Sea of Poppies (71 page)

Suddenly, the hatch-cover flew open and the voice of an unseen silahdar came echoing through the opening. The gratings were still in place and Deeti could not see who was speaking nor follow his words. She set Kalua and Paulette to the task of silencing the others and raised her ghungta'd face to the hatch: Who are you up there?

What's going on with you coolies? came the answer. What's this noise?

You know very well what's going on, said Deeti. You've taken one of our girls away. We're worried about her.

Worried, are you? – the sneer was audible – why weren't you worried when she was whoring herself to a lascar? A Muslim at that?

Malik, said Deeti. Let her come back to us, and we'll settle the matter amongst us. It's best that we deal with our own.

It's too late for that; the Subedar-ji says she has to be kept in a safe place from now on.

Safe? said Deeti. Amongst all of you? Don't tell me that stuff: I've seen it all –
sab dekhchukalbáni
. Go: tell your subedar that we want to see our girl and won't rest till we do. Go. Right now.

There was a brief silence, during which they could hear the maistries and silahdars consulting with each other. In a while, one of them said: Keep quiet for now, and we'll see what the subedar says.

All right.

An excited hubbub broke out in the 'tween-deck as the hatchcover slammed back into place:

. . . You've done it again, Bhauji . . .

. . . They're scared of you . . .

. . . What you say, Bhauji, they cannot but do . . .

These premature comments filled Deeti with dread. Nothing's happened yet, she snapped; let's wait and see . . .

A good quarter of an hour passed before the hatch-cover opened again. Then a finger came through the gratings to point to Deeti. You there, said the same voice. The subedar says you can go and see the girl; no one else.

Alone? said Deeti. Why alone?

Because we don't want another riot. Remember what happened at Ganga-Sagar?

Deeti felt Kalua's hand slipping into hers, and she raised her voice: I won't go without my
jora
, my husband.

This led to another whispered consultation and another concession: All right then – let him come up too.

The gratings creaked open and Deeti climbed slowly out of the dabusa, with Kalua following behind her. There were three silahdars on deck, armed with long staves, their faces shadowed by their turbans. As soon as Deeti and Kalua stepped out, the gratings and hatch-cover were slammed shut, with such finality that Deeti began to wonder whether the guards had been waiting all along to separate the two of them from the other migrants: could it be that they had walked into a trap?

Her misgivings deepened when the sirdars produced a length of rope and ordered Kalua to put out his hands.

Why are you binding his wrists? cried Deeti.

Just to keep him quiet while you're gone.

I won't go without him, said Deeti.

Do you want to be dragged then? Like the other one?

Kalua jogged her elbow: Go, he whispered. If there's trouble, just raise your voice. I'm here; I'll be listening and I'll find a way –
ham sahára khojat
. . .

Deeti lengthened her ghungta as she followed the silahdar down the ladder that led to the beech-kamra. In comparison with the dabusa, this part of the vessel was brightly lit, with several lamps suspended from the ceiling. The lights were swinging in wide arcs, with the rolling of the ship, and their pendulum-like movement multiplied
the shadows of the men inside, so that the cabin seemed to be filled with a crowd of hurtling figures and shapes. Stepping off the last rung, Deeti averted her eyes and clung to the ladder to steady herself. She could tell from the mingled smell of smoke and sweat that there were many men inside the compartment; even with her head lowered she could feel their eyes boring into the shield of her ghungta.

. . . This is the one . . .

. . .
Jobhan sabhanké hamré khiláf bhatkáwat rahlé
. . .

. . . The one who's always inciting the others against us . . .

Deeti's courage almost failed her now, and her feet would have ceased to move if the silahdar had not muttered: What are you stopping for? Keep moving.

Where are you taking me? said Deeti.

To the girl, said the silahdar. Isn't that what you wanted?

Candle in hand, the silahdar led her down another turn of the ladder, stepping off when they came to a warren of storerooms. The smell of the bilges was so strong now that Deeti had to pinch her nostrils between finger and thumb.

The silahdar came to a halt at a latched door. This is where she is, he said. You'll find her inside.

Deeti glanced fearfully at the door. In there? she said. What is that place?

A bhandar, said the silahdar as he pushed the door open.

The smell of the storeroom was pungently reminiscent of a bazar, with the gummy, oily reek of heeng overpowering even the stink of the schooner's bilges. It was very dark, and Deeti could see nothing, but she heard a sob and cried out: Munia?

Bhauji? Munia's voice rose in relief. Is it really you?

Yes, Munia, where are you? I can't see anything.

The girl rushed into her arms: Bhauji! Bhauji! I knew you would come.

Deeti held her off with extended arms. You fool, Munia, you fool! she cried. What were you doing up there?

Nothing, Bhauji, said Munia. Nothing, believe me – he was just helping me with the chickens. They stole up on us and started beating him. Then they threw him down.

And you? said Deeti. Have they done anything to you?

Just a few slaps and kicks, Bhauji, not much. But it's you they've been waiting for . . .

Suddenly Deeti became aware that someone else was standing behind her now, with a candle in hand. Then she heard a deep, heavy voice, saying to the silahdar: Take the girl away – it's the other one I want. I'll talk to her alone.

In the flickering light, Deeti could see sacks of grain and dal, piled high on the floor of the storeroom. The shelves along the sides were crammed with jars of spices, bundles of onion and garlic, and huge martabans of pickled limes, chillies and mangoes. The air was befogged with white dust, of the kind that is sweated by bags of grain; as the door of the storeroom slammed shut, a flake of red chilli entered Deeti's eye.

So?

Unhurriedly, Bhyro Singh latched the door of the storeroom and stuck his candle upright, in a sack of rice. Deeti had been facing away from him all this while, but she turned around now, holding her ghungta in place with one hand and rubbing her eye with the other.

What does this mean? she said, in a show of defiance. Why did you want to see me alone?

Bhyro Singh was wearing a langot and a banyan, and now, as Deeti turned towards him, the mound of his belly surged out of the confinement of the two flimsy garments. The subedar made no attempt to pull his vest down: instead, he cupped his hands under his belly and moved it tenderly up and down, as though he were weighing it. Then, he picked a bit of lint out of the gaping mouth of his belly-button and examined it closely.

So? he said again. How long did you think you could hide from me, Kabutri-ki-ma?

Deeti felt herself choke and stuffed a fistful of her ghungta into her mouth, to keep from crying out loud.

Why so quiet? Nothing to say to me? Bhyro Singh reached for her ghungta: No need to cover up any more. It's just you and me here. Just us.

Pulling her veil down, he tipped her head back with a finger and nodded in satisfaction: The grey eyes; I remember them, filled with witchery. The eyes of a chudail, some people thought – but I always said, no, those are the eyes of a whore.

Deeti tried to strike his hand away from her neck, but it stayed where it was. If you knew who I was, she said, still defiant, why didn't you say something earlier?

His lips curled in derision: And bring shame on myself? Acknowledge a tie with a woman like you? A whore who's run away with a filth-sweeper? An overheated bitch who's brought shame on her family, her village, her in-laws? You take me for a fool? Don't you know I have daughters of my own, to marry off?

Deeti narrowed her eyes and spat back: Be careful. My
jora
is waiting, above.

Your
jora
? said Bhyro Singh. You can forget about that scavenging piece of filth. He'll be dead before the year's out.

I ká káhat ho
? she gasped. What's this you're saying?

He ran a finger up her neck and tweaked her ear-lobe: Don't you know, he said, that I'm the one who's in charge of your allotments? Don't you know it's me who decides who your master will be in Mareech? I've already set your
jora
's name down for a plantation up north. He'll never come out from there alive. You can take my word for it: that shit-shoveller you call a husband is as good as dead.

And me? said Deeti.

You? He smiled and stroked her neck again. For you I have other plans.

What?

The tip of his tongue flicked over his lips and there was a rasp in his voice as he said: What does anyone want from a whore? His hand slipped through the neck of her choli and began to fumble for a handhold.

For shame, said Deeti, pushing his hand away. For shame . . .

There's nothing here that's new to me, he said, smiling. I've seen the grain-bag and I know it's full –
dekhlé tobra, janlé bharalba
.

Áp pe thuki
! cried Deeti. I spit on you and your filth.

He leant forward so that his belly was against her breasts. He smiled again: Who do you think it was who held your legs open on
your wedding night? Did you think that green twig of a launda, your brother-in-law, could have done it on his own?

Have you no shame? said Deeti, choking. Is there nothing you won't say? Do you know I'm with child?

Child? Bhyro Singh laughed. A child from that scavenger? By the time I'm done with you, his spawn will be dribbling out of you like an egg-yolk.

Tightening his hold on her neck, he reached up to a shelf with his other hand. His fist came back to brandish a foot-long rotirolling
belan
under her nose.

So what do you say, Kabutri-ki-ma? he said. Are you whore enough for this?

It wasn't Deeti's cry for help but Munia's echo of it that was audible on the main deck, where Kalua was squatting between two silahdars with his hands bound by a length of rope. He had stayed quietly in place since Deeti was led away, giving careful thought to what he would have to do if it came to the worst. The silahdars were lightly armed, with knives and lathis, and it would be no great matter, Kalua knew, to break away from them. But after that, what? If he were to storm into the guard's kamra, he would run into many more men, and more armaments too: they would kill him before he could do Deeti any good. Far better to sound an alarm that would be heard in every quarter of the ship – and the perfect instrument for that was no more than a few paces away, the deckhouse ghanta. If he could but set the bell ringing, the migrants would be alerted and the officers and lascars would come on deck in force.