulge in due diligence, you will excel in this trade. You will even surpass Mr Burnham. For thirty years I have done gomusta-giri – all the know-hows are in my pocket. I will intimate everything to you. If you burn the candle and by-heart all my teachings then you will quickly achieve success. Must exert to win, no?’

  ‘But where do I begin, Baboo? How do I start?’

  Baboo Nob Kissin stopped to think. ‘How much money you have got?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Reaching under his mattress Zachary pulled out the pouch that contained the money that Mrs Burnham had given him over the last few months. Some of it had gone to the Harbourmaster’s office, for the settling of his debts, but a good deal still remained: when he untied the string and upended it over his bed, the coins tumbled out in a stream of silver.

  ‘By Jove!’ cried Baboo Nob Kissin, goggling at the glinting pile of metal. ‘Must be at least one thousand rupees. How you got so much?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been doing a few odd jobs,’ said Zachary quickly. ‘And I’ve been careful to save too.’

  ‘Good. This is enough to start – and gains will come quickly.’ ‘So what do I do next?’

  ‘We will start tomorrow only. You must meet me at Strand, with money-purse, at 5 p.m. Kindly do not be late – I will be punctually expectorating.’

  February 18, 1840

  Honam

  Yesterday was the day of the Lantern Festival. During the preceding fortnight, after the start of the festivities of the Chinese New Year, the city had become a vast fairground. Everybody stopped working and many people left to visit their villages. In the evenings the streets would erupt with merry-making; the sky would light up with fireworks and the waterways would fill with brightly lit boats.

  The days went by in a whirl of revelry with the words Gong Hai Fatt Choy! ringing in ones ears wherever one went. Sometimes I celebrated with Compton and his family, sometimes with Asha-didi, Baburao and their children and grandchildren on the houseboat. Every day Mithu would bring me auspicious delicacies from the kitchen: long, long noodles, never to be snipped for fear of cutting short one’s life; golden tangerines with leaves attached; fried rolls, to invoke ingots of gold. By the end of it, I confess, I was quite worn out: it was a relief to set off as usual today, for a quiet day’s work.

  But it proved to be anything but that. Around mid-morning, Compton and I received an urgent summons from Zhong Lou-si. We were both asked to present ourselves immediately at the Consoo House.

  I guessed immediately that the summons had something to do with the ongoing saga of the Cambridge, which both Compton and I had been following with keen interest. The vessel has been becalmed for a while because of a paucity of crewmen – a very unexpected thing, since Guangdong is a province of sailors after all. There’s even a saying here: ‘seven sons to fishing and three to the plough’. Yet a long search produced fewer than a dozen men who were both willing and able to sail an English-style vessel.

  It isn’t that Guangdong lacks for men with experience of working on Western ships. But most of them are reluctant to reveal that they have travelled abroad for it is considered a crime to do so without informing the authorities. This fear is particularly vivid in the community of boat-people, who have often been mistreated by the authorities in the past. This was a major hurdle, since most of the sailors in the province are from this community – very few came forward when the authorities went looking for volunteers. Things reached a point where it seemed that the Cambridge might never hoist sail.

  Compton had been hinting for a while that Zhong Lou-si has been contemplating some unusual measures. Today in the Consoo I discovered what they were.

  The Consoo – or ‘Council House’ – is situated behind the foreign factories, on Thirteen Hong Street, cater-corner to the entrance of Old China Street. It is surrounded by a forbidding grey wall and looks much like a mandarin’s yamen. Inside there are several large halls and pavilions, all topped with graceful, upswept roofs.

  We were led through the compound
’s pathways to a pavilion deep in the interior of the complex. It was a chilly day and the windows were closed but we could see the outlines of a number of men through the moisture-frosted glass: they were seated as if for a meeting.

  Stepping in through a side door we went to join a group of secretaries and attendants, who were standing huddled against a wall, chatting in low voices lo-lo-si-si. In the middle of the room, seated in stately armchairs, were a half-dozen officials, formally dressed, in panelled gowns, with their buttons and other insignia prominently displayed. As the seniormost member of the council, Zhong Lou-si was seated at the centre of the group.

  The proceedings started with the banging of a gong. This in turn set off a relay of chimes that receded slowly into the hidden recesses of the building. A silence descended, through which many feet could be heard, shuffling along a corridor. Then a group of five manacled men appeared, escorted by a squad of tall, armour-c lad Manchu troopers.

  The prisoners were dark-skinned and dishevelled; hushed whispers of haak-gwai! and gwai-lo! greeted their entry. Even I was startled by their wild and wasted appearance. They looked as if they had been dragged out of a dungeon: neither their hair nor their beards had been trimmed in a long time and their eyes were sunken, their cheeks hollow. Their clothing, which seemed to have been especially provided for the occasion, was akin to the usual costume of Cantonese boatmen – loose tunics and pyjamas – but I knew at a glance that they were lascars. They had tied rags and scraps of cloth around their heads and waists, like the cummerbunds and bandhnas that lascars like to wear.

  The guards positioned the prisoners to face the officials, and Compton and I went to stand beside them. A couple of questions revealed that the prisoners’ preferred language was Hindustani, so it was decided that I would translate their words into English and Compton would then relay them to the officials, in formal Chinese.