by Amitav Ghosh
Yet when Jodu stepped into my lodgings something dissolved within both of us and we wept as if we were brothers, reunited after a long parting. The shared secret of our escape from the Ibis has become a link between who we were then and who we are now; between past and present. It is a bond more powerful even than ties of family and friendship.
I had guessed that Jodu would be ravenously hungry and had arranged for Asha-didi to send over plenty of food – rice, beans, bitter melon, fish curry. Mithu had also made some luchis.
Everything was halal; I had made sure of that – and Jodu was grateful for it …
Seating himself cross-legged on the floor, Jodu began to shovel food into his mouth with his fingers, eating as though he were fuelling a furnace. But from time to time he would stop to catch his breath, and I took advantage of these pauses to ask how he’d found his way to Canton.
Jodu told me that on reaching Mergui, Serang Ali had decided that it was time for them to split up: his advice to Jodu and Kalua was that they travel eastwards. So Kalua had signed up as a lascar, on an opium ship that was heading towards the East Indies, and Jodu had joined the crew of a British brig – the shipmaster was none other than James Innes, whose intrigues would cause trouble for so many people, not least Seth Bahram!
I asked where Serang Ali was now, and Jodu said he didn’t know; at the time of their parting he had talked of going to a port called Giang Binh, on the frontier of China.
Of course, he too wanted to know what I had been doing since we last met, so I told him how Ah Fatt had run into his father, Seth Bahram, in Singapore, and how he had given me a job, as his munshi. Jodu was amazed to hear that I was in Canton with Seth Bahram through the months of the opium crisis – it is strange to think that our paths might have crossed in the foreign enclave last year, on the day when Jodu was taken to prison.
It didn’t take Jodu long to eat his fill – a starved tiger could not have been quicker to devour its food. But afterwards he showed no signs of torpor or sluggishness: to the contrary he seemed more awake and alert than ever, almost pulsating with energy. I hesitated to ask him about his time in prison, but the words came pouring out of him anyway.
The jail where he was imprisoned is in the Nanhae district of Guangdong. To my surprise, Jodu said that the conditions there were far better than those they had experienced before, when they were incarcerated in a cage, in a mandarin’s yamen. They were put on display in their cage, he said, like animals. People would come to look at them and prod them with sticks, shouting all the while: haak gwai! Gwal-Lo!
It was hell, he said, jahannum, narak.
Things got better after they were sentenced and sent off to the Nanhae prison. There at least they were not on show and the food was better too. In the yamen all they were ever given was rice and salt and rice-water. In the prison they were allowed a few scraps of vegetables as well. One day they were even given a bit of meat but Jodu suspected that it was pork and didn’t take it. The jailers asked why and the lascars told them that it was against their religion. That was when they learnt, to their amazement, that they were not the only Muslims in the prison, as they had thought. There were many others of their faith there – most of them Chinese! Some were from the community known as ‘Hui’, which is well-represented in this region. But there were Muslims from other places too, in and around China – Turks and Uzbegs, Malays and Arabs. These prisoners welcomed the lascars into their midst as if they were brothers. There are so many of them there that special arrangements have been made for them, by the authorities. They are allowed to cook their food separately. No one makes trouble for the Muslims because they are known to stand by each other.
Soon Jodu’s words began to flow with an almost uncontainable intensity: he started to pace the room as he talked, turning from time to time to fix his eyes on me.
I tell you, Neel-da, he said, only in Nanhae did I see what great good fortune it is to be born a Muslim. Wherever you go you find brothers, even in Chinese prisons! And wherever there are Muslims there is always a bond between us.
Go on, I said, tell me more …
I think now that it was kismat that sent me to that prison, said Jodu, and I’ll tell you why. One of our fellow prisoners, a Muslim, was a man of some influence.
Sometimes, on ‘Id and other special days, he would bribe the prison officials and they’d allow imams from the local mosques to visit us. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but in Guangzhou there is a very famous mosque and maqbara – the tomb of Shaikh Abu Waqqas, an uncle of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him.
Here Jodu stopped to point to a tower in the distance: its tip was just visible above the city walls.
Do you see that minar there? he said. It belongs to the Huaisheng mosque, built by Shaikh Abu Waqqas himself. People say it is one of the oldest mosques in the world. Pilgrims come from far and away to visit the mosque and the maqbara, from places as distant as Cairo and Medina. Sometimes the imam of the Huaisheng mosque would come to the prison to lead our prayers. One day, during Ramazan, he brought a foreign pilgrim along to see us. The pilgrim was a shaikh from somewhere near Aden, in the Hadramaut. He was a small man, very simple in appearance; his name was Shaikh Musa al-Adani, and we learnt later that he was a merchant who had travelled everywhere – all around Arabia, Africa, Persia and Hindustan; he had visited Bombay, Madras and Delhi, and had lived for two years in Kolkata. But I knew none of this then so you can imagine how astonished I was when he spoke to me in Bangla and told me that he knew me, and that it was because of me that he had come to visit the prison! I was amazed; I said: That’s impossible; I’ve never met you, never seen you, never heard of you. The shaikh told me then that he had seen me in his dreams; he had had a vision of a young lascar from Bengal, who was a Muslim in name but had yet to understand the truths of the Holy Book. This angered me and I cried: What do you mean? Why are you insulting me? And he smiled and asked if it wasn’t true, what he had said? This made me still angrier and I told him he knew nothing about me and had no right to speak to me like that. He smiled and told me that I would soon understand the meaning of his words.
A few days later I got into an argument with one of the prison guards. He accused me of stealing something and came to hit me. I side-stepped and the guard fell down and hurt himself. He accused me of attacking him and the matter became quite serious: I was removed to the part of the prison where condemned men are kept. The guards told me that I too would be executed and I believed them – I had no reason not to.
Here Jodu stopped pacing and put his hand on my neck.
Neel-da, he said, do you know how they execute people here? They tie them to a chair and strangle them. I saw twenty or thirty men being strangled in that way. I thought that I too would be killed like that. You can imagine my state of mind; how afraid I was. But then a strange thing happened. It was the day after Bakri-Id. One of the guards was a Muslim: he took me aside and told me that he had paid a visit to the Abu Waqqas maqbara the day before; Shaikh Musa had given him a gift for me – a tabeez that he had removed from his own arm.
Here Jodu pulled back the sleeve of his tunic to show me the amulet: it is made of brass and is fastened just above the elbow of his right arm.
I tied it on, Jodu continued, and when I went to sleep that night I had a dream in which I saw myself on the Yoom al-Qiamah – the Day of Judgement – trying to answer for myself. Suddenly I realized that the fear that had taken hold of me was not of death itself, but of what would happen afterwards, when I would have to face the moment of judgement. And then, as I lay trembling on my mat, for the first time in my life I felt the true fear of God. I understood that even though I had gone through the motions of being a Muslim, my heart had forever been filled with filth; my whole life had been steeped in shame and sin. I had been brought up in a house of sin; a house in which my own mother was the kept woman of an unbeliever, Mr Lambert; a house in which his daughter, Paulette, and I were allowed to run around like wild creatures,
with no thought of religion, or even of hiding our shame from each other.
Through all this Jodu’s tone was of testimony; it was as if he had temporarily stepped outside his skin and were watching himself from afar.
In a way I was like an animal, he said. My heart was ruled by lust and I thought of nothing but fornication, and of seducing women – this is how I had brought my fate upon myself, during the voyage of the Ibis. All of this became clear to me, and once I had understood it, my fear of death evaporated – no, you could say I longed for death, because I felt that whatever punishment was given to me would be well-deserved.
Now Jodu’s voice fell to a lower pitch.
It was then, he said, that I submitted to the teachings of the Prophet and became a true Muslim. I was ready to die – I had no more fear of it. But strangely, a few days after my conversion – for that was what it was – I was removed from the cell of the condemned men and sent back to join my lascar crewmates.
Here Jodu paused to draw a deep breath; his voice was calmer now: it was as if a fever had flowed out of him with his torrent of words. I sensed that behind the disclosures there lay a need not only to confide but also to persuade: it was important to Jodu to convey to me the significance of his transformation, the full extent of which could only be apparent to those who had known him before.
You mentioned Paulette, I said quietly. Do you know that she too is in these parts?
The blood ebbed from Jodu’s face as he turned to look at me: Putli? he said. Here? What do you mean?
I told him that Paulette was at Hong Kong, with an English plant-collector – a friend of her father’s who had more or less adopted her as his daughter.
Jodu was pleased to hear about her good fortune. I’m glad for her, he said. It wasn’t her fault that she was brought up as a kaafir …
This made me smile. I said: I’m a kaafir too, you know.
Jodu laughed: Yes, I know you were born a kaafir – but you don’t have to remain one forever.
I could only laugh.
Kaafir I am, I said, and kaafir I will remain. But let me ask you this. The Chinese are kaafirs too, and as you know they may soon be at war with England. That is why they are outfitting this ship they want you to work on, the Cambridge. If you accept you may find yourself fighting for the Chinese kaafirs. Could you bring yourself to do this, my friend, with a whole heart?
Jodu’s smile grew wider. But why not? he said. Both sides are kaafirs: one worships idols and animals, like you Hindus do, and the other worships flag and machines. Of the two I would far prefer to fight for the Chinese.
Really? I said. Why?
It turned out that this was something that Jodu and his fellow Muslims had talked about at length in the prison at Nanhae. The prisoners from Muslim lands – Johore, Aceh and Java – had told the others about how the Europeans had taken control of their countries and how they wanted to grab still more.
The Chinese are the only ones who can resist the firinghees, said Jodu. The shaikh has told us that in a conflict between the Chinese and the Europeans it is the duty of Muslims to take the side of the Chinese.
The smouldering intensity in Jodu’s eyes removed whatever doubts I may have had of his sincerity. I told him that the Chinese were unsure of his loyalties; they thought it possible that he and his friends might go over to the British.
He laughed and said they need have no concern on this score. If they wanted he and the other lascars would be glad to to swear an oath at the maqbara of Shaikh Abu Waqqas.
Two days before the Ibis was to weigh anchor for China, Baboo Nob Kissin came to the budgerow to deliver Zachary’s twenty chests of opium. As he was about to leave he said: ‘Master Zikri, when I reach Hong Kong, it is possible that Miss Lambert will once again make inquiries regarding your good self. Maybe you would like to file off a missive for her? You can yourself furnish all necessary details about your movements – that way her soft corners will not be damaged. I will facilitate safe delivery.’
This alarmed Zachary, making him wonder what Paulette’s expectations were in regard to himself: did she believe that they were as good as betrothed? If so, would it not be best to correct this misunderstanding?
‘All right, Baboo,’ said Zachary grimly. ‘I’ll give you a letter for Miss Lambert.’
‘Tomorrow morning I will come to get.’
It was already quite late and after going through many sheets of paper Zachary was still unable to find the right words to express his outrage at the insinuations that Paulette had made to Mrs Burnham, in regard to himself. Exhausted by the struggle, he went to bed and on waking the next morning he decided that it would be best to write briefly without going into too much detail.
April 16, 1840
Calcutta
Dear Miss Lambert
I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. I am writing because our common acquaintance, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, in relating the circumstances of his Meeting with you in China, has mentioned certain matters that suggest that there may be a Misunderstanding about our standing in relation to each other.
I am sure you will remember that shortly after your Flight from Mr Burnham’s home you appealed to me to obtain a Passage to the Mauritius islands for Yourself. You will recall also that I advised you against this Course and instead made an Offer of Matrimony, which you rejected.
Although I did not feel so at the time, on thinking of this Matter I have realized that I owe you a great debt of Gratitude for refusing my sincere but rash offer of Matrimony. It is perfectly clear to me that we are in no wise well-suited to each other, and that I should consider myself fortunate that your Refusal spared me the Necessity of embarking on a course of what would have been the most reckless Folly. In truth we are but acquaintances whose paths have crossed by Hazard and neither of us is justified in entertaining any Expectations of the other.
I felt it necessary to offer you this Explanation since I too am soon to depart for China and it is not unlikely that our paths will cross on those shores. Should we meet again, I trust it will be merely as Acquaintances.
Until then I have the honor to remain
Your faithful servant
Zachary Reid, Esq.
As he was signing his name Zachary heard the crunch of wheels, somewhere nearby. Looking out of a window, he saw that Baboo Nob Kissin had arrived in a hackery-garee.
‘Master Zikri!’ shouted the gomusta. ‘I have brought a gift.’
Zachary stepped out on deck to take a look. ‘What’s the gift?’
‘A servant!’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, beaming. ‘He will look after your good self during voyage. You must at once bag this golden opportunity.’
Inclining his head towards the hackery-garee, Baboo Nob Kissin clapped his hands. ‘There – look!’
Turning to the carriage now, Zachary saw, to his astonishment, that a boy had climbed out of it and was looking expectantly in his direction. He was dressed in pyjamas, slippers and a long, white tunic, bound at the waist by a cummerbund – the usual garb of a khidmatgar – but the lad could not have been more than ten years old. He was too young for a turban even, and had only a narrow bandhna around his forehead, to hold back his long black hair.
‘Hell and scissors, Baboo!’ Zachary cried in outrage. ‘How’s he going to be my servant? He’s just a gilpy of a boy. It’s I who’ll be feeding him and swabbing his ass.’
‘Arré baba, he may be young,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, in a soothing tone, ‘but he is attentive and diligent. Clean and healthy also – tongue is clear so motions must be regular. Eating-sheating also not too much. Whatever you ask he will do – make bed, give bath, press foot. You can just sit back and enjoy. He will adjust very well on you; he will be topping khidmatgar.’
‘God dammit, Baboo! I don’t need a topping kid-mutt-whatever.’
The expression on Baboo Nob Kissin’s face now changed to one of earnest entreaty as he explained the boy’s predicament: ‘Father has expired and prospects are
dim in Calcutta. Mother is very poor. If he remains here then child-lifters may catch hold of him. That is why he wants to go to Macau – his father’s co-brother is working there. He is my friend so that is why I must provide assistance.’
Something about this didn’t seem right to Zachary. ‘But I don’t understand, Baboo,’ he said. ‘If the boy’s uncle is your friend then why isn’t he shipping out with you, on the Ibis?’
‘Mr Chillingworth may not permit, no?’ said the gomusta. ‘That is why I am requesting you only. It will not be much trouble for you, Master Zikri. After you get to China you can wash your hands with him and dispose him off to uncle. Meanwhile he will happily work as khidmatgar for you – salary also is not necessary. He is extremely helpful, suitable for all donkey-works. Talkative in English also.’
Still unpersuaded, Zachary continued to protest. ‘But listen, Baboo – where’s he going to blow the grampus? There won’t be room for him to bunk down in my cabin.’
‘No problem,’ said the gomusta. ‘You can put in your bedding. No formalities.’
‘Fuckin’ell!’ Zachary spluttered. ‘I’m not going to take no nipper into my bed!’
Baboo Nob Kissin carried on undeterred. ‘Arré baba, he is a little fellow, no? He can lie on the floor even, no problem. If he makes a mischief you can shoe-beat. Just think of it as commission, for me, because of help I have given to you.’
This was an argument that could not be gainsaid. ‘Well, if you put it like that …’
Zachary beckoned to the boy and was somewhat encouraged when he came skipping up the gangplank as though he had been doing it all his life: at least he was nimble on his feet, not a clumsy landlubber. He was a lively-looking fellow too, with a sharp, expressive face. Despite himself, Zachary liked the cut of his jib.