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Authors: Meira Chand

BOOK: A Far Horizon
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‘Now you are no longer a child. There is no time to waste with these old stories. You have a child of your own to attend to.’ Parvati turned towards the nursery, from where sounds of whimpering grew stronger. Emily rose from the chair to follow her.

A
t the arrival of Jaya and Sati, the beggars about the temple immediately geared themselves up for the usual assault on the pious. Jaya was used to such situations. She tossed a handful of coins over her shoulder so that they fell a distance behind her. The beggars raced to where the money was scattered and began to squabble. During this distraction, Jaya and Sati began their climb to the grotto on the hill. Here, near the burning ghat, the Goddess was at her most impartial. At this place of life’s far boundary she stood revealed in the fullness of her terrible beauty. In the presence of death her touch transformed, removing pain, guiding each departing soul according to its needs. Here she was only compassion. At the top of the hill Sati and Jaya paused, then entered the grotto; they came here often together.

Soon they emerged again and descended the hillock by its steep path. Once more the beggars surrounded them, shouting rudely and waving the stubs of their amputated limbs. Once more Jaya tossed a handful of coins over her shoulder and the vagrants fell upon them. The women then quickly made their way across the compound to the main temple.

As they stepped into the shade of its arches there was a sudden roar from the jungle. At once the beggars sat back on their heels
before Jaya’s coins, muttering in fear. For some days a man-eating tiger had been terrorising Black Town. It slunk noiselessly out of the jungle whenever it needed a meal. Some said they had seen its amber eyes staring out of the foliage. Children were kept indoors. The old and infirm no longer slept on string beds under the trees. People adopted a guarded stance; while walking to the well women took a lighted flare at midday. At the Kali Mandhir the ash-smeared mendicants still sat by the riverbank, but their meditation was disturbed. Sometimes by the proximity of its roar the tiger seemed almost upon them. The mendicants reached for their tridents and moved closer together.

Now the tiger’s roar seemed to echo upon the very walls of the temple. Jaya gripped Sati’s arm, pulling her on. After the night in Demonteguy’s house she had wasted no time in arranging to rid her granddaughter of the
ferenghi
devil.

‘It is no
ferenghi
‚’
Sati had pleaded.

‘No Indian spirit speaking like that to the Hatmen. It is a foreigner, a
ferenghi
,’ Jaya insisted, remembering again the night of the seance.

They made their way past the main chamber to a small cell where a priest waited. The dark room smelled of old bricks and rodent droppings. At once Jaya began to speak. The priest nodded from time to time, without interrupting. He knew her well and so was aware that interruptions only prolonged her explanations. When at last he was free to speak he instructed them to sit before him. He began lighting sticks of incense. Soon myrrh and frankincense rose in a cloud, almost obscuring the priest from view. The perfume engorged their nostrils and glutted in their chests. Sati began to feel dizzy. Jaya coughed and fanned the cloud away with the end of her sari. Behind the smoke the priest was now a hazy apparition, a long beard covering his nakedness, grey hair flowing over his shoulders. His voice intoned hypnotically.

‘The power who is defined as Consciousness in all beings,

Reverence to Her, reverence to Her, reverence to Her,

Reverence‚ reverence.

 

The power who is known as Reason in all beings,

Reverence to Her, reverence to Her, reverence to Her,

Reverence, reverence.’

Light sliced down into the dim room from a small high window. It fell in a burnished pool upon the priest and the accoutrements of
puja
before him: flowers, brass dishes of rice and carmine, a mound of powdered dung and sandalwood, coconuts, oil lamps and fruits. In a metal container he lit a small fire, igniting it with camphor. His hands reached out, palms up, as he intoned the hymns to Kali, eyes closed in concentration.

‘Destroyer of time,

Destroyer of fear,

Who assumeth all forms at will …

O Beautiful One ….

Joyous one …

Allayer of sufferings,

To thee I make obeisance.’ 

The priest sprinkled dung and sandalwood on to the fire. More camphor was added and the aromatic flames spurted up. The priest’s deep-set eyes appeared lit from within and fastened on Sati, unmoving. His voice continued to intone. Jaya added a handful of fuel to the fire at a signal from the priest, and Sati followed. The flames spurted up again. On the window ledge above the priest a crow alighted and squawked, the sun running like oil in its ebony feathers. The aromatic smoke swirled and billowed about. Soon another crow joined the first. Their merciless eyes and brazen beaks were fixed upon the ritual enacted in the room. The birds and the priest seemed then to merge in Sati’s mind into the separate parts of a powerful force, mobilising itself before her. She sensed the machinery of destruction closing in upon her. In the distance the tiger roared from the jungle again. Sati closed her eyes in
concentration, willing Durga to come to her aid, but the room remained empty. Durga did not appear.

At last the
puja
was finished. The priest rose to anoint them with carmine and rice and to place consecrated bananas in their hands. Then Sati was led to a low brick shelf.

‘Lie down,’ the old priest ordered.

She looked for escape, but three younger priests had already entered the room. One gripped a cane of bamboo while the others held her down. Looking up, she saw the birds still shifting about, croaking hoarsely above her. Their beaks opened wide upon pink throats, eyes bright as beads of dew. As the cane came down upon her back, the birds released a clatter of sound, like the tumbling of pans about her. The pain of the bamboo drove through her flesh. She began to scream, calling out for Durga. The old priest continued to intone, taking no notice of her.

‘Merciful,

Vessel of mercy,

Whose mercy is without limit,

Who art attainable alone by Thy mercy,

Who art fire,

Tawny,

Black of hue,

Thou who increaseth the joy of the Lord of creation,

Night of darkness,

Yet liberator from the bonds of desire,

Thou who art dark as a bank of clouds,

And bearest the crescent moon,

Destroyer of sin in the Kali Age,

Thou who art pleased by the worship of virgins,

Thou who art the refuge of the worshippers of virgins,

Who are pleased by the feasting of virgins,

And who art in the form of the virgin,

Destroyer of fear

Who assumeth all forms at will …’

The pain ceased suddenly, although the young priest still lifted the cane, to bring it down upon her soft flesh. She saw then that some part of her appeared to have floated up near the ceiling, released suddenly from her physical self. It was possible now to look down and see herself writhing about beneath the thrashing. The sound of the cane ricocheted through her head but now she felt nothing. She saw then that Durga had come at last to pull her out of the cauldron of pain.

Durga cursed the holy men, her words torn out of Sati’s tortured body. As her deep voice filled the room the priest hesitated, stumbling suddenly over his words. The young men drew back momentarily in fear. Sati continued to float, free of the scene below her.

The crows still stalked before the window but at Durga’s cursing they took flight with a great flapping of wings. Where the crows had sat a filthy crust of yellow droppings remained. The window looked out at the hillock with Kali’s creeper-lined sanctuary. From her strange vantage point Sati could see that a white cow had climbed the hill and stood pulling at the foliage that grew upon the shrine. She thought of the black image of Kali within. The Goddess was a warrior in the world, and her own Durga was no less, fighting for Sati, protecting her.

Durga was making a terrible noise; the priest was once more beating Sati with the bamboo cane. Although Durga roared like a lion the men now took no notice of her. The cane came down again and again.

*

The old man’s words spun faster and faster. Smoke billowed about, filling the room with a thick, aromatic fog. Jaya strained her eyes in the haze, searching the shadows and the crumbling walls, her eyes watering with the smoke. But at last she saw the ugly spirit, crouching in a corner, naked, black, four-armed, her great vulva visible between spread legs, as if she would give birth to the world.
The old woman was sure she heard the rattle of skulls around the spirit’s neck.

Jaya’s head spun. Jumping up, she ran to the priest, shouting at him to stop his prayers, pulling at his arm. The old man wrenched himself free of her grip and returned grimly to his work. He knew the ways of spirits, and the manner in which they acted to prevent their exorcism. A young priest stepped forward and dragged Jaya away. She began to sob, but then stopped in confusion. The spirit had vanished. She looked about but could no longer see the creature that had just now appeared before her. Only its voice, deep and raw, still came forth from Sati, pleading now for clemency. Once more Jaya heard the tiger roar. Its howl was ripped from the jungle to resound in the room.

*

Sati still floated free of her body. She recalled a similar sensation once, long before. The memory was but a fragment. Yet whenever she tried to grasp it, it sank back into shadow. All she remembered was the sense of bursting free as she had done today. On that day long ago, she had had the feeling that her life was changed. This day too she knew would be no different.

From the window she looked down once again at the scene below. She had noticed her grandmother’s sudden desperation but saw Jaya sitting quietly again, sobbing into her sari. Durga appeared to be tiring fast. She was now begging for respite. Sati felt a force pulling her down, back into the whirlpool of violence below, returning her to her body. Once again from the jungle the tiger roared.

O
michand’s house was unlike any other in the Settlement, being neither Eastern nor Western in design. It lay behind The Avenue and was built in a style of great opulence. Corinthian columns soared up before latticed wooden balconies and fretted windows of Indian design. The Chief Magistrate passed through the gates of Omichand’s home and his palanquin was lowered to the ground. He alighted, stretching stiffly and adjusting his hat. Pulling his waistcoat into place, he marched up the steps in a determined manner, preceded by a servant, preparing himself for the merchant’s sly manipulations. Navigation of the serpentine route and hidden traps of any discussion with Omichand required all the Chief Magistrate’s ingenuity. At the crack of dawn, before even the twittering of birds was heard, he had received a message from Omichand, demanding to see him that morning. In the six weeks since his return from Murshidabad, many things had happened.

Alivardi Khan had died even as Holwell and Drake made their way back to Calcutta. Now Siraj Uddaulah was flexing his muscles in an arrogant manner. Sensing a plot, he had arrested his aunt, the Young Begum, within days of his grandfather’s death. He had confined her in his own
zenana,
from where escape was impossible. In spite of the Young Begum’s incarceration, the plot to depose the prince still
moved forward. Ghasiti Begum’s treasure had arrived in Calcutta under the protection of the nobleman Kishindas. It had not been housed in the fort yet, but in Omichand’s home. For the moment this was seen as less provocative by Fort William, for already the nawab knew about developments. A series of shrill letters had soon arrived from Siraj Uddaulah demanding the return of the treasure. If his demand was not met, the new nawab threatened to bring his army within sight of Fort William’s walls. The fact that this treasure was not yet in Fort William allowed some space for argument.

Omichand received his visitors in an octagonal chamber walled with mirrors in ornate gilt frames. A large portrait of Alivardi, smelling a rose and gazing over the parapet of his Murshidabad palace, dominated the room. As he entered, incense filled the Chief Magistrate’s nose, enclosing him inescapably within the merchant’s domain. The room was dim and shuttered. Servants with fans of white yak hair stirred the air only slightly.

Omichand reclined upon a dais, propped up upon bolsters, drawing on a hookah. His face was bland as a mushroom cap, his features smothered by flesh. He was dressed in a robe of striped Murshidabad silk with a matching turban. Holwell parted the skirt of his coat and sat down on a chair fashioned from silver and crystal. Omichand’s secretary, Govindram, already squatted behind a low desk to transcribe the interview. Holwell frowned in annoyance and met Govindram’s gaze as the man sharpened his quill. Omichand pushed away his hookah to confront the Chief Magistrate.

‘I was desiring to see the Governor. Why is he not with you?’ Omichand’s face was devoid of its usual ceaseless smile. Since the death of Alivardi and the new prominence of Siraj Uddaulah, the fat merchant was consumed by unusual gravity.

‘Mr Drake has other urgent work,’ the Chief Magistrate lied. Drake’s digestion was troubling him and he had declined to see Omichand so early in the morning, insisting the Chief Magistrate handle the matter.

‘The Governor refuses to keep me informed of his correspondence
with the nawab,’ Omichand complained, his scowl deepening. Missives from the new nawab now rained down upon Calcutta so thick and fast that neither the Governor nor the Chief Magistrate took great notice of them.

Omichand ordered a servant to offer his hookah to the Chief Magistrate. Holwell would have liked to refuse such an intimacy, but this would have been in poor taste. He took a short suck on the pipe and watched the water bubble.

‘The situation we are finding ourselves in at present with Murshidabad is more fragile than a woman’s heart. Any small thing can break it. In spite of knowing this, you have begun fresh excavations on the Maratha Ditch, as if you prepare to fortify Calcutta against attack. This has been most unwise. Siraj Uddaulah has come to know of this digging and it is not to his liking. He has taken it as a personal affront.’ Omichand’s expression now resembled that of a belligerent bulldog.

The Chief Magistrate looked at a point beyond Omichand’s shoulder with studied disinterest. He had feared Omichand might raise this issue. At the direction of the Fort William Council, new excavations had indeed begun on the Ditch. There were rumours from Europe of war again with France. Should hostilities break out between the two countries, the French enclave upriver of
Chandernagore
could begin to threaten. This served as an excellent excuse to fortify Calcutta’s defences against Siraj Uddaulah. The Ditch had been left incomplete at the time of its construction, and it was those undug parts of the original plans that were now being excavated. The Chief Magistrate had inspected the progress only the day before and found it unsatisfactory. The coolies lay asleep under the shade of a banyan tree without any sense of emergency.

‘That we now look to our defences because of the French will also serve as a warning to the young nawab that we cannot be so easily threatened.’ The Chief Magistrate tried discreetly to loosen the stock at his neck, the heat in the room was oppressive. He listened to the water in the hookah bubble.

‘Any protection needed by your settlement is for the nawab to provide. You are but subjects in his land. You cannot take the law into your own hands. Mr Drake took it upon himself to reply to the nawab’s enquiries in a most casual manner. You are familiar with his letter? It has not been written with proper courtesy and has upset the nawab.’

‘The Governor writes many letters. I do not see them all,’ Holwell replied. The soft bubbling of the hookah and the odour of incense knotted in his head. It was quite possible that in his cheeky,
puppy-dog
manner Drake had made some
faux
pas.
His letters to Siraj Uddaulah were often dashed off in a cavalier way.

‘Also, the nawab continues to demand the return of Kishindas and his treasure. My position is difficult as Kishindas resides with me,’ Omichand continued. The Chief Magistrate detected panic in the merchant’s words.

The heat in the room seemed to intensify. In spite of the servants diligently fanning the Chief Magistrate, his shirt was already damp. About him dull mirrors threw up unending images of himself and the fat merchant. Within the distorted glass Omichand swelled to even greater proportions, while the Chief Magistrate appeared diminished. He was pulled wide in the places he was thin, his head grotesquely elongated. Squashed up against the mirror frame, his shape appeared to waver about like a tapeworm stood on end.

‘This letter of Mr Drake has incensed the nawab,’ Omichand repeated, swaying on the upholstery of his massive thighs. ‘The great Alivardi Khan was old and sick but still, by his wisdom, there was peace in Bengal. Now in his place there is a young hot-head from whom we have much to fear.’ Omichand’s usually impenetrable demeanour splintered to reveal a worried man. He pulled on his hookah and continued. ‘Siraj Uddaulah has little trust in us Hindus. We are now out of favour at court.’

‘This will mean you can no longer play Calcutta against Murshidabad. You will have to depend upon English favour.’ The Chief Magistrate made no effort to hide his satisfaction.

‘You do me much wrong with this judgement,’ Omichand glowered, but a wily light entered his eyes as he made his next announcement.

‘All this time I have given many excuses to Siraj Uddaulah for not returning Kishindas. Now time is running out. My life will soon be in danger from Siraj Uddaulah. I am having no choice but to blame you Englishmen for the situation.’ Omichand sighed extravagantly.

‘What have you said?’ Holwell sat forward, sensing an obscure tentacle of reasoning beginning to emerge from the fat merchant.

‘A slight twist to the truth is sometimes necessary to achieve a purpose. As you know, Kishindas left Murshidabad on the excuse of a pilgrimage to Orissa. I have now been forced to tell the nawab that on his arrival here you Hatmen discovered that Kishindas carried treasure to give as an offering in Orissa and demanded it from him. That is why he has been detained here so long. I have said that my life and that of Kishindas are in danger from you Englishmen. I have said that I am protecting him and his treasure from you until I can negotiate his safe return to Murshidabad. I have of course denied all knowledge that this treasure belongs to the Young Begum.’

‘You have told the nawab this monstrous lie?’ Holwell barked, rising in fury from his chair.

‘Some game has now to be played if we are to retain this treasure and also Siraj Uddaulah’s favour. The time for truth is over,’ Omichand replied, assessing the Chief Magistrate shrewdly.

‘You are only looking to your own safety. Soon Rai Durlabh and the Young Begum’s faction will overthrow Siraj Uddaulah. You have no need to blacken the name of Englishmen. You are making it impossible for us to deal with the nawab.’ Holwell was enraged.

‘I am handling things in my own way,’ Omichand replied, avoiding the Chief Magistrate’s eye.

‘This morning one further letter from the nawab has reached me,’ Omichand continued casually.

Holwell, who had stood up to leave, sat down again abruptly.
‘What does this further wretched letter contain?’ He watched as the merchant tossed cashew nuts into his mouth.

‘As you know, Siraj Uddaulah’s position as nawab is not yet confirmed from Delhi. His cousin Shakut Jang in Purnea also contends for the
gaddi.
Naturally, this competition has not pleased Siraj Uddaulah. Therefore he has gathered together his army and begun the journey to Purnea to quell his cousin. Unfortunately for us all, Mr Drake’s uncivil letter about the fortifications reached him on this journey and so incensed him that he has turned instead towards Calcutta to settle the matter himself. This is the news I have called you to hear. Already the nawab nears Kasimbazar.’ Omichand sucked on his hookah in sudden anxiety. Kasimbazar was no more than a few days’ journey from Calcutta.

‘It is nothing but an act of bluff. How dare the young hot-head come down upon us in this impertinent manner. We must communicate at once with Rai Durlabh. He must have some say in this matter,’ the Chief Magistrate exploded in shock. He did not think he had the strength to take any more news from Omichand, and stood up again to leave.

‘We have not yet finished. Already I have heard from Rai Durlabh,’ Omichand announced. Once more the Chief Magistrate sat heavily on his chair. Omichand drew on his hookah, then passed the pipe to Holwell. This time the Chief Magistrate had no compunction in refusing the merchant’s offer.

‘The commander cannot prevent a march upon Calcutta. Siraj Uddaulah has announced to all that he is bent upon teaching you Hatmen a lesson with regard to your manners and the repair of your defences. But the commander writes that he expects no battle, God willing. This can mean only that he intends to rid us of the young prince. The nawab’s army is large. Once he reaches Kasimbazar he will sit awhile. An army of that size cannot so easily be got up once it has sat down. At that time Rai Durlabh will act,’ Omichand comforted.

The smell of incense tightened unbearably in the Chief Magistrate’s head. He shifted in his chair and found he faced the mirrors again. He saw himself stiff as a beetle in his dark frock coat beside the colourful heap that was Omichand. The reflection chased from mirror to mirror about the room in an unending circle, as if he and Omichand were bound together for eternity.

‘It is not an easy job to do away with a nawab. But Rai Durlabh will find a way. He is not a man to be defeated once he has made up his mind,’ Omichand assured the Chief Magistrate as he rose at last to leave. Holwell nodded in a dazed fashion, unable still to comprehend the unexpected turn of events.

*

As soon as he emerged from Omichand’s house, the Chief Magistrate felt a great need for some claret or Madeira. He gave instructions to the palanquin bearers to cross the road to the home of Reverend Bellamy. Next door to the Chaplain’s house stood St Ann’s Church. It irked the Chief Magistrate, as it always did when he visited Omichand, that a heathen rascal of such indomitable power should place himself facing the house of God.

As he approached Bellamy’s home he noticed anew the freakish appearance of the church. It had the look of an amputee. Its spire had blown off in a gale three years before and was as yet unrepaired. While talk stalled upon the financial conundrum of this repair, affliction further riddled the church. Its
chunam
peeled, white ants attacked rafters, and mould crept into prayer books, blotting out God’s word. Since religion was not the moving force of White Town, this state of disrepair troubled no one unduly. The church was left to decay.

The Chief Magistrate found the Reverend Bellamy at home, surrounded by papers in his study. He looked up briefly from an open ledger at Holwell’s unexpected entrance. His lips were pursed in concentration, a button was missing from his waistcoat and soup stained his linen cravat.

‘A moment longer, John, if you please,’ Bellamy apologised, frowning in concentration over the ledger.

As their friendship was of long standing and demanded a minimum of formality, Gervase Bellamy saw no need to disturb himself immediately from his work. The two men were drawn together by their long survival in Calcutta. Bellamy was Calcutta’s oldest resident. At sixty-four, he had lived nearly forty years in the town. The Chief Magistrate, with twenty-four years in Calcutta, might lag some way behind, but nobody else could match these two exceptional terms of residence. India’s cruel mortality rate not only gave the Chaplain and the Chief Magistrate importance in Calcutta, but was the basis of their friendship. They had stood together at more graveside services than either would care to count. Both had come silently to believe that God had singled him out for a special purpose. Why otherwise were they still alive when so many had gone before them?

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