Sea of Poppies (33 page)

The carriage was slow and took the better part of an hour to cover the distance from Lalbazar to the New Courthouse, on the Esplanade, where Neel's case was to be tried. On arriving there, Neel was whisked quickly through the damp, gloomy building, past the vaulted room where most prisoners were held while awaiting their turn in court. The corridors filled with hisses and whispers as the other defendants began to speculate about who Neel was and what he'd done.

The ways of zemindars were not unfamiliar to these men:

. . . If this was the one who crippled my son, even these bars couldn't hold me . . .

. . . Let me get a hand on him – he'll get a touching he won't forget . . .

. . . Give his chute the ploughing my land's longing for . . .

To get to the courtroom they had to climb several staircases and pass through many corridors. It was clear, from the noise that was reverberating through the New Courthouse, that the trial had drawn a large crowd. Yet, even though Neel was well aware of the
public interest in his case, he was in no way prepared for the sight that was waiting for him when he stepped into the venue of his trial.

The courtroom was shaped like a halved bowl, with the witness stand at the bottom, and the spectators ranged in rows along the steep, curved sides. On Neel's entry the hubbub ceased abruptly, leaving a few last threads of sound to float gently to the floor, like the torn ends of a ribbon; among these was a clearly audible whisper: ‘Ah, the Rascally-Roger! Here at last.'

The first few rows were occupied by whites, and this was where Mr Doughty was seated. Behind, stretching all the way to the skylights at the top of the room, were the faces of Neel's friends, acquaintances and kin: at one glance, he could see, arrayed before him, all his fellow members of the Bengal Landowners' Association as well as the innumerable relatives who had accompanied him on his wedding procession. It was as if every male of his class, all of Bengal's acreocracy, had assembled to watch the progress of his trial.

Looking away, Neel caught sight of Mr Rowbotham, his advocate. He had risen to his feet when Neel entered, and he now proceeded to make a confident show of welcoming Neel to the courtroom, ushering him to his seat with much ceremony. Neel had just seated himself when the bailiffs began to bang their maces on the floor, to announce the entry of the judge. Neel stood a moment with his head lowered, like everyone else, and on raising his eyes he saw that the man who was to preside over his trial was none other than Mr Justice Kendalbushe. Being well aware of the judge's friendship with Mr Burnham, Neel turned to Mr Rowbotham in alarm: ‘Is that indeed Justice Kendalbushe? Is he not closely linked with Mr Burnham?'

Mr Rowbotham pursed his lips and nodded. ‘That may be so, but I am confident he is a man of unimpeachable fairness.'

Neel's eyes strayed to the jury-box, and he found himself exchanging nods with several of the jurymen. Of the twelve Englishmen in the box, at least eight had known his father, the old Raja, and several had been present at the celebration of his son's First Rice ceremony. They had brought gifts of silver and gold, ornamented spoons and filigreed cups; one of them had gifted little Raj Rattan an abacus from China, made of ebony and jade.

Mr Rowbotham had been watching Neel closely in the meantime and he leant over now to whisper in his ear. ‘I'm afraid there is some other, somewhat unwelcome news . . .'

‘Oh?' said Neel. ‘What is it?'

‘I have only this morning received an official chitty from the government's solicitor. They are to introduce a new piece of evidence: a sworn affidavit.'

‘From whom?' said Neel.

‘A lady – a woman I should say – who claims to have had a liaison with you. I gather she is a dancer . . .' Mr Rowbotham peered closely at a sheet of paper. ‘The name I think is Elokeshi.'

Neel's disbelieving eyes moved away, to glance once again at the assembled crowd. He saw that his wife's oldest brother had appeared in the courtroom and taken a seat at the rear. For a brief but nightmarish instant he wondered whether Malati had come too and great was his relief when he noted that his brother-in-law was alone. In the past he had sometimes regretted Malati's strictness in the observation of the rules of caste and purdah – but today he felt nothing but gratitude for her orthodoxy, for if there was any one thing that could possibly make the situation even worse than it already was, it was the thought of her being present to witness his betrayal by his mistress.

It was this consideration that sustained him through the ordeal of Elokeshi's affidavit, which proved to be a fanciful account, not just of the incriminating conversation in which Neel had spoken of the Raskhali estate's dealings with Mr Burnham, but also of the circumstances in which it had taken place. The Raskhali budgerow, the stateroom, even the coverings on the bed, were described in such painstaking, even salacious, detail that each fresh revelation was greeted by gasps of surprise, exclamations of shock and outbursts of laughter.

When at last the reading was over, Neel turned in exhaustion to Mr Rowbotham: ‘How long will this trial last? When will we know the outcome?'

Mr Rowbotham gave him a wan smile: ‘Not long, dear Raja. Perhaps no more than a fortnight.'

When Deeti and Kalua went down to the ghat they saw why the duffadar had been in such a hurry that morning: now, the river ahead was clogged by a huge fleet that was bearing slowly down on the ghats of Chhapra, from upstream. In the lead was a flotilla of pulwars – single-masted boats, equipped with oars as well as sails. These quick-moving craft were ranging ahead of the main body of the fleet, clearing the waterways of other traffic, scouting the navigable channels, and marking the many shoals and sandbars that lurked just beneath the water's surface. Behind them, advancing under full sail, were some twenty patelis. Double-masted and square-rigged, these were the largest vessels on the river, not much smaller than ocean-going ships, and they carried a full complement of canvas on each mast, both dols being hung with three sails – bara, gavi and sabar.

Deeti and Kalua knew at a glance where the ships were coming from and where they were going: this was the fleet of the Ghazipur Opium Factory, carrying the season's produce to Calcutta, for auction. The fleet was accompanied by a sizeable contingent of armed guards, burkundazes and peons, most of whom were distributed among the smaller pulwar boats. The large vessels were still a good hour away when some half-dozen pulwars pulled in. Squads of guards jumped ashore, wielding lathis and spears, and set about clearing the ghats of people, securing them for the docking of the stately patelis.

The opium fleet was commanded by two Englishmen, both junior assistants from the Ghazipur Carcanna. By tradition, the senior of the two occupied the pateli that headed the fleet while the other sailed in the ship that brought up the rear. These two vessels were the largest in the fleet and they took the places of honour at the shore. The ghats at Chhapra were not of a size to accommodate many large vessels at one time and the other patelis had to drop anchor at midstream.

Despite the line of guards around the ghat, a crowd soon assembled to gape at the fleet, their attention being drawn particularly to the two largest patelis. Even by daylight, these vessels presented a handsome sight – and after nightfall, when their lamps were lit, they looked so spectacular that few of the townsfolk could resist taking a
dekho. From time to time, prodded by lathis and spears, the crowd would be forced to part, clearing a path for those of the local zemindars and notabilities who wished to offer their salams to the two young assistants. Some were sent away without being granted an audience, but a few were accorded a brief reception, on board: one or the other of the Englishmen would come on deck for a few minutes, to acknowledge the proffered obeisances. At each such appearance, the crowd pressed forward to get a closer look at the white men, in their jackets and trowsers, their tall black hats and white cravats.

As the night wore on, the crowd thinned and those of the spectators who remained were able to press a little closer to the stately patelis – Deeti and Kalua among them. The night was hot and the windows in the patelis' staterooms were left open to invite in the breeze. These openings provided occasional glimpses of the two young assistants, as they sat down to their meal – not on the floor, it was observed, but at a table that was brilliantly illuminated with candles. Transfixed with curiosity, the transients of the waterfront kept watch as the two men were served their food by a team of more than a dozen khidmutgars and khalasis.

While jostling for a better view, many spectators speculated about the food that was being put before the white men.

. . . That's a jackfruit they're eating now, look, he's cutting up the
katthal
. . .

. . . It's your brain that's a jackfruit, you fool – what they're eating is the leg of a goat . . .

Then, all of a sudden, the crowd was put to flight by a detachment of guards and chowkidars, from the kotwali that was responsible for policing this part of the town. Deeti and Kalua scattered into the shadows as the kotwal himself came waddling down the steps that led to the ghats. A large, officious-looking man, he seemed none too pleased to be summoned to the riverfront at this time of night. He raised his voice in annoyance as he made his way down to the water: Yes? Who is it? Who asked for me at this hour?

He was answered in Bhojpuri, by one of the men who had accompanied the fleet: Kotwal-ji, it was I, sirdar of the burkundazes, who wanted to meet with you: might I trouble you to come down to my pulwar?

The voice was familiar, and Deeti's instincts were instantly alert. Kalua, she whispered, get away from here, run to the sandbanks. I think I know that man. There'll be trouble if you're recognized. Go, hide.

And you?

Don't worry, said Deeti, I've got my sari to hide me. I'll be all right. I'll come as soon as I find out what's happening. Go now, chal.

The kotwal was flanked by two peons who were carrying burning branches, to show him the way. When he had reached the water's edge, the light from the torches fell on the man in the boat, and Deeti saw that he was none other than the sirdar who had let her into the opium factory on the day of her husband's collapse. The sight of him inflamed her ever-combustible curiosity: what business could the sirdar have with the kotwal of Chhapra's river-ghat? Determined to know more, Deeti crept closer, through the shadows, until the two men were just within earshot. The sirdar's voice came wafting through the darkness, in snatches:

. . . Stole her from the cremation fire . . . they were seen here together recently, near the Ambaji temple . . . you're of our caste, you understand . . .

Kya áfat
– what a calamity! It was the kotwal speaking now: What do you want me to do? I'll do anything I can . . .
tauba, tauba
. . .

. . . Bhyro Singh will pay generously for any help you can offer him . . . as you can understand, the family's honour won't be restored till they're dead . . .

I'll put the word out, the kotwal promised. If they're here, you can be sure we'll catch them.

There was no need to wait any longer: Deeti hurried into the sandbanks, where Kalua was waiting. When they were a safe distance away, they found a place to sit and she told him what she had learnt – that her dead husband's family was determined to hunt them down, and had somehow come to know of their presence in Chhapra. It would not be safe to remain there one more day.

Kalua listened thoughtfully but said little. They lay beside each other on the sand, under a crescent moon, and neither of them spoke. They lay awake until the hooting of the owls ceased and the
call of a hoopoe signalled the approach of day. Then Kalua said, quietly: The girmitiyas will leave at daybreak . . .

Do you know where their boat is moored?

It's just outside the town, to the east.

Come. Let's go.

Keeping away from the waterfront, they circled through the centre of the town, drawing howls from the packs of dogs that roamed the lanes at night. On reaching the town's eastern boundary, they were intercepted by a chowkidar, who took Deeti for a prostitute and was seized by a desire to take her into his chokey. Instead of arguing, she told him that she had been working all night and was too soiled to go with him without first taking a bath in the river. He let them go after making her promise to return, but by the time they got away from him, the sun had already risen. They reached the river just in time to see the migrants' boat pushing off from its moorings: the duffadar was on deck, supervising the boatmen as they hoisted the sails.

Ramsaran-ji! They ran down a sandy slope shouting his name. Ramsaran-ji! Wait . . .

The duffadar looked over his shoulder and recognized Kalua. It was too late to bring the pulwar back to the shore, so he made a beckoning motion with his hands: Come! Come through the water; it's not too deep . . .