Sea of Poppies (25 page)

One recommendation led to another and one job to the next: starting as a serishta at Gillanders', Nob Kissin rose to become, successively, a carcoon at the Swinhoe factory, a cranny at Jardine & Matheson, a munshi at Ferguson Bros., and a mootsuddy at Smoult & Sons. It was from there that he found his way into the offices of Burnham Bros. where he rose quickly to the rank of gomusta and was entrusted with the shipping of migrant labour.

It was not just for his acumen and his fluency in English that Baboo Nob Kissin's employers valued his services: they appreciated also his eagerness to please and his apparently limitless tolerance of abuse. Unlike many others, he never took offence if a sahib called him a dung-brained gubberhead, or compared his face to a bandar's bunghole; if shoes or paperweights were hurled his way, then he would merely step aside, displaying a surprising agility for a man of his girth and weight. Insults he would endure with a detached, almost pitying smile: the one thing that put him out of countenance was to be struck by his employer's shoes or feet – which was scarcely to be wondered at, since such blows necessitated the inconvenience of a bath and a change of clothes. Indeed, he twice switched jobs to rid himself of employers who were too much in the habit of kicking their local staff. This too was one of the reasons why he found his present position particularly congenial: Mr Burnham might be a hard-driving man and a difficult taskmaster, but he never kicked or beat his employees and rarely swore. It was true that he often mocked his gomusta by addressing him as ‘my Nut-Kissing Baboon' and the like, but he was generally careful to avoid these familiarities in public – and ‘baboon', in any case, was not a term to which Baboo Nob Kissin could really object, since that creature was but an avatar of Lord Hanuman.

While furthering his employer's interests, Baboo Nob Kissin had not neglected to pursue a few opportunities of his own. Since much of his work consisted in acting as an intermediary and facilitator, he had acquired, over time, a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, many of whom relied on him for advice in matters pecuniary and personal. In time, his role as adviser turned into a thriving money-lending operation, often resorted to by gentlefolk who were in need of a discreet and reliable source of funding. There were some who came to him also for help in matters still more intimate: abstinent in all things but food, Baboo Nob Kissin regarded the carnal appetites of others with the detached curiosity with which an astrologer might observe the movements of the stars. He was unfailingly attentive to the women who appealed to him for assistance – and they in turn found him easy to trust, knowing that his devotion to Taramony would prevent him from exacting favours for himself. It was thus that Elokeshi had come to regard him as an indulgent and kindly uncle.

Yet, for all his success, there was one great sorrow in the gomusta's life: the experience of divine love that he had hoped to achieve with Taramony had been denied him by the pressing exigencies of his career. The house he shared with her was large and comfortable, but when he returned to it, at the end of the day, it was usually to find her surrounded by a circle of disciples and devotees. These hangers-on would linger late into the night, and in the morning, when the gomusta left for the daftar, his aunt was almost always asleep.

I've worked so hard, he would say to her; I've made plenty of money. When will you set me free from this worldly life? When will it be time to build our temple?

Soon enough, she would answer. But not yet. When the moment comes you will know.

Such were her promises and Baboo Nob Kissin accepted without question that they would be redeemed at a time of her choosing. But suddenly one day, with the temple still unbuilt, she was seized by a wasting fever. For the first time in two decades, Baboo Nob Kissin stopped going to work; he banished Ma Taramony's disciples and hangers-on from his house and nursed her himself. When he saw that his devotion was powerless against her disease, he begged her:
Take me with you; don't abandon me to live alone in this world. Other than you there is nothing of value in my life; it is a void, an emptiness, an eternity of wasted time. What will I do on this earth without you?

You won't be on your own, she promised him. And your work in this world is not done yet. You must prepare yourself – for your body will be the vessel for my return. There will come a day when my spirit will manifest itself in you, and then the two of us, united by Krishna's love, will achieve the most perfect union – you will become Taramony.

Her words caused a wild surging of hope in his heart. When will that day come? he cried. How will I know?

There will be signs, she said. You must keep careful watch, for the indications may be obscure and unexpected. But when they show themselves, you must not hesitate or hold back: you must follow them wherever they lead, even if they take you across the sea.

You give me your word? he said, falling to his knees. You promise it will not be too long?

You have my word, she replied. A day will come when I will pour myself into you: but till then you must be patient.

How long ago that was! Nine years and fifty weeks had passed since the day of her death and he had continued to live his accustomed life, clothed in the garb of a busy gomusta, working harder and harder, even as he grew ever more weary of the world and his work. As the tenth anniversary of her death approached he had begun to fear for his reason and had come to the decision that if the day passed without any sign yet being manifested, then he would renounce the world and go to Brindavan to live the life of a mendicant. And in making this pledge, he came to be convinced that the moment was at hand, the manifestation was on its way. He had grown so certain of this that now he felt no further anxiety or disquiet: it was at a calm, unhurried pace that he stepped off his caranchie and carried the ship's books into his silent, empty house. Spreading the papers on his bed, he leafed through them one by one until he came to the schooner's original crew manifest. When at last he saw the notation beside Zachary's name – ‘Black' – he uttered no wild cry of joy – it was rather with a sigh of quiet jubilation that he rested his eyes on the scribbled
word that revealed the hand of the Dark Lord. This was the confirmation he needed, he was certain of it – just as he was certain, also, that the messenger himself knew nothing of his mission. Does an envelope know what is contained in the letter that is folded inside it? Is a sheet of paper aware of what is written upon it? No, the signs were contained in the transformation that had been wrought during the voyage: it was the very fact of the world's changeability that proved the presence of divine illusion, of Sri Krishna's leela.

Separating the manifest from the other papers, Baboo Nob Kissin carried it to an almirah and placed it inside. Tomorrow he would roll it up tightly and take it to a coppersmith, to have it encased inside an amulet, so that it could be worn like a necklace. Should Mr Burnham ask for the manifest, he would tell him it was lost – such things happened often enough on long voyages.

As he was closing the almirah, Baboo Nob Kissin's eyes fell on a saffron-coloured alkhalla – one of the long, loose gowns that Taramony had liked to wear. On an impulse, he slipped it on, over his dhoti and kurta, and went over to a looking-glass. He was amazed by how well the robe fitted him. Reaching up to his head he undid the bindings of his tikki, shaking out his hair so that it fell to his shoulders. From now on, he decided, he would never again tie it or cut it; he would leave it open, to grow, so that it hung down to his waist, like Taramony's long, black locks. As he gazed at his own image, he became aware of a glow, spreading slowly through his body, as if it were being suffused by another presence. Suddenly his ears were filled by Taramony's voice: he heard her saying, once again, the words she had spoken in this very room – she was telling him that he must be prepared to follow the signs wherever they led, even across the sea. All at once, everything was clear and he knew why things had happened as they had: it was because the
Ibis
was to take him to the place where his temple would be built.

Neel and Raj Rattan were flying kites, on the roof of the Raskhali mansion in Calcutta, when the Commissioner of Police arrived with a detachment of silahdars and darogas. It was early evening, on a hot April day, with the last light of the setting sun shimmering on the Hooghly River. The nearby ghats were crowded with bathers,
scrubbing away the dust of the day, and the moss-darkened roofs and terraces around the Raskhali Rajbari were filled with people, out to enjoy the sunset breeze. Everywhere in the neighbourhood conch-shells were sounding, to mark the lighting of the first lamps, and the muezzin's call could be heard at a distance, floating over the city.

When Parimal burst in, Neel's attention was centred on his kite, which was soaring high on the swirling green breeze of the month of Phalgun: he had no ears for what was said. Huzoor, Parimal repeated himself. You have to go down. He wants you.

Who? said Neel.

The English afsar from the jel-khana – he's come with a police paltan.

The news made little impression on Neel: it often happened that officials from the constabulary came to see him on some matter related to the zemindary. Still intent on his kite, Neel said: What's happened? Has there been a burglary or dacoity nearby? If they want help, tell them to talk with the gomusta-babus.

No, huzoor: it's you they want.

Then they should come back in the morning, Neel said sharply. This is not the time of day to come to a gentleman's house.

Huzoor: they won't listen to us. They insist . . .

Now, with the drum-like spindle of the kite-string still spinning in his hands, Neel shot a glance at Parimal and was surprised to see that he was on his knees, and that his eyes were overflowing. Parimal? he said, in astonishment.
Yeh kya bát hai?
Why are you making such a tamasha? What is going on?

Huzoor, Parimal said again, choking. They want you. They're in the daftar. They were on their way up here. I had to beg them to wait downstairs.

They were coming up here? Neel was speechless for a moment: this part of the roof lay in the most secluded part of the house, above the zenana; it defied credence that an outsider should think of setting foot in it.

Have they gone mad? he said to Parimal. How could they even think of such a thing?

Huzoor, Parimal implored him, they said not to waste time. They're waiting.

All right. Neel was more intrigued than alarmed by the sudden summons, but as he was leaving the roof, he stopped to ruffle Raj Rattan's hair.

Where are you going, Baba? said the boy, impatient of the interruption. Didn't you say we would fly kites till sunset?

And so we will, said Neel. I'll be back in ten minutes. The boy nodded and his attention veered back to his kite as Neel went down the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs lay the interior courtyard of the zenana, and in crossing this space Neel noticed that a hush had fallen over the house – unaccountably, for this was the time of day when all his elderly aunts, widowed cousins, and other female relatives and dependants were always at their busiest. There were at least a hundred of them in the house, and at this hour they were usually bustling from room to room, with freshly lit lamps and incense, watering the tulsi plants, ringing the bells of the temple, blowing conch-shells and making preparations for the night-time meal. But today the rooms around the courtyard were in darkness, with not a lamp to be seen, and the balustraded verandas were filled with the white-robed figures of his widowed relatives.

Leaving behind the silence of the interior courtyard, Neel stepped into the street-facing part of the compound, where lay the office wing of the house, and the barracks that accommodated the hundred or so guards employed by the Raskhali zemindary. Here too, the spectacle that met Neel's eyes was astonishing in its novelty: on stepping into the open space, he saw that the piyadas, paiks and lathiyals who made up his guard force had been penned into a corner of the grounds by a detachment of armed police. The guards were milling about in confusion, disarmed of their sticks, staves and swords, but on catching sight of the zemindar, they began to shout their cry:
Joi Má Kali! Joi Raskhali!
Neel raised a hand to silence them but their voices grew steadily louder, rising to a roar that rang through the neighbouring streets and alleys. Looking up, Neel saw that the terraces and balconies of the buildings that overlooked the courtyard were jammed with people, all staring down in curiosity. He quickened his pace and went quickly up the stairs that led to his office, on the second floor.

The zemindar's daftar was a large, disorderly room, strewn with furniture and files. As Neel entered, a red-uniformed English officer rose to his feet, with his high-crowned hat tucked under his arm. Neel recognized him at once: his name was Hall and he was a former infantry major who was now in charge of the city's constabulary; he had visited the Raskhali Rajbari several times – sometimes to discuss matters of public security, but also often as a guest.