Sea of Poppies (16 page)

Now, Jodu began to row upstream, watching the shore for a spot that would be at once hidden from view and near enough to habitation to be a discouragement to leopards and jackals. When one such appeared, he hitched up his lungi and waded through a bank of mud to tether the boat to the roots of a gigantic banyan tree. Then, climbing back inside, he washed the mud off his feet and set hungrily upon a pot of stale rice.

At the rear of the dinghy there was a small thatched shelter and this was where he spread his mat after finishing his meagre meal. It was twilight now; the sun was setting on the far bank of the Hooghly, and the shadowed outlines of the trees in the Botanical
Gardens were still visible across the water. Although Jodu was very tired, he could not bring himself to close his eyes while the skies were still bright enough to shed light upon the bustling life of the river.

The tide was beginning to sweep in, and the Hooghly had filled with sails, as ships and boats hurried to take their berths or to stand out to mid-channel. From where he lay, on the slats of his gently rocking dinghy, Jodu could imagine that the world had turned itself upside down, so that the river had become the sky, crowded with banks of cloud; if you narrowed your eyes, you might almost think that the ships' masts and spars were bolts of lightning, forking through the billowing sails. And as for thunder, there was that too, booming out of the sheets of canvas, as they flapped, slackened and filled again. The noise never failed to amaze him: the whiplash crack of the sails, the high-pitched shriek of the wind in the rigging, the groan of the timbers and surf-like pounding of the bow-waves: it was as if each ship were a moving tempest and he an eagle, circling close behind to hunt in the ruins of her wake.

Looking across the river Jodu could count the flags of a dozen kingdoms and countries: Genoa, the Two Sicilies, France, Prussia, Holland, America, Venice. He had learnt to recognize them from Putli, who had pointed them out to him as they sailed past the Gardens; even though she herself had never left Bengal, she knew stories about the places from which they came. These tales had played no small part in nurturing his desire to see the roses of Basra and the port of Chin-kalan, where the great Faghfoor of Maha-chin held sway.

On the deck of a nearby three-master, a mate's voice could be heard, calling out in English: ‘All hands to quarters, ahoy!' A moment later, the command became a hookum, relayed by a serang:
Sab admi apni jagah!

‘Fill the main topsails.' –
Bhar bara gávi!
With a resounding crack the canvas billowed in the wind, and the mate called out: ‘Ease the helm!'

Gos daman ja!
came the serang's echo, and slowly the vessel's bows began to turn. ‘Shiver the foretopsail!' – and almost before the serang had finished issuing the hookum –
Bajao tirkat gavi!
– the
lofty square of canvas had sent its whiplash crack shooting through the wind.

From the silmagoors who sat on the ghats, sewing sails, Jodu had learnt the names of each piece of canvas, in English and in Laskari – that motley tongue, spoken nowhere but on the water, whose words were as varied as the port's traffic, an anarchic medley of Portuguese calaluzes and Kerala pattimars, Arab booms and Bengal paunch-ways, Malay proas and Tamil catamarans, Hindusthani pulwars and English snows – yet beneath the surface of this farrago of sound, meaning flowed as freely as the currents beneath the crowded press of boats.

By listening to the voices that echoed off the decks of ocean-going ships, Jodu had taught himself to recognize the officers' hookums to the point where he could say them aloud, even if only to himself – ‘Starboard watch ahoy!'
Jamna pori upar ao!
– understanding perfectly well the whole, while yet being unable to account for the meaning of the several parts. To shout the commands in earnest, on a ship that had been pushed on her beam-ends by a gale . . . that day would come, he was sure of it.

Suddenly, another call floated across the water –
Hayyá ilá assaláh
. . . – and was taken up in relay, by the ships in the channel, passing from one vessel to another as the Muslims amongst the crewmen began to chant the evening azan. Jodu roused himself from the torpor of his full stomach and made his preparations for prayer: covering his head with a folded cloth, he manoeuvred his boat to point in a westerly direction before kneeling for the first raka'a. He had never been particularly devout and it was only because his mother's interment was still so fresh in his mind that he felt compelled to pray now. But afterwards, when he had murmured the final syllables, he was glad that he had remembered: his mother would have wished it, he knew, and the knowledge of having done his duty would allow him to yield, without guilt, to the fatigue his body had accumulated over the last few weeks.

Ten miles downriver, on the Raskhali budgerow, the preparations for dinner had run afoul of some unexpected snags. The boat's lavish sheeshmahal for one: it had seen little use since the old Raja's time
and was found to be in a state of some disrepair when opened up. The chandeliers had lost many of their candle-holders, and these had to be replaced by makeshift devices constructed out of bits of string, wood and even a few strips of coconut fibre. While the results were not unsatisfactory, they took some of the sparkle out of the fixtures and gave them a strangely wind-blown appearance.

The sheeshmahal was partitioned into two halves by a velvet curtain: the rear section was used as a dining room, and was graced by a table of fine calamander wood. Now, when the curtains were parted, it was found that the polished surface of the table had gone grey with neglect, and a family of scorpions had taken up residence under it. A platoon of stick-wielding paiks had to be summoned, to drive the creatures away, and then a duck had to be caught and killed, so that the table could be polished with its fat.

At the far end of the sheeshmahal, behind the dining table, there was a screened alcove, meant to accommodate women in purdah: from this sequestered vantage point, the old Raja's mistresses had been accustomed to observe his guests. But neglect had taken a toll on the delicately carved observation screen, which was found to have rotted away. A curtain, with hastily pierced peepholes, was installed in its place, at Elokeshi's insistence, for she felt it to be her right to appraise the guests. This in turn inspired a desire for a fuller participation in the evening so she decided that her three companions would provide some after-dinner entertainment by staging a few dances. But upon inspection it was found that the floor had warped: to dance barefoot on the crooked boards was to risk a rich crop of splinters. A carpenter had to be summoned to flatten the boards.

No sooner was this problem resolved than another arose: the sheeshmahal was equipped with a full set of ivory-handled silverware, as well as a complete dinner service, imported at great expense from the Swinton pottery in England. Being reserved for the use of unclean, beef-eating foreigners, these utensils were kept locked in cabinets, to prevent the contamination of the household's other crockery. Now, on opening the cabinet, Parimal discovered, to his shock, that many of the plates were missing, as was much of the silverware. There remained just about enough to provide for a dinner for four – but the discovery of the theft created an unpleasant
climate of suspicion which resulted ultimately in an outbreak of internecine fighting on the kitchen-boat. After two paiks ended up with broken noses, Neel was forced to intervene: although peace was restored, the preparations for the evening were much delayed and Neel could not be provided with a proper meal, in advance of the dinner that would be served to his guests. This was a sore blow, for it meant that Neel would have to fast while his guests feasted: the rules of the Raskhali household were strict in regard to whom the Raja could eat with, and unclean beef-eaters were not a part of that small circle – even Elokeshi was not included in it, and had always to feed herself in secret when Neel came to spend the night in her house. So strict was the Halder family's usage in this regard, that when entertaining, it was their custom to sit politely at table with their guests but without ever touching any of the food that was heaped before them: so as not to be tempted, they always ate their dinner earlier, and this was what Neel would have liked to do – but with the kitchen-boat in disarray, he had to be content with a few handfuls of parched rice, soaked in milk.

Just as the sound of the sunset azan was floating across the water, Neel discovered that he had no more of the fine shanbaff dhotis and abrawan-muslin kurtas that he usually wore on public occasions: they had all been sent off to be laundered. He had to content himself with a relatively coarse dosooti dhoti and an alliballie kurta. Somewhere in his baggage, Elokeshi found gold-embroidered Lahori jooties for his feet: it was she who led him to his seat in the sheeshmahal and draped his shoulders in a shawl of fine Warangal nayansukh, with a border of zerbaft brocade. Then, with the
Ibis
's jollyboat approaching, she whisked herself out of sight and went off to preside over her companions' rehearsals.

When the guests were shown in, Neel rose ceremonially to his feet: Mr Burnham, he noticed, had come in his riding clothes, but the other two men had evidently been at some pains to dress for the occasion. Both men were wearing double-breasted coats, and a ruby pin could be seen in the folds of Mr Doughty's cravat. Mr Reid's lapels were ornamented with the chain of an elegant watch. His guests' finery made Neel self-conscious, and he swirled his brocaded shawl protectively over his chest as he folded his hands together in
welcome: ‘Mr Burnham, Mr Doughty – I am most greatly honoured to be afforded this privilege.'

The two Englishmen merely bowed their heads in response, but Zachary startled Neel by moving forward as if to shake hands. He was rescued by Mr Doughty, who managed to intercept the American. ‘Keep your hands to yourself, you gudda of a griffin,' whispered the pilot. ‘Touch him and he'll be off to bathe, and we won't be fed till midnight.'

None of the visitors had been on the Raskhali budgerow before, so they accepted readily when Neel offered them a tour of the public parts of the barge. On the upper deck they came upon Raj Rattan, who was flying kites by moonlight. Mr Doughty made a harrumphing sound when the boy was introduced: ‘Is this little Rascal your Upper-Roger, Raja Nil-Rotten?'

‘The upa-raja, yes,' Neel nodded. ‘My sole issue and heir. The tender fruit of my loin, as your poets might say.'

‘Ah! Your little green mango!' Mr Doughty shot a wink in Zachary's direction. ‘And if I may be so bold as to ask – would you describe your loin as the stem or the branch?'

Neel gave him a frosty glare. ‘Why, sir,' he said coldly, ‘it is the tree itself.'

Mr Burnham took a turn with a kite and proved to be adept at the sport, sending his kite soaring and dipping, its glass-coated string flashing in the moonlight. When Neel commented on the dabness of his hand, his response was: ‘Oh, I learnt in Canton: no better place to learn about kites!'

Back in the sheeshmahal, a bottle of champagne was waiting in a balty of muddy river water. Mr Doughty fell upon the wine with an expression of delight: ‘Simkin! Shahbash – just the thing.' Pouring himself a glass, he gave Neel a broad wink: ‘My father used to say, “Hold a bottle by the neck and a woman by the waist. Never the other way around.” I'll wager that would have rung a ganta or two with your own father, eh Roger Nil-Rotten – now he was quite the rascal, wasn't he, your father?'

Neel gave him a chilly smile: repelled as he was by the pilot's manner, he could not help reflecting on what a mercy it was that his ancestors had excluded wine and liquor from the list of things that
could not be shared with unclean foreigners – it would be all but impossible, surely, to deal with them, if not for their drink? He would have liked another glass of simkin but he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that Parimal was making signals to indicate that dinner was ready. He took the folds of his dhoti into his hands. ‘Gentlemen, I am being given to believe that our repast has been readied.' As he rose to his feet, the sheeshmahal's velvet curtain was swept back to reveal a large, polished table, set in the English fashion, with knives, forks, plates and wineglasses. Two immense candelabra stood at either end, illuminating the settings; in the centre was an arrangement of wilted water lilies, piled together in such profusion that almost nothing could be seen of the vase that held them. There was no food on the table, for meals in the Raskhali household were served in the Bengali fashion, in successive courses.

Neel had arranged the seating so that he would have Mr Burnham across the table from him, with Zachary and Mr Doughty to his left and right, respectively. There was a bearer behind each chair, as was the custom, and although they were all dressed in the Raskhali livery, Neel noticed that their uniforms – pyjamas, turbans and belted chapkan coats that came down to the knees – were strangely ill-fitting. It was then that he remembered that they were not bearers at all, but young boatmen, who had been hastily pressed into service by Parimal: their discomfort with the role was evident in their nervous twitches and shifty glances.