Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

As with many of the gomusta’s utterances, the meaning of this pronouncement was lost on Zachary. ‘Just wish I’d known you were coming, Baboo,’ he grumbled. ‘Shouldn’a jumped me like that — knocked me flat aback.’

‘How to inform? Too much busy no? After returning back from China with Burnham-sahib, I was issued orders to go to Ghazipur to inspect opium harvest. As soon as I could make my escapade I came to catch hold of you.’

‘So how was your voyage to China then?’

‘Nothing to grumble, all in all. And I also have a good news for you.’

Zachary sat up and pulled on his shirt. ‘What is it?’

‘I paid call on Miss Paulette.’

This brought Zachary quickly to his feet. ‘What? What was that you said?’

‘Miss Paulette,’ said the gomusta, beaming; ‘I met her on island called Hong Kong. She has obtained employment as assistant to an English botanist. They have made nurseries on the island, where they are putting all junglee trees and flowers.’

Zachary turned away from Baboo Nob Kissin and sank on to the bed again. It was a long time since he had thought of Paulette; he recalled now with a twinge of nostalgia his nightly quarrels with her and how she would step out of the shadows to come to him — but then he remembered also that this Paulette was merely a phantom, born of his own imaginings, and that the real Paulette had subjected him to a deception that he would not have discovered but for Mrs Burnham.

He rose to his feet, scowling, and turned to Baboo Nob Kissin. ‘Did Paulette ask about me?’

‘Most certainly. A copy of Calcutta Gazette had fallen on her hands and she had read the report about you. She was cognizant that all charges were cleared off your head and you were planning to proceed to China. She made copious inquiries about when you would come. She is getting heartburns all the time waiting, waiting. I told that most probably you will sign up on a ship and go. After all you are sailor, no?’

Zachary response was instantaneous. ‘No, Baboo. I’m sick of that shit — sailing, risking your life every day, never having any money in your pocket. I don’t want to be one of the deserving poor any more.’ He sighed: ‘I want to be rich, Baboo; I want to have silk sheets and soft pillows and fine food; I want to live in a place like that.’ He pointed in the direction of the Burnham mansion. ‘I want to own ships and not work on them. That’s what I want, Baboo; I want to live in Mr Burnham’s world.’

Zachary’s incantatory repetition of the word ‘want’ sent a shaft of illumination through Baboo Nob Kissin: he remembered that Ma Taramony had always said that the present era — Kaliyuga, the age of apocalypse — was but a yuga of wanting, an epoch of unbounded craving in which humankind would be ruled by the demons of greed and desire. It would end only when Lord Vishnu descended to the earth in his avatar as the destroyer Kalki to bring into being a new cycle of time, Satya Yuga, the age of truth. Ma Taramony had often said that in order to hasten the coming of the Kalki a great host of beings would appear on earth, to quicken the march of greed and desire.

And it struck Baboo Nob Kissin suddenly that perhaps Zachary was the incarnate realization of Ma Taramony’s prediction. With that everything fell into place and he understood that it was his duty to assist Zachary in his mission of unshackling the demon of greed that lurks in every human heart.

As to how it could be done Baboo Nob Kissin knew exactly the right means: a substance that had a magical power to turn human frailty into gold.

‘Opium is the solution,’ he said to Zachary. ‘That is how people can be made to want: opium can stroke all desires. That is what you must do: you must learn to buy and sell opium, like Mr Burnham. You are most apt for the part.’

‘I don’t know about that, Baboo,’ said Zachary. ‘I’ve never had a head for business — don’t know if I’d be any good at it.’

Baboo Nob Kissin clasped his hands together, in an attitude of prayer. ‘Do not worry, Master Zikri — if you channelize energies and indulge in due diligence, you will excel in this trade. You will even surpass Mr Burnham. For thirty years I have done gomusta-giri — all the know-hows are in my pocket. I will intimate everything to you. If you burn the candle and by-heart all my teachings then you will quickly achieve success. Must exert to win, no?’

‘But where do I begin, Baboo? How do I start?’

Baboo Nob Kissin stopped to think. ‘How much money you have got?’

‘Let’s see.’ Reaching under his mattress Zachary pulled out the pouch that contained the money that Mrs Burnham had given him over the last few months. Some of it had gone to the Harbourmaster’s office, for the settling of his debts, but a good deal still remained: when he untied the string and upended it over his bed, the coins tumbled out in a stream of silver.

‘By Jove!’ cried Baboo Nob Kissin, goggling at the glinting pile of metal. ‘Must be at least one thousand rupees. How you got so much?’

‘Oh, I’ve been doing a few odd jobs,’ said Zachary quickly. ‘And I’ve been careful to save too.’

‘Good. This is enough to start — and gains will come quickly.’ ‘So what do I do next?’

‘We will start tomorrow only. You must meet me at Strand, with money-purse, at 5 p.m. Kindly do not be late — I will be punctually expectorating.’

February 18, 1840

Honam

Yesterday was the day of the Lantern Festival. During the preceding fortnight, after the start of the festivities of the Chinese New Year, the city had become a vast fairground. Everybody stopped working and many people left to visit their villages. In the evenings the streets would erupt with merry-making; the sky would light up with fireworks and the waterways would fill with brightly lit boats.

The days went by in a whirl of revelry with the words Gong Hai Fatt Choy! ringing in ones ears wherever one went. Sometimes I celebrated with Compton and his family, sometimes with Asha-didi, Baburao and their children and grandchildren on the houseboat. Every day Mithu would bring me auspicious delicacies from the kitchen: long, long noodles, never to be snipped for fear of cutting short one’s life; golden tangerines with leaves attached; fried rolls, to invoke ingots of gold. By the end of it, I confess, I was quite worn out: it was a relief to set off as usual today, for a quiet day’s work.

But it proved to be anything but that. Around mid-morning, Compton and I received an urgent summons from Zhong Lou-si. We were both asked to present ourselves immediately at the Consoo House.

I guessed immediately that the summons had something to do with the ongoing saga of the Cambridge , which both Compton and I had been following with keen interest. The vessel has been becalmed for a while because of a paucity of crewmen — a very unexpected thing, since Guangdong is a province of sailors after all. There’s even a saying here: ‘seven sons to fishing and three to the plough’. Yet a long search produced fewer than a dozen men who were both willing and able to sail an English-style vessel.

It isn’t that Guangdong lacks for men with experience of working on Western ships. But most of them are reluctant to reveal that they have travelled abroad for it is considered a crime to do so without informing the authorities. This fear is particularly vivid in the community of boat-people, who have often been mistreated by the authorities in the past. This was a major hurdle, since most of the sailors in the province are from this community — very few came forward when the authorities went looking for volunteers. Things reached a point where it seemed that the Cambridge might never hoist sail.