Julian Rathbone - Kings of Albion

There is always excitement, even for an old trader like me, in embarcation and departure. Picture us, if you can, towed away from the quay by row-boats, manned by dock-workers, out into the estuary of the Juari river, behind us the gilded shikharas of the temple to Shiva, the dome and minarets of the mosque with its black marble portico, and then, as the estuary widens, the customs buildings and the offices of the harbour-master. All seemed to crowd together as we moved away from them. The quay itself was lined with those members of the Prince's household who were not accompanying us. including all the women and his ten elephants. A band played, handkerchiefs and scarves were waved, elephants trumpeted and were rewarded by their mahouts with ripe mangoes.

Across the river, on the other side of the estuary, the forest came down to the water's edge, the sand a white line between green trees and emerald water. Along the edge beyond their beached boats smoke gusted out of the many fishermen's villages from the fires used to cure their catch, and beyond them, above the nodding palms, and far closer than they are at Mangalore, the Western Ghats climbed into the almost perfect blue of the sky. Above them, the north-east trades that would carry us across the Arabian Sea spun angels' hair from the clouds.

While we were still in the estuary but hail left the villages behind us we passed a point where dugongs grazed the abundant seaweed that filled a small cove and marvelled at the human way the cows suckled their young. I remarked that it was strange to find a colony so close to human habitation since their meat is highly prized. This prompted Anish to tell me they were protected in this area as servants of the goddess in her manifestation as Queen of the Sea.

On our ship all was bustle: while most of the crew stood by the mast, with the ropes in their hands that would presently hoist the big lateen sail, the rest went about their business making movables fast wherever their passengers would let them; the passengers, apart from those closest to the Prince, moved about the decks seeking places behind gunwales and bulwarks where they might be sheltered from spray and worse, and marking out their territories with their bundled blankets or rattan bags. Few wanted to go below, and in any case much of the space was taken with our larger baggage and spice sacks.

Gulls and other seabirds gathered in our wake, so we carried a comet trail behind us, and the air filled with their angry, pleading mewing. For a moment or two as we passed the harbour bar the ship bucked and shuddered in the swell, and spray flew across the deck; then the sailors in the forepeak cast off the hausers that linked us to the tow-boats, and those in the waist of the vessel hauled up the sail, which filled and bellied like a pregnant woman, pregnant with adventure.

The motion settled now into the steady rhythm of the rollers that slipped beneath us on their way to crash in a line of surf on the already distant Malabar coast. In almost no time at all the uplands of the Western Ghats, beneath their line of mountain cloud, were the only sign of land, they and the birds that followed us until nightfall.

Now the swell was no longer crested and in every direction the sea-acres of deepest indigo-black stretched to the horizon, but this was no watery desert. A shoal of flying fish flashed by, silver shards of razor-edged light, their spiny fins shredding the heaving surface. Behind them, and in ravenous pursuit, came a school of porpoises, tumbling like kittens, snapping like puppies at the fish, their skins the shiny black of carved, polished coal; while further off three whales kept station, venting their lungs in spumy breaths like smoke.

As I said, there is always excitement, a lightening of the spirits at such times. Even though one knows landfall will come, or, if not, then a watery grave, one also knows that for a day or two, a week perhaps, this is a time out of life, a space where anxiety and worry have no place. Meanwhile, there is the brightness of the sky and the rush of the wind to be enjoyed, the smells of tar, hemp and seasoned timber to be relished, and, to be shared, the slow dance of the rise and slip of the deck, the swaying tilt of the horizon, as the ship performs its pavana with the wind and waves.

Thus it was, on that day, for me – but not for Anish who, along with many others, was seasick. I suspect Prince Harihara was too, for he kept to himself in the rush-roofed area in the stern.

For my part, using my old stick to steady myself, and with the hem of my old cape banging against my knees, I took a turn round the deck. Five of our muleteers were already crowded around a cook, who was crouched over a metal bowl of charcoal, slapping slabs of dough on a metal plate above it and flipping them over as the bubbles of air separated the skins of blackening crust. The smell of grilled bread and spices wafted by on the bluish smoke, and the Arab crewmen, properly aware of the dangers of fire at sea, looked on warily, one swinging a canvas bucket ready to scoop the sea-water that rushed by below the lee rail.

Further on I came on our fakir, already with a tiny crowd of seamen, a couple of servants and four of our soldiers around him. Lean, with sinews in his neck strung tight like the strings on a sitar and fingers that flickered in what I imagine he took to be an entrancing way, he wore a baggy loincloth, none too clean, and a turban, so I supposed he was a Mussulman like myself, though of Indian stock.

Our sergeant, the second in command of the soldiers, a big, burly-fellow with a scimitar which had a spike protruding from the hilt, grumbled in my ear, 'He won't levitate or do his rope trick on account of the wind. He reckons if he did the ship would go on and leave him suspended above the ocean.'

I could not restrain a laugh. 'Well,' I replied, 'we'll see when the wind drops or when we get to dry land.'

Meanwhile the fakir was contenting himself and his onlookers by discovering long chains of knotted silk scarves in their ears and an abundance of hard-boiled eggs in his own mouth. Considering his entire upper body, apart from his turban, was bare, all this was remarkable enough in its way.

I moved on to the forepeak and found, in the angle of the bow, the Buddhist monk. As I approached he contorted himself into a yogic position beneath his saffron robe and began to repeat, with eyes shut and face lifted to the sky and sun. some meaningless mantra. His head was shaved; the simple accoutrements of his craft – a begging bowl, a pottery drum, linger cymbals and tiny bells – stood on the deck beside him. He was slight of build, had long fingers and feet, and no eyebrows at all, though the skin where they had been was red, raw and flaking. Indeed, apart from a dark haze over his scalp, his skin was smooth and hairless, like a eunuch's. He was darker than most of our party, not African dark but heading that way. Lost in his rapture, meditation, whatever, he paid no attention to me, did not open his eyes or move at all, apart from his lips, which continued to emit their monotonous drone until I passed on. On account of his religion and physical characteristics I took him to be Sinhalese from Sri Lanka.

A sudden commotion in the waist of the ship drew my attention away from him. Our sergeant had the fakir by the throat, had him up against the gunwale the edge of which was in the fakir's back and likely to make an apt fulcrum for levering him over the side. I swung myself past the mast, ducked my head under the comer of the sail and tapped the sergeant on the shoulder with the end of my stick. 'At least,' I said, 'tell me why he deserves drowning before you put him in the sea.'

He twisted his head and brought his big bullish face within inches of mine. His breath smelt of rice beer, garlic, smoked fish.