Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

He shook his head dumbly, squinting into her veil: not till then did she realize that her face was hidden from his eyes. With a flick of her wrist, she threw back the netting.

Abh? Do you recognize me now?

After scanning her face once, twice and yet again, Kesri mumbled, in a hoarse, disbelieving voice: Cathy-mem? Aap hai kya? Is it you?

She laughed and continued, in Hindustani: Hã Kesri Singh! It’s me.

Kesri saw now, hidden within the contours of her visage, the chrysalis of the girl he had known some twenty years before, when he had served as her gun-bearer. He recalled the directness and spontaneity that had made such an impression on him then, and it seemed to him of a piece with the way she had stopped to talk to him now. Yet, even though her face had filled out, he noticed also that it was suffused with a kind of melancholy.

Maaf karna — forgive me, Cathy-mem, he said, for not recognizing you. But you look different somehow.

She laughed. Aap bhi — you too have changed, Kesri Singh, except for your eyes. That was why I recognized you, even though so much time has passed.

It must be twenty years or more, said Kesri.

That is true. I am ‘Mrs Burnham’ now — and you, I see, are a havildar?

Yes, Cathy-mem. And how is your father, the Jarnail-sahib?

He is well. My mother too. They have returned to England and my daughter has gone with them.

Only one daughter?

Yes, said Mrs Burnham, I have only the one daughter. And you, Kesri Singh? How many children do you have?

Four, said Kesri. Three boys and a girl. They are at home in my village, with my wife and family.

And your sister, Kesri Singh? The one you used to talk about? What was her name?

The question jolted Kesri: it was as if Deeti had reached out to him again, from the distant past. There was something so uncanny about it that he exclaimed in astonishment: Kamaal hai! Amazing that you remembered my sister! Her name is Deeti.

Yes, of course, she said with a smile. And you, Kesri Singh — what brings you here, to China?

The expedition, Cathy-mem. I decided to balamteer.

She dropped her eyes now, and he understood that there was something else on her mind. When she looked up again her voice was quieter and more tentative.

And what about everyone else in the Pacheesi? she said. The officers? How are they?

Kesri knew from her tone that the question was deceptive in its vagueness; he understood also that her inquiry concerned one officer in particular — and who could that be but Mr Mee? After all, he, Kesri, was perhaps the only person who was aware of what had passed between herself and Mr Mee all those years before.

At the thought of this an intuition of danger stirred within Kesri: no good could come to Captain Mee surely, from lapsing again into the madness, the junoon , that had possessed him at that time? Cathy-mem was no longer a girl; she was married now, and no doubt her husband was rich and powerful, fully capable of destroying an officer of the rank of Mr Mee.

On a note of warning, Kesri said, in a low, flat voice: Mr Mee is here with us, Cathy-mem; he is the CO of my company.

Oh!

Kesri saw that the colour had suddenly drained from her face. He added quickly: Mee-sahib is inside this house, Cathy-mem — he has gone there for tiffin.

Yahã hai? He is here?

Mrs Burnham froze and Kesri had the impression that she was about to turn on her heel and walk away. But just then a voice called out: ‘Mrs Burnham, is that you?’

It was Shireen. ‘How very nice to see you, Mrs Burnham!’ She came hurrying down to greet the visitor. ‘Do come in!’

‘Oh hello, Mrs Moddie.’

As they were shaking hands Shireen noticed that Mrs Burnham’s fingers were trembling slightly; glancing at her face she saw that she had turned very pale.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs Burnham? Are you not well?’

The parasol dropped suddenly from Mrs Burnham’s grasp. She swayed, clasping a hand to her chest. Fearing that she would fall, Shireen took hold of her elbow and helped her towards the veranda.

‘But Mrs Burnham! What in heavens is the matter?’

‘Just a spell of dizziness,’ said Mrs Burnham faintly, pressing a hand to her temple. ‘I’m sorry to be such a gudda. It’s nothing really.’

‘Oh but you must sit down!’

Shireen helped her up to the veranda and showed her to a chair. ‘Would you like a drink of water, Mrs Burnham?’

Mrs Burnham nodded and was about to say something when the voices of Dinyar and his friends came echoing down the vestibule. A moment later the front door flew open and Dinyar stepped out. Behind him came Captain Mee and a couple of other officers.

Captain Mee raised a hand to the bill of his shako: ‘Goodbye, Mrs Moddie — thank you for the delicious karibat.’

‘Goodbye, Captain Mee.’

Shireen noticed that the captain’s eyes had wandered to her visitor. She turned to Mrs Burnham, thinking that she would introduce her to Captain Mee — but only to find that Mrs Burnham was sitting with her face averted and her veil lowered: it was clear from her posture that she did not wish to be introduced.

Shireen waved the men off and then went to sit beside Mrs Burnham. Before she could speak, Mrs Burnham whispered: ‘Forgive me, Mrs Moddie, if I seemed rude — but I’m feeling too poorly to meet anyone.’

‘I perfectly understand,’ said Shireen. ‘Would you like to lie down for a moment?’

‘Yes, perhaps.’

Taking hold of her hand Shireen led her visitor indoors, to her own bedroom, where she helped her remove her headgear and lie down.

Mrs Burnham’s veil came off to reveal a face that was beaded with moisture. The feverishness of her appearance alarmed Shireen. ‘Should I fetch a doctor, Mrs Burnham?’

‘Please, no!’ said Mrs Burnham, stretching herself out on the bed. ‘It is just a spell of the chukkers. It will pass in a minute.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Burnham patted the bed. ‘Won’t you sit beside me, Mrs Moddie?’

‘You must call me Shireen. Please.’

‘Of course. And you must call me Cathy.’

Mrs Burnham’s eyes wandered to the framed picture that stood beside the bed. ‘That is your late husband, is it not, Shireen?’

‘Yes.’ Shireen picked up the picture and handed it to her.

Mrs Burnham studied the portrait for a few minutes, in silence. Presently she said, in a soft voice: ‘He was a handsome man.’

Shireen smiled in acknowledgement but said nothing.

‘I have heard,’ Mrs Burnham continued, ‘many stories about your husband. Mr Burnham thinks the world of him — that is why he asked me to call on you today.’

The words brought a quiver to Shireen’s lips; she turned her face away and buried her head in her shoulder.

‘You must have loved him very much,’ Mrs Burnham whispered.

Unable to speak, Shireen smiled wanly.

Mrs Burnham continued: ‘But you know, Shireen, even though you have lost him, you must count yourself very lucky — it is not given to every woman to spend her life with the man she loves.’

She seemed to choke as she was saying this. Shireen shot her a startled glance and saw that she too was wiping her eyes now.

‘Cathy? Whatever is the matter?’

Mrs Burnham was struggling to compose herself now, trying to summon a smile — but instead she succeeded only in looking more and more stricken. Where her grief came from Shireen did not know and nor did it matter — even though they knew very little about one another, it was as if they understood each other perfectly.

Mrs Burnham too seemed to be moved by the intimacy of the moment. She took hold of Shireen’s hand and whispered: ‘We shall be good friends I think, shan’t we, Shireen?’