by Amitav Ghosh
Zhong Lou-si asked the first question: Can you ask these men why they were imprisoned?
When I put the question to the prisoners, it became clear that they had already appointed a spokesman to speak on their behalf: he was not particularly imposing in appearance, being slight in build and only of middling height. But there was an alertness in his eyes and a confidence in his bearing that set him apart from the others. His face was wreathed in a curly beard and his sharp eyes were sheltered by a brow that would have stretched across his forehead in a single, bushy line had it not been divided by a couple of deep scars.
He took a step forward, bringing himself closer to me. I saw then that he was even younger than I had thought: his copper-coloured face was completely unlined, and his beard was but the first growth of early youth, still uncoarsened by the edge of a razor.
With every eye on him, the youth made a gesture that took the whole assembly by surprise. He placed his right hand on his heart, closed his eyes, and said, on a note of almost theatrical defiance: Blsmlttah ar-Rahman ar-Rahiim …!
What is he doing? Compton whispered to me.
I answered: He is saying a Muslim prayer.
Only when the invocation had been completed did the youth begin to address the astonished audience. I translated as he spoke: ‘You asked how we came to be in prison. It happened right here in Guangzhou, a year ago. We were then in the employment of one Mr James Innes, a British merchant and shipowner. We had been working on one of his ships, as lascars, for some months before that time.’
The youth’s Hindustani was fluent, but I noticed that it bore the traces of a Bengali accent.
‘One day, while our ship was anchored at Whampoa, Innes-sahib ordered us to load some chests into two of the ships’ boats. He told us that we were to row these boats to his factory, in Canton, the next day. We were not told what was in those chests, but we guessed that it was opium. We said no, we would not go, but Mr Innes threatened us and forced us to follow his orders. The next day, we loaded the chests in two of the ships’ boats and rowed them to the foreign enclave. When we arrived at Mr Innes’s house there was a raid by customs officials: they opened the chests and found that they contained opium. We were immediately arrested and taken before a magistrate. Then we were sentenced to prison.’
He raised his voice: ‘We had committed no crime and broken no law – the whole thing was the doing of Mr Innes. Yet it is we who have been made to suffer. Nothing could be more unjust!’
After I had translated this for Compton, I turned towards the young lascar and saw that he was looking directly at me: he had narrowed his eyes as though he were trying to peer into a darkened room. Then suddenly the expression on his face changed and I had the disconcerting feeling that I had been recognized.
I looked away, startled, my mind racing. After a moment I glanced at the lascar again, and now recognition dawned on me too, all of a sudden: I realized that the youth was none other than my fellow fugitive, Jodu, from whom I had parted at Great Nicobar Island, following on our joint escape from the Ibis.
I could not have imagined that two pairs of eyes looking into each other could create such an extraordinary impact: it was as if a bolt of lightning had gone through me.
We both turned quickly away, fully aware that we were being watched by many people. Meanwhile, Compton had begun to translate the council’s response: I heard him out and turned to face Jodu.
Listen, this is what I’ve been aske d to tell you. The council is willing to make you an offer: the Province of Guangdong has recently acquired a ship, built in the European fashion. Experienced seamen, familiar with the functioning of such vessels are needed for the crew. If you agree to serve on this vessel, for one year, then your sentences will be commuted and you will be set free at the end of that period. Is that acceptable to all of you?
Jodu gave me a nod and stepped away to confer with the others. He returned a few minutes later.
Tell the mandarins, he said to me, that what they are offering us will involve much danger and hard work. We will agree to it only if we are paid proper wages, equivalent to what we would have earned if we were working on a ship at sea – the equivalent of ten sicca rupees a month, which is equal to two Spanish dollars.
It seemed to me that he was in no position to make demands so I said to him in an undertone: Are you sure you want me to say this?
Jodu answered with an emphatic nod, so I translated his words faithfully. I did not think anything would come of it: knowing the ways of Chinese officials I fully expected that Jodu and his friends would meet with a summary refusal.
For a while it seemed that my fears were well-founded – but then, after a heated discussion, Zhong Lou-si made an intervention that took the matter in a different direction.
He told me what to say and I explained it to Jodu: The Chinese officers are willing to give you what you asked for, but they have certain conditions. They will pay your salaries as a lump sum at the end of your period of service. In the interim you will be provided with rations and supplies and you will also be given a small allowance for expenses. At the end of your service, if your work has been satisfactory, you will be paid a bonus equivalent to a month’s wages. Moreover, if your vessel succeeds in sinking any enemy ships you will be rewarded with a prize equivalent to two months’ wages; and if you capture an enemy ship then you will be given a share of the spoils. But it must be clearly understood that you will all bear collective responsibility for your conduct: in the event of an attempt to desert, or of treachery of any kind, the agreement will be annulled; your wages will be forfeit and you will stand trial for treason, the penalty for which is death. If you accept all of this then agreements will be drawn up to that effect.
The lascars had been listening carefully and they needed only a few minutes to make up their minds.
Tell them, Jodu said to me, that we have conditions of our own. Tell them we are all Muslims so our provisions must be halal and they must be provided by tradesmen of the local Hui community, as is done in our prison, for Muslim prisoners. If we are near Guangzhou then on the last Friday of every month, we must be allowed to visit the Huaisheng mosque, in the city. Tell them that we know from experience that in China people are often suspicious of foreigners so we will expect them to provide adequate protection for us in order that we may have peace of mind and serve to the best of our ability.
Here Jodu paused for a moment.
And tell them, he resumed, that if they agree to all of this then they need not fear for our loyalty. We are men of our word and we would never be disloyal to the hand that provides our salt.
Once this had been translated, Zhong Lou-si and the other officials rose to their feet and withdrew to another room to deliberate in private. In the interim, much to my disappointment, the lascars were led back into the interior of the building: I had hoped that Jodu and I would have a little time to talk.
My rapport with Jodu had not escaped Compton. He asked if I knew him and I said we had once sailed on the same ship. I also said that I would like to speak with him if possible.
Compton did not think this unreasonable; he asked me to find out if Jodu and the lascars are honest and reliable men. He has promised to arrange for him to visit me, in my lodgings.
I came back to the houseboat with my head in a whirl: when Jodu’s eyes met mine, in the Consoo House, it was as if our lives had changed. A strange and powerful thing is recognition!
For several successive nights, Shireen woke with a jolt, in the small hours, her nerves fluttering, her heart racing. It seemed incredible that all the obstacles that had loomed so large in her mind had disappeared; that she was now free to go to China – she, Shireen, mother of Behroze and Shernaz, a grandmother who had lived in the same house all her life and had never travelled beyond Surat! She had never quite believed that the wall she was pushing against would ever give way, and now that it had, she felt that she was toppling over.
At this critical time, when her confidence
was beginning to falter, it was Rosa who steadied her by shifting her attention to practical things – like bowlas and baggage. She asked Shireen how many trunks she had and whether they would suffice for all her things.
Shireen remembered that she had put some of Bahram’s old sea-trunks and bowlas in a storage loft. She had them brought down and found, to her dismay, that they were in a bad way: the trunks’ wooden frames had been shredded by termites and their leather coverings had been eaten by mildew. But there were two that were not past salvaging – and to Shireen that seemed good enough: she could not imagine that she would need more.
But Rosa laughed when she heard this: No, Bibiji, you’ll need at least three more trunks and a couple of bedding rolls as well. We should go to China Bazar and order them straight away.
So Shireen asked for a carriage and they went across town to visit the leather-workers’ shops in the China Bazar. After their orders had been placed Rosa sprang another surprise: since they had a buggy for the morning, she said, they might as well visit Mr da Gama, the tailor, at his premises near the Esplanade.
Shireen had planned to buy a few white shawls and saris for the journey, but it had never entered her mind to visit Mr da Gama, who specialized in making coats and pelisses, mainly for Europeans.
Why Mr da Gama? Shireen asked, at which Rosa proceeded to explain that winters were sometimes bitterly cold on the south China coast. Shireen would need not just shawls and scarves but also pelisses, surtouts, hats, dresses …
Dresses! Shireen clamped a hand over her mouth. After hearing of Bahram’s death she had adhered strictly to the rules of widowhood, which prescribed, among other things, that only white saris could be worn: to wear a dress would mean breaking with an ages-old custom.
Shaken by tremors of disquiet, Shireen said: You don’t think I’m going to wear dresses, do you, Rosa?
Why not, Bibiji? said Rosa, with her bright, mischievous smile. At sea dresses are easier to manage than saris.
But what will people think? What will the family say?
They won’t be there, Bibiji.
Shireen wondered how to explain that the thought of herself, costumed in a gown, seemed not just scandalous but also absurd. I can’t, Rosa! I’d think everyone was laughing at me. Rosa smiled and patted Shireen’s hand.
No one will laugh at you, Bibiji, she said. You’re tall and thin – a dress will suit you very well.
Really?
In trying to envision herself in a dress, Shireen realised that the journey ahead would entail much more than just a change of location: in order to arrive at her destination she would have to become a different person.
In the following weeks, as a procession of darzees, mochis, rafoo-gars and milliners filed through her apartment, Shireen began to catch glimpses of this new incarnation of herself.
The sight made her avert her eyes from the looking-glass. Apart from Rosa she allowed no one into the room where she was being measured and fitted; she hid her new wardrobe even from her daughters, locking her almirah whenever they or their children came to visit.
The deception was so successful that she succeeded in concealing her wardrobe until her departure was just a week away. But one morning Shernaz and Behroze came over with their children, to help with the packing, and one of their little girls somehow managed to get hold of the key to the almirah in which Shireen had hidden her new clothes.
A shriek rang through the apartment and suddenly it was as if Aladdin’s cave had appeared in Shireen’s bedroom: everyone ran to the almirah and stood staring in disbelief at the hats, shoes and pelisses that were stored within.
After that Shireen could not refuse to show her daughters and granddaughters how she looked in her new clothes. Yielding to their entreaties, she changed into a complete ensemble of memsahib clothing – dress, pelisse and hat – and paraded defiantly through her bedroom, challenging them to laugh.
But instead their eyes widened with a wonder that was not untinged with envy.
‘Oh Mama!’ cried Shernaz, who had never addressed Shireen in that way before.
‘What do you mean Mama?’ said Shireen. ‘Since when have you called me that?’
Shernaz looked startled: ‘Did I call you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then it’s because you don’t look like our Mumma any more.’
‘What do I look like then?’
‘I don’t know. You look different – younger.’
Then Shernaz burst into tears, taking everyone by surprise. After that no one else could stay dry-eyed either.
For the last two days before the Hind’s departure, Shernaz and Behroze moved into Shireen’s apartment with their children. This was meant to make things easier for Shireen, but of course it did nothing of the kind; still, she welcomed the extra work because it kept her occupied.
On the evening before Shireen’s embarkation, her brothers organized a special jashan at home to seek blessings for her voyage and to wish her godspeed. Shireen was a little nervous about the event, but it went off very well. Every prominent Parsi family in the city sent a representative, including the Readymonies and Dadiseths; even Mrs Jejeebhoy dropped by for a few minutes. Better still, the jashan was attended by several members of the Parsi Panchayat – this was a great relief to Shireen for she had not quite rid herself of the fear that the community’s highest body might declare her an outcast. This way it was almost as if they had given their imprimatur to her voyage.
Next morning Shireen arrived at the dock, with her daughters and their families, to find that a large crowd had already assembled there. Many of Rosa’s relatives had also come to see her off and Vico had hired a band, to play rousing tunes.
The captain of the Hind had been alerted to Shireen’s arrival and was waiting for her with a bouquet in his hands. A tall sunburned man with muttonchop whiskers, he led her personally to her stateroom, which was in the roundhouse, on the starboard side. It was actually a suite of cabins, a small one to sleep in, and another slightly larger one, with both a sitting and a dining area. Attached was a pantry with a bunk for Rosa.
‘I hope it’s to your satisfaction, madam?’
Shireen could not have hoped for anything better. ‘It’s wonderful!’ she said.
After the captain had left, Shireen’s daughters and grandchildren helped her settle in. In a very short while the cabins were arranged to the satisfaction of everyone except Shireen herself – she could not rid herself of the feeling that something was missing. She remembered just before it came time for all visitors to go ashore. Plunging into a trunk she brought out a toran – an embroidered fringe of the kind that hung around the doorways of all Parsi homes.
Shernaz, Behroze and their children helped her drape the toran around the entrance hatch. When it was properly affixed, they crowded into the gangway to look at it.
Ekdum gher javu che, said Shernaz with a sigh. It’s just like home now, isn’t it?
Yes, said Shireen. It is.
Zachary’s initiation into the opium trade began on Calcutta’s Strand Road, which adjoined the busiest section of the Hooghly River. Pointing to six sailing vessels that were anchored nearby, Baboo Nob Kissin explained that the opium fleet had just arrived from Bihar, with the year’s first consignment from the East India Company’s opium factories in Patna and Ghazipur. This year’s crop had exceeded all previous records; despite the troubles in China, production had continued to increase at a tremendous pace in the Company’s territories.
‘Opium is pouring into the market like monsoon flood,’ declared Baboo Nob Kissin.
They watched for a while as the drug was unloaded. Each of the cargo ships had a small flotilla of sampans, paunchways and lighters attached, like sucklings to a teat. Under the scrutiny of armed overseers and burkandazes, teams of coolies were transferring the chests of opium from the ships to the brick-red godowns that lined the riverbank.
Each chest held two maunds – roughly one hundred and sixty pounds – of opiu
m, said Baboo Nob Kissin; the cost to the Company, for each chest, was between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and fifty rupees. Of this the farmer received perhaps a third if he was lucky: there were so many middlemen – sudder mahtoes, gayn mahtoes, pykars, gomustas – to be paid off that he often ended up earning less than he had spent on his poppy crop. The Company on the other hand would earn eight to ten times the cost-price of each chest when they were sold off at auction – somewhere between one thousand and fifteen hundred rupees, or five hundred to seven hundred Spanish dollars.
Then the chests would travel eastwards, to China and elsewhere, but even before they went under the auctioneer’s hammer, they would pass through another market, an informal one – and it was at this very unusual bazar that Zachary’s initiation into the trade was to begin.
Plunging into a side-street, Baboo Nob Kissin led Zachary to Tank Square, which was within hailing distance of the Strand. This was the heart of official Calcutta: at the centre of the square lay a rectangular ‘tank’ of fresh water; overlooking it was the East India Company’s headquarters, a great pile of a building, honeycombed with columns and arches and crowned with elaborate tiaras of wrought iron.
On the other side of the tank lay the Opium Exchange: a large but unremarkable building with the reassuring look of a reputable bank. This was where the East India Company’s opium auctions were conducted, said Baboo Nob Kissin: the next one would be held there tomorrow morning – but for now the building was empty, and its heavy wooden doors were locked and under guard.
The bazar that they were heading for was in a dank, dirty little gali behind the Opium Exchange. Mud and dung squelched under their feet as they walked towards it, pushing past ambling cows and loitering vendors. The marketplace consisted of a small cluster of lamplit stalls: turbaned men sat on the cloth-covered counters with ledgers lying open on their crossed legs.