Flood of Fire

Five

Ht didn’t take long for Kesri to realize that the Pacheesi was a fiefdom for Bhyro Singh and his clan. Behind the battalion’s external edifice of military rank there lay an unseen scaffolding of power, with its own hierarchy and loyalties. This was not just tolerated but even encouraged by the battalion’s British officers, who relied on this fraternity to bring in new recruits and to pass on information about the men.

Not being a member of the clan, Kesri had to look elsewhere to learn about the Pacheesi’s inner workings. The man he turned to was a gifted but unlikely source of advice: none other than Pagla-baba, the Naga ascetic who travelled everywhere with the battalion.

Pagla-baba was thin and very tall, with limbs that looked as if they were made from fire-blackened bamboo. His joints were huge and gnarled, and his skin was smeared from head to toe with ash, as was his matted hair, which he wore on his head in a thick turban of coils. When the battalion was on the move, he marched with his earthly possessions on his back, slung on a length of rope — they consisted of a rolled-up mat, a set of three sharp-edged discs and a standard-issue brass lota, no different from those that were strapped upon the knapsacks of the sepoys. At the insistence of the battalion’s English officers he would sometimes wear a band of cloth around his waist, but when out of their sight he usually tucked it in so that it covered nothing. The ash was his clothing, he liked to say, and his genitals and pubes were daubed even more liberally with it than the rest of his body.

The English officers hated Pagla-baba and not just because he liked to bring the blush to their cheeks by flaunting his impressive manhood: they resented him for his hold on the soldiers and were flummoxed by his appeal. They never tired of pointing out to the sepoys that every paltan had its contingent of regimental pundits and maulvis to serve their religious needs; these functionaries were army employees, just like the Anglican chaplains who ministered to the officers, and the Catholic padres who tended to the battalion’s drummers, fifers and musicians (most of whom were Christian Eurasians and had entered the ranks through orphanages and poorhouses).

To the officers it was baffling that with so many respectable men of religion to turn to, the sepoys should resort instead to a naked budmash who didn’t even take the trouble to wear a langooty and went around with his artillery hanging out, as if to deliver a barrage.

What they didn’t understand was that as far as most sepoys were concerned regimental pundits and maulvis were important only for formal observances; when it came to their private hopes and fears, sorrows and beliefs, they needed messengers of a different kind. Ascetics like Pagla-baba were not just men of religion but also soldiers, and had served in armies and warrior bands. They understood the lives of sepoys in a way that no pundit or maulana ever could: they provided practical advice as well as spiritual guidance. In the battlefield, sepoys had much more faith in the protection of the amulets they received from faqirs and sadhus than in the blessings of pundits and imams.

It was also a great help that the ascetics were unusually well-informed: their networks extended everywhere and they frequently had access to better intelligence than the army’s spies. For all these reasons there was scarcely a battalion in Bengal that did not have an ascetic in its camp — and it didn’t matter what religion they professed to follow or whether they called themselves gosains or sufis. This too was a great annoyance to the Angrez officers for they liked to have people neatly in their places, with the Gentoos and Musselmen in their own corners.

Kesri was fortunate in being drawn into Pagla-baba’s inner circle through no effort of his own. It so happened that Pagla-baba had paid many visits to the annual mela that was held near Nayanpur. He had an astonishing memory for names and faces and he remembered having seen Kesri there, many years before. Because of that chance connection he took an interest in Kesri’s welfare from the time he entered the paltan — and Kesri, for his part, felt an instinctive affinity for Pagla-baba, largely because he made fun of pundits and purohits and all their endless observances of rules and rituals.

It was Pagla-baba who told Kesri about a way to get ahead in the paltan without having to depend on Bhyro Singh and his clan: volunteering for overseas service. Officers always took special note of a sepoy who volunteered, he said, because balamteers who were willing to travel on ships were hard to find in the Bengal Native Infantry. Most of the sepoys of the Bengal army were from inland regions like Bihar and Awadh, and they didn’t like to cross the sea: some felt that it compromised their caste standing; others objected to the additional expense as well as the inconvenience and danger. This was why overseas service was generally voluntary in the Bengal army: mandatory foreign deployments had led to disaffection in the past, so when troops were needed for missions abroad it was usually the Madras army that supplied them.

Yeh jaati-paati ki baat sab bakwaas haelba — all this talk of caste is bakwaas of course, said Pagla-baba, in his hoarse, crackling voice. When travel battas are offered, Bihari sepoys run like rabbits to sign up. The same if there’s any talk of prize money. Afterwards, they’ll pay for a little ceremony to remove the taint of crossing the black-water, and that’ll be that. Any sepoy will volunteer when there’s a glint of gold — but it’s when you sign up without any money on offer that the Angrez officers will really take notice of you.

Kesri would have volunteered at once if possible, but it took a while before an opportunity arose. One day the CO-sahib announced that balamteers were being sought to reinforce a British garrison on the Bengal-Burma frontier. The garrison was on an island called Shahpuri, at the mouth of the Naf River, which marked the border between the East India Company’s Bengal territories and the Burmese Province of Arakan. The island was a few hundred miles from Calcutta and the reinforcements were to be sent there by ship: this being just a spell of garrison duty, there were to be no special travel battas; nor was there any possibility of prize money or any other emoluments.

Kesri lost no time in putting his name on the list of volunteers — and since there were no financial incentives, he assumed that nobody else from his battalion would sign up as a balamteer. But when the full list was posted, it turned out that Hukam Singh had also volunteered, having been promised a temporary rank of naik, or corporal: worse still, Kesri was assigned to his very platoon.

When they arrived at the island there was not a man among them who did not regret having come. The encampment was a stockade on a sand-spit, hemmed in by jungle and marshland, river and sea. A sizeable Burmese force had already assembled on the far side of the Naf River, with obviously hostile intent.

Kesri did not have to wait long for his first taste of combat. One day, while out on patrol, his company was ambushed by a Burmese raiding party. The sepoys could only get off a single volley before their attackers closed on them: after that it was every man for himself, with the sepoys’ bayonets pitted against the spears and cutlasses of the Burmese.

Kesri found himself facing an onrush from a man with a fear-somely tattooed face and a huge, flashing cutlass. He dropped to one knee, as he had so often done in drills, and took his bayonet back, in preparation for the thrust. His lunge, when he made it, was perfectly executed. The attacker was evidently unprepared for the length of the weapon and was caught in mid-stride. The bayonet went right through his ribs and into his heart.

This was the first time that Kesri had killed a man. His attacker’s tattooed face was so close that he could see the light dimming in his eyes — but to his horror the head kept coming towards him, even after the eyes had gone blank. He gave his rifle a savage thrust, trying to extricate his bayonet from the dead man’s ribs. But he succeeded only in shaking the corpse, so that the head whipped back and forth: a ribbon of drool curled out of the dead man’s mouth and hit Kesri in the face. He realized now, in mounting panic, that his bayonet was trapped between the man’s ribs.

Meanwhile, from the edge of his vision he could see another man bearing down on him with an upraised cutlass. He tugged on the butt of his rifle again, but it wouldn’t come free. The impaled corpse clung stubbornly to the bayonet, with the eyes wide open, staring into Kesri’s face.

The other attacker was so close now that there was no time to lower the corpse to the ground and coax out the blade. Kesri had no choice but to use the dead man as a shield. When the attacker’s cutlass began its descent, he torqued his body, as he had learnt to do in the wrestling pit, and levered the corpse up to absorb the blow.

The first stroke hit the corpse on the back, pushing the tattooed face against Kesri’s and knocking him to the ground. The strike was blunted, but not entirely deflected. Kesri knew he had been hit, because he could see his blood spurting over the dead man’s face.

Then the attacker came at him from the other side. Kesri had the full weight of the corpse on him now. Again he waited until the blade had begun its descent and then he heaved on the butt of his rifle, using the corpse to block the slashing cutlass.

Again the strike was only partially deflected. It hit him in the arm this time, glancing off an amulet that Pagla-baba had given him. At the same time it somehow also jerked loose his bayonet. Still covered by the corpse, Kesri pulled the blade free, taking care to keep it hidden from his attacker. He waited for the man to close in for the kill and only then did he make his thrust, shoving his bayonet through the gap between the corpse’s arm and flank. This time he aimed for the stomach, and was lucky to hit home. The second attacker collapsed upon the first and the impact of his fall knocked the breath out of Kesri, who was now buried under both their bodies. His head began to spin and the last thing he was aware of was Hukam Singh’s voice, shouting at him, telling him to get up.

After that Kesri spent a month in the garrison’s field-hospital, recovering from his wounds. Lying in bed, he promised himself that when it was his turn to put recruits through bayonet drill, he would teach them always to aim for the stomach: it was the softest part of a man’s body and there was no danger of getting your bayonet trapped between any bones.

A few months after Kesri had returned to active duty the whole garrison was evacuated from Shahpuri, by ship. Back at the military cantonment in Barrackpore, Kesri found a letter waiting for him, from his village: his brother Bhim had dictated it to a letter-writer.

In the intervening years Kesri had regularly sent money home, through sepoys who were going on leave. Through them he had also received news of his family: he knew that after his departure, Bhim had stayed back to look after their land.

Now Bhim was writing to say that it was time for Kesri to return to the village for a visit. Their father had forgiven everything and was eager to see him, for many reasons. One was that he was involved in some litigation over a piece of land and had been told that the magistrate, who was English, was more likely to rule in their favour if Kesri was seen in the courtroom, dressed in the uniform of a Company sepoy. Another reason was that they had received a splendid proposal of marriage for Kesri: it was from a family of rich landowning thakurs. The girl’s brothers were also Company sepoys, so it was a perfect match in every way.

Bhim ended with the observation that he was himself eager to see the matter of Kesri’s marriage settled so that he could start thinking of getting married himself.

Kesri was in no hurry to find a wife: he had thought that he would do what many sepoys did, and wait till he had left service. But he was also keen to be reconciled with his parents, so he took leave for four months and went home.

On reaching Nayanpur, he was astonished by the stir that was created by his arrival. It turned out that in his absence he had become a figure of some note in the village. The money he sent home had provided his family with new comforts and had also allowed them to hold pujas at the local temples. All of Nayanpur turned out for the prayashchitta ceremony that his family held, to remove the stain of his overseas travels. When he appeared in court with his father, the English magistrate took special note, and the ruling did indeed go in his favour.

As for Kesri’s doubts about getting married, they were quickly swept aside by his family. The dowry that had been offered was so substantial that there would have been no question of saying no to the alliance, even if he had wanted to, which he didn’t, since there were no grounds for objection: the bride was plump, fair and quite amiable; and she also got on well with his mother and sisters — especially Deeti, who doted on her. Kesri saw immediately that his family had chosen well, and he, for his part, was prepared to do his best to live up to all that was expected of him, as a husband. The wedding was a grand affair, attended by hundreds of people. His in-laws had wide connections, so all the zamindars of the district came, as well as the mukhiyas of the nearby villages.

With things going so well, Kesri briefly contemplated retiring from service and moving back home permanently. But a couple of months of playing the householder resolved his doubts. He found, to his surprise, that he missed the orderliness of his life with the Pacheesi; he missed the regularity of knowing exactly when he would eat and sleep and bathe; he missed the cheerful camaraderie; he missed his hut, where everything was within reach and in its place; he missed the straight, well-swept streets and lanes of the cantonment — the galis of the village he had grown up in now seemed to him chaotic and dirty.

After a few months of family life even the oppressive hierarchies of military rank seemed more bearable. At least you knew exactly where you stood with everyone around you — and coping with the petty tyrannies of naiks and havildars was no more difficult than dealing with his father. And compared with the complications of the marital bed, his transactions with Gulabi were vastly more satisfying.

But even if Kesri had been inclined to stay, he knew it wouldn’t have been feasible. The family had grown accustomed to the money he sent home; and in different ways they had all come to relish the prestige of being closely related to a man who wore the uniform of a power that was increasingly feared and respected. What was more, by the time his leave drew to an end Kesri could tell that his family — all except Deeti — were tiring of having him at home. He understood that the gap left by his departure from home had been filled by the continuing flow of their lives; his return, although welcome at the start, had now begun to disrupt the new currents.

Strangely, all of this added to the poignancy of his departure: it was as if his family were lamenting not just the fact of his leaving but also their acceptance of its inevitability.

A few months after returning to Barrackpore, his family wrote to say that his wife was expecting a child. In due time there was another letter announcing the birth of a son: his father had named him Shankar Singh.

Kesri spent a week’s salary on sweets and distributed them all over the cantonment.

Punctually on Thursday morning, Zachary walked across the lawn, holding in one hand a box of tools and in the other the two books Mrs Burnham had lent him, neatly wrapped in paper.

At the door of the mansion, Zachary was met by a veiled, sari-clad maid who led him through a maze of staircases and corridors to Mrs Burnham’s sunlit sewing room.

Mrs Burnham was waiting inside, austerely dressed in white calico. She greeted Zachary off-handedly, without looking up from her embroidery. ‘Oh, is it the mystery-sahib? Let him in.’

When Zachary had stepped in she glanced up at the maid, who was still standing at the door. ‘Challo. Jaw!’ she said briskly, waving her away. ‘Be off with you now.’

After the woman had gone, Mrs Burnham went to the door and fastened the bolt. ‘Come, Mr Reid. We haven’t much time so we must use it as best we can.’

In the centre of the room stood an exquisite sewing table, of Chinese make, with sinuous designs painted in gold upon a background of black lacquer. Two chairs had been placed to face each other across the table, on top of which lay a slim pamphlet.

Mrs Burnham gestured to Zachary to take the chair opposite hers. ‘I trust you have brought your tools with you, Mr Reid?’

‘Yes.’

Zachary lifted up his wooden toolbox and placed it on the table.

‘Well then, I suggest you tap your hammer on the box from time to time. This will give the impression that you are at work and will serve to allay the suspicions of anyone who might be listening at the door. The natives are prying little bandars you know, and just as curious. Precautions are always in order.’

‘Certainly, ma’am.’ Zachary took out his hammer and began to tap lightly on the lid.

‘I trust, Mr Reid, that you have read and absorbed Dr Richerand’s chapter on the unfortunate shepherd lad?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Zachary fixed his attention on the toolbox, grateful for an excuse to keep his eyes lowered.

‘May I ask what effect it had on you?’

Zachary swallowed. ‘It was very disturbing, ma’am.’

She was quick to pounce on this. ‘Aha! And is that because you feel yourself to be in danger of arriving at a similar plight?’

‘Why no, ma’am,’ said Zachary quickly. ‘My condition is not, I assure you — nearly so serious as that of the shepherd.’

‘Oh?’ The exclamation was not devoid of some disappointment. ‘And what of the Lecture, Mr Reid? Have you studied it with due attention?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Here she reached into her reticule, took out a handkerchief, and proceeded to dab it on her cheeks. The gesture momentarily drew Zachary’s eyes away from his toolbox to Mrs Burnham’s neck, but he quickly wrenched them away and resumed his tapping.

‘Well then, Mr Reid, could you kindly recount for me the ailments that are associated with your condition? I trust you have committed them to memory?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Zachary. ‘As I remember they include headaches, melancholy, hypochondria, hysterics, feebleness, impaired vision, loss of sight, weakness of the lungs, nervous coughs, pulmonary consumption, epilepsy, loss of memory, insanity, apoplexy, disorders of the liver and kidney—’

She broke in with an aggrieved cry: ‘Aha! I notice you have made no mention of various ailments of the bowels!’

‘Why no, ma’am,’ said Zachary quickly. ‘I did not wish to be … indelicate.’

At this Mrs Burnham gave a laugh that forced Zachary to look up from the table again: he could not help but note that two bright spots of colour had now appeared on her cheeks.

‘Oh Mr Reid!’ she cried. ‘If I were so feeble a creature as to be put to the blush by a mention of kabobs and dubbers I would scarcely have shouldered the burden of helping you to find a cure for your condition!’

But even as she was saying this, her words were contradicted by the expansion of the spots of colour on her cheeks. Now, as if to distract herself, she reached for an embroidery frame and picked up a needle.

‘Please do not be concerned about sparing my ears,’ she said, as her needle began to fly. ‘Our missionary sisters have to endure far worse in order to rescue heathens from sin. If you have encountered any problems in your visits to the tottee-connah you may be frank in confessing it.’

Zachary dropped his eyes again to the toolbox. ‘No, ma’am; I have not.’

‘Oh?’ This too was said on a note of slight disappointment. Again she paused to dab herself, a little lower this time, near the base of her throat. Once more Zachary’s eyes wavered and rose from the toolbox to fasten upon Mrs Burnham’s bosom; only with a great effort did he succeed in forcing them to return to the tabletop.

In the meantime Mrs Burnham had reached for the pamphlet that was lying on the table. Opening it, she pointed to a paragraph that had been marked with a pencil.

‘Dr Allgood has lent me a recent paper of his,’ she said. ‘It concerns the treatment of mental disorders and lunacy brought on by this disease. Would you be good enough to read out the marked passage?’

Taking a deep breath, Zachary started to read: ‘The onset of lunacy, brought on by Onanism, may yet be delayed by the judicious use of the following treatments: the application of leeches to the groin and rectal area; enemas with a very mild solution of carbolic acid. In some cases more advanced treatments may be necessary, such as the application of leeches to the scrotal sac and perineum; injections of small doses of calomel into the urethra with a catheter; cauterization of the sebaceous glands and the membraneous portion of the urethra; and surgical incisions to sever the organ’s suspensory ligament—’

Here Zachary was cut short by a cry: ‘Oh!’

His eyes flew up just as the embroidery ring was tumbling out of Mrs Burnham’s hands; he saw that a drop of blood had welled up on the tip of her index finger. Mrs Burnham winced and fastened a fist upon the finger: ‘Oh dear! I fear I’ve given myself quite a little prick.’

Zachary leant a little closer and his eyes travelled from her pricked fingertip to her throat, now flushed with colour. From there they dropped to her bosom, which was covered by a chaste confection of white netting: he saw that the lace had begun to flutter and heave, and he noticed also that with every exhalation, a tiny triangular shadow seemed to appear beneath, to point to the opening of the crevice that had been the cause of his last undoing.

Mrs Burnham, in the meantime, was staring at her finger in dismay. ‘My mother always said,’ she muttered absent-mindedly, ‘that one must be careful with a prick.’

Zachary’s eyes were still fixed on the tiny, almost invisible triangle at the centre of her bosom — and the little shadow beneath the lace now assumed so seductive an aspect that he suddenly had to move his legs deeper, under the table.

The movement was fleeting but it did not escape Mrs Burnham’s eye. Her gaze moved from her finger to his red face, taking in his oddly upright posture and the way his belly was pressed flat against the edge of the sewing table.

Suddenly she understood. A breathless cry broke from her lips: ‘Dear heaven! I cannot credit it!’

Springing to her feet, Mrs Burnham directed a disbelieving gaze at Zachary’s head, which was lowered in shame. ‘Has it happened again, Mr Reid? Answer me!’

Zachary hung his head, speechless with mortification.

A look of pity came into her eyes and she gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. ‘You poor, unfortunate young man! You are perhaps yourself unaware of the extreme seriousness of your condition. But do not despair — I will not abandon you! We will persist, and you may yet avert the fate that awaits you.’

She walked slowly to the door, and after undoing the bolt, turned to look at him again. ‘I must go now to tend to my pri … my wound. I will leave you here to collect yourself. You shall soon receive more materials from me, and when you have studied them we will meet again. But for now, Mr Reid, may I request that you remain here until your seizure has subsided and you are presentable?

*

Over the next few days Shireen did everything she could to erase her meeting with Zadig from her memory. She mostly succeeded, but at times Zadig’s words would rise to the surface of her consciousness like bubbles ascending from the sediment of a pond, catching her unawares: ‘But it is true, Bibiji … Bahram did have a son … You can ask Vico …’

The words would stir her into a bustle of activity: snatching a duster from one of the maids, she would begin to clean the souvenirs that sat on her shelves, most of which had been brought back by Bahram from China: dolls with nodding heads, painted fans, intricately carved ivory balls and so on. Often she would end up facing the luminous square of glass that had Bahram’s portrait on it — and sometimes within its familiar lines she would glimpse shapes that were not quite visible to her eyes. It was like looking at a cloud in which everyone but you can see a hidden shape.

Yet she could see no profit in pursuing the matter. What good could come of exhuming the lives of the dead? Anything she learnt about Bahram would only bring more disgrace upon herself and her daughters — and hadn’t they been shamed enough already?

Then, unexpectedly one morning, a khidmatgar came to say that Vico was at the door and wanted to speak to her.

Vico? Her heart went cold and she sank into the nearest seat.

What does Vico want?

The man looked at her in surprise: What do I know, Bibiji? Why would he tell me?

No, of course not. Send him in.

She took a deep breath and collected herself. When Vico entered the room she was able to welcome him with a smile. Khem chho Vico? she said in Gujarati. Is everything well?

He looked just the same, with his dark, heavy-set body clothed impeccably, in European style, in a pale, beige suit.

Khem chho Bibiji? he said with a lively twinkle in his large, protuberant eyes.

She was reassured by his wide smile and his affable demeanour. Come, Vico, sit down, she said, pointing to a settee.

He had always been reluctant to sit in her presence and he declined now with a shake of his head: No, Bibiji, it’s not necessary. I just came to ask a question — it won’t take long.

Yes?

Bibiji, I would like to organize a small gathering in memory of your late husband. Despite all that has happened, there are many people in Bombay who would like to pay their respects to Sethji.

Oh? Her eyes swept across the room and came to rest on Bahram’s portrait. Where do you plan to do it?

In my village, Bassein — at my home. And of course we would like you to be there too — it wouldn’t be the same without your presence.

And when will it be, do you think?

Bibiji, I want to do it next week.

Why so soon?

Bibiji, I would like to invite Sethji’s friend, Mr Karabedian. He may be leaving for Colombo soon.

She started: Mr Karabedian? You are planning to invite him?

Vico’s eyebrows rose. Yes of course, Bibiji. He was Sethji’s closest friend.

Shireen turned her face away and was trying to think of something to say when a tearing sound ripped through the room. She looked down at her hands and saw that she had involuntarily torn a rent in the loose end of her sari.

Vico had noticed it too.

What is the matter, Bibiji? Did I say something to upset you?

With her agitation in plain view, it served no purpose to pretend. Listen, Vico, she said, in a shaky voice. I have to ask you something …

Her eyes flew to the portrait on the wall and she muttered under her breath: Heaven forgive me for what I am about to say.

Yes, Bibiji?

Vico, some rumours have come to my ears. About my husband.

Oh? Vico’s voice was guarded now and a watchful look had come into his eyes.

Yes, Vico. It is rumoured that my husband had an illegitimate child, a son.

She watched him carefully as she spoke; he was twirling his hat in his hands, looking at the floor.

Of course there is no truth to it, is there, Vico?

He answered without hesitation. You’re right, Bibiji. There is no truth to it.

Even though his voice was steady, she knew from the evasiveness of his gaze that he was hiding something. She understood also that if she did not insist now she would never find out. And at the thought of this her hesitation disappeared.

Vico, tell me the truth. I must know.

He continued to stare at the floor so she rose to her feet and went up to him.

Vico, she said, I know you are a religious man, a good Catholic. I want you to take an oath, on the crucifix you wear around your neck. If it is the truth, then I want you to swear on the Cross that my husband did not have an illegitimate son.

Vico raised his hands to his crucifix and drew a deep breath. But he faltered as he was parting his lips to speak, and his hands dropped to his sides.

Bibiji, you should not ask this of me. I would like to spare you needless grief, but this I cannot do.

At this something came apart inside her. One of her hands flew out and without quite meaning to, knocked a framed picture of her late husband to the floor.

The crash brought a troop of servants into the room: Bibiji? Bibiji? What happened?

Shireen could not face them and was glad when Vico took charge, in his accustomed manner.

It was just an accident, he said to the servants, in a brisk, offhand voice. Bibiji had a giddy spell. Bring me her smelling-salts — she’ll be fine in a minute.

The fact that Shireen had slumped into a chaise-longue lent this some plausibility. After a few whiffs of her smelling-salts she was able to sit up again. Once the floor had been cleaned she waved the maids out of the room and told them to shut the door.

All right, Vico, she said. Now tell me: who was the boy’s mother?

A Cantonese woman, her name was Chi-mei.

Was she a — a tawaif? Some kind of dancing-girl? A woman of the streets?

No, no, Bibiji, not at all. She was an ordinary person, a boat-woman. You could say a kind of dhobin — she used to wash clothes for foreigners. That was how Sethji came across her.

And how old is the boy? What’s his name?

He is a young man now, in his mid-twenties: Sethji used to call him Freddie — short for Framjee. But he had a Chinese name too, and a nickname — Ah Fatt.

Where is he now? Where did he grow up? Tell me about him, Vico — now that I know about him, I need to hear more.

Bibiji, he was brought up by his mother, in Canton. Sethji was always generous with them. He bought her a big boat and she turned it into an eating place. She did quite well, I think, at least for a while. But she died some years ago.

And the boy, Freddie, did he work in the eatery?

Yes, he did when he was little. But Sethji wanted to give him a proper education so he hired tutors for him and made sure that he learnt English. But still, the boy didn’t have an easy time of it. In Canton even ordinary boat-people are treated like outcastes and he wasn’t even a boat-boy.

Shireen could not sit still any more. She went to a window and looked out towards the sea.

Vico, there is something you must do for me.

Yes, Bibiji.

I want to meet quietly with Mr Karabedian. The family must not know, not even my daughters. Can you arrange this? Why not, Bibiji?

How will you do it?

After a moment’s reflection, Vico said: Bibiji, let us do it this way. You inform your family that my wife has invited you to visit our house next week and that we will take you to Bassein in a private boat. They can’t raise any objection to that, no?

No.

And the rest you can leave to me.

October 20, 1839

Honam

Quiet though it is, Honam Island is not without surprises. Nearby lies a Buddhist monastery which is said to be one of the largest in the province. It is called the Haizhuang or ‘Ocean Banner’ monastery — Vico used to talk about it; I’d heard from him that there were many Tibetan monks living there.

I started visiting the Ocean Banner Monastery soon after I moved to Honam. It is a vast honeycomb of a place, with monumental statues, ancient trees and gilded shrines. One could lose oneself there for days.

Sometimes I would come across groups of Tibetan monks. Recognizing me as an ‘Achha’ they’d smile and nod. I would have liked to speak with them, but there was no language in common. The monks speak very little Cantonese.

But one day, while I was wandering through the inner courtyards of the monastery, I made the acquaintance of an elderly lama. His face is like some ancient river-bed, cross-hatched by deeply scored grooves. Clinging to the cracks and wrinkles, like tenacious plants, are a few white hairs. That day he was sitting in the shade of a banyan tree and he called me over with a wave. As I approached, his lips parted in a smile, revealing a few pebble-like teeth. Then he joined his hands together and uttered a greeting — Ka halba?

Bhojpuri? In Canton? Spoken by a Tibetan lama?

At first I was literally bereft of speech.

The lama told me that he had spent many years in Sarnath, where the Buddha first preached the Dharma; that was where he learnt Bhojpuri. He even has a Bhojpuri name: Taranathji.

I asked what other places he had seen and a flood of stories came pouring out.

Taranathji is almost eighty now, and he has travelled very widely. At the time of the Qing dynasty’s Gurkha wars, he served as a translator for the Chinese commander, the Manchu General Fukanggan; he spent many years in the retinue of the last Panchen Lama, serving as his interpreter when the British sent a Naga sadhu, Purangir, as an emissary to Tibet. He has disputed theological matters with Russian Orthodox priests and has preached in the lamaseries of northern Mongolia. The mountains, deserts and plains that lie sprawled across this vast continent are like rivers and seas to him: he has crossed them many times. He has travelled to Beijing, with the Panchen Lama; he was even present at one of his meetings with the Qianlong Emperor.

He said something that amazed me: was I aware, he asked, that the Qianlong Emperor, the greatest ruler of the Qing dynasty, had written a book about Hindustan?

I stared at him, astounded, and confessed that I had no knowledge of this.

Taranathji’s eye twinkled. Yes, he said, such a book did indeed exist. In the latter years of his life the Qianlong Emperor had been much concerned with Yindu — or Enektek, as the Manchus called it. This was because the Qing had extended the borders of China into Tibet, up to the very frontiers of India, which had resulted in many new problems for them. Perhaps the most bothersome was that of Nepal and its Gurkha kings, who had harboured designs on Tibet. After repeated provocations, the Qianlong Emperor had sent an army into Nepal and the Gurkhas had been soundly beaten. At one stage the Gurkhas had even tried to get assistance from the British — unsucces sfully however, for the East India Company had demurred, for fear of jeopardizing its lucrative trade relations with China. The Gurkhas were thus vanquished, and became tributaries of China; in the years since they have served as Beijing’s chief channel of information about Bengal and Hindustan.

Taranathji told me also that over the years the Gurkhas have given the Qing many warnings about the British and their ever increasing appetites. If China did not act quickly, they had told them, then the British would threaten them too one day; they had even proposed joint attacks on the East India Company’s territories in Bengal, by a combined Gurkha and Qing expeditionary force. If only their warnings had been heeded in Beijing, if only the Emperors had acted decisively at that time, then China would have been in a different situation today. But the Gurkhas’ warnings were ignored because the Qing did not entirely trust them; nor were they convinced that the Firingees the Nepalis spoke of were the same people as the Yinglizis who traded at Canton.

All of this was new to me. After a while I could no longer contain my amazement. I told Taranathji that he was a living treasure and that he should meet Zhong Lou-si.

Taranathji told me then that he knows Zhong Lou-si and has spoken at length with him and other highly placed officials, not just in Guangzhou but also in Beijing. They have questioned him about his travels and he has tried to share his knowledge of the world to the best of his ability. How much of it they have actually taken in he does not know.

It is not a lack of curiosity that hinders the mandarins, he says: their problem lies with their methods and procedures. They have an instinctive distrust of spoken reports; they place far greater reliance on written documents. When they hear something new, they are reluctant to give it credence unless they can reconcile it with everything they have learnt from older books.

Since then I have paid Taranathji a few more visits. Every time I go I am amazed by his stories. When I took up residence in Baburao’s houseboat, I had not imagined that there would be so much to learn, so close by.

The next parcel from the big house arrived sooner than Zachary had expected. He opened it with much trepidation, expecting to find a lengthy reproof of his conduct in the sewing room, but Mrs Burnham’s note made no reference to that incident.

October 25, 1839

Dear Mr Reid

Dr Allgood has lent me another book — a Treatise by Dr Tissot, a very famous Practitioner of medicine. This volume is, I gather, the most comprehensive and up-to-date study of your Condition that is presently available. I have spent two days reading it, and I must confess that it has made me quite ill. My sympathy for you grows ever more keen when I imagine you labouring in the grip of this frightful Malady.

I implore you to read the Book with the greatest care, and when you are done, I shall arrange a Meeting. Until then, I beg you to be mindful of the Author’s warnings — let us hope that it is not too late already.

Yours & c.

C.B.

The letter so alarmed Zachary that his fingers began to shake as he tore apart the parcel’s paper wrappings. Nor did the book’s title — Onanism, or a Treatise upon the Diseases Produced by Masturbation: or, the Dangerous Effects of Secret and Excessive Venery — allay his fears in the slightest. When he started to read, his apprehensions turned quickly into a horrified fascination and he could not stop turning the pages. Dr Tissot provided ample evidence to show that onanism was not only a disease in itself, but that it also served as a gateway for a great host of other diseases: paralysis, epilepsy, feeble-mindedness, impotence and various disorders of the kidneys, testes, bladder and bowels.

These warnings caused Zachary so much disquiet that he was hardly able to sleep or eat, that day or the next. When Mrs Burnham’s next note arrived, he greeted it with relief.

October 30, 1839

Dear Mr Reid

I am sure you have read Dr Tissot’s Treatise by now, and are impatient to discuss its contents. I too am impatient to proceed with your Treatment, and I am pleased to report that an unforeseen circumstance has greatly augmented my ability to be of Assistance to you.

Yesterday, I again sought, and was granted, an interview with Dr Allgood. But it so happened that soon after I was admitted to his study he was called away, to inspect a seizure of the disease in a Native Victim. He was occupied with the young man for quite a while and in his absence I was able to examine a notebook that was lying on his desk — it happened to be the journal in which the doctor records his interviews with your Fellow-sufferers. This has given me a much clearer idea of how the Treatment should proceed.

It is amply evident from the doctor’s notes that any Cure must be preceded by Inquiries of a somewhat Delicate nature. Needless to add, such an interview will require an extraordinary degree of privacy, especially since your condition is such (as was evident at our last meeting) that untoward Occurrences cannot be ruled out.

This has created a Quandary for me, and I have had to rack my brains to think of a Venue for our Consultation. After weighing every possibility it has become apparent to me that the only safe location is the one that I am most loath to contemplate — my own Boudoir. But now that we have set out on this path I can see no other means of Proceeding, and being fortified by the example of such a martyr as Dr Allgood, I am willing to over-ride my reservations for the sake of our Medical Collaboration.

I need scarcely impress on you the attendant Risks, for I am sure that you are well aware that this house is filled, on most days, with an abundance of prying eyes and idle hands. But fortunately the Natives are as whimsical as they are inquisitive, and on certain days and nights they become so possessed by their heathenry that they completely vanish from view, having run off to join in mummeries of one kind or another. One such pageant is to be held Friday week and I think it very likely that the house will be, if not empty, then certainly much less full.

But while this may reduce the Risks, it will not eliminate them, so it will be necessary to employ some other Precautions. My Boudoir faces the river and is on the first floor: it is situated at the corner of the house that is furthest from the budgerow. Below is a small doorway: this is a servants’ entrance, and is used mainly by the muttra-nees who clean my Goozle-connuh (or Powder room). It would be advisable I think, for you to make use of this doorway to effect your entry. It is usually locked at night, but I will make sure that it is off its latch on that day. When you open the door, you will see a flight of stairs — I will leave a candle there for you. The stairs will lead you to my Goozle-connuh, which directly adjoins my Boudoir.

By eleven at night the house will be quiet and the nokar-logue will have left: it will be best if you come then. And of course you must not forget to bring the Treatise, for Dr Allgood is most anxious to have it back.

Yours &c

C.B.

About a year after his wedding, Kesri found himself back in the Arakan. But this time he went not by ship but by land: he marched there with his battalion as a part of a large expeditionary force.

The campaign got off to a bad start. While the force was still being assembled, in Barrackpore, the troops learnt that they would have to bear many of the expenses of the march — they would even have to buy bullocks for the baggage-train with their own money. Nor would there be any extra battas to offset the cost.

This caused a great deal of discontent, especially in one regiment, which was notorious for the laziness and incompetence of its English officers. Feelings ran so high that one morning the regiment refused to parade when ordered to do so.

On the following day the Jangi Laat (or ‘War Lord’ as the Commander-in-Chief was known) arrived suddenly in Barrackpore, bringing with him two British regiments and a detachment of cannon. The sepoys who had refused to fall in were called out and ordered to surrender their arms. When they hesitated to obey the artillery opened fire: many sepoys were killed and the rest ran away or were taken prisoner. Eleven men were hanged and a large number were sentenced to hard labour or transportation to distant islands. The regiment was disbanded, its colours were destroyed and its numbers were struck from the Army List.

The violence of these measures silenced the rest of the force, but morale was low and declined even further on the arduous march down the coast of Bengal. Things got still worse when they crossed the Naf River and entered the Arakan. Their route led through dense forests and long stretches of marshland. The Burmese were experienced in jungle warfare and did not offer the set-piece battles at which the British excelled; nor was the terrain such that the British could fully exploit their advantage in artillery. Provisioning was extremely difficult for there was little cultivation along the route. Most of the villages had been abandoned, so it was impossible to procure food locally.

On top of all this, fevers and disorders of the stomach took a terrible toll. Such was the rate of attrition that the naik of Kesri’s platoon was twice replaced, the second time by none other than Hukam Singh.

One day, Kesri’s platoon was sent ahead of the column to reconnoitre a village. The settlement was just a cluster of huts, shaded by coconut palms — the very picture of tranquillity. But by the time the sepoys got there they were tired out, having been on the march for several hours. In any case, they had passed through many such villages before, without incident. They were not at their most vigilant, as a result of which they walked straight into a close-quarters ambush.

Hukam Singh was in the lead and he was the first to be cut down, with multiple wounds to his thigh and groin. Kesri happened to be with him at the time. He fought off the attackers until the platoon regrouped and drove the Burmese away.

Hukam Singh was still alive but was bleeding profusely. They tied up his wounds, made a litter, and took turns carrying him back. For much of the way Hukam Singh seemed to be in a delirium, alternately thanking Kesri for saving his life and expressing remorse for his past treatment of him. At the end, when they finally rejoined the column and handed him over to the battalion’s medical orderlies, Hukam Singh caught hold of Kesri’s hand and said: You saved my life — my life is yours now. I cannot forget what you did for me.

Kesri didn’t put much store by these words, thinking them to be a part of his delirium. But a few days later he received a summons from Bhyro Singh, who was now a jemadar. Bhyro Singh told Kesri that on the basis of a strong recommendation from Hukam Singh the battalion’s CO had decided to promote him to the rank of naik.

Kesri was so elated that it was only at the end of the interview that he remembered to inquire about Hukam Singh’s condition. Hukam Singh kaisan baadan? How is Hukam Singh?

Bhyro Singh did not mince his words: Hukam Singh’s soldiering days were over, he said. If he recovered from his wounds, he would have to go back to his village.

Many months went by before Kesri saw Hukam Singh again. In the interim the Pacheesi saw a great deal of fighting, in the Arakan and in southern Burma. Kesri was himself wounded again, in an action near Rangoon. Fortunately for him the wound was a ‘lucky’ one in that it wasn’t severe. It also got him a bonus that excited much envy among his friends — so much so that Seetul said: Kesri, tu ne to hagte me bater maar diya!, ‘Kesri, you dropped a turd and killed a partridge!’

As a bonus, instead of having to march all the way back to Calcutta, Kesri returned on a ship: the first steam-powered vessel ever seen in the East — the Enterprize.

After returning to Barrackpore Kesri went to see Hukam Singh at the cantonment hospital. He found him so changed that it was as though he had become a different man. He was walking now, but with a pronounced limp; he was also much thinner, and looked as if the flesh of his face had wasted away. But the changes in his speech and demeanour were even greater than the alterations in his appearance. A look of resigned melancholy had replaced the malice that had so often lurked in his eyes before. He seemed almost gentle, like a man who had found some kind of inner peace.

Over the next few years, the men of the Pacheesi were almost continuously in the field, fighting in Assam, Tripura and the Jungle-Mahals. Occasionally sepoys would go home on leave, and since many of them were related to Hukam Singh, Kesri would occasionally get news of him. He learnt that Hukam Singh had gone back to his village, near Ghazipur, and that Bhyro Singh had got him a good job at the opium factory.

Then one day, some three years after the Arakan campaign, Kesri was summoned by Bhyro Singh, who was now at the very top of the ladder of sepoy ranks — a subedar. His brother, Nirbhay Singh, now a jamadar, was also with him.

Was it true, they wanted to know, that Kesri had a younger sister who was still unmarried?

This was completely unexpected but Kesri gathered his wits together and said yes, it was true that his youngest sister, Deeti, was still unmarried.

They explained to him that they had received a letter from Hukam Singh: he and his brother Chandan had gone to the mela near Nayanpur, and had learnt about Deeti from the sadhus. Hukam Singh was keen to marry her and had asked Kesri to intercede with his parents.

But is Hukam Singh well enough to get married? said Kesri. He wasn’t in good health when I last saw him.

Bhyro Singh nodded: Yes, Hukam Singh has recovered his health, although he will always walk with a limp. He wants nothing more than to marry.

Seeing that Kesri was still unconvinced, Bhyro Singh added: What is to lose? I hear your sister’s stars are not good, and she is already of an age when it will be hard for her to find a husband. Hukam Singh has a good job and several bighas of land. Isn’t this a good offer?

The truth of this could not be denied: Kesri knew that his parents were worried about Deeti’s marital prospects and he did not doubt that they would be overjoyed by the proposal. And nor would Hukam Singh, in his present state, make an objectionable husband: he was a changed man now; no longer was he the vicious bully he had been in the past.

Yet, something in Kesri jibbed at the thought of handing his beloved Deeti to a member of Bhyro Singh’s family.

Bhyro Singh must have read his reluctance on his face, for he said: Listen, Naik Kesri Singh, there is another thing you should consider: this marriage would link your family to ours and it would make you one of us. And if you were one of us, we would see to it that you were quickly promoted to havildar. What do you say? Why don’t we settle it right now? I am going home on leave soon, and I would like to see Hukam Singh settled and married while I am there.

Kesri realized then that this was not just an offer but also a threat. A promotion had been due to him for a while and he knew that the only reason he had not received it was because Bhyro Singh, as the battalion’s subedar, had not supported it. If he turned down this offer now another promotion might never come his way.

He took a deep breath.

Hokhe di jaisan kahtani, he said. Let it be as you say; I will send a letter home.

Within a few months the marriage was arranged. Kesri was unable to attend the wedding but he heard about it from Bhyro Singh, who told him that everything had gone exactly as it was meant to and the marriage had been duly consummated on the wedding night. Deeti had been found to be a virtuous woman, a virgin.

At the end of the year, he heard from his family that Deeti had given birth to a daughter, by the name of Kabutri.

The next year Kesri went on leave again, for the fourth time in his twelve years of service. He was now the father of three children, one boy and two girls. His second daughter had been born after his last visit and he had yet to see her.

During his stay in Nayanpur, Deeti came to visit, with her daughter. She had looked a little careworn and had stayed only a couple of nights: but as far as Kesri could tell she was content with her lot — she had certainly made no complaint and just before leaving she had painted a picture of Kabutri and given it to Kesri. He still had it in his keeping.

It grieved Kesri now to think of his little sister as a widow already. He could not understand why his family had not written, or sent word of what had happened.