Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

The lascars had been listening carefully and they needed only a few minutes to make up their minds.

Tell them, Jodu said to me, that we have conditions of our own. Tell them we are all Muslims so our provisions must be halal and they must be provided by tradesmen of the local Hui community, as is done in our prison, for Muslim prisoners. If we are near Guangzhou then on the last Friday of every month, we must be allowed to visit the Huaisheng mosque, in the city. Tell them that we know from experience that in China people are often suspicious of foreigners so we will expect them to provide adequate protection for us in order that we may have peace of mind and serve to the best of our ability.

Here Jodu paused for a moment.

And tell them, he resumed, that if they agree to all of this then they need not fear for our loyalty. We are men of our word and we would never be disloyal to the hand that provides our salt.

Once this had been translated, Zhong Lou-si and the other officials rose to their feet and withdrew to another room to deliberate in private. In the interim, much to my disappointment, the lascars were led back into the interior of the building: I had hoped that Jodu and I would have a little time to talk.

My rapport with Jodu had not escaped Compton. He asked if I knew him and I said we had once sailed on the same ship. I also said that I would like to speak with him if possible.

Compton did not think this unreasonable; he asked me to find out if Jodu and the lascars are honest and reliable men. He has promised to arrange for him to visit me, in my lodgings.

I came back to the houseboat with my head in a whirl: when Jodu’s eyes met mine, in the Consoo House, it was as if our lives had changed. A strange and powerful thing is recognition!

For several successive nights, Shireen woke with a jolt, in the small hours, her nerves fluttering, her heart racing. It seemed incredible that all the obstacles that had loomed so large in her mind had disappeared; that she was now free to go to China — she, Shireen, mother of Behroze and Shernaz, a grandmother who had lived in the same house all her life and had never travelled beyond Surat! She had never quite believed that the wall she was pushing against would ever give way, and now that it had, she felt that she was toppling over.

At this critical time, when her confidence was beginning to falter, it was Rosa who steadied her by shifting her attention to practical things — like bowlas and baggage. She asked Shireen how many trunks she had and whether they would suffice for all her things.

Shireen remembered that she had put some of Bahram’s old sea-trunks and bowlas in a storage loft. She had them brought down and found, to her dismay, that they were in a bad way: the trunks’ wooden frames had been shredded by termites and their leather coverings had been eaten by mildew. But there were two that were not past salvaging — and to Shireen that seemed good enough: she could not imagine that she would need more.

But Rosa laughed when she heard this: No, Bibiji, you’ll need at least three more trunks and a couple of bedding rolls as well. We should go to China Bazar and order them straight away.

So Shireen asked for a carriage and they went across town to visit the leather-workers’ shops in the China Bazar. After their orders had been placed Rosa sprang another surprise: since they had a buggy for the morning, she said, they might as well visit Mr da Gama, the tailor, at his premises near the Esplanade.

Shireen had planned to buy a few white shawls and saris for the journey, but it had never entered her mind to visit Mr da Gama, who specialized in making coats and pelisses, mainly for Europeans.

Why Mr da Gama? Shireen asked, at which Rosa proceeded to explain that winters were sometimes bitterly cold on the south China coast. Shireen would need not just shawls and scarves but also pelisses, surtouts, hats, dresses …

Dresses! Shireen clamped a hand over her mouth. After hearing of Bahram’s death she had adhered strictly to the rules of widowhood, which prescribed, among other things, that only white saris could be worn: to wear a dress would mean breaking with an ages-old custom.

Shaken by tremors of disquiet, Shireen said: You don’t think I’m going to wear dresses, do you, Rosa?

Why not, Bibiji? said Rosa, with her bright, mischievous smile. At sea dresses are easier to manage than saris.

But what will people think? What will the family say?

They won’t be there, Bibiji.

Shireen wondered how to explain that the thought of herself, costumed in a gown, seemed not just scandalous but also absurd. I can’t, Rosa! I’d think everyone was laughing at me. Rosa smiled and patted Shireen’s hand.

No one will laugh at you, Bibiji, she said. You’re tall and thin — a dress will suit you very well.

Really?

In trying to envision herself in a dress, Shireen realised that the journey ahead would entail much more than just a change of location: in order to arrive at her destination she would have to become a different person.

In the following weeks, as a procession of darzees, mochis, rafoo-gars and milliners filed through her apartment, Shireen began to catch glimpses of this new incarnation of herself.

The sight made her avert her eyes from the looking-glass. Apart from Rosa she allowed no one into the room where she was being measured and fitted; she hid her new wardrobe even from her daughters, locking her almirah whenever they or their children came to visit.

The deception was so successful that she succeeded in concealing her wardrobe until her departure was just a week away. But one morning Shernaz and Behroze came over with their children, to help with the packing, and one of their little girls somehow managed to get hold of the key to the almirah in which Shireen had hidden her new clothes.

A shriek rang through the apartment and suddenly it was as if Aladdin’s cave had appeared in Shireen’s bedroom: everyone ran to the almirah and stood staring in disbelief at the hats, shoes and pelisses that were stored within.

After that Shireen could not refuse to show her daughters and granddaughters how she looked in her new clothes. Yielding to their entreaties, she changed into a complete ensemble of memsahib clothing — dress, pelisse and hat — and paraded defiantly through her bedroom, challenging them to laugh.

But instead their eyes widened with a wonder that was not untinged with envy.

‘Oh Mama!’ cried Shernaz, who had never addressed Shireen in that way before.

‘What do you mean Mama?’ said Shireen. ‘Since when have you called me that?’

Shernaz looked startled: ‘Did I call you that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then it’s because you don’t look like our Mumma any more.’

‘What do I look like then?’

‘I don’t know. You look different — younger.’

Then Shernaz burst into tears, taking everyone by surprise. After that no one else could stay dry-eyed either.

For the last two days before the Hind’ s departure, Shernaz and Behroze moved into Shireen’s apartment with their children. This was meant to make things easier for Shireen, but of course it did nothing of the kind; still, she welcomed the extra work because it kept her occupied.

On the evening before Shireen’s embarkation, her brothers organized a special jashan at home to seek blessings for her voyage and to wish her godspeed. Shireen was a little nervous about the event, but it went off very well. Every prominent Parsi family in the city sent a representative, including the Readymonies and Dadiseths; even Mrs Jejeebhoy dropped by for a few minutes. Better still, the jashan was attended by several members of the Parsi Panchayat — this was a great relief to Shireen for she had not quite rid herself of the fear that the community’s highest body might declare her an outcast. This way it was almost as if they had given their imprimatur to her voyage.