Sea of Poppies (41 page)

‘Because, my dear,' said Mrs Burnham with a good-natured laugh, ‘he is most greatly impressed by your simple manners and your modesty. You have quite won his heart. Can you imagine, dear, what a prodigious stroke of kismet it will be for you to bag Mr Kendalbushe? He's a nabob in his own right – made a mountain of mohurs out of the China trade. Ever since he lost his wife every larkin in town's been trying to bundo him. I can tell you, dear, there's a paltan of mems who'd give their last anna to be in your jooties.'

‘But with so many splendid memsahibs vying for him, Madame,' said Paulette, ‘why would he choose so poor a creature as myself?'

‘He is evidently very impressed by your willingness to improve yourself, dear,' said the BeeBee. ‘Mr Burnham has told him that you are the most willing pupil he has ever had. And as you know, dear, Mr Burnham and the judge are completely of a mind in these things.'

‘But Madame,' said Paulette, who could no longer control her trembling lip, ‘surely there are many who know the Scriptures far better than I? I am but the merest novice.'

‘But my dear!' laughed Mrs Burnham. ‘That's exactly why you have won his regard – because you're a clean slate and willing to learn.'

‘Oh Madame,' moaned Paulette, wringing her hands, ‘surely you are pleasanting. It is not kind.'

The BeeBee was surprised by Paulette's distress. ‘Oh Puggly!' she said. ‘Are you not glad of the judge's interest? It is a great triumph, I assure you. Mr Burnham approves most heartily and has assured Mr Kendalbushe that he will do everything in his power to sway you. The two of them have even agreed to share the burden of your instruction for a while.'

‘Mr Kendalbushe is too kind,' said Paulette, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘And so is Mr Burnham. I am greatly honoured, Madame – yet I must confess that my sentiments are not the same as those of Mr Kendalbushe.'

At this, Mrs Burnham frowned and sat upright. ‘Sentiments, my dear Puggly,' she said sternly, ‘are for dhobis and dashies. We mems can't let that kind of thing get in the way! No, dear, let me tell you – you're lucky to have a judge in your sights and you mustn't let your bunduk waver. This is about as fine a shikar as a girl in your situation could possibly hope for.'

‘Oh Madame,' said Paulette, weeping freely now, ‘but are not the things of this world mere dross when weighed against love?'

‘Love?' said Mrs Burnham, in mounting astonishment. ‘What on earth are you bucking about? My dear Puggly, with your prospects, you can't be letting your shokes run away with you. I know the judge is not as young as he might be, but he's certainly not past giving you a butcha or two before he slips into his dotage. And after that, dear, why, there's nothing a mem needs that can't be cured by a long bath and a couple of cushy-girls. Believe me, Puggly, there's a lot to be
said for men of that age. No badmashee at all hours of the night, for one thing. I can tell you, dear, there's nothing more annoying than to be puckrowed just when you're looking forward to a sip of laudanum and a nice long sleep.'

‘But Madame,' said Paulette, miserably, ‘do you not feel it would be penible to spend one's life thus?'

‘That's the best part of it, dear,' said Mrs Burnham cheerfully. ‘You won't have to. He's no chuckeroo after all, and I doubt he is long for this world. And just imagine – after the dear, sainted man is gone you'll be able to swan off to Paris with his cuzzanah and before you know it, some impoverished duke or marquis will come begging for your hand.'

‘But Madame,' said Paulette, sobbing, ‘what will be my profit from this, if my youth is forfeit and I have wasted the love that is in my heart?'

‘But Puggly dear,' protested the BeeBee. ‘You could learn to love the judge, could you not?'

‘But one cannot learn to love, Madame,' Paulette protested. ‘Surely it is more like a coup de foudre – how do you say in English – like being shot by his bolt?'

‘Shot by his bolt!' Mrs Burnham clapped her hands over her scandalized ears. ‘Puggly! You really must watch what you say.'

‘But is it not true, Madame?'

‘I'm sure I wouldn't know.' Her suspicions awakened, Mrs Burnham turned to rest her chin on her hand and directed a long, searching glance at Paulette. ‘Pray tell me, dear Puggly – there isn't someone else, is there?'

Paulette was in a panic now, knowing that she had given away more than she should have. But denial was futile too, she knew, for to tell a direct lie to someone as shrewd as Mrs Burnham was merely to double the risks of detection. So instead she hung her head, in silence, and lowered her streaming eyes.

‘I knew it!' said the BeeBee triumphantly. ‘It's that American, isn't it – Hezekiah or Zebediah or whatever? But you're out of your mind, Puggly! It would never serve. You're too poor to throw yourself away on a sailor, no matter how handsome or well-spoken. A young seaman – why, that's the worst kismet any woman could wish
for, even worse than a wordy-wallah! They're gone when you need them, they never have a dam's worth of silver to call their own, and they're dead before the children are out of their langoots. With a classy for a husband, you'd have to find a job as a harry-maid just to get by! I don't think it would suit you at all, dear, cleaning up other people's cabobs and emptying their dawk-dubbers. No, dear, it can't be allowed, I won't hear of it . . .'

Suddenly, as her suspicions deepened, the BeeBee cut herself short and clamped her hands on her mouth. ‘Oh! dear, dear Puggly – tell me – you haven't . . . ? . . . you haven't . . . No! Tell me it isn't so!'

‘What, Madame?' said Paulette, in puzzlement.

The BeeBee's voice sank to a whisper. ‘You haven't compromised yourself, Puggly dear, have you? No. I will not credit it.'

‘Compromise, Madame?' Paulette proudly raised her chin and squared her shoulders. ‘In matters of the heart, Madame, I do not believe that half-measures and compromises are possible. Does not love demand that we give our all?'

‘Puggly . . . !' Mrs Burnham gasped, fanning herself with a pillow. ‘Oh my dear! Oh heavens! Tell me, dear Puggly: I must know the worst.' She swallowed faintly and clutched her fluttering bosom: ‘. . . is there? . . . no surely there isn't! . . . no . . . Lud! . . .'

‘Yes, Madame?' said Paulette.

‘Puggly, tell me the truth, I conjure you: there isn't a rootie in the choola, is there?'

‘Why, Madame . . .'

Paulette was a little surprised to see Mrs Burnham making such a to-do about a matter she usually touched upon so lightly – but she was glad, too, to have the conversation turned in this new direction, since it presented a good opportunity for escape. Hugging her stomach, she made a moaning sound: ‘Madame, you are prefectly right: I am indeed a little foireuse today.'

‘Oh dear, dear Puggly!' The BeeBee dabbed her streaming eyes and gave Paulette a pitying hug. ‘Of course you're furious! Those budzat sailors! With all their udlee-budlee, you'd think they'd leave the larkins alone! My lips are sealed, of course – no one will learn of it from me. But Puggly dear, don't you see? For your own sake,
you must marry Mr Kendalbushe at once! There is no time to waste!'

‘No indeed, Madame, there is not!' Just as Mrs Burnham was reaching for her laudanum, Paulette leapt to her feet and ran to the door. ‘Forgive me, Madame, I must away. The coorsy will not wait.'

The word ‘Calcutta' had no sooner been uttered than every window in the girmitiyas' pulwar flew open. In the men's section, with its greater press of numbers, there was a good deal of jostling and pushing and not everyone was able to find a desirable vantage point; the women were luckier – with two windows to share between them, they were all able to look at the shorefront as the city approached.

On the journey downriver, the pulwar had stopped at so many large and populous towns – Patna, Bhagalpur, Munger – that urban vistas were no longer a novelty. Yet, even the most worldly of the girmitiyas was caught unawares by the spectacle that unfolded around them now: the ghats, buildings and shipyards that lined the Hooghly were so numerous, so crowded and of such a size that the migrants fell into a silence that was in equal measure awestruck and appalled. How was it possible that people could live in the midst of such congestion and so much filth, with no fields or greenery anywhere in sight; such folk were surely another species of being?

As they drew closer to the docks, the river traffic thickened and the pulwar was soon surrounded by a forest of masts, spars and sails. In this company, the pulwar seemed a paltry vessel, but Deeti was suddenly filled with affection for it: in the midst of so much that was unfamiliar and intimidating, it seemed like a great ark of comfort. Like everyone else, she too had often been impatient for this stage of the journey to end – but now it was with deepening dread that she listened to the duffadar and the sirdars as they made preparations for the migrants' disembarkation.

Silently, the women collected their belongings and crept out of their enclosure; Ratna, Champa and Dookhanee hurried off to join their husbands, but Deeti, having appointed herself the guardian of the single women, gathered Munia, Sarju and Heeru around her and took them along to wait with Kalua. Soon the sirdars came
down to let the migrants know that from here they would be taken to their camp in hired rowboats, ten or twelve at a time. The women were the first to be called on to make the switch; along with their spouses, they emerged on deck to find a rowboat waiting beside the pulwar.

But how are we going to get down there? said Sarju, in alarm – for the boat sat low in the water, well beneath the deck of the pulwar.

Yes, how? cried Munia. I can't jump that far!

That far! A shout of mocking laughter came echoing back to them from the boat. Why, a baby could do it. Come, come – there's nothing to be afraid of . . .

It was the boatman speaking, in a quicksilver, citified Hindusthani that Deeti could just about follow. He was a stripling of a fellow, dressed not in the usual lungi and banyan, but in
patloon
pants and a blue vest that billowed around his wiry chest. His dark, thick hair had a coppery tint because of prolonged exposure to the sun, and it was held in place by a rakishly tied bandhna. He was laughing, with his head thrown back, and his bright, impudent eyes seemed sharp enough to pierce the cover of their veils.

What a dandy of a fellow! Munia whispered to Deeti, from under her ghungta.

Don't so much as look at him, warned Deeti. He's one of those townie flirts, a real bãka-bihari.

But the boatman was still laughing, beckoning them on: What're you waiting for? Jump, na! Do I have to spread my net, to catch you like so many fishes?

Munia giggled and Deeti couldn't help laughing too; it had to be admitted that there was something quite fetching about the fellow: perhaps it was the brightness of his eyes, or the carefree mischievousness of his expression – or was it the quirky little scar on his forehead that gave him the appearance of possessing three eyebrows rather than two?

Ey! said Munia giggling. And what if we jump and you drop us? What'll happen then?

Why should I drop a thin little thing like you? said the boatman, winking. I've caught many fish that are bigger: just take a jump and see . . .

This had gone far enough now, Deeti decided; as the senior married woman of the group, it was her duty to enforce the proprieties. She turned upon Kalua and began to scold: What's the matter with you? Why don't you step into the boat and help us climb down? Do you want this lecher of a lucchha to be putting his hands on us?

Chastened, Kalua and the other men stepped into the boat and reached up to help the women down, one by one. Munia hung back and waited until there was only one pair of hands that was unoccupied – the boatman's. When she made her jump, he caught her neatly, by the waist, and deposited her gently in the boat: but in the process, somehow, Munia's ghungta slipped – whether by accident or design Deeti could not tell – and there followed a long instant when there was no barrier at all between her coquettish smile and his hungry eyes.

How long the girl would have allowed herself this liberty, Deeti did not know and was not willing to find out. Munia! she said in a tone of sharp admonition.
Tu kahé aisan kaíl karala?
Why do you act like this? Don't you have any shame? Cover up at once!

Obediently, Munia draped her sari over her head and went to sit beside Deeti. But despite the demureness of her attitude, Deeti knew, from the angle of her head, that the girl's eyes were still entangled with the boatman's.

Aisan mat kará!
she said sharply, elbowing the girl's flanks. Don't carry on like this . . . what will people think?

I'm just listening to what he's saying, Munia protested. Is that a crime?

Deeti had to admit that it was hard to ignore the boatman, for he was talking almost without interruption, keeping up a continuous patter as he pointed out the sights: . . . there to your left are the opium godowns . . . fine place to lose yourself, eh? . . . no end to the happiness to be found there . . .