Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

That brought the argument to an end. Bhyro Singh gave a dismissive shrug, as if to say he had done what he could: All right, then I will take your leave now, Ram Singhji. I have said what I had to. If anything changes, I will be at the mela tomorrow.

With that he ushered his men to the horse-cart and they went on their way.

*

Shireen was returning from one of her daily visits to the Fire Temple when she was intercepted by a khidmatgar. A visitor had come to the house to offer his respects, he said; the gentleman was waiting for her in a receiving room on the ground floor, with her brother.

Kaun hai? said Shireen. Do you know his name?

The boy could tell her nothing except that the visitor was a topeewala-sahib — a hat-wearing white man.

Veiling herself with the end of her white sari, Shireen went to the door of her brother’s baithak-khana. Seated inside, with her brother, was a tall man with a face like a wind-eroded cliff: his cheeks were scored by deep lines and his temples were marked by protruding, crag-like bones. He was clean-shaven, his complexion a weathered, sunset pink. His jacket and trowsers were a funereal black and he was wearing a dark armband around his sleeve.

In complexion, as in clothing, the visitor looked very much a sahib, yet there was something about his deportment that did not seem entirely European. Nor was there anything Western about the gesture with which he greeted her — a salaam, performed with a cupped hand and a deep bow.

‘Shireen, this is Mr Zadig Karabedian. I am sure his name will be familiar to you — he was a close friend of Bahram-bhai’s. He has come to pay his respects.’

Shireen bowed her head without removing her veil. Bahram had often spoken to her about ‘Zadig Bey’. She remembered that he had befriended him on a journey to England, some thirty years before. Zadig Bey had grown up in Egypt, Bahram had told her: he was an Armenian Christian, a clockmaker who travelled widely in connection with his trade.

Bibiji, said the visitor in fluent Hindustani; please forgive me for not coming earlier, but my visit to Bombay has been much delayed. Like you I have suffered a bereavement.

Oh?

He pointed to his armband: My wife of many years was carried away by a hectic fever a few months ago.

I’m very sorry to hear that, Zadig Bey. Where did it happen?

In Colombo. But I must count it my good fortune that I could at least be with her at the end. God did not grant you even that.

Behind the veil, Shireen’s eyes suddenly filled with tears: No; He did not …

Bibiji, I cannot tell you how much I have been saddened by your husband’s death. Bahram-bhai was my dearest friend.

At the sound of her late husband’s name Shireen’s eyes flew to her brother’s expressionless face. Over the last few weeks Bahram’s name had become almost taboo in the Mestrie mansion; people seemed to avoid mentioning him in order to spare themselves the ignominy of being reminded of his bankruptcy, and of the disgrace he had brought upon his family and relatives.

Shireen herself hardly ever spoke of Bahram now, except with her daughters, and even they talked about him as though he were someone else, a different man: it was as if his death, combined with the catastrophic failure that had preceded it, had become a kind of re-birth, begetting a man who was utterly unlike the person they had known: a man whose career had been doomed to failure from the start; whose every success was a portent of the disaster he would bring upon those he loved most.

The girls had always doted on their father but now they could no longer speak of him except in tones of shame and reproach — and nor could Shireen blame them, since Bahram’s bankruptcy had robbed them not just of their expectations of inheritance, but also of a considerable part of the respect they had previously enjoyed in their husbands’ families.

For Shireen herself Bahram’s name had become an open wound, which she tried alternately to soothe, heal and hide — and to hear it uttered now, in tones of such unalloyed affection, was oddly painful.

My husband often spoke of you, she said quietly.

Bahram-bhai was the kindest, most generous of men, said Zadig. It’s terrible that he went in this way.

Shireen glanced at her brother and saw that he was squirming in his seat. To listen to praise of Bahram was deeply distasteful to him, she knew, and she guessed that he would gladly have left the room if not for the impropriety of leaving her alone with a stranger. To spare him any further discomfort, she leant over and whispered in Gujarati, telling him that he could slip away if he liked — her maid was outside; he could send her in and tell her to leave the door open. It would be perfectly proper; she was veiled anyway — there was nothing to worry about.

He jumped to his feet immediately. All right, he said. I will leave you here for a few minutes.

The maid came in and seated herself beside the open door, with the curtain drawn. Then Shireen turned her veiled face towards Zadig Bey.

May I ask when you last saw my husband?

About two months before the accident. I left Canton soon after the crisis began. He was amongst those who remained behind.

But why did he stay behind? she said. Can you tell me exactly what happened?

Zaroor Bibiji .

Zadig went on to explain that in March that year the Chinese authorities had launched an all-out campaign to end the inflow of opium into China. The Emperor had sent a new governor to Canton by the name of Commissioner Lin; shortly after coming to Canton he had given the foreign merchants of the city an ultimatum, ordering them to surrender all the opium on their ships. When they refused he had posted soldiers and boats around the foreign enclave in Canton, cutting it off completely from the outside. The merchants had been given plenty of food and they weren’t ill-treated, but the pressure was such that they had ultimately agreed to surrender their goods. After that Commissioner Lin had allowed all but the most important merchants to leave: Bahram was one of those who had been required to remain in Canton. He had stayed on with his entourage in his house, in Canton’s foreign enclave.

As you may know, Bibiji, said Zadig, the foreign enclave in Canton has thirteen ‘factories’ — or Hongs as they are called over there. They are not really factories — they are more like big caravanserais. Each factory has a number of different apartments and lodgings, which are rented out to foreign merchants according to their means. Bahram always stayed in the same house, in the Fungtai Factory, with his staff. That was where I went to see him.

How was he?

Zadig paused to clear his throat, and when he spoke again it was in the awkward, hesitant tones of someone who is reluctant to convey bad news.

Bibiji, I don’t know if I should tell you this, but Bahram-bhai was in a very downcast state of mind when I saw him. He seemed quite ill to be truthful. I asked his munshi what the matter was, and he said Bahram-bhai rarely left his daftar: apparently he spent his days sitting by the window, in a chair, watching the Maidan outside.

Grief was welling up in Shireen now; she began to knead the hem of her sari with her fingers.

It is hard for me to believe all this, Zadig Bey. My husband was a man who could never sit still.

He was weighed down by his worries, Bibiji, and it’s not surprising. He stood to lose a great deal of money and of course he was worried about his debts.

Zadig coughed into his fist.

I am sure you know, Bibiji, that nothing mattered to him more than his family. That was his religion — his second religion, I should say.

Shireen reached under her veil to wipe away her tears: Yes, I know that.