in white trousers and cap.
Zadig had come to stand beside him: Where did Dinyar learn to play cricket?
Here. I can’t think where else he could have learnt.
See, Bahram-bhai. There’s always something going on down there. You should step out and join in. It will be a change.
The thought of going out filled Bahram with a sense of deep fatigue.
What does it have to do with me, Zadig Bey? he said. I know nothing about cricket.
But still…
They watched for a while in silence, and then Bahram said: We’re old men now, aren’t we, Zadig Bey? It’s these fellows who are the future – young men like Dinyar.
Down below there was a burst of applause: Dinyar had hit a ball all the way across the Maidan.
The boy looked splendidly self-confident, absolutely masterful as he leant on his bat and surveyed the field.
Bahram could not help feeling a twinge of envy.
When they make their future, do you think they will remember us, Zadig Bey? Do you think they will remember what we went through? Will they remember that it was the money we made here, the lessons we learnt and the things we saw that made it all possible? Will they remember that their future was bought at the price of millions of Chinese lives?
Down below Dinyar was running furiously between the wickets.
And what was it all for, Zadig Bey? Was it just for this: so that these fellows could speak English, and wear hats and trowsers, and play cricket?
Bahram pulled the window shut, and the sounds faded away.
Perhaps that is what Ahriman’s kingdom is, isn’t it, Zadig Bey? An unending tamasha in a desert of forgetting and emptiness.
Eighteen
June 5, House No. 1, American Hong, Canton
Queridisima Puggliosa, I feel as if an epoch had passed since I last sat down to write to you. During these last six weeks it was impossible for us even to think of corresponding with the outside world – we were warned that any courier who was caught carrying letters for us would be severely punished and under the circumstances it seemed wrong to write letters. Only a most unfeeling person would want anyone to risk the bastinado for the sake of their silly ramblings, wouldn’t they, Puggly dear?
But that is all in the past now. Most of the opium has been rendered up and the Commissioner, in turn, has kept his word: from tomorrow onwards everyone who wishes to leave Canton will be allowed to do so – excepting only the sixteen foreigners who are considered the worst offenders. Zadig Bey will be leaving in a day or two and since I have elected to stay behind he has offered to carry my letters – so here I am, once again at my desk.
So much has happened in the interim, Puggly dear, that I do not quite know where to start. For me the greatest change was that I had to move out of Mr Markwick’s hotel. On the day I last wrote to you, Fanqui-town lost all its workers, coolies and servants – every Chinese employed in the enclave was told to depart by the authorities. After that it became impossible for poor Mr Markwick to carry on and he decided to close down.
You can imagine the spot this put me in: I could not think where I would go. But I need not have worried: Charlie came to see me and offered me a room in his house (is he not the kindest man in existence?). I thought I should pay rent, but he would not hear of it and asked only that I make him some paintings, which I gladly undertook to do. Since then I have been installed in the American Hong, in a room twice as large and far more luxurious than the one I had before: and nor am I deprived of the view that I had at Markwick’s, for here too I have a window that looks out on the Maidan! I have indeed been singularly fortunate: I miss Jacqua terribly, of course, but I do see him from time to time, across the barricades, and sometimes, when it is possible, he sends me things with one of the linkisters – jujubes and candied fruits. And to be living with Charlie is compensation of no small order: our time together has passed so agreeably that I am loath to see it end.
You have no doubt heard rumours about the privations we have had to endure during the last few weeks. You must not believe a word of it, Puggly dear. We have been lavishly supplied with food and drink – the lack of servants is the worst of the hardships we have had to suffer, and if you ask me, this has been in truth a most salutary thing. I can scarcely tell you how much pleasure it gives me to walk around the enclave and see these fanqui merchants, who have all grown rich and lazy on the fruits of their crimes, having to swab their own floors, make their own beds, boil eggs amp;c. amp;c. It is perhaps the only justice they will ever meet with.
You would not believe how helpless, indeed desperate, some of them are: why, just the other day, a fat old fellow came waddling after me in his sleeping gown and positively begged me to become his footman. Why no, sir, said I, drawing myself to my full height. I am the King’s man and would not dream of serving anyone else.
I find endless amusement in watching the scenes that pass between the fanquis and the linkisters (who take it in turns to sit under a tent in the Maidan, right opposite my window). The linkisters have been instructed to address all our complaints and inquiries, and they are beset by fanquis at all times of day and night: Mr A. has dirtied his shirt and wants it to be sent to the dhobi; Mr B. is enraged because he has not received his daily ration of spring water; Mr C. has split his pantaloons while sweeping the floor and will not rest until the rent is sewn up by a tailor; Mr D. demands a basket of oranges and Mr E. swears that his rooms have been invaded by rats, and all his foodstuffs have been carried away, so he must instantly be given three hams and five loaves of bread. Now Mr F. arrives, in a great sweat, and declares he has seen a calf wandering through his corridor; he promises that if it happens again he will let fly with his blunderbuss, consequences be d-d; then comes Mr G. to complain of being insulted by a company of guardsmen; he swears that if the offenders are not suitably chastised he will annihilate them all with his whangee. To all this the linkisters listen with infinite patience, only breaking in to say from time to time: ‘Hae yaw? How can do so? Mandarin too muchi angry, make big-big bobbery…’ They are the most good- natured of fellows and do their utmost to hide their amusement.
One of the few merchants whose establishment has remained intact through this time is Mr Bahram Moddie, the Seth from Bombay (he travels in his own ship and is thus able to take his staff wherever he goes). Mr Moddie has been one of the greatest losers in the surrendering of opium (more than a tenth of all the chests are said to be his), and he is so downcast that he seldom emerges from his private quarters – even Zadig Bey, who is one of his oldest friends, hardly ever sees him any more.
But Mr Moddie’s staff are a lively bunch, and through these last few weeks they have held a kind of open house, welcoming everyone who wants to eat at their table. I cannot tell you what a boon this has been to me, Puggly dear, for they have a peerless khansama and the food is unfailingly excellent – not till I ate at their table did I realize how much I miss my dholl and karibat!
The company too is most congenial: Mr Moddie’s purser goes by the name of Vico and he is a jolly kind of fellow, always thinking of amusing ways to ‘time-pass’ (he has been away lately, supervising the transfer of Mr Moddie’s opium to the authorities, and is much missed). Mr Moddie’s munshi is an intriguing, rather mysterious man: he is a Bengali and claims to be from Tippera – but his Bangla accent speaks of a pure-bred Calcuttan, although he will not on any account admit this. (Speaking of Calcuttans I happened to mention to him that a Calcutta-born Miss, by the name of Paulette Lambert, was in the vicinity – and I swear, my dear Ranee of Pugglipur, that your name could not have been unknown to him. At the sound of it he turned quite pale, or at least as pale as his complexion would allow!)
Amongst those who frequent Mr Moddie’s kitchen there are several Parsis and one of them is a most fetching young man by the name of Dinyar Ferdoonjee. We were thinking one night of things we might do to keep ourselves entertained and it occurred to me to suggest that we stage a play – and before we knew it, there we were putting on ‘Anarkali: The Doomed Nautch-Girl of Lahore’ (as you may know, Puggly dear, this was my mother’s favourite role, and I have always dreamt of playing it).
I wish I could tell you, my sweet cherie, how much fun we had! I made all my own costumes and the munshi took the role of the cruel old Emperor and played it exceedingly well (I must say, for a mofussil munshi he is rather well-informed about courtly etiquette). And Dinyar made a most splendid Jahangir, a perfect foil for my Anarkali: he
