Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  “They are not yet being consecrated, these little figures,” said Sharada. “But householders are buying them in preparation for the festival. Then a brahmin, a priest, will be consecrating them. It is part of the festival, you see. Afterward, the figures will be given to the holy river, the Ganges.”

  “Where do they come from? Who make them?”

  “The idol makers, the holy artists. It is their livelihood.”

  Anibaddh was profoundly shocked and thrilled. She stopped and watched as a pretty woman wearing a brilliant pink sari and accompanied by her two small daughters negotiated a price, then bought one of the idols from the shopkeeper. She gave the little figure to the older of her two girls, who dandled it gleefully by the arms and stuck out her tongue at it, mirroring the goddess’ grimace.

  Was that any way to treat a goddess? Or a figure that would soon be consecrated a goddess?

  “I can buy one? They lets me buy one?” asked Anibaddh.

  “Yes, certainly, if you like. I will be speaking for you.” In Bengali, Sharada struck a bargain with the shopkeeper. “Choose,” she said to Anibaddh. All the little figures were nearly the same, but the individual strokes of the artist for eyes, nostrils, and brow made their expressions individual. Anibaddh chose; Sharada handed the coin to the man, who stared quite openly at Anibaddh. He offered her a shy smile and namaste, and said something to Sharada, who did not translate. The little goddess was wrapped up in a leaf to make a neat parcel, and they walked on.

  “What did he say?” Anibaddh asked.

  “He was saying you are like the black goddess herself.”

  “Is she evil? She look evil.”

  “Not evil. Very powerful. She vanquished the terrible demons when no one else could do it.”

  “Where are we now? Who are these folks?”

  “This is the quarter where the Chinamen are living, the men from Canton. Many Chinamen these days now in Calcutta; they come here on the ships of the country trade. They have silk and tea and opium…. Come this way. We are entering now into the quarter of the goldsmiths. See how strong and close they make their houses? Not even a grain of gold dust can go astray.”

  “So many goldsmiths!”

  “Fortunately you are having me for your guide. You shall have the very best gold bangle in Calcutta, the purest metal, the finest workmanship. Come.” Without hesitation, she led Anibaddh to the ironbound door of a certain shop, and rang; after a brief exchange, they were admitted. The gray-haired babu bowed to them, brought them through a passage into a narrow garden courtyard, and invited them to be seated on cushions. After Sharada explained what they wanted, a silver tray with a dark blue velvet cover was set before them. The babu ceremoniously lifted back the velvet cover; and there, gleaming, was a treasury of gold bracelets, each one different from the next.

  The sight of these made Anibaddh feel as though she was melting inside. She murmured once again to Sharada, reminding her of the sum she could spend. Sharada nodded; she knew quite well. Minutely Sharada examined the bracelets on the tray—first one, then another. She held them close and peered at the casting, the engraving, the chasing, the finishing. She touched two together and listened to the chime they made. She turned them in the light, and checked the colour and luster of the metal. She asked a few questions of the babu, who answered quietly and at some length. At last Sharada was satisfied. “These are very good,” she said to Anibaddh. “Now you may be choosing. There is no hurry. Try them.”

  The bangles were very small in diameter, made to fit over small hands. “Give me your hand,” said Sharada, and dipping her fingertips into a small bowl of oil which the servant had brought with the tray of bangles, she massaged Anibaddh’s hand firmly, pressing and folding it and making it slippery. “There. Now try.”

  There was only one bracelet on the whole tray that Anibaddh wanted. Although she examined each of the others, none of them was as beautiful as The Only One. She picked it up—oh, heavy! exquisitely heavy!—and fitted it over her opal-tipped black fingers. It was small. It stuck at the joint of her thumb, stuck fast. It was too small. “Give me your hand,” said Sharada again, and even more firmly than before she massaged and pressed the bones of Anibaddh’s hand, folding her hand harder, then harder still. Anibaddh winced; suddenly the bangle was on her wrist.

  That was the one. So brilliant against her gleaming, oiled black hand!

  “I want to give you a present, too,” Anibaddh said to Sharada. “Some little thing—a ring, or earrings.”

  “No,” said Sharada, “it is impossible. But you are good and generous, and I am thanking you for your kind desire.”

  Sharada and the babu discussed the price for some time. Eventually they agreed; Anibaddh gave Sharada her purse, and Sharada completed the transaction. The babu saw them out, with many expressions of his deep respect and esteem and admiration and praise for their discernment and fine taste.

  “How come you know so much about gold?” asked Anibaddh as they made their way back through the maze of narrow streets. She could not keep her eyes off her bangle. To think that she herself now owned so beautiful and precious a thing!

  “I am of goldsmith caste,” said Sharada. “My family name is Swarnokar; it means ‘goldsmith.’”

  “But you told me your folks are musicians.”

  “Oh, yes, my father became a musician by accident—because he was blinded and could not do the work of a goldsmith. One day he was playing in a corner of the workshop, as children do, playing with his little flute, and one of his uncles was casting a gold cup, a large piece. The uncle melted the gold and poured it into the mold. Then he must instantly swing it in the sling, around and around, very fast, to make the molten gold fill each edge of the mold. But somehow the molten gold burst through the mold and the sling, and the molten droplets were flung out, and straight into the eyes of the child—my father. And thus he was blinded by gold itself as he played his flute! But it did not kill him, and as it was music he truly loved, not gold, he gladly became instead a musician, very famous and revered.”

  “Blinded by gold! Mmm. Is that why you don’t let me give you some little gold thing?”

  “No, Unbound One, not that. It is because I am a widow. And widows wear no ornament, none at all.”

  “Oh! Never again a pretty thing?”

  “I do not miss it. The great weight of gold I have worn! Enough forever. My husband was of course of our caste,” said Sharada. “He delighted to adorn me. My arms were covered with bangles. My ankles, too—great massy anklets. Finger rings, earrings, nose rings. Hair ornaments strung with rubies and pearls. A dozen heavy necklaces at a time. It all made a fine display when I went to play my sarode with my father’s ensemble at the court at Lucknow. It was bringing a good reputation to my husband’s family and attracting the notice of the great courtiers, the great connoisseurs, the great men, the rich collectors. And the orders were coming to his family’s workshop because of my fine ornaments. But his brothers were not liking it, nor their wives. And now…I wear no ornament ever again.”

  By the time they made their way back to the attorney’s house, the party that had been to the races had already returned, and Mrs Todd had sent for her maid several times. Sharada remained in the kitchen while Anibaddh went immediately to her mistress.

  In a few minutes Anibaddh returned. “Don’t you go away yet,” she whispered to Sharada. “Wait ’til I send up her bathwater. Then I tell you all about it.” Sharada waited while Anibaddh had the bearers carry up the big jars of hot and cold water. Then Anibaddh drew Sharada out into the back garden near the poultry house. “She’s all fit to burst! She just told me she’s fixing to be married!”

  “Mrs Todd?”

  Anibaddh nodded. “That big red-faced lieutenant who been dangling around all these weeks: Lieutenant Babcock, that’s his name. I thought maybe she like that smart little captain best, the one that lended her a horse for her to ride on. But no—she chose the big lieutenant after all.”

  �
�Married!”

  “That baby’s coming in June, ready or not, but look at her now, nobody guess it. She told him, I guess? Maybe not. She say he’s going up to the east any day now—way up in Assam to fight the king of Burma. So she’s fixing to be married right away and go up there with him, and she want me to go, too.”

  “Married again! Hindu widows never marry again. It is impossible.”

  “Oh, it’s different for Christian folks. I know of one Christian lady married and buried four husbands, all before she turn thirty-five. And I guess she ain’t done yet.”

  17

  the most fertile Invention & nicest Judgement must be distress’d

  As the two little ships proved themselves capable not only of floating but of swimming; of moving upriver and downriver, with the current or against it; down the wind, across it, or straight up into its teeth, Mr Fleming reverted to his usual mild manner, and there were no more loud disagreements between him and Hector. The little ships turned, they sailed, they steamed—slow or fast. They were named Castor and Pollux, but Hector always referred to them as Castor and Camber, a little mechanic’s joke of his own. Castor had the new rotary oar with one full spiral extending from its stem; Pollux had the yet-newer cambered-blade propeller, which resembled windmill vanes, extending from its stern. Pollux was Hector’s particular pet, though he would have denied having a favorite. He tried to disguise his great relief at their good performance, preferring to let it be supposed that he had felt full confidence in both little ships all along.

  The first trials were conducted on the broad expanse of the river in front of the city. It was a convenient but uncomfortably public venue. Many people were interested, particularly the independent merchants and of course the shipbuilders. Observers came up from the shipyards at Kidderpore, where, it was known, a steamship of the conventional paddle type was nearly ready for launch. Lengthier trials saw the little ships steam down past Garden Reach, then back up again, shouldering the powerful tide quite easily both ways. Eventually they ventured out into the choppy shallow waters where the Hoogly fell into the Bay of Bengal, and there they proved themselves in saltwater, too. Hector reeked of coal smoke and effort every night—clothes, hair, and all.

  Finally there came a day when Mr Fleming invited a select party of guests to steam up the river as far as his villa at Serampore, fourteen miles above Calcutta. They would dine at Serampore, then come back down after dark. Catherine and Grace were invited, as were Captain Mainwaring and an old friend of his, another ship captain. The party also included Mr Morris, the factor at the Crawford & Fleming warehouses in Howrah; two independent merchants who traded in indigo and calicoes; the Scottish engineer from the Kidderpore shipyard, a Mr Anderson; and Mr Sinclair, who at the last minute declared himself unengaged by his other work.

  At first light the two ships cast off, each with its complement of crew and passengers. Catherine and Grace, and their maid, were aboard Pollux with Hector, Mr Anderson, and Mr Sinclair.

  Animatedly discussing patent applications, Mr Anderson and Hector made straight for the engine bay, and Mr Sinclair followed them, leaving Catherine and Grace to explore the neat little cabins on their own. These were handsomely fitted out in a miniature version of the best East Indiaman style, smelling still of fresh wood and new varnish, everything convenient, neat, and comfortable. Then they went up onto the deck, where chairs had been set out, and from there they watched the riverbanks slide past.

  March had arrived, and the hot season was on its way, but it was still early and cool, with mist rising off the water. The Hindu women were at the river to fetch water and perform their early-morning ablutions. Standing hip deep in the slow-moving green water, they frankly stared at the strange smoking ships passing upward against the current, yet without sails or towlines or oars. Catherine and Grace gazed back just as frankly. The women’s brilliant wet clothing clung to their forms as they emerged from the river, looking, thought Catherine, exactly like classical Greek statuary—except for the vivid colours. Catherine felt a great sense of well-being, even delight. There could be no mode of travel more pleasant than this! The scene glided past while she reclined in comfort and ease. The banks of the river were picturesquely clad in exotic, handsome trees, abloom, or heavy with fruit. Here a villa, there a native temple, then a native procession bent on some native business, led by musicians.

  And then the river itself, so broad and serene, carried its own interesting sights: a convoy of timber rafts, a native pleasure craft fancifully carved and painted, humble fishing boats, a barge heavily laden with coal. Birds called from the trees on either shore. Catherine was delighted with India. Who could ever tire of this?

  Mr Sinclair soon joined her on deck, and talked amusingly about Mrs Todd—now Mrs Babcock—who had just departed for Goalpara with her new husband. “I hope she will be very happy,” said Catherine. “But poor Grace does sorely miss her black maid, for no one else will play chess with her at all hours as Annie used to do.”

  Then Hector and Mr Anderson came up, deep in discussion of various fuels and their virtues; and refreshments were brought. The sun shown down hot, and a canvas awning was rigged. The other ship was close behind them. A faint breeze carried the coal smoke away to starboard.

  Before Catherine was ready for the pleasant interlude to end, they approached the Danish settlement of Serampore, a neat and handsome town. Mr Fleming’s villa was just above the town itself. Its garden extended down to the river in a grassy green bank. The landing place, however, built of native stone, was not nearly large enough to accommodate the two steamboats. They anchored instead fifty yards off, and the passengers were carried to the landing place in the ships’ little launches, called dinghees by the native boatmen.

  A picturesque stone pavilion stood on a rock overlooking the river. As the passengers came ashore, helped up the flight of steps by Mr Fleming, Catherine saw that there were two people in the shade of the pavilion. One of them—an elderly clergyman, to judge by his collar—rose to his feet as they approached. The other, Catherine saw, was a native lady, dressed according to the Bengal fashion, and seated cross-legged amid a tumult of brilliant silk cushions upon a low carved wooden platform. In her lap was a little dog, scowling and growling at the newcomers.

  Then Mr Fleming was at hand to introduce them. This was the Reverend Doctor Carey, the very Dr Carey whose invaluable translation of Ramayana had so interested Mrs MacDonald during their passage, and whose Sanskrit Grammar had been so useful to Grace in her studies of the Devanagari system of writing. Dr Carey, elderly and churchly as he was, blushed faintly at this reference to his literary achievements.

  And then the lady was introduced. Her name was Harini. She placed the palms of her hands together under her chin in the gesture of namaste, and smiled warmly. “Welcome, honoured guests,” she said in clear good English. “I hope you have made pleasant passage upon the river.” Unlike most Hindu ladies whom Catherine had seen, Harini wore no bracelets, no bangles, no hair ornaments, no earrings, no nose ring, and no necklaces except for a small gold cross on a thin gold chain. Was she indeed a Christian? Had she any other name besides Harini? She was not Mrs Fleming, and she certainly looked like no housekeeper. But who was she, and what was she, to welcome guests to this house? And with a respectable clergyman at her side?

  Captain Mainwaring now came up the steps and made his bow: “Dear lady!” he cried. “It does my heart good, and my eyes, too, to see you again after so long a time. I have brought him back safely once again, you see, just as I promised. Not that he’s been spending much of his time up here at Serampore, eh?”

  “Oh, no!” agreed Harini. “Good Mr F has now two new sweethearts, I lament for it. And today for the first time I take sight of my rivals. You bring them indeed before me! Is it for my approval, good captain?”

  Captain Mainwaring must have looked daunted, for Harini laughed and explained, “Just there behind you, upon the river—his two beloved steaming ships.”

 
“You must make him bring you aboard for a little cruise,” said Captain Mainwaring. “It is the pleasantest thing in the world.”

  “I should like it so very much,” said Harini. Then her attention was claimed by more introductions: to the other ship captain, a Captain Robbins; to the two merchants of indigo and calicoes, Mr Ward and Mr Mitchell; and to Mr Anderson, the engineer.

  Catherine could not take her eyes off Harini. She was of a perfect beauty, her features utterly regular and pleasing, her expression animated and cheerful. Her long hair was thick, glossy and as black as the proverbial raven’s wing. Her eyes were no less black, but animated and sparkling. Her teeth were straight, white, and regular, and they showed as she smiled, laughed, talked. Catherine realized that her handsome looks were outlined, underlined, highlighted by certain materials and techniques—the artfully applied colours, powders, and tints that British ladies of good reputation did not use, or not to any visible degree. Yet on Harini’s smooth dark skin, there was nothing lurid or tawdry—nor even deceptive—about this skillful and frank afzetting. In the same way, Harini’s clothing—brilliantly coloured and exquisitely draped—flattered her extremely feminine form even though she remained seated on her cushioned platform. Catherine felt for the first time that perhaps her own straight pale muslin dress, of the usual, approved, and unexceptionable European style (though very wrinkled now across the lap), was perhaps not the loveliest shape for a woman’s clothing, and wondered how it would feel to wear a costume such as Harini’s—if only she had such a graceful form as Harini. Or how it would be to sit cross-legged on a cushioned platform, and laugh and toss her head as she was introduced to strangers.

  Mr Fleming’s garden was large, well watered, and handsomely furnished with large trees and flowering shrubs and vines. A high wall of stucco or stone enclosed it on three sides; the glistening river made the fourth side. The lawn sloped up to the house, a whitewashed villa with a deep veranda facing the river. There was a general movement among the assembled party; they would go up now to the house, where a festive meal had been arranged for them by Harini. Four wiry native men—bearers—appeared silently; and as the party moved off, they deftly inserted carrying poles into stout brass brackets on each side of Harini’s carved platform and, lifting in concert, carried the platform, with the lady on it, amid her guests on the broad swept walk leading up to the house. Harini laughed, and tickled her little dog, and addressed some remark to Captain Mainwaring, who walked at her side, with Mr Sinclair on the other side.