River of Smoke it-2

by Amitav Ghosh

  Asha-didi’s father had moved to Bengal soon after she was born: he was one of the first Chinese immigrants to settle in Calcutta – a rare Cantonese amongst a largely Hakka group. He had originally gone there to work as a stevedore, in the Kidderpore docks, but after his family came out to join him, he had entered the victualling business, setting up a small enterprise that catered to the Chinese crewmen of the ships that passed through the port, supplying noodles, sauces, pickled vegetables, sausages and other provisions that were necessary to their well-being.

  The making of the victuals was done at home, with the help of every member of the family, including the children, of whom Asha-didi was the eldest. One day, when she was not quite a girl but not yet a woman, Asha-didi happened to open the door for a young sailor called Ah Bao, who had been sent there to top up his ship’s provisions, in preparation for making sail the next day. It was a busy morning, and she was powdered with flour and garlanded with wet noodles; Ah Bao’s mouth had fallen open when he set eyes on her. He had mumbled something in Cantonese and she had responded in kind, telling him to say what he wanted and make it quick -faai di la! Her response, if not her appearance, should have caused him to disappear for ever – but the next day he was back again: he had jumped ship, he explained, because he wanted to offer his services to the family.

  Of course Asha-didi’s parents knew exactly what he was up to, and they were none too pleased – partly because they guessed from the boy’s speech that he was a boat-fellow by origin; and partly because they had long had another, more suitable, groom in mind for their eldest daughter. But despite all that, Asha-didi’s father had decided to take him in anyway, and not out of charity either, but only because he was a shrewd merchandiser who prided himself on his business acumen. He reckoned that the young sailor might have something valuable to offer, something that was vital to any shipchandler’s business: the ability to take a boat out on the river, to vie for the custom of newly arrived ships. Until then, he had handled this job himself, but he was no boatman, and had always had to hire Hooghly River khalasis to operate his sampan, being regularly cheated in the process. Could it be that this young fellow would know how to manage the boat, on the crowded river? The answer was by no means self-evident, for the sampans of the Hooghly were quite different from the craft from which they took their name: the ‘three-board’ saam-pan of the Pearl River. Being upcurved both in stem and stern, the Hooghly version of the vessel was more like a canoe in shape and handled quite differently.

  But Ah Bao was born to the water, and rare indeed was the boat that could defeat him: the sampan posed no challenge to him and he conquered it easily. Nor was oarsmanship the only useful skill that he had learnt on the Pearl River: the ghat-serangs and riverfront thugs who tried to put the squeeze on him found that he had dealt with their like all his life; and those who yelled jeers and taunts at him -Chin-chin-cheenee! – discovered that he was no stranger to budmashing, barnshooting and galee-gooler. He quickly gained the respect of the other boatmen, and became a familiar figure on the waterfront: people called him Baburao.

  Soon Baburao was so indispensable to the family business that no one could remember why he had been considered an unsuitable groom for Eldest Daughter: objections evaporated, messages went back and forth between the families and matters were arranged to everyone’s satisfaction. After the banquet, which was held on a budgerow, the couple settled into a room in the family compound and that was where Asha-didi gave birth to five of their nine children.

  Although Baburao settled into his new life with gusto, Calcutta was not to him what it was to his wife. He had grown up on the vessel from which his family made their living; a junk that plied the coastal trade routes around Canton, with his father as its laodah. Theirs was a small craft, and even though it was neither speedy nor especially comfortable, to Baburao it was home. When it came to his ears that his father was thinking of selling the junk he did not hesitate for a moment: letters and gifts travelled regularly between Calcutta and Canton by way of the sea traffic between the cities; Baburao went from ship to ship until he found an acquaintance who could be trusted to persuade his father to hold off for just a little while longer. The money for passages was raised with the help of the community and a few months later the couple set sail for China with their children.

  After the move, it was Asha-didi who found herself in the position of having to communicate with her family through nautical go-betweens, and when a serang or a seacunny showed up, bearing gifts and messages, it seemed only natural to offer him something that she herself was often homesick for – an Achha meal, of the kind she had grown accustomed to eating in Calcutta. As word of her cooking spread, more and more Acchas began to seek her out, not just lascars, but also sepoys, sentries and daftardars. As the number of visitors grew, so did the costs of feeding them and a day came when Baburao said, in exasperation, that if they were going to be feeding so many people they might as well make some money from it. The more they thought about it, the more sense it made: after all, Baburao’s junk could be used to procure supplies from Macau, where masalas, daals, achars and other Achha comestibles were easy to find, because of the sizeable Goan population. And did they not have before them the example of Asha-didi’s parents, who had done well by filling a similar need, providing foods that were hard to procure in a foreign place?

  The success of the eatery had allowed Asha-didi and her family to set up other business ventures, but for herself the kitchen-boat remained her principal passion; she was never more content than when seated at her accustomed place – between the cash-box and the cooking-fires.

  Having always seen Asha-didi in that seat, that was where Neel’s eyes went when he stepped on to the prow of the boat and passed through the pavilion that formed the eatery’s entrance: for him, one of the pleasures of seeing her was that each meeting was an occasion for a fleeting renewal of the jolt of surprise he had experienced the first time she greeted him in Bengali, with some perfectly casual phrase, something like nomoshkar, kemon achhen? – words that would have seemed banal in a Calcutta alleyway, but had the sound of a magical mantra when pronounced on a Canton kitchen-boat.

  But today, within moments of stepping on the boat, it became clear to Neel that the surprises that awaited him were of a different order: not only was Asha-didi not in her usual place, a couple of her daughters-in-law were bustling about, pulling the windows shut: it appeared that the eatery was being closed down – even though it was only mid-morning and the day had just begun.

  Low-slung and rectangular, the kitchen-boat was a barge-like vessel with raised pavilions at both ends; in the middle was a long shed, with benches running along the sides and a single, common table in between – this was where meals were served. Looking through the doorway, Neel saw that Asha-didi was at the back of the boat, helping to put out the cooking-fires. She happened to look up and was evidently startled to see Neel, for she came hurrying down the length of the boat. Her first words, when she reached him, were not those of her usual greetings: instead, with an abruptness that was almost rude, she said: Ekhaney ki korchhen? What are you doing here?

  Neel was so startled he could only stammer: I just came to eat…

  Na! She cut him short. You shouldn’t be here now.

  Why not?

  The authorities have just sent word, telling us to shut down.

  Oh? said Neel. But why?

  She shrugged: They just want to make sure there’s no trouble around here.

  This puzzled Neel. What kind of trouble? he said. I just came through the Maidan and I didn’t see anything amiss on the way.

  Really? She pressed her painted lips together and raised an eyebrow: And did you look towards the river?

  No.

  Look then.

  She put a hand on his elbow and turned him around, so that he was facing the river: he saw now that the open channel in mid-stream, usually so busy at this time of day, had emptied of traffic. All the tubs, coracles and sampans had
scattered to either side to make way for two war-junks that were converging on Fanqui-town from different directions.

  War-junks were rarely seen in this stretch of water and they made an arresting sight: they had castellations at either end and were strung with a great number of flags and pennants. One of them was quite close, and as it approached Neel saw that it was bearing a sizeable contingent of troops – not the usual soldiery to be seen around the city, but tall Manchu guardsmen.

  What is happening? said Neel. Do you know?

  Asha-didi looked over her shoulder and then gestured to him to bend lower.

  I don’t know for sure, she whispered, but I think there’s going to be some sort of raid. On one of the factories.

  Suddenly alarmed, Neel said: Which one, do you know?

  She smiled and gave his arm a reassuring pat: Not yours, don’t worry. It’s the farthest one: do you know it?

  Do you mean the Creek Factory?

  She gave him a nod and then added: Yes. The Eho Hong.

  It took a moment before the words registered. What was that? he said. Is that what you call the Creek Factory? Are they the same?

  She nodded again. Yes. That is the Eho Hong; they are the same.

  *

  Standing on the balcony Bahram kept careful watch as the lascars unloaded the crates from the cutter. Those that belonged to him were only a small part of the consignment, but he was able to recognize them from afar because they still bore the stains of the storm. He began to count them, and had just reached six, when a sudden banging of gongs drew his attention away from the dock and back to the river. Spinning on his heels, he found that he could not see past the creek’s mouth any more; the opening to the river had been blocked by a huge vessel – some kind of junk – which had silently positioned itself at the entrance to the nullah.

  Then he saw why the gongs had suddenly started to beat: they were the accompaniment for the debarkation of a platoon of Manchu troops; the soldiers were filing off the junk and forming a column in the yard of the Hoppo’s office; the ranks in the lead had already begun to run in the direction of the Creek Factory.

  Could it be a raid? For a moment Bahram stared in stunned immobility. Then he managed to say: ‘Innes! Innes! Look…’

  The sweat began to pour from Bahram’s brow, soaking his turban. His breath was coming in gasps, and he could no longer think; all he knew was that he had to get away. He brushed his hand against his cummerbund, to make sure that his leather purse was still in its place. Then, pulling the end of his turban across his face, he stepped away from the balcony and hurried through the apartment. As he passed the staircase, he heard Innes’s voice, downstairs, railing at someone – the lascars or his servant – he couldn’t tell who.

  How would Innes cope with the soldiers? Bahram couldn’t think, and it didn’t matter anyway; Innes had no family and no reputation to lose; he was a hardened budmash; he’d manage perfectly well – and even if he didn’t, he could count on being backed up by British gunboats. He, Bahram, had no such surety, and could not afford to linger another moment.

  Stepping into the courtyard Bahram hurried over to the arched gateway that led to the inner recesses of the factory’s compound. As he was passing through it, he glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the factory’s entrance. Through the gateway he caught sight of a troop of guardsmen, trotting across the customs yard, advancing upon the Creek Factory at a run.

  Turning away, Bahram began to walk quickly in the other direction. Along with the Fungtai and a few other hongs, the Creek Factory had a rear entrance that opened out on Thirteen Hong Street. Bahram knew that if he could cross the next couple of courtyards without being seen by the soldiers he’d be able to make his escape from the hong.

  The soldiers’ boots could be heard now, coming through the factory’s entrance. As he was stepping into the next courtyard Bahram stole a backwards glance and caught sight of half a dozen soldiers, silhouetted against the light: with their pointed plumes they looked unnaturally tall, like giants.

  No time, no time… as he walked along the corridor, Bahram could hear the soldiers hammering on Innes’s door with their weapons. Now other doors were opening and people were pouring out to see what the commotion was about. Bahram checked his pace, measuring his stride with his cane, keeping his head low, as people ran past him in both directions: some were hurrying away from the noise, and others rushing towards it. He kept his eyes down and watched the paving stones, with the end of his turban between his teeth, paying no heed to those who jostled his shoulders and elbows. So careful was he to avert his gaze that it was only when his shadow appeared under his feet that he realized that he was out of the compound.

  He was standing on Thirteen Hong Street, which was lined with shops, many of them familiar to him from past visits; he knew that if he went into one of those establishments he would be able to sit down and steady himself. But even as he was thinking of which way to go, he saw that the shops were emptying and people were rushing out to see what was happening in the Creek Factory.

  Nearby lay a stone bridge that crossed the nullah at a right angle, overlooking the Creek Factory. This was where most people seemed to be heading, and Bahram allowed himself to be carried along by the flow. On reaching the bridge, he braced himself against the parapet and found that he was looking in the direction of the little balcony that he had been standing on, just a few minutes before. The balcony was empty now, but the dock below was swarming with people, most of them soldiers: Innes was at the centre of the throng, his face red, the buncus still glowing in the corner of his mouth, shouting, waving his arms, trying to bluster his way out of the situation. You had to give it to him – he didn’t lack for gall or guts, that fellow – but he was having a hard time of it; that was clear enough. Beside him a soldier was prising the top off a crate – one of his own, Bahram realized. When the planks came off, the soldier plunged his hands in and triumphantly lifted up a spherical black object, about the size of a cannonball – a container of the British Empire’s best Ghazipur opium.

  Bahram could feel himself choking. He raised a hand to his throat and tugged at the neck-cord of his choga as though he were struggling against a noose. As the choga loosened, so did his cummerbund; he could feel his purse beginning to slip and he let go of his cane so that he could fasten his hands upon his waist. People were surging all around him and he was being pushed towards the parapet. The purse was about to drop from his fingers when he felt a steadying hand upon his elbow.

  Sethji! Sethji!

  It was the new munshi, what was his name? Bahram could not remember, but rarely had he been so glad to see a member of his staff. He pulled the munshi close, and slipped the purse into his hands: Here hold this; be careful, don’t let anyone see.

  Ji, Sethji.

  Bracing his shoulders, Bahram pushed against the crowd.

  Come on, munshiji; come on.

  Ji, Sethji.

  Breaking free of the throng, Bahram began to walk towards the Fungtai Hong. Wrung out as he was, Bahram could only be grateful that his munshi had not troubled him with any questions – but he knew also that word of his presence at the melee was sure to get back to his staff. Better to think of some explanation right now, something that would scotch rumours and speculation before they got out of hand.

  Bahram cleared his throat and slowed his pace. When Neel caught up with him, he put his hand on his elbow.

  I was on my way to Punhyqua’s hong, he said. To make a payment, you understand… for some silk. Then this commotion broke out, and I got swept along. That’s what it was. That’s all.

  Ji, Sethji.

  Fortunately, the lane that led to Punhyqua’s town house was close by, which lent some credence to the story. But now, as Bahram turned to look in that direction, he encountered a spectacle that all but knocked the breath out of him: it was Punhyqua himself, marching down the lane, flanked by columns of soldiers. He was dressed in a fine long pao robe of maroon silk, with brocad
ed clouds above the fringed hems, and an intricately embroidered panel on the chest – but yoked to his neck was a heavy wooden board. The plank was large enough to make his head look like an apple, sitting upon a table.

  Punhyqua’s gaze caught his, for a brief instant, and then they both dropped their eyes.

  The cangue! Bahram whispered in shock. They’ve put a cangue on Punhyqua! Like a common thief…

  Behind the soldiers, further down the lane, Bahram could see members of Punhyqua’s family – his sons, his wives, his daughters-in-law – standing in clusters, weeping, covering their faces. He had a vision of himself, in Punhyqua’s place, being led out of the Mistrie compound on Apollo Street in the same way, under the eyes of his daughters and sons-in-law, his servants and brothers-in-law – with Shireenbai looking on – and his heart almost seized up. He could not imagine that he would be able to survive so public a humiliation: and yet, he knew also that if it came to such a pass, he, like Punhyqua, would have no choice in the matter; mere shame could not, after all, be counted on to provide the escape of death.

  In a daze Bahram began to walk towards the Achha Hong, with Neel at his heels.

  A cangue on Punhyqua! Bahram shook his head in disbelief. A man worth at least ten million silver dollars? The world has gone mad. Mad.

  Twelve

  December 9, Markwick’s Hotel

  Oh my dearest Puggly, there has been the most frightful to-do here and it has led to such extraordinary happenings that I am all at sixes and sevens. So much has transpired that it seems impossible that it should have started only the day before yesterday – but so it did, and I can hardly credit it because the day had begun in such a promising way.

  I had succeeded at last, you see, in persuading Jacqua to sit for me! And it took no little contrivance, you may be sure, for not only did I have to persuade him, but I had also to prevail on Lamqua to give him leave from his duties at the workshop. This he was most reluctant to do, for fear of exciting the resentment of the other apprentices, and it was not until I had offered a copy of another recent Chinnery canvas that the issue was settled in my favour. I brought Jacqua back to Markwick’s Hotel like a trophy won in battle – and so flushed was I with triumph that I positively slammed the door on Mr Markwick (who had of course, followed at our heels, mumbling and muttering in the most odious way).