You don’t understand, Vico, said Bahram. It would make me feel better if I knew I wasn’t the only one who had seen it – whatever it was that I saw.
Oh patrao, leave it na?
Vico went to Bahram’s bedside table and poured out a stiff measure of laudanum.
Here, patrao; take this, it will make you feel better.
Bahram took the glass from him and drained it at a gulp. All right, Vico, he said, climbing into his bed. You can go now.
With his hand on the doorknob, Vico came to a stop.
Patrao, you can’t let your mind run away with you like this. There are so many who are depending on you, here and in Hindusthan. You must be strong, patrao, for our sake. You can’t let us down; you can’t lose your nerve.
Bahram smiled: a gentle warmth had begun to spread through his body as the laudanum took effect. His fears dissolved and a sense of well-being took hold of him. He could scarcely remember why he had felt so oppressed and frightened just moments before.
Don’t worry, Vico, he said. I am fine. Everything will be all right.
*
The gold in Asha-didi’s teeth glinted as she rose to welcome Neel into her floating eatery.
Nomoshkar Anil-babu! she said, ushering him past the painted portal. You’ve come at a good time. There’s someone here you should meet; someone from Calcutta.
At the far end of the kitchen-boat sat a statuesque form, draped in a shapeless gown: the matronly figure, the bulbous head and the long, flowing locks were so distinctive that there could be no doubt of who it was. Neel came instantly to a halt, but it was too late to attempt an escape. Asha-didi was already performing the introductions: Baboo Nob Kissin, here is the gentleman I was telling you about; the other Bengali Baboo in Canton – Anil Kumar Munshi.
A frown appeared on Baboo Nob Kissin’s bulging forehead as he looked up from his plateful of daal and puris. His eyes widened as they lingered on Neel and then narrowed; Neel could sense his bafflement as his gaze tried and failed to strip the beard and moustache from his face. He forced himself to stay calm and pasted a bland smile on his face. Nomoshkar, he said, joining his hands together.
Ignoring his greeting, Baboo Nob Kissin gestured to him to sit down. ‘What is your good-name, please?’ he said, switching to English. ‘I did not catch. Clarifications are required.’
‘Anil Kumar Munshi.’
‘And what-type employments you are engaging in?’
‘I am Seth Bahram Modi’s munshi.’
The Baboo’s eyebrows rose. ‘By Jove! Then we are like colleagues only.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I am Burnham-sahib’s gomusta. He is also tai-pan.’
It took all of Neel’s self-control to conceal the shock that went through him at this. ‘Is Mr Burnham here now?’ he said, in a carefully expressionless voice.
‘Yes. He has come in his new ship.’
‘What ship?’
Once again, Baboo Nob Kissin’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as his gaze raked over Neel’s face. ‘Ship is called Ibis. Might be you have heard of it?’
Now, fortunately, a plate of biryani was laid before Neel. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. ‘Ibis? No, I have not heard of it.’
Baboo Nob Kissin let out a sigh and when he spoke again it was in Bengali.
Baboo Anil Kumar, I will tell you about the Ibis while you eat. It was only last year that Burnham-sahib acquired this ship and the moment I set eyes on her I knew she would bring about a great change in my life. You may ask how I, an English-educated Baboo, could know such a thing at one glance. Let me tell you: this person you see in front of you is not who you think. Inside the visible body there is someone else – someone hidden, someone who in another birth was a gopi, a girl who played with cows and made butter for the butter-thieving Lord. I have long known this, just as I know also that some day, the visible body will drop off and the inner form will step out, like a dreamer emerging from a mosquito-net after a good night’s sleep. But when? And how? These questions were much on my mind when I first saw the Ibis and I knew at once this ship would be the instrument of my transformation. On board there was a man by the name of Zachary Reid, a plain sailor you would think to look at him, but I knew at once that he too was not what he seemed. Even before I beheld him, I heard him playing the flute – the flute! – instrument of the divine musician of Vrindavan. I knew beyond a doubt his arrival was a sign, I knew I had to be on that ship – and by good fortune I was able to arrange for myself to be appointed the vessel’s supercargo.
The ship was carrying over a hundred coolies and two qaidis. One of the two convicts was a Bengali – about your age I would say, Anil-babu. He had been a raja earlier, but had lost all his money and committed forgery. He was taken away from his wife and son, his palace and his servants; he was packed off to jail, there was a trial and he was sentenced to transportation – seven years of hard labour in a prison camp in Mauritius. I had seen this man, this raja, on the streets of Calcutta before his fall from fortune: he was like other zemindars, arrogant and lazy, corrupt and debauched. But ships and the sea have a way of changing people, would you not say so, Anil-babu?
Neel looked up from his biryani. Yes, maybe…
I don’t know whether it was he or I who was most changed by the Ibis, but when I saw this one-time raja in chains, on the ship, I felt a strange connection with him. My inner voice whispered in my ear: this is your son; this is the child you have never had. I tried to help him; I would go to see him and his fellow prisoner in their chokey and I would take them food and other things. As the supercargo, I had my own keys to the chokey; one night the qaidis asked me to leave the door open. This too I did, and that night, in the midst of a storm, this young man and some others tried to escape. Next day evidence was found that their boat had capsized and they had all perished. The blame for this incident fell, unfortunately, on the shoulders of the blameless Zachary Reid, who is still in Calcutta trying to clear his name. But for myself, I had to suffer another kind of punishment: I thought I had lost my new- found child – and I felt the pain of it so bitterly that when I returned to Calcutta I went to see his wife and son…
It was all Neel could do, now, to keep his eyes fixed on his biryani. Somehow he managed to keep his head lowered and his jaw working.
… the news of his death had already reached them, but you will be amazed to hear, Anil-babu, that the Rani, a woman deeply observant of Hindu custom, was not wearing widow’s whites. Nor had she broken her bangles or removed the vermilion from the parting of her hair. I discovered then that even though her husband has been declared dead she was certain, in her heart, that he was alive. And I confess to you that she was persuasive enough to convince me too. She asked me to keep my eyes open for him on my travels. I told her that even if he was alive it was unlikely that I would recognize him. He was sure to have changed his name and his appearance; what was more, he would be extremely wary of revealing himself to me, knowing that I work for Mr Burnham, who is the cause of his dispossession and banishment. But she would not listen. She said: if ever, by some miracle, it should happen that your paths do cross, then you must tell him that you would never betray him, for he is still like a son to you, just as he is still my husband…
Stop! Neel looked around to make sure there was no one nearby. Then leaning forward, he said in a whisper: Is it true Baboo Nob Kissin? Did you really see them? Malati, my wife, and my son Raj Rattan? Don’t lie to me.
Yes. I saw them.
How is she, my wife?
She has managed better than you would think. She teaches your boy his letters and some of the local children too. Neither your wife nor your son doubt for a moment that you will return.
Tears came into Neel’s eyes now, and he lowered his head to blink them away unseen. He remembered Malati’s face as he had seen it the first time, on the night of their wedding, when he was fourteen and she a year younger. He remembered how she had hidden behind her veils, even when they were in bed; he remembered how she had turned her face away from him when he tugged at the coverings. He remembered also the day she came to see him in jail, in Calcutta: her ever-present veils were gone and it was as if he were seeing her for the first time.
