Flood of Fire

Four

Kesri’s first voyage down the Ganga, to the military cantonment at Barrackpore, was a slow one, in a three-masted pulwar that stopped at every small river port on the way. But it was the most eventful journey of his young life, and for years afterwards he would be haunted by his memories of it.

It was on this journey that he made the acquaintance of his brother-in-law to be, Hukam Singh, Deeti’s future husband. He was a nephew of Bhyro Singh’s and even though he was about the same age as Kesri, he had already served a couple of years in the Pacheesi. He was put in charge of the recruits, of whom there were six altogether, including Kesri.

Hukam Singh was tall and well-built, and he liked to use his physical presence to bully and intimidate those of lesser bulk. But Kesri yielded nothing to him, in either size or strength, and was not as deferential as the other recruits. This did not sit well with Hukam Singh, for he had grown used to lording it over the recruits. He quickly understood that Kesri was unlikely to fear him in the same way the others did so he took another tack, trying to wear him down with insults and spite, ridiculing his dark complexion and constantly reminding him that he had left home without a daam in his purse and was travelling on borrowed money. Nor were his insults always uttered to Kesri’s face: Kesri learnt from the others that out of his hearing Hukam Singh had cast doubt on his origins and parentage, and was putting it about that he had been thrown out by his own family.

Through the first week, Kesri bit his lip and shrugged off the provocations. But then one day, Hukam Singh took it a step further: he threw his soiled langot and vest on the deck and ordered Kesri to pick them up and wash them.

Kesri was left with no option but to take a stand: he shrugged and turned away, which enraged Hukam Singh. Didn’t you hear me? Go on. Do it!

Or what? said Kesri.

Or I’ll tell my uncle, Havildar Bhyro Singh.

Go ahead, said Kesri.

See if I don’t …

Hukam Singh went storming off to look for his uncle and shortly afterwards all the recruits were summoned to the pulwar’s foredeck. This was where Bhyro Singh spent his days, enjoying the breeze. He was lying on a charpoy, taking his ease with a hookah, as the boat wallowed slowly along. He crooked a finger at Kesri, motioning to him to squat on his heels in front of him. Then he went on smoking, in silence, until the discomfort in Kesri’s knees had begun to turn into real pain.

E ham ka suna tani? said Bhyro Singh at last: So what is this I hear? I’m told that you’re beginning to get big ideas about yourself?

Kesri said nothing and nor did Bhyro Singh expect an answer.

I should have known, said the havildar, that a boy who’ll run away with strangers, disobeying his own father, will never be anything but a cunt and chootiya.

Then all of a sudden his hand flashed out and slammed into Kesri’s cheek.

Bhyro Singh’s weight and size far exceeded Kesri’s, for he was, after all, still a stripling. The force of the blow turned his head sharply to the side and sent him sprawling on the deck. There was a ringing sound in his ears and his nose was choked with the smell of his own blood. He brushed his hand across his face and saw that it was streaked with blood. He understood now that Bhyro Singh had hit him not just with his hand but also with the mouthpiece of his hookah, which had ripped open his cheek. Nothing that he had encountered as a wrestler had prepared him for this.

Then he heard Bhyro Singh’s voice again: It’s time for you to learn that the first rule of soldiering is obedience.

Kesri was still sprawled on the deck. He raised his head and saw that Bhyro Singh was standing over him. Now, the havildar drew one leg back and slammed his foot into Kesri’s buttocks, sending him skidding over the deck-planks. As Kesri rolled away, the havildar followed behind, hitching up his dhoti with his hands. He kicked him again, and then again, aiming the last blow so that the nail of his big toe dug right into the crack of Kesri’s buttocks, tearing through the thin folds of his dhoti and langot.

Kesri brushed his eyes again and then slowly raised himself to a crouching position. He could see the other recruits cowering in the background, their terrified eyes flickering between himself and the havildar, who was standing above Kesri, with the bloody mouthpiece of his hookah in one hand. His other hand was inside his dhoti, scratching his crotch.

Kesri realized then that his beating had no actual cause as such, but was a kind of performance, meant not just for him, but for all the recruits; he understood also that Bhyro Singh wanted them all to know that inflicting pain and humiliation was, for him, a kind of animal pleasure.

Then Bhyro Singh flung the mouthpiece of his hookah at Kesri: Go and clean this — wash your filthy blood off it. Yaad rakhika and remember, this is just your first dose of this medicine. If it doesn’t cure you then there’ll be a lot more.

The beating left Kesri bruised in body — but it did not escape anyone that in enduring it he had also earned a minor victory: for at the end of it Bhyro Singh had not, after all, ordered him to wash his nephew’s underclothing. Nor for that matter had Hukam Singh plucked up the courage to remind his uncle of his original complaint. Kesri took this to mean that Bhyro Singh had no great regard for his nephew. He concluded also that Hukam Singh both feared the havildar and desperately wanted to emulate him; this was the noxious soil in which the young sepoy’s swagger and spite were rooted.

After this incident Hukam Singh’s attitude towards Kesri changed in subtle ways. His barbs became more guarded and he seemed to accept that Kesri would not put up with being treated as a servant. At times he even seemed to acknowledge that Kesri was probably the most soldierly of the recruits.

As the end of the journey approached, the recruits became increasingly interested in learning about the life that awaited them. One thing that particularly intrigued them was the matter of their future wardi, or uniform. It was a great disappointment to them that the sepoys in their contingent were all travelling in civilian clothes — not once did any of them so much as unpack their military clothing.

Shortly before the end of the journey Hukam Singh gave in to the recruits’ entreaties and agreed to show them his uniform: but on no account, said he, would he agree to dress up like a doll for their benefit. If they wanted a demonstration one of them would have to volunteer to be dressed.

Despite their earlier enthusiasm, none of the recruits stepped forward. Kesri was the only one who was of the right size but the bad blood between Hukam Singh and himself made him wary of stepping forward.

In the end it was Hukam Singh who beckoned to Kesri and told him to remove his dhoti and jama. When Kesri had stripped down, Hukam Singh pointed to his string-tied loincloth and said that a langot like that would do for now, but it was not to be worn with a uniform. It was all right to wear it off duty, with a dhoti and a regulation tunic called an ungah, but when in uniform you had to wear a knee-length undergarment known a jangiah; the English officers insisted on it. If there was an inspection and you were caught wearing a langot then you’d find yourself in trouble.

Why? said the recruits.

Who knows? It’s just one of their whims.

Then Hukam Singh went to fetch his knapsack and the boys saw that an almost-spherical brass lota was strapped on top of it: Hukam Singh told them that by regulation this utensil had to be of a size to carry exactly one seer of water, and it had to be tied on with a string, so that it could be lowered into wells if necessary. The lota had to be on your knapsack at all times, even in battle; if it wasn’t properly secured you could get into a lot of trouble. On the parade ground officers loved nothing more than to see a gleaming string of lotas, lined up straight and glinting in the sun. At equipment inspections lotas were the first thing to be examined and punishments were freely handed out if they weren’t properly polished.

Over the next few minutes, with the boys looking on eagerly, an extraordinary array of objects emerged from Hukam Singh’s knapsack, one by one: an iron tawa to make rotis; a six-foot by three-foot durree to sleep on; pipeclay to apply on leather belts and footwear; a chudder to wrap up in at night. The total weight of a fully-packed knapsack, said Hukam Singh, was half a maund, about fifty pounds; it took a long time to get used to it.

Then came a folded garment.

Patloons — these are worn over the jangiah.

The pantaloons puzzled the recruits. The garment looked like a pyjama but they could see no drawstrings. Nor could Kesri understand how he was to climb into something with such a narrow waist.

Hukam Singh showed him how the garment’s waist was unbuttoned — but even then Kesri had some difficulty in wriggling into it. He had never worn anything that clung so tightly to the skin and when he looked down he could hardly recognize his own legs. They seemed much longer than they were in a dhoti — and stronger too, because of the way the fabric hugged his muscles.

The recruits were watching wide-eyed and one of them said: But what do you do if you have to make water? Do you take the whole thing off?

No.

Hukam Singh showed them how the front flap of the pantaloons could be lowered by undoing a couple of buttons.

Kesri could not see that this was of much help. Flexing his knees, he said: But I’m still not able to squat.

When you’re wearing patloons, said Hukam Singh, you can’t squat to piss.

The recruits goggled at him: You mean you pass water standing up?

Hukam Singh nodded. It’s difficult at first, he said. But you get used to it in time.

Reaching into the knapsack again, Hukam Singh produced the next item: it was a sleevelesss vest that was fastened with ties, not unlike those that Kesri normally wore with his dhotis. Then came a bright flash of colour: a scarlet coattee.

This was called a koortee, Hukam Singh explained; it was similar to the red coat of an English trooper, except that they called it a ‘raggy’. He showed Kesri how to get into it, by reaching back and thrusting his arms through the sleeves.

The front of the koortee was fastened with leather laces and when these were drawn tight Kesri had difficulty in drawing breath. He looked down at the jacket and saw that the rows of horizontal stripes on its front had come to life and were stretched like plumage across his chest. Studded between them were shining, metal buttons. Are these made of gold?

No, said Hukam Singh. They’re made of brass, but they’re still expensive. If you lose one they’ll dock your pay for eight annas.

Eight annas! This was more than Kesri had ever paid for an article of clothing. But the price did not seem excessive — if the buttons had been made of real gold they could not have been brighter or more becoming.

At the throat of the koortee there was another set of laces, and before tightening these Hukam Singh took out a bead necklace. He put it on Kesri so that the brightest beads were framed by the koortee’s stiff, gold-edged collar.

The beads too were paid for by the Company, Hukam Singh explained. The officers insisted that sepoys wore them. If lost, two weeks’ wages would be deducted from your salary.

With the laces at the neck drawn taut, the collar was like a yoke. When a kamar-bandh was tightened around his waist, it was as if he had been trussed like a chicken. Kesri could barely turn his head, and his chin was pushed up in such a way that his throat hurt when he tried to talk.

How could a man fight all bundled up like this?

Hukam Singh showed him how to stand erect, with his head tilted back.

When you’re in a koortee, you can’t let your head droop, he said. Your eyes have to be up and your shoulders have to be straight.

As he squared his back, Kesri caught a glimpse of the upcurved yellow extensions on the shoulders of the koortee. They were like the tips of an eagle’s wings, and it seemed to Kesri that his shoulder had never seemed so broad or so strong.

All through this Kesri’s head had been covered, as usual, by a cotton bandhna. His hair was tied up under it, in a coil.

Now Hukam Singh reached up and whipped off the bandhna so that his hair fell down over his shoulders. You’ll have to cut your hair shorter, he said. The officers won’t let you tie it in a coil under the topee.

Then, reaching into another bag, he produced a huge, two-foot-high, cloth-covered object that looked like a beehive.

When the topee was placed on his head, Kesri’s chin sagged into the points of the collar, almost choking him. It weighed as much as a pile of bricks.

Hukam Singh laughed at the expression on Kesri’s face. Removing the topee from Kesri’s head, he showed the recruits what was inside: hidden under the outer wrappings of cloth was an iron frame.

It’s heavy when you’re marching, he said, but you’ll be glad of it in a fight. It protects your head.

The recruits took it in turn to try the topee and afterwards they fell silent: its weight conveyed to them more graphically than anything they had yet heard, how different the future would be from the life they had known before.

*

As the anniversary of her English tutor’s death drew closer, Shireen grew increasingly nervous about her planned meeting with Zadig Karabedian. Thinking back, she could not understand why she had so readily agreed to meet with him — and that too without having the least idea of what he wanted.

Never before had she contemplated meeting a virtual stranger without the knowledge of her family. She knew that if any of her relatives — even her daughters — came to know of the assignation there would be much untoward talk. But nor could she forget how warmly Bahram had spoken of his old friend, Zadig Bey. To have him arrive on her doorstep was like being presented with a messenger from Bahram himself: it was almost as if he were reaching out to her from his grave.

Nossa Senhora da Gloria was only a short distance from the Mestrie mansion but to walk there, even with an escort of maids and khidmatgars might have excited comment, so Shireen decided to ask her brothers for a buggy instead. When the morning came she was glad she’d done so, for the sky was heavy with threatening banks of cloud.

The rain came pouring down as the carriage was pulling up to the churchyard gate. Fortunately the syces had come prepared and one of them escorted Shireen down the path with an umbrella. Leaving him to wait under the portico, she bought a few candles and made her way to the church’s doorway. It was dark inside: the tall windows were shuttered against the rain and the interior was lit only by a few flickering lamps.

Shireen’s face was covered with one of the loosely knitted shawls that she used as veils when she left the family compound. Now, looking through the shawl’s apertures, she spotted a tall figure sitting in a pew halfway between the entrance and the altar. She advanced slowly up the nave, holding her veil in place with her teeth, and on drawing level she checked her step for just as long as it took to ascertain that the man was indeed Zadig Bey. Then she made a gesture to let him know who she was, and motioned to him to move further back, to a dark corner that was screened by a pillar. He answered with a nod and she proceeded towards the altar.

The candles had begun to shake in her hands now; she tried to calm herself as she lit them and stuck them in place. Then she turned around and went slowly to the spot where Zadig’s tall figure sat hidden among the shadows. Seating herself at a carefully judged distance, she whispered through her veil: ‘Good morning, Mr Karabedian.’

‘Good morning, Bibiji.’

The rain had begun to drum on the church’s metal roof now: it struck Shireen that this was a lucky thing because they were less likely to be overheard.

‘Please, Zadig Bey,’ she whispered. ‘I do not have much time. My brother’s coach is waiting outside — you can imagine the scandal if I am found here, with you. Please tell me why you wanted to meet me.’

‘Yes, Bibiji … of course.’

She could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and when he fell silent she prompted him again: ‘Yes? What is it?’

‘Please forgive me, Bibiji,’ he mumbled. ‘It is a very difficult thing to relate, a very personal thing, and it is especially hard …’

‘Yes?’

‘Because I do not know who I am speaking to.’

‘What do you mean?’ she said in surprise. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Well, Bibiji, I have seen pictures of you in Bahram-bhai’s rooms in Canton — yet I do not think I would recognize you if I saw you on the street. And there are some things that are hard to speak of with someone whose eyes you have never seen.’

Shireen could feel her face growing flushed. As she fumbled with her shawl, she had a vivid recollection of another time when she had parted her veil to show her face to a stranger: it was on the day of her wedding. Sitting on the dais, she had been so overcome with shyness that she had been unable to raise her head: it was as if a great weight had suddenly descended on her. No matter how hard she tried, she could not make herself look into the eyes of the man with whom she was to share her life. In the end her mother had been forced to reach over and tilt her head back. Years later Shireen had herself done the same for both her daughters — yet now it was as if she were once again a girl, presenting her face to a man for the first time.

There was something unseemly about this train of associations and she forced herself to put them out of her mind. Parting her veil, she held Zadig’s gaze for just long enough to see his eyes widening in surprise. She had already turned away when she heard him exclaim, in surprise: Ya salaam!

‘What is the matter, Zadig Bey?’

‘Forgive me — I’m sorry. I did not expect …’

‘Yes?’

‘That you would look so young …’

She stiffened. ‘Oh?’

He coughed into his fist. ‘The pictures I saw in Bahram-bhai’s rooms — they do not do you justice.’

She gave him a startled glance and drew the shawl over her face again. ‘Please, Zadig Bey.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘That was not right — maaf keejiye — please forgive me.’

‘It’s not important. But please. You must be quick now. Tell me why we are here — why did you want to speak to me in private?’ ‘Yes of course.’

With great deliberation he folded his hands in his lap and cleared his throat. ‘Bibiji, I do not know if what I am doing is right — what I have to say is not easy.’

‘Go on.’

‘Bibiji, you remember when you were talking to me the other day, about Bahram-bhai and how he had left no son to fill his shoes?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I felt that there was something you should know. That is why I asked to meet you here.’ ‘Go on.’

She heard him swallow and saw the Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin, leathery neck.

‘You see, Bibiji — what I wanted to tell you is that Bahram-bhai did have a son.’

The announcement made no immediate impression on her: the sound of the rain was so loud now that she thought she had misheard.

‘I think I did not hear you properly, Zadig Bey.’

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yes, Bibiji, what I say is true. Bahram-bhai was the father of a boy.’

Shireen shook her head and uttered the first words that came to her, in a rush. ‘No, Zadig Bey, you do not understand. What you are saying is impossible. I can assure you of this because we once visited a man who knows of these things, a renowned Baba, and he explained that my husband would not be able to have a son without undergoing a long treatment …’

She ran out of breath and fell silent.

Zadig spoke again, very softly. ‘Bibiji, forgive me, but I would not say it if I were not certain. Bahram-bhai’s son is a young man now. He has had many difficulties over the years. That is one of the reasons why I thought you should know about this.’

‘It’s not true. I know it’s not.’

Under the cover of her shawl, Shireen dug her fingers into her ears. They felt unclean, defiled, and she was filled with disgust at herself for having agreed to meet this man — this man who felt no qualms about uttering such obscenities in a place of God. She thought she might vomit if she continued to sit where she was, within touching distance of him. Struggling to her feet, she said, in as steady a voice as she could muster: ‘I am sorry, sir. You are a liar — a foul, filthy liar. You should be ashamed of yourself, telling such lies about a man who believed you to be his friend.’

Zadig said nothing and sat frozen on the pew, with his head lowered. But as she was pushing past him, she heard him whisper: ‘Bibiji, if you don’t believe me, ask Vico. He knows everything. He will tell you about it.’

‘Please,’ she responded, ‘we have nothing more to say to each other.’

It occurred to her that he might try to follow her outside, in which case he would be seen by the Mestrie coachmen and word would get back to her family.

‘If you have any honour at all,’ she said, ‘you will not move from here until I am gone.’

‘Yes, Bibiji.’

To her relief he stayed seated as she hurried down the nave and out of the door.

September 30, 1839 Honam

Only after I had accepted Zhong Lou-si’s offer did began to worry about the practicalities: what would I do about lodgings? About food? Working for Mr Coolidge was very dull but the job did at least provide me with a place to sleep and eat. What was I to do now?

I decided to speak to Asha-didi, the proprietress of the only Achha eatery in Canton: she is the kind of woman who is known here as ‘Ah Je’ — someone who can manage everything. Although she is from Calcutta’s Chinese community, Asha-didi knows many people here since she is Cantonese by origin. Her husband, Baburao (I’ve tried to get into the habit of using their Chinese names but it’s difficult since they usually speak Bangla with me), also has extensive connections among the boat-people of Canton: I thought for sure they’d know of a place that I could rent. And I was not wrong: no sooner had I mentioned my problem than Asha-didi said that there was a spare room in her own place of residence — the houseboat that she and Baburao share with their children and grandchildren. It is moored on the other side of the Pearl River, at Honam Island. Asha-didi warned me that the room was being used as a storage space and would need to be cleaned out. I told her that I didn’t mind in the least.

But it turned out that the room was being used as a poultry coop as well as an attic. I was completely unprepared for the blizzard of feathers and chicken-shit that was set a-whirl by the opening of the door. When the storm subsided, I saw that the birds were roosting on stacks of oars, yulohs, battens, sprits, rudders, sweeps and coils of bamboo-rope. I thought to myself: How could anyone possibly live here? There isn’t even a bed.

The look on my face made Asha-didi laugh. Bhoi peyo na, don’t worry, she said in Bangla (I have yet to get over the wonder that seizes me when this thin, brisk woman, whose clothes and manner are indistinguishable from that of other Canton boatwomen, addresses me in Bangla, and that too in the dialect of Calcutta — it seems marvellous to me, even though I know very well that it should not be. After all, her family home in Calcutta was separated from mine by only a few streets).

Yet, in some ways Asha-didi is completely Cantonese: she doesn’t like to waste words or time. Minutes after she had shown me the room, she was busy seeing to its cleaning and refurbishment. A poultry-keeper tied the chickens into bunches, by their feet, and carried them away like clusters of clucking coconuts. Then a half-dozen of her sons, grandsons and daughters-in-law got to work, scraping feathers and excrement off the deck, mopping the bulwarks and moving lumber and equipment. Soon, bits of furniture began to appear: chairs, stools and even a charpoy that had travelled all the way to Canton from Calcutta.

Only after the furniture had been arranged did Asha-didi open the door at the far end of the room. That was when I le arnt that the bedroom had a little appendage. There’s a little baranda here, said Asha-didi. Come and have a look!

The ‘veranda’ was heaped with rotting beams, spars and ropes. I stepped out gingerly, expecting another unwelcome surprise — geese maybe, or ducks. Instead, the panorama of the city burst upon me like a breaking wave.

It was a clear day, and I could see all the way to Wu Hill, the ridge that overlooks Guangzhou; I could even see the great five-storey edifice at the hill’s peak: the Zhenhai Lou or Sea-Calming Tower. In the foreground, on the other side of the river, was the foreign enclave; the channel in between was crowded with vessels of many shapes and sizes: Swatow trading junks could be seen towering over rice-boats and ferries; and everywhere one looked there were circular coracles spinning from one bank to another (it is in these that I cross the river every day, for the price of a single cash-coin).

I could not have asked for more: to step out on that veranda is to have a perpetual tamasha unfolding before one’s eyes!

At night, when darkness falls on the city, the river comes alive with lights. Many of Canton’s famous ‘flower-boats’ float past my veranda, lanterns blazing, leaving behind sparkling wakes of music and laughter. Some of the flower-boats have open-sided terraces and pavilions, in which women can be seen entertaining their clients with songs and music. Watching them I can understand why it’s said of Canton that ‘young men come here to be ruined.’

The location too could not be better. The houseboat is moored by the shore of Honam Island, which is much quieter than the heavily built-up northern side, where the city of Guangzhou lies. The contrast between the two banks is startling: the north shore is densely settled, with as great a press of buildings as I have ever seen. On this side we have mainly woods and farmland, along with a few hamlets, monasteries and large estates. The surroundings are peaceful, yet Compton’s print-shop is within easy reach.

The houseboat is itself a constant source of diversion. Asha-didi’s sons sometimes come to chat with me, and often the talk turns to Calcutta. Most of them were very young when their family left Bengal to return to Guangdong but they’ve all preserved a few memories of the city. There’s not one of them who doesn’t remember a few words of Bangla and Hindustani and they all have a taste for masala. The little ones — Baburao and Asha-didi’s grandchildren — also ask about Calcutta and Bengal. The strength of their ties to India is surprising — I think it must have something to do with the fact that their grandfather and grandmother are buried by the Hooghly River, in the Chinese cemetery at Budge-Budge. This creates a living bond with the soil, something that is hard to understand for those such as myself, whose forefathers’ ashes have always been scattered on the Ganga.

Of Asha-didi’s children the one who lived longest in Calcutta is their eldest daughter, who everybody calls Ah Maa. She is perhaps a year or two older than me and has never married. She is very thin and her face has more lines than is merited by her age. Much like the unmarried aiburo aunts of Bengal, she looks after the young children and takes on much of the responsibility for the running of the househo ld. She is never idle for a moment, yet there is something a little melancholy about her. When I first arrived she was the only member of the family who seemed to resent my presence. She would never speak to me or even look at me; instead she would avert her face in the way that a Bengali woman might do with a stranger. This struck me as odd, because here in Canton women of the boat-people community do not keep purdah or bind their feet or observe any of the constraints that prevail among other Chinese. Nor indeed does she display any shyness in dealing with other strangers.

I had the feeling that the sight of me had re-opened some old wound. And just as it sometimes happens with an old scab, she seemed unable to ignore me. Sometimes she would bring me food from Asha-didi’s kitchen-boat. She would hand it over without a word: I could tell that there was something about me that troubled her but I could not think what it might be.

But two days ago she began to speak to me in Bangla, haltingly, as though she were dredging pebbles out of the silt of memory. Her ‘Calcutta name’, she told me, was ‘Mithu’. Then she told me her tale: as a young maiden in Calcutta she had come to know a Bengali boy, a neighbour. But both families had objected; her parents had tried to marry her off to a man from Calcutta’s Chinese community, but she, being stubborn, had refused him.

And so the years had gone by until it was too late for her to marry.

The night before their journey’s end, the recruits stayed up late. By this time they had developed strong bonds with each other. They were all of roughly the same age — in the mid-teens — and none of them had been away from their families before.

A couple of the boys were from remote inland villages and had seen even less of the world than Kesri. The most rustic of them all was a weedy fellow by the name of Seetul, and he was regarded as the clown of the group.

That night they talked about what lay ahead and what it would be like to be under the command of English officers. Seetul was the one who was most concerned about this. One of his relatives, he said, had recently visited a town where there were many Angrez. On his return he had told them a secret about the sahib-log — white-folk — something that could not on any account be repeated.

What is it?

Kasam kho! Promise you won’t tell anyone?

After they had all sworn never to tell, Seetul told them what his relative had said: the sahib-log’s womenfolk were fairies — they each had a pair of wings.

When the others scoffed he told them that his relative had seen proof of this with his own eyes. He had seen a sahib and memsahib going by in a carriage. Not only was she dressed in clothes that were as colourful as a fairy’s wings, but when the carriage came close everyone saw, with their own eyes, that the sahib had put his hands on her shoulder, to prevent her from flying away. There could be no doubt that she was a fairy — a pari.

Kesri and the others laughed at Seetul’s rustic gullibility — but the truth was that they too were apprehensive about encountering the sahib-log; they had also heard all kinds of stories about them, back in their villages.

But the next day, when they arrived at Barrackpore, the novelty of seeing the sahib-log paled before the utter strangeness of everything else. Even before the boat docked they spotted a building that was like nothing they had seen before — a palace overlooking the river, with peacocks on the roof, and a vast garden in front, filled with strange, colourful flowers.

Hukam Singh sneered at the awed expressions on their faces. The Barrackpore bungalow was only a weekend retreat for the Burra Laat — the English Governor-General: it was a mere hut, he said, compared to the Laat-Sahib’s palace in Calcutta.

Once ashore the recruits didn’t know which way to look — everything was a novelty. Marching past a high wall they heard sounds that made their blood run cold: the roars and snarls of tigers, lions and leopards. In their villages they had heard such sounds only from a distance. Here the animals seemed to be right next to them, ready to pounce. The only thing that prevented them from taking to their heels was that they didn’t know which way to run.

Hukam Singh laughed at their panic-stricken faces and told them they were chootiya gadhas to be scared — these animals were just the Burra Laat’s pets. They were kept in cages, on the other side of the wall.

Then they came to the cantonment and the sight took their breath away. Everywhere they looked there were shacks, tents and long, low structures made of wood; in between were large parade grounds, where thousands of soldiers were at drill. Sahib-log could be seen everywhere, drilling, marching and lounging about, in uniforms of astonishing colours. But the most remarkable thing about them — the thing that made the recruits’ jaws drop — was that none of them had beards or moustaches. Their faces were completely smooth, their cheeks and lips as hairless as those of boys or women.

The recruits’ journey ended at an empty tent where they were told to wait.

At some point Seetul slipped away. The others were busy talking about the sights they had seen that morning and no one noticed his absence: their first inkling of it came when there was a sudden outburst of shouts, yells and shrieks, somewhere nearby. They ran out to see what had happened — and there was Seetul, being dragged towards them by a sentry.

It turned out that Seetul’s stomach was upset and he had felt an urgent need to relieve himself. Not knowing where to go, he had decided to do what he would have done in his village — that is ‘look for a bush’, as the saying went. With a lota-ful of water in hand, he had set off to find a secluded place. After some searching he had found a convenient gap in a dense wall of greenery. Keeping a careful watch for passers-by, he had pulled up his dhoti; lowering himself to his haunches, he had backed into the gap and let fly.

Unfortunately for Seetul the greenery happened to be the hedge of a colonel-sahib’s garden. Worse still, his performance had intruded upon a ladies’ picnic.

The burden of the blame fell on Hukam Singh, who had neglected to show them where the latrines were. He would later make Seetul pay dearly for his error, but now, on the sentry’s orders, he took the recruits straight to the pakhana: this too was an astonishing sight and it made them wonder whether their bowels would ever move again.

There were a few long ditches, and over them, platforms with rows of holes. A number of men could be seen, squatting on the platforms, lined up next to each other, like crows on a rope. The stench was overpowering and the rhythmic plopping sound that rose from the ditch was a constant reminder of what might happen to a squatter who lost his balance.

Back in their villages the recruits were accustomed to going out to the fields and squatting in the open, with a breeze on their faces; moreover, even though they often went in twos or threes, for mutual protection, there was usually some greenery to afford each of them a little privacy.

It made them squirm to think of being lined up like that, next to one another — but within a day or two they got used to it and quickly absorbed the unspoken protocols of the latrines, whereby certain rows were always reserved for seniors at busy times of the morning: recruits were the last in precedence.

On their third day at the depot, Bhyro Singh appeared in person at the door of their hut. This was the first time the recruits had seen him in uniform. With his height extended by his helmet and his shoulders broadened by his epaulettes, he seemed twice his size.

They followed him to a building that looked like a daftar: he told them to wait on the veranda and went inside. When he came out again, he was furious to find the recruits sitting in the shade. He berated them for sitting without permission and swore that they’d get a beating if they ever did it again: a Company sepoy could never sit unless he was expressly told to.

They jumped to their feet, unnerved, and stood rigidly upright, shoulder to shoulder, not daring to move.

In a while, an English officer appeared with a big stick in his hands. This further unnerved the recruits because they thought they were going to be beaten as a punishment for sitting down. But it was only a measuring stick, with a notch on it. The officer went down the line with it, making sure that they all stood taller than the mark.

Kesri could not stop staring at the officer’s smooth, beardless face. He had nurtured his own moustache so carefully, from the day when the first hairs appeared on his lip, that he found it hard to believe that any man would choose to shave off something so precious. But when it was his turn to be measured he saw that the officer’s lack of hair was indeed a matter of choice rather than a curse of nature — there was a distinct stubble on his cheeks, so there could be no doubt that he regularly shaved his face.

After they had all been measured, the officer sat down at a desk, picked up a pen and began to write. Kesri, like most of the other recruits, knew how to read and write in the Nagari script, but only with a slow and deliberate hand. The speed at which the officer’s pen flew over the paper was dazzling to his eyes.

The sheet of paper was then handed to Bhyro Singh who now led them to another daftar. Kesri happened to be at the head of the line, so when they got there he was the first to be picked out. Bhyro Singh beckoned to him to step forward and left the others to wait where they were. He then led Kesri to a room that smelled pungently of medicines. An English doctor was waiting inside with two memsahibs, dressed in white. As soon as Kesri had stepped in, Bhyro Singh shut the door, leaving him alone with the doctor and the two women.

The doctor now spoke to Kesri in Hindustani and told him to remove all his clothes — not just his jama but also his dhoti and langot.

At first Kesri thought he had mistaken the doctor’s words. He could not imagine that it would enter anyone’s mind to ask him to strip himself naked in front of strangers — of whom two were women! But the doctor then repeated what he had said, in a louder, more insistent voice, and one of the women spoke up too, loudly dhamkaoing Kesri and telling him to obey the doctor and take off his clothes.

Kesri had a sudden recollection of his father’s warnings about the Company’s army and how those who joined it would lose their dharma. He realized now that this was true and was assailed by a terrible onrush of remorse for not having heeded his father’s words.

As these thoughts were flashing through his head, the doctor-sahib took a step towards him. It seemed to Kesri that the doctor was about to attack him and tear off his clothes. At that instant he made up his mind. He spun around, threw himself at the door, and flung it open. Racing past Bhyro Singh and the recruits, he sprinted towards the cantonment’s bazar.

If he could lose himself in the crowd, he reckoned, he would be able to make his escape. And then whatever happened, would happen; if it came to that, he could always go back home.

He ran as he had never run before. He could hear Bhyro Singh’s voice behind him but he knew that he was rapidly outpacing the havildar.

But just as he reached the bazar, who should appear in front of him but Hukam Singh, with two other sepoys? He saw them too late to slip past: they threw him to the ground and held him down.

Although the blood was pounding in Kesri’s head he could hear Bhyro Singh’s heavy tread.

Haramzada! Bahenchod!

Bhyro Singh was panting as he spat out the curses: Bastard, you think you can get away from me? Chootiya, haven’t I loaned you money and fed you for a month? You cunt, you think I’m the kind of man you can steal from and get away …?

Kesri felt the havildar’s massive hand seizing the back of his neck. It pulled him to his feet and then lifted him off the ground. Then Bhyro Singh’s other hand took hold of his dhoti and langot and tore them off.

A crowd had gathered now. Bhyro Singh hoisted up Kesri’s writhing body and turned it from side to side, showing the onlookers his underparts.

Here, have a look — this is what the haramzada thought he would hide.

Then he flung Kesri to the dust and gave him a kick.

You’re no better than a runaway dog, Bhyro Singh spat at him. Don’t think you can cheat me like you did your father. You have no one to turn to now, and nowhere to go. This is your jail and I am your jailer — you had better get used to it.

The bitter truth of the havildar’s words dawned on Kesri as he was covering himself with his retrieved clothes — with neither friends nor kin to come to his aid, he had become a kind of pariah as well as a prisoner. Only now did Kesri grasp that in choosing to run away from home, with Bhyro Singh, he had abandoned not just his family and his village, but also himself — or rather the person he had once been, with certain ideas about dignity, self-containment and virtue.

For Kesri the significance of this incident was not diminished by the discovery that many recruits had suffered similar, and even worse, humiliations at the hands of NCOs. One of the lessons he took from it was that every soldier had two wars to fight: one against enemies on the outside and the other against adversaries on the inside. The first fight was fought with guns, swords and brawn; the second with cunning, patience and guile.

The next few months were a blur of beatings, dhamkaoings and sleeplessness as the recruits were drilled into shape. Along the way there were many moments when Kesri might have run away had he not been so vividly reminded that he had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. But then at last came a day when the first four Articles of War, on the subject of desertion, were read out to Kesri and his cohort of recruits, after which they were administered the oath of fidelity in front of the regimental colours. From then on, even though they were on probation for one month more, without any salary or battas, things became a little easier because the recruits were now considered full-fledged members of the Pacheesi.

It was in that month of continuing pennilessness, when the new sepoys had to subsist on an allowance of two annas per day, that Kesri discovered another, sweeter lesson in the memory of his humiliation by Bhyro Singh: he learnt that unexpected rewards were sometimes to be found amidst the rubble of defeat.

One day while walking past the cantonment’s ‘red’ area — the ‘Laal Bazar’ — he heard a girl’s voice calling to him: Listen, you there, listen!

The voice was coming from an upstairs window, in a tumbledown house that was known to be a lal kotha — a ‘red house’. There was a window ajar, on the floor above. When he stepped up to the house, it opened a little wider, revealing the painted face of a young girl. She smiled and beckoned to him to come up.

He climbed up a narrow staircase and found her waiting at the top.

What’s your name?

Kesri Singh. And yours?

Gulabi. You were the one, weren’t you, who was trying to run from Havildar Bhyro Singh that day?

He flushed and retorted angrily: What’s it to you?

Nothing.

She smiled and led him into a room where there was a charpoy in one corner.

Once inside he was overcome with panic; his many years of training in self-control was suddenly at war with his desire in a way that he had never experienced before. In his head there was an insistent voice of warning, telling him that to discard the disciplines of wrestling would come at a cost; some day he would pay a steep price for his pleasure.

But he was helpless; flattening his back against the door, he said: Samajhni nu? You understand, no? I have no money.

He was half-hoping that she would tell him to be gone, but instead she smiled and lay down on the charpoy. It doesn’t matter, she said. You can pay some other time. You’re not going anywhere and nor am I. We are both fauj-ke-ghulam — slaves of the army.

Her face was delicately shaped, with rounded curves that were echoed by her nose ring. In her mouth there was a hint of the redness of paan and it made her lips look so full that she seemed to be pouting.

Why are you just standing there? she said. Rising from the bed, she went up to him and unfastened the waist flap of his trowsers and pulled on the drawstrings of his jangiah.

Young as she was, she seemed to know his uniform as well as he did: he looked down at himself and saw that his body was bare exactly from the bottom of his belly to the middle of his thigh.

She seemed to think that this was all the unclothing that was necessary, and lay down again — but this only confused him further and he stood where he was, with his hands clapped over his crotch.

A frown appeared on her face now, as if to indicate that she could not understand why he was still standing motionless by the door. She reached out, caught hold of his hand and pulled him towards her. He could take only small steps, because his trowsers were now snagged around his knees, and finally he just toppled over, collapsing on the bed.

She smiled bemusedly: it was as if she had never before encountered a man who did not know what to do, and was hard put to believe that such a species existed.

Her face grew serious as she helped him untangle his legs. Pahli baar? First time?

He was about to lie, but then he saw that she was not asking in a belittling way, but only because it had not occurred to her that a man, a sepoy, could be confused and uncertain in these matters.

She began to help him, guiding his hands into her gharara. But his fingers were soon lost in her skirts — he had never imagined that there could be so much cloth and so many folds in a single garment. In his dreams this part had always been easy.

And even when his hands at last found their way to her limbs, nothing was as he had expected: those parts that he had glimpsed when women were bathing, or relieving themselves in the fields, seemed completely different now that they were joined together in another human being.

At some time they both realized that they would never again be able to recapture the amazement and wonder of this moment — and even for her, who had already grown accustomed to being with men, his discovering hunger came as a surprise, so that she seemed to see her own body in a new light. At a certain moment she found, to her shock, that she was naked — she would tell him later that she had never been in such a state with a man before; it was something the other women would have despised her for had they known — but that day she was heedless of all restraint and this became a bond between them, for now they both knew a secret about one another.

For many weeks after that day Kesri could not stop thinking about Gulabi. He went to her so often that his credit with the house ran out. When Seetul and the other recruits laughed and said, Piyaar me paagil ho gayilba? Have you become mad with love? he did not deny it.

For a long time it was a torment to him that Gulabi was visited by other men. But eventually he grew used to it and it even gave him a grim kind of pleasure to know that her other clients were being cheated, because none of them would ever have from her what he had.

It was not till some years had passed that she told him why she had waved to him from the window on the day when they met.

You remember, Kesri, that time when you were stripped by Bhyro Singh? You were not the only one to be beaten that day.

Who else then?

After he had finished with you, he came to me — he took me into a room and after he had done what he came for, he slapped me and hit me.

But why?

She made an uncomprehending gesture. Kya pata? What do I know? But he’s done it to some other girls too. It seems to give him pleasure.

Kesri thought about this for a bit and it made him shudder.

I swear, Gulabi, he said. The day that Bhyro Singh dies I’ll give away a maund of sweets — that is if I don’t kill him myself first.

She laughed: Don’t forget to give me some of those sweets. I can’t wait to taste them.

For several days Zachary neither saw nor heard from Mrs Burnham: so complete was the silence that it seemed as though she had forgotten about arranging a private meeting with him. But just as he was growing accustomed to the idea that the meeting would never happen, a khidmatgar arrived with a parcel. There was an envelope inside, sitting on top of a fat book.

October 10, 1839

Dear Mr Reid

I offer you my sincerest apologies for my prolonged silence. The news from China has been very disquieting of late and we have all been much preoccupied. But you must not imagine that I have allowed the affairs of the World to drive from my mind the Pledge I had made to you. Nothing could be further from the truth. You and your Sufferings are constantly on my mind: you could even say that I am haunted by them.

You will remember that I mentioned a doctor who has made a special study of your Affliction. His name is Dr Allgood and he has been sent here from England to attend to the lunatics in the Native and Europeans-Only Asylums (you will no doubt be interested to learn that it is the Condition from which you suffer that has driven most of the Inmates out of their minds). Not only is Dr Allgood one of the world’s leading authorities on your Disease, he has dedicated his life to its eradication. It is because of his Crusade that the people of this city have come to be alerted to the spreading Epidemic.

It so happens that I had helped to arrange a few Lectures for Dr Allgood and am therefore well acquainted with him. Wanting to profit from his wisdom I had sought an Interview but this proved difficult to obtain for the Doctor is exceedingly busy with the conduct of his Researches. Yet, despite his many preoccupations, the doctor was kind enough to grant me some time yesterday and it is in order to communicate his advice that I have now picked up my quill to write to you.

You will no doubt be interested to learn that your Condition is one of the principal areas of inquiry in modern medicine: it has come to be recognized as one of the chief causes of human debility. It is thought that the costs of the Disease, physical and economic, are of such magnitude that the Nation that first conquers it will thereby secure its position as the world’s Dominant Power. You can imagine then the urgency with which a remedy is being sought — yet, despite the best efforts of a great number of Doctors and Men of Science, there has as yet been little Progress. Dr Allgood assures me that there is every reason to hope that a Cure — perhaps even a Vaccination — will soon be found, but alas, none has yet been discovered. This was of course, a great disappointment, for I had hoped that he would be able to prescribe some soothing Tonics, Drugs or Poultices to help in combating the Seizures — but it appears that at present the best hope of effecting a cure lies in educating Patients and making sure that they become fully cognizant of the terrible consequences of this Disease.

This being the prescribed mode of treatment, I shall endeavour to obtain books and other materials for you. Enclosed herewith you will find the first volume in your proposed course of Study. Bookmarks have been inserted in the chapters that particularly require your attention, and I urge you to commit these passages to memory. The Doctor says that it is most necessary in such courses of Study, that occasional Tests and Examinations be administered to make sure that the Patient has fully absorbed the prescribed lessons. To that end I will endeavour to arrange a private meeting to test you on your progress.

In concluding this missive, I urge you not to lose hope: while it is undoubtedly true that the road ahead is long and arduous there is every reason to believe that with perseverance, faith and resolve you will succeed in finding your way to a Cure. And you should know that you are not alone — I will do everything in my power to speed you on your Path.

Yours & c.

C. Burnham

p. s. In order to preserve the confidentiality of our Collaboration it may be best to destroy this note immediately.

The book that accompanied the note was called Elements of Physiology and it was by a professor of medicine at the University of Paris, one Anthelme Balthasar Richerand. It was a weighty tome, but fortunately the sections recommended for Zachary’s scrutiny were quite short and had been clearly bookmarked.

The first of these chapters was a detailed study of the case of a fifteen-year-old shepherd boy in France who

became addicted to onanism, and to such a degree, as to practise it seven or eight times in a day. Emission became at last so difficult that he would strive for an hour, and then discharge only a few drops of blood. At the age of six and twenty, his hand became insufficient, all he could do, was to keep the penis in a continual state of priapism. He then bethought himself of tickling the internal part of his urethra, by means of a bit of wood six inches long, and he would spend in that occupation, several hours, while tending his flock in thesolitude of the mountains. By a continuance of thistitillation for sixteen years, the canal of the urethrabecame hard, callous, and insensible …

Chills of dread and horror shot through Zachary as he read on to the study’s sickening conclusion in which the unfortunate shepherd’s much-abused organ had split into two longitudinal halves, like an over-grilled sausage. Despite the best efforts of the doctors at the hospital in Narbonne, the shepherd had died shortly afterwards.

Scarcely had Zachary recovered from the nightmares evoked by this passage than another parcel arrived, accompanied by another note.

October 14, 1839

Dear Mr Reid

I have just this minute returned from one of Dr Allgood’s Lectures on the Affliction to which you have fallen victim: it was perhaps the most moving that I have yet heard. In the conquest of this disease, says Dr Allgood, lies the difference between primitive and modern Man. All modern philosophers are agreed upon this he said, and he quoted at length from one Mr Kant who is said to be the most Enlightened thinker of the Age. I felt it necessary to make some jottings for your edification.

‘The physical effects are absolutely disastrous,’ says the philosopher, ‘but the consequences from the moral perspective are even more regrettable. One transgresses the limits of nature, and the desire rages without end, for it never finds any real satisfaction.’

Afterwards Dr Allgood was kind enough to lend me another Book: Mr Sylvester Graham’s Lecture to Young Men on Chastity. You will find it enclosed herewith. We are very fortunate that Dr Allgood has made this book available to us. It has only very recently been published in America and has already sold many thousands of copies there. Dr Allgood assures me that if any remedy for your Condition could be said to exist then this book is it. I urge you to spend this day and the next in studying it and absorbing its lessons. Your first catechism should, I think, be conducted while the book is still fresh in your mind so I think we should meet the day after the morrow.

As to the venue, I confess that I have been at something of a loss to decide on one — for a Discussion of this nature requires a degree of privacy that is hard to come by in a house that is as plentifully supplied with servants as ours. But at length I have hit upon a stratagem that will, I think, admirably serve the purpose. I have put it about that some of the shelves in my Sewing Room are broken and the nokar-logue have been informed that the Mystery-sahib will be coming to the house to repair them.

Today being Tuesday, I suggest you come to the front door of the house at 11 in the morning on Thursday. One of my maids will show you to my Sewing Room. Of course you must not neglect to bring your tools with you, and nor must you forget to bring the books that Dr Allgood has so kindly lent us — hundreds of people are clamouring for them, so great is the concern about this Epidemic.

Yours & c.

C. Burnham

p. s.: I enclose with this letter a packet of biscuits made to a recipe by the author of the Lecture on Chastity. They are said to be a marvellous antidote for your Disease, and are widely used as such in America, where they are known as ‘Graham Crackers’.

p. p.s.: needless to add, this note too should be destroyed as soon as it has been read.