Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Kesri made a half-hearted effort to signal to them that he had come in search of food. But the men wouldn’t so much as glance at his clumsy attempts at mime; they kept their eyes averted as though he were an apparition too terrifying to behold.

What to do now?

Kesri spat on the ground, in exasperation.

What sense did it make to ask these men for donations? The food in this storeroom was probably not theirs to give away in any case — and even if it were, why would they willingly part with things they had laboured hard to produce? No farmer would do that, Kesri knew, not here nor in his native Nayanpur — not unless the request was tendered at the point of a gun, by a dacoit or soldier, and it was a matter of saving one’s skin. Yes, that was what this was, dacoity, banditry, and why should it fall on him, a mere havildar, to pretend otherwise, just because Captain Mee had asked him to? Kesri decided that to leave quickly was the most considerate thing he could do for these people.

Kesri signalled to the camp-followers to pick up five sacks of rice and two baskets of vegetables.

Cover them with tarpaulin, he told them, in case it rains.

Going back to the courtyard Kesri was taken aback to find that a group of men, dressed in the usual clothing of Cantonese villagers — tunics, pyjamas and conical hats — had collected around the entrance to the compound. That was not surprising in itself; what was really startling was that Maddow appeared to be conversing with one of those men.

A roar burst from Kesri’s throat — eha ka hota? What’s going on here? — and he went striding across the courtyard.

At Kesri’s approach the men melted away; he would have given chase except that they had vanished by the time he reached the courtyard’s entrance.

Turning on Maddow, Kesri snapped: Wu log kaun rahlen? Who were they? Did you know them?

There was no change in Maddow’s usual sleepy expression.

They were lascars, havildar, he said. Chinese lascars. I had sailed on a ship with one of them. He was my serang. That’s all.

Kesri glared at him: Saach bolat hwa? Are you telling the truth?

Ji, havildar-sah’b, said Maddow. It’s the truth — I swear it.

Kesri sensed that there was more to thisthan Maddow had said but there was no time to pursue the matter: it had already begun to drizzle.

‘Fall in!’

The foraging party had gone only a few hundred yards when the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down.

It was quite late now and the light was poor. Glancing over his shoulder, Kesri caught sight of a couple of conical hats, a little to the rear of the foraging party. It occurred to him to wonder whether the men who had been speaking to Maddow were following them. But when he ran his eyes over the party he saw that Maddow was nowhere near those men: he was marching close to the front, with an enormous sack slung over his shoulder; with his free hand he was helping Raju with a chagal of water.

Reassured, Kesri turned his eyes ahead again.

*

It wasn’t long before Raju realized that Maddow was slowing down. The change of pace did not surprise him for Maddow’s burden seemed enormously heavy.

Thak gaye ho? Raju whispered. Are you tired?

Maddow shook his head without answering — and this too did not surprise Raju for he knew that Maddow was not a man of many words. The night before, when a couple of the older boys had set upon Raju, threatening to take him down a peg or two, Maddow had appeared out of nowhere and somehow his very presence had scared them away — yet the gun-lascar had uttered hardly a word to Raju, even though he had stayed beside him all through the night. If not for that, Raju would have had a difficult time of it, he knew: in the hours after Dicky’s death he had discovered very quickly that Dicky had been not just a friend but also a protector. With him gone it was as if Raju had become fair game for the louts and bullies. Even today they had picked on him whenever Maddow was out of sight — which was why he was grateful to be walking beside him now.

Raju thought nothing of it as he and Maddow slowly dropped back to the rear of the party.

It was still raining hard when Maddow bent down to talk into his ear: Listen, boy, there is someone here for you. Look behind.

Glancing through the rain, Raju glimpsed the outline of a figure in a conical hat. Who is he? he whispered fearfully.

Don’t be afraid, said Maddow. He is a friend. He will take you to your father.

My father?

Even though he had dreamt of receiving a message from his father, Raju had never imagined that it would happen like this.

You must go with him, Maddow whispered. You’ll be safe. Don’t worry.

But who is it? said Raju. What’s his name?

Serang Ali.

At this Raju’s heart leapt for he knew well that name, from Baboo Nob Kissin’s stories.

What do I have to do? he said to Maddow.

You only have to stop walking, that’s all.

Without another word Maddow whisked the chagal out of Raju’s hands and stepped away.

It was still raining and in a few minutes Maddow and the foraging party had disappeared from view. It was the man in the conical hat who was standing beside Raju now, a fierce-looking man with a wispy, drooping moustache — a man whose face would have frightened Raju if his appearance had not so exactly fitted Baboo Nob Kissin’s descriptions.

The next thing he knew, a rain-cloak made of straw had been thrown over him, covering his uniform, and his topee had been replaced by a conical hat. Then Serang Ali took hold of Raju’s hand and led him into an alley.

Stay beside me, said the serang, and don’t say a word. If anyone speaks to you pretend you are mute.

*

The hours of waiting, on a sampan moored a few miles from San Yuan Li, were the worst that Neel had ever endured. Had he been allowed to accompany Serang Ali and his party he would at least have had the satisfaction of doing something — but the serang had been inflexible on this score: on no account, he had said, was Neel to leave the sampan. Emotions were at such a pitch in the countryside that if the villagers suspected that a haak-gwai was in their midst he would certainly be killed.

Nor could the serang’s instructions be flouted for he had left Jodu behind, on the sampan, to enforce his orders. And Jodu was diligent in doing his job, making sure that Neel did not so much as stick his head out of the covered part of the boat.

Luckily, just before leaving the Ocean Banner Monastery, Neel had snatched up a book — the one that he and Raju had so often read together, The Butterfly’s Ball . He had thought that it would be comforting for Raju to have something familiar at hand. But it was Neel himself who now began to find comfort in the book’s familiarity; he leafed through it many times as the rain poured down on the boat.

He was flipping through the book one more time when Jodu whispered: Look — they’re coming back.

Peering at the riverbank, Neel spotted a group of shadowy figures taking shape in the gloaming. His heart almost stopped — for the shadows were all of grown men. It seemed certain to him then that something had gone terribly wrong. He would have let out a cry but Jodu was ready for that too: he clapped a hand over Neel’s mouth before any sound could escape his lips.

And then, as the figures came closer, another shadow, one that had been hidden by the others, detached itself from the group: it was of about the height of a boy — but Neel’s mind was now so disordered with worry that he could not be sure of what he was seeing. He began to struggle against Jodu’s grip.

Only when the boy had stepped into the sampan did Jodu let him go — just in time for Neel to fling wide his arms.