Not till then did he realize that the girl he had married had grown into a woman of uncommon beauty.
That Malati had managed to make the best of her circumstances did not surprise him; what amazed him was her refusal to accept the news of his death. How could she have known? Her certainty suggested a depth of feeling that left him beggared for words.
And my son, Raj Rattan?
He has grown, his mother says, even though it is less than a year since you left. He is a bold, sturdy fellow – she says he often threatens to run away to sea, in search of you.
Neel remembered the day when the police came to arrest him, at the Raskhali Palace in Calcutta. He had been flying kites with Raj Rattan, on the roof, and when he was called away, he had said to the boy: I’ll be back in ten minutes…
I must take him some kites from China, he mumbled. They have beautiful kites here.
His mother says he makes his own now, from odd scraps of paper. She says he remembers you when he flies them.
For a while Neel could not trust himself to speak: the constriction in his throat was caused not merely by the reminders of his wife and son, but also by his remorse for his initial response to Baboo Nob Kissin. But for this strange man, so shrewd in some ways, and yet possessed of such inexplicable conceptions and attachments, he would not be here now, he would not have escaped from the Ibis. The Baboo was, in fact, almost a protective deity, a guardian spirit, and his presence in Canton was nothing to be feared: it was a gift.
I am happy to see you, Baboo Nob Kissin, said Neel, and you must excuse me for not revealing myself to you immediately. If I sought to deceive you, it was only because of Mr Burnham. If he finds out I am here, it will be all over for me.
There is no reason why he should find out, said Baboo Nob Kissin. I am the only one who knows and you can be sure I will not tell him.
But what if he recognizes me?
Oh you should have no fear of that, said Baboo Nob Kissin with a laugh. Your appearance is so much changed even I did not recognize you in the beginning. As for Mr Burnham, he cannot tell one native from another – unless you give yourself away he will not recognize you.
You are sure?
Yes, quite sure.
Neel breathed a sigh of relief: Achha to aro bolun – tell me more, Baboo Nob Kissin, tell me about my wife, my son…
*
In the latter part of January, as the date of William Jardine’s embarkation for England approached, a consensus emerged amongst Jardine’s friends and followers that his departure could not be allowed to look like a defeat, or worse still, an admission of guilt (for it was no secret that the ‘Iron-Headed Rat’ was regarded as an arch-criminal by the Chinese authorities). As a result, the preparations for his farewell dinner took on a defiant exuberance: long before the date arrived it was evident to all that it would be the most magnificent event ever seen in Fanqui-town.
The dinner was to be held in Company Hall, the largest and grandest venue in the foreign enclave. The hall was in the ‘Consulate’ which was the name by which House No. 1, in the British Factory, was known to foreigners.
The Accha Hong was separated from the British Factory only by the width of Hog Lane, and the approaches to the Consulate were clearly visible from Bahram’s daftar. Although Bahram was not an intimate of Jardine’s, he was by no means immune to the excitement caused by the upcoming dinner: so noisy and visible were the preparations that they even helped him overcome his growing aversion to the view from his window. Looking out again now he spotted, on several occasions, long lines of coolies, winding their way through the Maidan with buckets of vegetables and sacks of grain. One afternoon, hearing a sudden outburst of grunting and squealing, he rushed to the window and saw a herd of pigs racing through: the animals disappeared into the British Hong and were never seen again. The next day he was privy to an even more extraordinary sight: a long line of ducks was waddling through the Maidan, bringing all foot traffic to a halt; before the last bird had stepped off the duck-boat, at Jackass Point, the first had already reached the Consulate.
The very appearance of the British Hong began to change. Attached to Company Hall was an enormous, colonnaded veranda that extended over the entrance, overlooking ‘Respondentia Walk’ – the fenced-in garden in front of the factory. For the purposes of the dinner the veranda was to be turned into a temporary ‘withdrawing- room’: a team of decorators went to work, covering its sides with huge sheets of white canvas. After nightfall, with dozens of lamps glowing inside, the veranda became a gigantic lantern, glowing in the dark.
The spectacle was striking enough to draw sightseers from all over the city: Chinese New Year was not far away now and the illuminated Consulate became one more attraction for the growing number of pleasure-boats on the Pearl River.
In the meanwhile Bahram too had begun to make his own preparations for Jardine’s farewell. As the doyen of Canton’s Achhas he deemed it his duty to ensure that the community did not go unnoticed at the event – if for no other reason then merely to remind the world that the commodity that had made Jardine rich, opium, came from India and was supplied to him by his Bombay partners. He came up with the idea of buying a farewell present for Jardine, by common subscription of the whole Parsi community. In a few days he succeeded in raising the equivalent of a thousand guineas: it was agreed that the money would be remitted directly to a famous silversmith, in England, with orders to prepare a dinner service, complete with Jardine’s monogrammed initials. The gift would be publicly announced at the dinner, and the accompanying speech, Bahram decided, would be given by the most fluent English-speaker in the Bombay contingent – Dinyar Ferdoonjee.
By the evening of the dinner, expectations had been roused to such a pitch that it seemed impossible for the event to live up to its promise. But on entering the Consulate Bahram could find no cause for disappointment: the grand stairway was decorated with silk hangings and soaring floral arrangements; upstairs, in the improvised ‘withdrawing-room’, Jardine’s initials glowed brightly upon the canvas hangings; in the hall, the Doric columns were garlanded with colourful blooms; the chandeliers overhead were ablaze with clusters of the finest spermaceti candles and the gilded mirrors on the walls made the room look twice as large. There was even a band: the Inglis, a merchant vessel anchored at Whampoa, had contributed a troupe of musicians: in celebration of Jardine’s Scottish origins, the diners were regaled with a succession of Highland airs as they filed in to take their places.
Bahram had, from the first, taken charge of the Parsi contingent and he was gratified by the impression made by their white turbans, gold-embossed jooties and brocaded chogas. But so far as seating was concerned, he had decided that it would not be appropriate for a tai-pan like himself to be at an ordinary table, with the rest of the Bombay group. He had arranged to be seated with the Committee, at the head of the room.
On arriving at his table he found he had been placed between Lancelot Dent and a newcomer, a tall, stately- looking man with a glossy beard that covered half his chest. He looked familiar but Bahram could not immediately remember his name.
Dent came to his rescue: ‘May I introduce Benjamin Burnham, of Calcutta? Perhaps you’ve met before?’
Bahram had only a nodding acquaintance with Mr Burnham, but knowing him to be an ally of Dent’s he shook his hand with cordial enthusiasm. ‘You have come to Canton recently, Mr Burnham?’
‘A few days ago,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘Had no end of trouble getting chops. Had to wait a while in Macau.’
Mr Slade was seated to Burnham’s right, and he broke in now with a satirical smile. ‘But your time in Macau was not ill-spent, was it, Burnham? After all, you did make the acquaintance of the exalted Captain Elliott.’
On hearing the British Representative’s name, Bahram threw a quick glance around the room. ‘Is Captain Elliott here with us tonight?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Slade. ‘He has not been invited. And even if he had been, I doubt very much that he would have deigned to break bread with us. It seems that he regards us as little better than outlaws – why, he has actually had the temerity to write to Lord Palmerston describing us as such.’
‘Really? But how did that come to your ears John?’
‘Through Mr Burnham,’ said Slade with a wink. ‘By a stroke of singular genius, he has secured copies of some of Captain Elliott’s recent dispatches to London!’
Mr Burnham promptly disclaimed the credit for this coup. ‘It was my gomusta’s doing. He’s a pucka rascal but not without his uses. He is a Bengali, as is one of the copyists in Elliott’s daftar – I need say no more.’
