Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Zadig continued: That Bahram-bhai’s health suffered is not surprising. He was already quite weak when I saw him, but still, I could not believe it when I heard that he had fallen from the deck of the Anahita . That is the last thing one would expect of a man who had so much experience of sailing. And the worst part of it is that if he had only lived a little longer he would have known that his losses would be recouped.

Shireen was suddenly alert: You mean there will be compensation for the losses?

Zadig nodded: the foreign merchants had set up a fund, he said, to put pressure on the British government to take action against the Chinese. The merchants had all contributed a dollar for every chest of opium confiscated by Commissioner Lin. A large sum of money had been collected and sent to Mr William Jardine, in London. Jardine was the biggest of the China traders and he had been making very good use of the money; he had paid off many Members of Parliament and a horde of newspapermen. Nothing like that had ever been seen before — merchants and seths using their money to buy up the government! So many speeches had been made, and so many articles had been published that now every Englishman was convinced that Commissioner Lin was a monster. It was rumoured that on Jardine’s advice the British government was preparing to send an expeditionary force to China. The seizure of the opium was to be their reason for declaring war so it was quite certain that they would demand reparations.

Here Zadig leant forward in his seat: You must make sure, Bibiji, he said, that Bahram-bhai’s claims are not overlooked when it is time for the money to be divided.

Stifling a sob, Shireen explained that this was exactly the problem: she had no one to represent her; her brothers and sons-in-law were busy with their own affairs and could not spare the time for a year-long journey to China.

There is no one to fill my husband’s shoes, Zadig Bey — no son, no heir, and in a way he himself is to blame.

What do you mean, Bibiji?

Shireen was now so distraught, and Zadig’s presence was so comforting, that without quite meaning to she began to talk about something that she had never before spoken of with anyone.

Zadig Bey, there is something you perhaps do not know: my husband had some sort of problem, something physical, that prevented him from begetting a son. We were told this by a sadhu who had cured many such cases; he offered to cure my husband too, but he just laughed it off. If he had taken the matter more seriously maybe things would have been different now.

Having listened intently to Shireen’s words, Zadig fell into a ruminative silence. When he spoke again it was in English. ‘Can I ask you a question, Bibiji?’

Shireen glanced at him in surprise and he made a gesture of warning, inclining his head in the direction of the maid. ‘May I ask you something?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Please. Go on.’

‘May I ask if Bibiji ever leaves the house?’

The question took Shireen by surprise. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Let me put it like this: how might it be possible to speak to you in private, away from the hearing of your family and servants?’

She thought quickly. ‘Thursday is the anniversary of the death of Mrs O’Brien, my English tutor. I will go to Nossa Senhora da Gloria Church to light a candle for her.’

‘The Catholic church in Mazagon?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time?’

She could hear her brother’s footsteps in the corridor now and she lowered her voice. ‘Eleven o’clock, in the morning.’

He nodded and lowered his voice to a whisper: ‘I will be there.’

*

Tears came into young Kesri’s eyes as he watched Bhyro Singh’s cart receding into the distance: it was as if his own hopes were being ground to dust under its wheels.

No one had listened to the havildar’s words with greater attention than Kesri: the arguments about caste and religion had mattered little to him, but his observations on weaponry and tactics had made a profound impression, re-moulding Kesri’s soldierly aspirations: no longer did he want merely to be a bearer of arms; it was the Company’s army, the havildar’s battalion, that he wanted to join. The attractions of the old ways of fighting had been scorched from his head: this new kind of war was much more attractive. This was what real soldiering was about: winning, adapting, out-thinking the enemy, and through it all, also making money.

That his brother Bhim had turned down such an opportunity seemed almost beyond belief to Kesri. Later, when they were out of earshot of their father, Kesri said to Bhim: Batavo — tell me, why didn’t you go with Havildar Bhyro Singh? Was it because you’re afraid of Babuji?

No, said Bhim, with a shake of his head. It’s Bhyro Singh I’m afraid of. I would rather go with a demon than with that man.

But why do you say that? Can’t you see how good the Company’s terms are?

Bhim merely shrugged and shuffled his feet.

If only, said Kesri bitterly, if only I’d been in your place.

Why? said Bhim. What would you have done? Would you have gone with Bhyro Singh?

Kesri nodded, blinking back the tears that had boiled up in his eyes. If I were in your place, said Kesri, I would not have wasted one moment. I would be on that cart right now, with them …

If the desire to leave had been a dull ache before, it was now a fever raging in Kesri’s belly. The heat of it curdled the rich food he had eaten that morning and he vomited in full view of his family.

In a way this was a blessing, for it gave him an excuse to keep to himself. He spent the rest of the day lying on his mat and went to sleep early. Next morning, when it came time to leave for the Naga sadhus’ mela he could not stomach the prospect of having to sit aside as Bhim received blessings for his journey to Delhi: pleading illness, Kesri stayed at home.

After the others had left, Kesri ferreted out his father’s stock of opium and tucked a pinch of it in his cheek. He soon fell asleep, and although he woke briefly when the others returned, he did not stir from his mat. Night had already fallen so no one came to rouse him and he soon drifted off again.

When next he woke it was very late and his brother was whispering in his year: Uthelu Kesri-bhaiya , wake up — come outside!

Still groggy from the opium, Kesri held on to his brother’s elbow and followed him through the sleeping house, to the charpoys under the mango tree.

Listen, Kesri-bhaiya, Bhim whispered. You have to hurry — Bhyro Singhji is waiting for you.

Ka kahrelba? Kesri rubbed his sleepy eyes with his knuckles. What are you talking about?

Yes, said Bhim. It’s true. I spoke to Bhyro Singhji at the mela today: I told him that you wanted to join the Company’s army but that Babuji does not wish it and wouldn’t give his permission. He said that Babuji’s wishes do not concern him at all. Babuji is not his relative, and he doesn’t care about his views. Calcutta is too far for Babuji to do anything about it.

Kesri was suddenly wide awake: So what did you say?

I told him that if you left without Babuji’s permission you would have no money or equipment, or even a horse. He said that this too would not matter — a horse is not necessary because they are travelling to Calcutta by boat. As for other necessities, he will give you a loan, to be paid back later.

And then?

He said that if you were sure in your mind that you want to go, then you should meet him and his men at the ghat by the river, at dawn. That is when their boat will be sailing. They will be waiting for you. Der na hoi — don’t be late.

Is this true? cried Kesri. Are you sure?

Yes, Kesri-bhaiya. Dawn is not so far off. If you start walking you will be there in time to meet them.