"Sea of Poppies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ghosh Amitav)

Five

It was late in the afternoon when at last Kalua's cart came within view of its destination: the Sudder Opium Factory – fondly spoken of by old Company hands as the 'Ghazeepore Carcanna'. The factory was immense: its premises covered forty-five acres and sprawled over two adjoining compounds, each with numerous courtyards, water tanks and iron-roofed sheds. Like the great medieval forts that overlooked the Ganga, the factory was so situated as to have easy access to the river while being high enough to escape seasonal floods. But unlike such forts as Chunar and Buxar, which were overgrown and largely abandoned, the Carcanna was anything but a picturesque ruin: its turrets housed squads of sentries, and its parapets were manned by a great number of peons and armed burkundazes.

The day-to-day management of the factory was in the hands of a superintendent, a senior official of the East India Company who oversaw a staff of several hundred Indian workers: the rest of the British contingent consisted of overseers, accountants, storekeepers, chemists and two grades of assistant. The superintendent lived on the premises, and his sprawling bungalow was surrounded by a colourful garden, planted with many varieties of ornamental poppy. The English church was nearby and the passage of the day was marked by the ringing of its bell. On Sundays, worshippers were called to service by the firing of a cannon. The gun-crew was paid not by the Carcanna, but by the subscription of the congregation: the opium factory being an institution steeped in Anglican piety, none of the residents begrudged the expense.

Although the Sudder Opium Factory was indisputably large and well-guarded, there was nothing about its exterior to suggest to an onlooker that it was among the most precious jewels in Queen Victoria 's crown. On the contrary, a miasma of lethargy seemed always to hang over the factory's surroundings. The monkeys that lived around it, for instance: Deeti pointed a few of these out to Kabutri as the ox-cart trundled towards the walls. Unlike others of their kind they never chattered or fought or stole from passers-by; when they came down from the trees it was to lap at the open sewers that drained the factory's effluents; after having sated their cravings, they would climb back into the branches to resume their stupefied scrutiny of the Ganga and its currents.

Kalua's cart rumbled slowly past the factory's outer compound: this was a complex of some sixteen enormous godowns that were used for the storage of processed opium. The fortifications here were formidable, and the guards particularly sharp-eyed – and well they might be, for the contents of those few sheds, or so it was said, were worth several million pounds sterling and could buy a good part of the City of London.

As Kalua's cart rolled on, towards the factory's main compound, Deeti and Kabutri began to sneeze; soon, Kalua and the oxen were sniffling too, for they had now drawn abreast of the godowns where farmers came to dispose of their 'poppy trash' – leaves, stalks and roots, all of which were used in the packaging of the drug. Ground up for storage, these remains produced a fine dust that hung in the air like a fog of snuff. Rare was the passer-by who could brave this mist without exploding into a paroxysm of sneezes and sniffles – and yet it was a miracle, plain to behold, that the coolies pounding the trash were no more affected by the dust than were their young English overseers.

Noses streaming, the oxen plodded on, past the massive brass-studded doors of the factory's Sudder Gateway, towards a humbler but more-frequented entrance at the south-western corner of the walls, a few steps from the Ganga. This stretch of riverbank was unlike any other, for the ghats around the Carcanna were shored up with thousands of broken earthenware gharas – the round-bottomed vessels in which raw opium was brought to the factory. The belief was widespread that fish were more easily caught after they had nibbled at the shards, and as a result the bank was always crowded with fishermen.

Leaving Kabutri in Kalua's cart, Deeti headed alone towards the factory's entrance, nearby. Here stood the weighing shed to which the farmers of the district brought their poppy-leaf wrappers every spring, to be weighed and sorted into grades of fine and coarse, 'chandee' and 'ganta'. This was where Deeti would have sent her own rotis, had she accumulated enough to make the trouble worthwhile. Around harvest time there was always a great press of people here, but the crop being late this year, the crowd was relatively small.

A small troop of uniformed burkundazes was on duty at the gate, and Deeti was relieved to see that their sirdar, a stately white-moustachioed elder, was a distant relative of her husband's. When she went up to him and murmured Hukam Singh's name, he knew exactly why she had come. Your husband's condition isn't good, he said, ushering her into the factory. Get him home quickly.

Deeti was about to step in when she glanced over the sirdar's shoulder, into the weighing shed: the sight made her pull back, with a sudden start of apprehension. Such was the length of the shed that the door at the far end looked like a distant pinprick of light; in between, arrayed along the floor, stood many gigantic pairs of scales, dwarfing the men around them; beside each set of scales sat a tall-hatted Englishman, overseeing teams of weighmen and accountants. Buzzing busily around the sahibs were turbaned muharirs bearing armloads of paper and dhoti-clad serishtas with thick registers; swarming everywhere were gangs of bare-bodied boys carrying improbably tall stacks of poppy-flower wrappers.

But where to go? Deeti said to the sirdar, in alarm. How will I find my way?

Go straight through this shed, came the answer: and keep on going, through the weighing hall, to the mixing room. When you get through, you'll find one of our relatives waiting. He works here too: he'll show you where to find your husband.

With her sari draped over her face, Deeti stepped in and made her way past columns of stacked poppy-flower rotis, ignoring the stares of serishtas, muharirs and other lesser carcoons: not another woman to be seen, but no matter – everyone was too busy to ask where she was going. Yet, it still took an age to reach the far door and here she stood blinded for a moment, in the bright sunlight. Facing her was a doorway, leading into another immense iron-roofed structure, except that this one was even bigger and higher than the weighing shed – it was the largest building she had ever seen. She walked in, murmuring a prayer, and was brought again to a halt by the sight ahead: the space in front of her was so vast that her head began to spin and she had to steady herself by leaning against a wall. Bars of light were shining through slit-like windows that stretched from the floor to the roof; enormous square columns ran down the length of the hall and the ceiling soared so high above the beaten floor that the air inside was cool, almost wintry. The earthy, sickly odour of raw opium-sap hung close to the ground, like wood-smoke on a chilly day. In this hall too, gigantic pairs of scales stood against the walls, here used for the weighing of raw opium. Clustered around each set of scales were dozens of earthenware gharas, of exactly the kind she herself used in packing her harvest. How well she knew them, those vessels: they each held one maund of raw opium gum, of a consistency such that a ball of it would stick briefly to your palm if you upended it. Who would guess, in looking at them, how much time and trouble went into the filling of these vessels? So this was where they came, these offspring of her fields? Deeti could not help looking around in curiosity, marvelling at the speed and dexterity with which the vessels were whisked on and off the scales. Then, with paper battas attached, they were carried to a seated sahib, who proceeded to poke, prod and sniff their contents before marking them with a seal, allowing some through for processing, and condemning others to some lesser use. Nearby, held back by a line of lathi-carrying peons, stood the farmers whose vessels were being weighed; alternatively tense and angry, cringing and resigned, they were waiting to find out if their harvests for the year had fulfilled their contracts – if not, they would have to start the next year with a still greater load of debt. Deeti watched as a peon carried a slip of paper to a farmer and was rebuffed with a howl of protest: all over the hall, she noticed, there were quarrels and altercations breaking out, with farmers shouting at serishtas, and landlords berating their tenants.

Deeti saw now that she was beginning to attract attention, so she hunched her shoulders and stepped forward, hurrying through that endless cavern of a hall, not daring to pause till she found herself outside again, in the sun. Here, she would have liked to linger a little, to catch her breath, but from the cover of her sari she spotted an armed burkundaz striding in her direction. There was only one way to go – into a shed to her right. She did not hesitate; hitching up her sari she stepped quickly through the door.

Now once again Deeti was taken aback by the space ahead, but this time not because of the vastness of its dimensions, but rather the opposite – it was like a dim tunnel, lit only by a few small holes in the wall. The air inside was hot and fetid, like that of a closed kitchen, except that the smell was not of spices and oil, but of liquid opium, mixed with the dull stench of sweat – a reek so powerful that she had to pinch her nose to keep herself from gagging. No sooner had she steadied herself, than her eyes were met by a startling sight – a host of dark, legless torsos was circling around and around, like some enslaved tribe of demons. This vision – along with the overpowering fumes – made her groggy, and to keep herself from fainting she began to move slowly ahead. When her eyes had grown more accustomed to the gloom, she discovered the secret of those circling torsos: they were bare-bodied men, sunk waist-deep in tanks of opium, tramping round and round to soften the sludge. Their eyes were vacant, glazed, and yet somehow they managed to keep moving, as slow as ants in honey, tramping, treading. When they could move no more, they sat on the edges of the tanks, stirring the dark ooze only with their feet. These seated men had more the look of ghouls than any living thing she had ever seen: their eyes glowed red in the dark and they appeared completely naked, their loincloths – if indeed they had any – being so steeped in the drug as to be indistinguishable from their skin. Almost as frightening were the white overseers who were patrolling the walkways – for not only were they coatless and hatless, with their sleeves rolled, but they were also armed with fearsome instruments: metal scoops, glass ladles and long-handled rakes. When one of these overseers approached her she all but screamed; she heard him say something – what it was she did not wish to know, but the very shock of being spoken to by such a man sent her scurrying down the tunnel and out at the far end.

Not till she was through the door did she allow herself to breathe freely again: now, as she was trying to cleanse her lungs of the odour of raw, churned opium, she heard someone say: Bhauji? Are you all right? The voice proved to be that of their relative and it was all she could do not to collapse on him. Fortunately, he seemed to understand, without explanation, the effect the tunnel had had on her: leading her across a courtyard, he stopped at a well and poured water from a bucket, so she could drink and wash her face.

Everyone needs water after they come through the mixing room, he said. Better you rest here a bit, Bhauji.

Gratefully, Deeti squatted in the shade of a mango tree while he pointed to the buildings around them: there was the wetting shed, where the poppy-leaf wrappers were dampened before being sent into the assembly room; and there, set a little way back from the other buildings, was the house where medicines were made – all kinds of dark syrups and strange white powders that were much valued by the sahibs.

Deeti allowed the words to roll around and away from her, until she was once again impatient to deal with the errand at hand. Come, she said, let's go. They rose to their feet and he led her diagonally across the courtyard, into yet another gigantic shed, every bit as large as the weighing room – with the difference that where the latter had been filled with the clamour of altercation, this one was sepulchrally quiet, as if it were some cavernous shrine in the high Himalayas, chilly, damp and dimly lit. Stretching away, on either side, reaching all the way to the lofty ceiling, were immense shelves, neatly arranged with tens of thousands of identical balls of opium, each about the shape and size of an unhusked coconut, but black in colour, with a glossy surface. Deeti's escort whispered in her ear: This is where the afeem is brought in to dry, after it's been assembled. She noticed now that the shelves were joined by struts and ladders; glancing around, she saw troops of boys clinging to the timber scaffolding, climbing as nimbly as acrobats at a fair, hopping from shelf to shelf to examine the balls of opium. Every now and again, an English overseer would call out an order and the boys would begin to toss spheres of opium to each other, relaying them from hand to hand until they had come to rest safely on the floor. How could they throw so accurately with one hand, while holding on with the other – and that too at a height where the slightest slip would mean certain death? The sureness of their grip seemed amazing to Deeti, until suddenly one of them did indeed drop a ball, sending it crashing to the floor, where it burst open, splattering its gummy contents everywhere. Instantly the offender was set upon by cane-wielding overseers and his howls and shrieks went echoing through the vast, chilly chamber. The screams sent her hurrying after her relative and she caught up with him on the threshold of yet another of the factory's chambers. Here he lowered his voice reverentially, in the manner of a pilgrim who is about to step into the innermost sanctum of a temple. This is the assembly room, he whispered. It is not for everyone to work here – but your husband Hukam Singh, is one such.

It could indeed have been a temple that Deeti had entered now, for the long, well-aired passage ahead was lined with two rows of dhoti-clad men, sitting cross-legged on the floor, like Brahmins at a feast, each on his own woven seat, with an array of brass cups and other equipment arranged around him. Deeti knew, from her husband's tales, that there were no fewer than two hundred and fifty men working in that room, and twice that number of running-boys – yet such was the assemblers' concentration that there was very little noise, apart from the pattering of the runners' feet, and periodic shouts announcing the completion of yet another ball of opium. The assemblers' hands moved with dizzying speed as they lined hemispherical moulds with poppy-leaf rotis, moistening the wrappers with lewah, a light solution of liquid opium. Hukam Singh had told Deeti that the measure for every ingredient was precisely laid down by the Company's directors in faraway London: each package of opium was to consist of exactly one seer and seven-and-a-half chittacks of the drug, the ball being wrapped in five chittacks of poppy-leaf rotis, half of fine grade and half coarse, the whole being moistened with no more and no less than five chittacks of lewah. So finely honed was the system, with relays of runners carrying precise measures of each ingredient to each seat, that the assemblers' hands never had cause to falter: they lined the moulds in such a way as to leave half the moistened rotis hanging over the edge. Then, dropping in the balls of opium, they covered them with the overhanging wrappers, and coated them with poppy-trash before tapping them out again. It remained only for runners to arrive with the outer casing for each ball – two halves of an earthenware sphere. The ball being dropped inside, the halves were fitted into a neat little cannonshot, to hold safe this most lucrative of the British Empire 's products: thus would the drug travel the seas, until the casing was split open by a blow from a cleaver, in distant Maha-Chin.

Dozens of the black containers passed through the assemblers' hands every hour and were duly noted on a blackboard: Hukam Singh, who was not the most skilled among them, had once boasted to Deeti of having put together a hundred in a single day. But today Hukam Singh's hands were no longer working and nor was he at his usual seat: Deeti spotted him as she entered the assembly room – he was lying on the floor with his eyes closed and he looked as if he had had some kind of seizure, for a thin line of bubbling spit was dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Deeti was assailed by the sirdars who supervised the packaging room. What took you so long?… Don't you know your husband is an afeemkhor?… Why do you send him here to work?… Do you want him to die?

Despite the shocks of the day, Deeti was not of a mind to ignore these attacks. From the shelter of her sari, she snapped back: And who are you to speak to me like that? How would you earn your living if not for afeemkhors?

The altercation drew the attention of an English agent, who waved the sirdars aside. Glancing from Hukam Singh's prone body to Deeti, he said, quietly: Tumhara mard hai? Is he your husband?

Although the Englishman's Hindi was stilted, there was a kindly sound to his voice. Deeti nodded, lowering her head, and her eyes filled with tears as she listened to the sahib berating the sirdars: Hukam Singh was a sepoy in our army; he was a balamteer in Burma and was wounded fighting for the Company Bahadur. Do you think any of you are better than him? Shut your mouths and get back to work or I'll whip you with my own chabuck.

The cowed sirdars fell silent, stepping aside as four bearers stooped to lift Hukam Singh's inert body off the floor. Deeti was following them out when the Englishman turned to say: Tell him he can have his job back whenever he wants.

Deeti joined her hands together, to express her gratitude – but in her heart she knew that her husband's days in the Carcanna had come to an end.

On the way home, in Kalua's cart, with her husband's head in her lap and her daughter's fingers in her hand, she had eyes neither for Ghazipur's forty-pillared palace nor for its memorial to the departed Laat-Sahib. Her thoughts were now all for the future and how they would manage without her husband's monthly pay. In thinking of this, the light dimmed in her eyes; even though nightfall was still a couple of hours away, she felt as if she were already enveloped in darkness. As if by habit she began to chant the prayer-song for the end of the day:

Sãjh bhailé

Sãjha ghar ghar ghumé

Ke mora sãjh

manayo ji

Twilight whispers

at every door:

it's time

to mark my coming.

Just beyond the boundaries of Calcutta, to the west of the dockside neighbourhoods of Kidderpore and Metia Bruz, lay a length of gently sloping bank that overlooked a wide sweep of the Hooghly River: this was the verdant suburb of Garden Reach, where the leading white merchants of Calcutta had their country estates. Here, as if to keep watch over the ships that bore their names and their goods, stood the adjacent properties of the Ballards, Fergusons, McKenzies, MacKays, Smoults and Swinhoes. The mansions that graced these estates were as varied as the owners' tastes would allow, some being modelled on the great manors of England and France, while others evoked the temples of classical Greece and Rome. The grounds of the estates were extensive enough to provide each mansion with a surrounding park, and these were, if anything, even more varied in design than the houses they enclosed – for the malis who tended the gardens, no less than the owners themselves, vied to outdo each other in the fancifulness of their plantings, creating here a little patch of topiary and there an avenue of trees, trimmed in the French fashion; and between the stretches of greenery, there were artfully placed bodies of water, some long and straight, like Persian qanats, and some irregular, like English ponds; a few of the gardens could even boast of geometrical Mughal terraces, complete with streams, fountains and delicately tiled bowries. But it was not by these extravagant extensions that the values of the properties were judged; it was rather by the view that each manse commanded – for a patch of garden, no matter how pretty, could not be held to materially affect the owner's prospects, while to be able to keep an eye on the comings-and-goings on the river had an obvious and direct bearing on the fortunes of all who were dependent on that traffic. By this criterion it was generally acknowledged that the estate of Benjamin Brightwell Burnham was second to none, no matter that it was an acquisition of relatively recent date. In some respects the estate's lack of a pedigree could even be counted as an advantage, for it had allowed Mr Burnham to give it a name of his choice, Bethel. What was more, having himself been responsible for the founding of his estate, Mr Burnham had felt no constraint in shaping the grounds to his needs and desires, ordering, without hesitation, the clearing of every unseemly weed and growth that obscured his view of the river – among them several ancient mango trees and a heathenish thicket of fifty-foot bamboo. Around Bethel, nothing interrupted the lines of sight between house and water, other than the chamber that stood perched on the lip of the river, looking down on the estate's landing ghat and jetty. This shapely little gazebo differed from those on the neighbouring estates in that it was topped by a roof of Chinese design, with upturned eaves and curved green-glazed tiles.

Recognizing the pavilion from the coksen's description, Jodu plunged his oar into the mud and leant on the handle, to hold the dinghy stationary against the river's current. In passing the other estates of Garden Reach, he had come to realize that the problem of finding Putli would not be resolved by locating the house in which she lived: each of these mansions was a small fortress, guarded by servants who were certain to perceive all interlopers as possible competitors against whom their jobs would have to be defended. To Jodu's eye, it seemed that the garden with the green-roofed pavilion was the largest, and most impregnable, of all the neighbouring estates: deployed across its lawn was an army of malis and ghaskatas, some of whom were engaged in digging new beds, while others were weeding or mowing the grass with scythes. Dressed as he was, in a torn lungi and banyan, with a faded gamchha tied around his head, Jodu knew that his chances of penetrating these defences were very small; in all likelihood within moments of setting foot on the grounds, he would be captured and handed over to the chowkidars, to be thrashed as a thief.

Already, the stationary dinghy had attracted the attention of one of the estate's boatmen – evidently a calputtee, for he was busy caulking the bottom of a sleek-looking caique, applying liquid tar with a palm-leaf brush. Now, leaving his brush in the bucket, the caulker turned to frown at Jodu. What's the matter? he shouted. What's your business here?

Jodu gave him a disarming smile. Salam mistry-ji, he said, flattering the calputtee by raising him a rank or two in the grades of artisanship: I was just admiring the house. It must be the biggest around here?

The calputtee nodded: What else? Zaroor. Of course it is.

Jodu decided to chance his luck: It must be a large family that lives in it then?

The calputtee's lips curled into a sneer: Do you think a house like this would belong to the kind of people who'd live in a crowd? No; it's just the Burra Sahib, the Burra BeeBee and the Burra Baby.

That's all? No one else?

There's a young missy-mem, said the caulker, with a dismissive shrug. But she's not a part of the family. Just a charity-case they've taken in, from the goodness of their hearts.

Jodu would have liked to know more, but he saw that it would be imprudent to press the man any further – it might well get Putli into trouble if word got out that a boatman had come looking for her in a dinghy. But how then was he to get a message to her? He was puzzling over this when he noticed a sapling, growing in the shade of the green-tiled pavilion: he recognized it as a chalta tree, which produced fragrant white flowers and a fruit that had an unusual, sour flavour, vaguely reminiscent of unripe apples.

He assumed a voice like that of his rustic half-siblings, who seemed never to be able to walk past a field without asking questions about the crops; in a tone of innocent inquiry, he said to the calputtee: Has that chalta tree been recently planted?

The caulker looked up and frowned. That one? He made a face and shrugged, as if to distance himself from the misbegotten growth. Yes, that's the new missy-mem's handiwork. She's always interfering with the malis in the garden, moving things around.

Jodu made his salams and turned the boat around, to head back the way he had come. He had guessed at once that the sapling had been planted by Putli: she had always craved the mouth-puckering taste of its fruit. At home, in the Botanical Gardens, a chalta tree had stood beside the window of her bedroom and every year, during its brief season, she had gathered handfuls of the fruit, to make into chutneys and pickles. She loved them so much that she even ate them raw, to the disbelief of others. Being thoroughly familiar with Putli's gardening habits, Jodu knew that she would be down to water the sapling early in the morning: if he spent the night somewhere nearby, then he might well be able to catch her before the servants were up and about.

Now, Jodu began to row upstream, watching the shore for a spot that would be at once hidden from view and near enough to habitation to be a discouragement to leopards and jackals. When one such appeared, he hitched up his lungi and waded through a bank of mud to tether the boat to the roots of a gigantic banyan tree. Then, climbing back inside, he washed the mud off his feet and set hungrily upon a pot of stale rice.

At the rear of the dinghy there was a small thatched shelter and this was where he spread his mat after finishing his meagre meal. It was twilight now; the sun was setting on the far bank of the Hooghly, and the shadowed outlines of the trees in the Botanical Gardens were still visible across the water. Although Jodu was very tired, he could not bring himself to close his eyes while the skies were still bright enough to shed light upon the bustling life of the river.

The tide was beginning to sweep in, and the Hooghly had filled with sails, as ships and boats hurried to take their berths or to stand out to mid-channel. From where he lay, on the slats of his gently rocking dinghy, Jodu could imagine that the world had turned itself upside down, so that the river had become the sky, crowded with banks of cloud; if you narrowed your eyes, you might almost think that the ships' masts and spars were bolts of lightning, forking through the billowing sails. And as for thunder, there was that too, booming out of the sheets of canvas, as they flapped, slackened and filled again. The noise never failed to amaze him: the whiplash crack of the sails, the high-pitched shriek of the wind in the rigging, the groan of the timbers and surf-like pounding of the bow-waves: it was as if each ship were a moving tempest and he an eagle, circling close behind to hunt in the ruins of her wake.

Looking across the river Jodu could count the flags of a dozen kingdoms and countries: Genoa, the Two Sicilies, France, Prussia, Holland, America, Venice. He had learnt to recognize them from Putli, who had pointed them out to him as they sailed past the Gardens; even though she herself had never left Bengal, she knew stories about the places from which they came. These tales had played no small part in nurturing his desire to see the roses of Basra and the port of Chin-kalan, where the great Faghfoor of Maha-chin held sway.

On the deck of a nearby three-master, a mate's voice could be heard, calling out in English: 'All hands to quarters, ahoy!' A moment later, the command became a hookum, relayed by a serang: Sab admi apni jagah!

'Fill the main topsails.' – Bhar bara gávi! With a resounding crack the canvas billowed in the wind, and the mate called out: 'Ease the helm!'

Gos daman ja! came the serang's echo, and slowly the vessel's bows began to turn. 'Shiver the foretopsail!' – and almost before the serang had finished issuing the hookum – Bajao tirkat gavi! – the lofty square of canvas had sent its whiplash crack shooting through the wind.

From the silmagoors who sat on the ghats, sewing sails, Jodu had learnt the names of each piece of canvas, in English and in Laskari – that motley tongue, spoken nowhere but on the water, whose words were as varied as the port's traffic, an anarchic medley of Portuguese calaluzes and Kerala pattimars, Arab booms and Bengal paunch-ways, Malay proas and Tamil catamarans, Hindusthani pulwars and English snows – yet beneath the surface of this farrago of sound, meaning flowed as freely as the currents beneath the crowded press of boats.

By listening to the voices that echoed off the decks of ocean-going ships, Jodu had taught himself to recognize the officers' hookums to the point where he could say them aloud, even if only to himself – 'Starboard watch ahoy!' Jamna pori upar ao! – understanding perfectly well the whole, while yet being unable to account for the meaning of the several parts. To shout the commands in earnest, on a ship that had been pushed on her beam-ends by a gale… that day would come, he was sure of it.

Suddenly, another call floated across the water – Hayyá ilá assaláh… – and was taken up in relay, by the ships in the channel, passing from one vessel to another as the Muslims amongst the crewmen began to chant the evening azan. Jodu roused himself from the torpor of his full stomach and made his preparations for prayer: covering his head with a folded cloth, he manoeuvred his boat to point in a westerly direction before kneeling for the first raka'a. He had never been particularly devout and it was only because his mother's interment was still so fresh in his mind that he felt compelled to pray now. But afterwards, when he had murmured the final syllables, he was glad that he had remembered: his mother would have wished it, he knew, and the knowledge of having done his duty would allow him to yield, without guilt, to the fatigue his body had accumulated over the last few weeks.

Ten miles downriver, on the Raskhali budgerow, the preparations for dinner had run afoul of some unexpected snags. The boat's lavish sheeshmahal for one: it had seen little use since the old Raja's time and was found to be in a state of some disrepair when opened up. The chandeliers had lost many of their candle-holders, and these had to be replaced by makeshift devices constructed out of bits of string, wood and even a few strips of coconut fibre. While the results were not unsatisfactory, they took some of the sparkle out of the fixtures and gave them a strangely wind-blown appearance.

The sheeshmahal was partitioned into two halves by a velvet curtain: the rear section was used as a dining room, and was graced by a table of fine calamander wood. Now, when the curtains were parted, it was found that the polished surface of the table had gone grey with neglect, and a family of scorpions had taken up residence under it. A platoon of stick-wielding paiks had to be summoned, to drive the creatures away, and then a duck had to be caught and killed, so that the table could be polished with its fat.

At the far end of the sheeshmahal, behind the dining table, there was a screened alcove, meant to accommodate women in purdah: from this sequestered vantage point, the old Raja's mistresses had been accustomed to observe his guests. But neglect had taken a toll on the delicately carved observation screen, which was found to have rotted away. A curtain, with hastily pierced peepholes, was installed in its place, at Elokeshi's insistence, for she felt it to be her right to appraise the guests. This in turn inspired a desire for a fuller participation in the evening so she decided that her three companions would provide some after-dinner entertainment by staging a few dances. But upon inspection it was found that the floor had warped: to dance barefoot on the crooked boards was to risk a rich crop of splinters. A carpenter had to be summoned to flatten the boards.

No sooner was this problem resolved than another arose: the sheeshmahal was equipped with a full set of ivory-handled silverware, as well as a complete dinner service, imported at great expense from the Swinton pottery in England. Being reserved for the use of unclean, beef-eating foreigners, these utensils were kept locked in cabinets, to prevent the contamination of the household's other crockery. Now, on opening the cabinet, Parimal discovered, to his shock, that many of the plates were missing, as was much of the silverware. There remained just about enough to provide for a dinner for four – but the discovery of the theft created an unpleasant climate of suspicion which resulted ultimately in an outbreak of internecine fighting on the kitchen-boat. After two paiks ended up with broken noses, Neel was forced to intervene: although peace was restored, the preparations for the evening were much delayed and Neel could not be provided with a proper meal, in advance of the dinner that would be served to his guests. This was a sore blow, for it meant that Neel would have to fast while his guests feasted: the rules of the Raskhali household were strict in regard to whom the Raja could eat with, and unclean beef-eaters were not a part of that small circle – even Elokeshi was not included in it, and had always to feed herself in secret when Neel came to spend the night in her house. So strict was the Halder family's usage in this regard, that when entertaining, it was their custom to sit politely at table with their guests but without ever touching any of the food that was heaped before them: so as not to be tempted, they always ate their dinner earlier, and this was what Neel would have liked to do – but with the kitchen-boat in disarray, he had to be content with a few handfuls of parched rice, soaked in milk.

Just as the sound of the sunset azan was floating across the water, Neel discovered that he had no more of the fine shanbaff dhotis and abrawan-muslin kurtas that he usually wore on public occasions: they had all been sent off to be laundered. He had to content himself with a relatively coarse dosooti dhoti and an alliballie kurta. Somewhere in his baggage, Elokeshi found gold-embroidered Lahori jooties for his feet: it was she who led him to his seat in the sheeshmahal and draped his shoulders in a shawl of fine Warangal nayansukh, with a border of zerbaft brocade. Then, with the Ibis's jollyboat approaching, she whisked herself out of sight and went off to preside over her companions' rehearsals.

When the guests were shown in, Neel rose ceremonially to his feet: Mr Burnham, he noticed, had come in his riding clothes, but the other two men had evidently been at some pains to dress for the occasion. Both men were wearing double-breasted coats, and a ruby pin could be seen in the folds of Mr Doughty's cravat. Mr Reid's lapels were ornamented with the chain of an elegant watch. His guests' finery made Neel self-conscious, and he swirled his brocaded shawl protectively over his chest as he folded his hands together in welcome: 'Mr Burnham, Mr Doughty – I am most greatly honoured to be afforded this privilege.'

The two Englishmen merely bowed their heads in response, but Zachary startled Neel by moving forward as if to shake hands. He was rescued by Mr Doughty, who managed to intercept the American. 'Keep your hands to yourself, you gudda of a griffin,' whispered the pilot. 'Touch him and he'll be off to bathe, and we won't be fed till midnight.'

None of the visitors had been on the Raskhali budgerow before, so they accepted readily when Neel offered them a tour of the public parts of the barge. On the upper deck they came upon Raj Rattan, who was flying kites by moonlight. Mr Doughty made a harrumphing sound when the boy was introduced: 'Is this little Rascal your Upper-Roger, Raja Nil-Rotten?'

'The upa-raja, yes,' Neel nodded. 'My sole issue and heir. The tender fruit of my loin, as your poets might say.'

'Ah! Your little green mango!' Mr Doughty shot a wink in Zachary's direction. 'And if I may be so bold as to ask – would you describe your loin as the stem or the branch?'

Neel gave him a frosty glare. 'Why, sir,' he said coldly, 'it is the tree itself.'

Mr Burnham took a turn with a kite and proved to be adept at the sport, sending his kite soaring and dipping, its glass-coated string flashing in the moonlight. When Neel commented on the dabness of his hand, his response was: 'Oh, I learnt in Canton: no better place to learn about kites!'

Back in the sheeshmahal, a bottle of champagne was waiting in a balty of muddy river water. Mr Doughty fell upon the wine with an expression of delight: 'Simkin! Shahbash – just the thing.' Pouring himself a glass, he gave Neel a broad wink: 'My father used to say, "Hold a bottle by the neck and a woman by the waist. Never the other way around." I'll wager that would have rung a ganta or two with your own father, eh Roger Nil-Rotten – now he was quite the rascal, wasn't he, your father?'

Neel gave him a chilly smile: repelled as he was by the pilot's manner, he could not help reflecting on what a mercy it was that his ancestors had excluded wine and liquor from the list of things that could not be shared with unclean foreigners – it would be all but impossible, surely, to deal with them, if not for their drink? He would have liked another glass of simkin but he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that Parimal was making signals to indicate that dinner was ready. He took the folds of his dhoti into his hands. 'Gentlemen, I am being given to believe that our repast has been readied.' As he rose to his feet, the sheeshmahal's velvet curtain was swept back to reveal a large, polished table, set in the English fashion, with knives, forks, plates and wineglasses. Two immense candelabra stood at either end, illuminating the settings; in the centre was an arrangement of wilted water lilies, piled together in such profusion that almost nothing could be seen of the vase that held them. There was no food on the table, for meals in the Raskhali household were served in the Bengali fashion, in successive courses.

Neel had arranged the seating so that he would have Mr Burnham across the table from him, with Zachary and Mr Doughty to his left and right, respectively. There was a bearer behind each chair, as was the custom, and although they were all dressed in the Raskhali livery, Neel noticed that their uniforms – pyjamas, turbans and belted chapkan coats that came down to the knees – were strangely ill-fitting. It was then that he remembered that they were not bearers at all, but young boatmen, who had been hastily pressed into service by Parimal: their discomfort with the role was evident in their nervous twitches and shifty glances.

Now, on arriving at the table, there was a long pause during which Neel and his guests stayed on their feet, waiting for their chairs to be pushed forward. Catching Parimal's eye, Neel realized that the boatmen had not been told about this part of the ceremony: they, in turn, were waiting for the guests to come to them; clearly they were under the impression that the diners were to be seated at a distance of several feet from the table – and how indeed were they to know, it occurred to Neel to wonder, that chairs and tables belonged in much closer proximity?

In the interim, one of the young boatmen took the initiative and gave Mr Doughty's elbow a helpful tap, to indicate that his chair was empty and waiting to be occupied, some three feet to the rear. Neel saw the pilot reddening and intervened hastily in Bengali, ordering the boatmen to bring the chairs closer. The command was so sharply uttered that the youngest of the boatmen, a boy who happened to be attending upon Zachary, brought his chair forward in a startled rush, as though he were pushing a dinghy down a mudbank. The lip of the chair caught Zachary from behind, scooping him up and delivering him to the table – breathless, but otherwise unharmed.

Although he apologized profusely, Neel was pleased to see that Zachary was more amused than offended by the incident: in the short time they had spent together, the young American had made a considerable impression on him, as much for the innate elegance of his person as for the reserve of his bearing. The provenance and origins of strangers often provoked Neel's curiosity: in Bengal it was so easy to know who was who; more often than not, just to hear someone's name would reveal their religion, their caste, their village. Foreigners were, by comparison, so opaque: it was impossible not to speculate about them. Mr Reid's demeanour, for example, suggested to Neel that he might be descended from an old, aristocratic family – he remembered having read somewhere that it was not unusual for the European nobility to send their younger sons to America. This thought led him to remark: 'Your city, Mr Reid, am I not right to think it was named for a certain Lord Baltimore?'

The answer was oddly unsure – 'May… maybe – I'm not sure…' – but Neel persisted: 'Lord Baltimore was an ancestor of yours, perhaps?' This elicited a startled shaking of the head and an abashed denial – which served only to persuade Neel all the more firmly of the noble origins of his reticent guest. 'Will you be sailing back to Baltimore soon…?' Neel asked. He was about to add 'my lord' but caught himself just in time.

'Why no, sir,' Zachary responded. 'The Ibis is bound first for the Mauritius. If we make good time, we may sail to China later in the year.'

'I see.' This recalled to Neel's mind his original purpose in hosting this meal, which was to discover whether there was any immediate prospect of a change in his chief creditor's fortunes. He turned to Mr Burnham: 'There is an improvement, then, in the situation in China?'

Mr Burnham answered with a shake of his head: 'No, Raja Neel Rattan. No. Truth to tell, the situation has worsened considerably – to the point where there is serious talk of war. Indeed that may well be the reason for the Ibis's voyage to China.'

'A war?' said Neel in astonishment. 'But I have heard nothing about a war with China.'

'I am sure you haven't,' said Mr Burnham, with a thin smile. 'Why indeed should a man like you concern yourself with such matters? You have more than enough to occupy you, I'm sure, with all your palaces and zenanas and budgerows.'

Neel knew that he was being sneered at and his hackles rose, but he was saved from an intemperate response by the timely appearance of the first course – a steaming soup. The silver tureen having been stolen, the soup was presented in the one remaining utensil that was made of the same metal: a punch-bowl shaped like a seashell.

Mr Doughty permitted himself an indulgent smile. 'Do I smell duck?' he said, sniffing the air.

Neel had no idea of what was to be served, for the cooks on the kitchen-boat had been foraging for provisions almost till the last. Having reached the final leg of its journey, the budgerow's stocks of food had begun to run low: the news that there was to be a grand dinner had caused panic among the cooks; an army of piyadas, paiks and boatmen had been dispatched to fish and forage – with what results, Neel did not know. So it was Parimal who confirmed, in a whisper, that the soup had been made from the flesh of the very animal whose fat had been used to polish the table – but the latter part of the tale Neel kept to himself, conveying only that the soup was indeed concocted from the remains of a duck.

'Excellent!' said Mr Doughty, tipping back his glass. 'And a fine sherry-shrub too.'

Although glad of the interruption, Neel had not forgotten Mr Burnham's dismissive jibes about his preoccupations. He was convinced now that the shipowner was exaggerating in order to persuade him of the extent of his firm's losses. Taking care to keep his voice even, he said: 'You will no doubt be surprised to know, Mr Burnham, that I have been at some pains to be keeping myself informed – yet I know nothing about this war you speak of.'

'Well then, it falls to me to inform you, sir,' said Mr Burnham, 'that of late the officials in Canton have been moving forcefully to end the inflow of opium into China. It is the unanimous opinion of all of us who do business there that the mandarins cannot be allowed to have their way. To end the trade would be ruinous – for firms like mine, but also for you, and indeed for all of India.'

'Ruinous?' said Neel mildly. 'But surely we can offer China something more useful than opium?'

'Would that it were so,' said Mr Burnham. 'But it is not. To put the matter simply: there is nothing they want from us – they've got it into their heads that they have no use for our products and manufactures. But we, on the other hand, can't do without their tea and their silks. If not for opium, the drain of silver from Britain and her colonies would be too great to sustain.'

Here, Mr Doughty suddenly joined in: 'The trouble, you know, is that Johnny Chinaman thinks he can return to the good old days, before he got his taste for opium. But there's no going back – just won't hoga.'

'Going back?' said Neel, in surprise. 'But China 's hunger for opium dates back to antiquity, does it not?'

'Antiquity?' scoffed Mr Doughty. 'Why, even when I first went out to Canton, as a lad, there was just a trickle of opium going in. Damned hard-headed gudda is Johnny Long-tail. I can tell you, it wasn't easy to get him to take to opium. No sir – to give credit where it's due, you would have to say that the yen for opium would still be limited to their twice-born if not for the perseverance of English and American merchants. It's happened almost within living memory – for which we owe a sincere vote of thanks to the likes of Mr Burnham.' He raised his glass to the shipowner. 'To you, sir.'

Neel was about to join in the toast when the next course appeared: it consisted of fledgling chickens that had been cooked whole. 'I'll be damned if it isn't a roast of Sudden-Death!' cried Mr Doughty, in delight. Spearing a bird's tiny head with his fork, he began to chew on it in dreamy contentment.

Neel stared at the bird on his plate in glum resignation: he was suddenly very hungry and had he not been in plain view of his retainers he would certainly have set upon the chicken – but he distracted himself instead by belatedly raising his glass to Mr Burnham. 'To you, sir,' he said, 'and your successes in China.'

Mr Burnham smiled. 'It wasn't easy, I can tell you,' he said. 'Especially in the early days, when the mandarins were somewhat less than amenable.'

'Really?' Not having given much thought to commerce, Neel had imagined that the traffic in opium enjoyed official approval in China – this seemed only natural since in Bengal the trade was not merely sanctioned but monopolized by the British authorities, under the seal of the East India Company. 'You amaze me, Mr Burnham,' he said. 'Is the sale of opium frowned on by the Chinese authorities, then?'

'I'm afraid so,' said Mr Burnham. 'Trafficking in opium has been illegal there for some time. But they've never made a tumasher about it in the past: their mandarins and chuntocks always got their ten-per-cent desturees and were glad to shut their eyes to it. The only reason they're making a fuss now is that they want a bigger share of the profits.'

'It's simple,' Mr Doughty announced, chewing on a wing. 'The Long-tails have got to be given a taste of the lattee.'

'I'm afraid I have to agree, Doughty,' said Mr Burnham, nodding. 'A timely dose of chastisement is always to the good.'

'So you are convinced then,' said Neel, 'that your government will go to war?'

'It may well come to that, alas,' said Mr Burnham. ' Britain has been nothing if not patient but there's a limit to everything. Look at what the Celestials did to Lord Amherst. There he was, on the very threshold of Pekin, with a shipload of presents – and the Emperor wouldn't so much as receive him.'

'Oh, don't speak of it, sir, it is not to be borne!' said Mr Doughty indignantly. 'Wanted his lordship to kowtow in public! Why, they'll be asking us to grow long-tails next!'

'And Lord Napier fared no better either,' Mr Burnham reminded him. 'The mandarins paid him no more attention than they would this chicken.'

The mention of the bird drew Mr Doughty's attention back to his food. 'Speaking of chicken, sir,' he murmured. 'This certainly is a most excellent roast.'

Neel's eyes wandered back to the untouched bird on his own plate: even without tasting it, he could tell that it was a toothsome little morsel, but of course it was not his place to say so. 'You are too generous in your praise, Mr Doughty,' he said, in a flourish of hospitable self-deprecation, 'it is no more than a verminous little creature, unworthy of such guests as yourselves.'

'Verminous?' said Zachary in sudden alarm. It was only now that he noticed that Neel had not touched any of the food that had been placed in front of him. Laying down his fork, he said: 'But you haven't touched your chicken, sir. Is it… is it not advisable, in this climate?'

'No,' said Neel, and quickly corrected himself. 'I mean yes – it is perfectly advisable for yourself…' He broke off, trying to think of a polite way to explain to the American why the chicken was forbidden to the Raja of Raskhali, but perfectly edible for an unclean foreigner. No words came to him, and in a mute plea for help, he glanced at the two Englishmen, both of whom were well aware of the dietary rules of the Halders. Neither of them would meet his gaze, but at length Mr Doughty made a bubbling sound, like a kettle coming to the boil. 'Just eat the bish, you gudda,' he hissed at Zachary. 'He was only foozlowing.'

The matter was resolved by the entry of a platter of fish: a crumbed fillet of bhetki, with an accompaniment of crisp vegetable pakoras. Mr Doughty subjected the dish to careful scrutiny. 'Cockup, if I'm not mistaken – and with fuleeta-pups too! Why, sir, your bobachees have done us proud.'

Neel was about to mouth a polite demurral when he made a discovery that shocked him to his core. His eyes having strayed to the wilted water lilies at the centre of the table, he realized to his utter horror that the flowers were sitting not in a vase, as he had thought, but in an old porcelain chamber-pot. Evidently the budgerow's present generation of boatmen had forgotten the function and history of this vessel, but Neel remembered very well that it had been purchased expressly for the use of an elderly district magistrate whose intestines had been sorely beset by worms.

Stifling an exclamation of disgust, Neel tore his eyes away and cast about for a subject that would keep his guests distracted. When one such suggested itself, he uttered a cry in which a lingering trace of revulsion could still be heard. 'But Mr Burnham! Are you saying the British Empire will go to war to force opium on China?'

This elicited an instantaneous response from Mr Burnham, who placed his wineglass forcefully on the table. 'Evidently you have mistaken my meaning, Raja Neel Rattan,' he said. 'The war, when it comes, will not be for opium. It will be for a principle: for freedom – for the freedom of trade and for the freedom of the Chinese people. Free Trade is a right conferred on Man by God, and its principles apply as much to opium as to any other article of trade. More so perhaps, since in its absence many millions of natives would be denied the lasting advantages of British influence.'

Here Zachary broke in. 'How so, Mr Burnham?'

'For the simple reason, Reid,' said Mr Burnham patiently, 'that British rule in India could not be sustained without opium – that is all there is to it, and let us not pretend otherwise. You are no doubt aware that in some years, the Company's annual gains from opium are almost equal to the entire revenue of your own country, the United States? Do you imagine that British rule would be possible in this impoverished land if it were not for this source of wealth? And if we reflect on the benefits that British rule has conferred upon India, does it not follow that opium is this land's greatest blessing? Does it not follow that it is our God-given duty to confer these benefits upon others?'

Neel had been listening to Mr Burnham with less than half a mind, his attention having been thoroughly distracted: he had just realized that the business of the chamber-pot might well have turned out a great deal worse than it had. What, for instance, would he have done if it had been presented at the table as a tureen, filled to the brim with steaming soup? Considering all that could have happened, he had every reason to be grateful for his deliverance from social ruin: indeed, the matter smacked so much of divine intervention that he could not help saying, in a tone of pious rebuke: 'Does it not trouble you, Mr Burnham, to invoke God in the service of opium?'

'Not in the slightest,' said Mr Burnham, stroking his beard. 'One of my countrymen has put the matter very simply: "Jesus Christ is Free Trade and Free Trade is Jesus Christ." Truer words, I believe, were never spoken. If it is God's will that opium be used as an instrument to open China to his teachings, then so be it. For myself, I confess I can see no reason why any Englishman should abet the Manchu tyrant in depriving the people of China of this miraculous substance.'

'Do you mean opium?'

'I certainly do,' said Mr Burnham tartly. 'Why, let me ask you, sir: would you like to return to such a time when men had to have their teeth pulled and their limbs sawn off without benefit of any palliative to ease the pain?'

'Why no,' said Neel, with a shudder. 'I certainly wouldn't.'

'I thought not,' said Mr Burnham. 'So you would do well to bear in mind that it would be well nigh impossible to practise modern medicine or surgery without such chemicals as morphine, codeine and narcotine – and these are but a few of the blessings derived from opium. In the absence of gripe water our children would not sleep. And what would our ladies – why, our beloved Queen herself? – do without laudanum? Why, one might even say that it is opium that has made this age of progress and industry possible: without it, the streets of London would be thronged with coughing, sleepless, incontinent multitudes. And if we consider all this, is it not apposite to ask if the Manchu tyrant has any right to deprive his helpless subjects of the advantages of progress? Do you think it pleases God to see us conspiring with that tyrant in depriving such a great number of people of this amazing gift?'

'But Mr Burnham,' Neel persisted, 'is it not true that there is a great deal of addiction and intoxication in China? Surely such afflictions are not pleasing to our Creator?'

This nettled Mr Burnham. 'These ills you mention, sir,' he replied, 'are merely aspects of the fallen nature of Man. Should you ever happen to walk through the rookeries of London, Raja Neel Rattan, you will see for yourself that there is as much addiction and intoxication in the gin shops of the Empire's capital as there is in the dens of Canton. Are we then to raze every tavern in the city? Ban wine from our tables and whisky from our parlours? Deprive our sailors and soldiers of their daily dose of grog? And these measures being enacted, would addiction disappear and intoxication vanish? And would every member of Parliament bear the blame for every fatality should their efforts fail? The answer is no. No. Because the antidote for addiction lies not in bans enacted by Parliaments and emperors, but in the individual conscience – in every man's awareness of his personal responsibility and his fear of God. As a Christian nation this is the single most important lesson we can offer to China – and I have no doubt that the message would be welcomed by the people of that unfortunate country, were they not prevented from hearing it by the cruel despot who holds sway over them. It is tyranny alone that is to blame for China 's degeneracy, sir. Merchants like myself are but the servants of Free Trade, which is as immutable as God's commandments.' Mr Burnham paused to pop a crisp fuleeta-pup in his mouth. 'And I might add, in this regard, that I do not think it sits well on a Raja of Raskhali to moralize on the subject of opium.'

'And why not?' said Neel, steeling himself for the affront that was sure to follow. 'Pray explain, Mr Burnham.'

'Why not?' Mr Burnham's eyebrows rose. 'Well, for the very good reason that everything you possess is paid for by opium – this budgerow, your houses, this food. Do you think you could afford any of this on the revenues of your estate and your half-starved coolie farmers? No, sir: it's opium that's given you all of this.'

'But I would not go to war for it, sir,' Neel said, in a tone that matched Mr Burnham's in its sharpness. 'And I do not believe the Empire will either. You must not imagine that I am unaware of the part that Parliament plays in your country.'

'Parliament?' Mr Burnham laughed. 'Parliament will not know of the war until it is over. Be assured, sir, that if such matters were left to Parliament there would be no Empire.'

'Hear, hear!' said Mr Doughty, raising his glass. 'Truer words were never spoken…'

He was interrupted by the arrival of the next course, the presentation of which had required the mobilization of much of the budgerow's crew. They arrived one by one, bearing brass bowls of rice, mutton, prawns, and an assortment of pickles and chutneys.

'Ah, at last – the karibat,' said Mr Doughty. 'Just in time too!' As the covers were removed from the dishes, he cast an anxious glance over the table. When he found what he was looking for, he pointed a jubilant finger in the direction of a brass bowl that was filled with spinach and tiny slivers of fish. 'Isn't that the famous Rascally chitchky of pollock-saug? Why, I do believe it is!'

The smells had no effect on Neel, who had been so deeply stung by Mr Burnham's remarks that all thought of food, as well as worms and chamber-pots, had been purged from his mind. 'You must not imagine, sir,' he said to Mr Burnham, 'that I am an ignorant native, to be spoken to like a child. If I may say so, your youthful Queen has no more loyal subject than myself, and none who is more keenly aware of the rights that are enjoyed by the people of Britain. Indeed I am thoroughly familiar, I might add, with the writings of Mr Hume, Mr Locke and Mr Hobbes.'

'Please do not speak to me, sir,' said Mr Burnham, in the chilly tone of a man who wishes to snub a name-dropper, 'of Mr Hume and Mr Locke. For I would have you know that I have been acquainted with them since they served on the Bengal Board of Revenue. I too have read every word they've written – even their report on sanitation. And as for Mr Hobbes, why I do believe I dined with him at my club just the other day.'

'Fine fellow, Hobbes,' Mr Doughty broke in suddenly. 'Got a seat on the Municipal Council now, if I'm not mistaken. Went pig-sticking with him once. The shikarees scared up an old sow and a brood of piglets. Came charging at us! Scared the Nick's knackers out of the horses. Old Hobbes was tossed – right on a little suckling. Dead on the spot. The piglet I mean. Hobbes was unscathed. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Made a fine roast too. Piglet I mean.'

Mr Doughty had not quite finished his tale when another distraction presented itself: a tinkling sound, like that of anklets, now made itself heard in the purdah-screened alcove behind Neel. Evidently Elokeshi and the girls had come to take a look at the dinner guests: there followed some whispering and shifting of feet as they took turns at the peep-holes, and then Neel heard Elokeshi's voice, rising in excitement. Eki-ré – look, look!

Shh! said Neel over his shoulder, but his warning went unheard.

Do you see the fat, old one? Elokeshi continued, whispering in loud and urgent Bengali. He came to me twenty years ago; I couldn't have been more than fifteen; oh the things he did, báp-ré! If I told you, you would die laughing…

Neel noticed now that a silence had fallen over the table: the experienced older men were staring studiedly at the ceiling or at the table – but Zachary was looking around in astonished inquiry. Even less than before, could Neel think of a way to explain the situation to the newcomer: how was he to be told that he was being observed, through chinks in a curtain, by four dancers? At a loss for something to say, Neel muttered an apology: 'Just the ladies-in-waiting. Passing some wind.'

Now Elokeshi lowered her voice, and despite himself, Neel strained to follow: No really… made me sit on his face… chhi, chhi!… and then licked there with his tongue… no silly, right there, yes… shejeki chatachati!… Oh what a licking! You'd think he was tasting a chutney…

'Hot cock and shittleteedee!' There was a crash as Mr Doughty sprang suddenly to his feet, knocking his chair over. 'Damned badzat pootlies. You think I don't samjo your bloody bucking? There's not a word of your black babble I don't understand. Call me a cunnylapper, would you? 'D rather bang the bishop than charter your chute. Licking, did you say? Here's my lattee to give you a licking…'

He began to advance on the alcove, with his cane upraised, but Mr Burnham jumped nimbly from his chair and headed him off. Zachary came quickly to his aid, and between the two of them they were able to get the pilot out of the sheeshmahal and on to the fore-deck, where they handed him over to Serang Ali and his team of lascars.

'Catchi too muchi shamshoo,' said Serang Ali matter-of-factly, as he took hold of the pilot's ankles. 'More better go sleep chop-chop.'

This did nothing to soothe Mr Doughty. As he was being wrestled into the jollyboat, his voice could be heard, railing: 'Hands off my gander!… Avast with your launderbuzzing!… or I'll stuff your laurels between your teeth… tear out your jaunties… chowder your chutes… damned luckerbaugs and wanderoos!… where's my dumbpoke and pollock-saug…?'

'How-fashion to chow-chow this-time?' scolded Serang Ali. 'Too muchi shamshoo hab got inside. Allo come topside, no?'

Leaving Zachary behind to restrain the pilot, Mr Burnham came back to the sheeshmahal, where Neel was still sitting at the head of the table, contemplating the ruins of the dinner: would the evening have taken such a turn if his father had been presiding over the table? He could not imagine that it would.

'Very sorry about that,' Mr Burnham said. 'Just had a nipperkin too much of shrob, our good Mr Doughty: a bit out of his altitude.'

'But it is I who should apologize,' said Neel. 'And surely you are not leaving already? The ladies have planned a nách.'

'Indeed?' said Mr Burnham. 'Well you must give them our apologies. I'm afraid I'm not up for that kind of thing.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Neel. 'Are you not feeling well? Did the food not agree with you?'

'The food was splendid,' said Mr Burnham gravely. 'But as for a nautch – you may be aware that I have certain responsibilities to my church. It is not my practice to participate in spectacles that are injurious to the dignity of the fairer sex.'

Neel bowed his head in apology. 'I understand, Mr Burnham.'

Mr Burnham took a cheroot from his waistcoat and tapped it on his thumb. 'But if you don't mind, Raja Neel Rattan, I would like to have a few words with you in private.'

Neel could think of no way to refuse this request. 'Certainly, Mr Burnham. Shall we proceed to the upper deck? There some privacy should certainly be available.'

Once they were on the top deck, Mr Burnham lit his cheroot and blew a plume of smoke into the night air. 'I am very glad to have this opportunity to speak with you,' he began. 'It is an unexpected pleasure.'

'Thank you,' said Neel warily, every defensive instinct on the alert.

'You will recall that I wrote to you recently,' Mr Burnham said. 'May I ask if you have been able to give some thought to my proposal?'

'Mr Burnham,' Neel said flatly, 'I regret that at the present time, I cannot restore to you the funds that are owed. You must understand that it is impossible for me to entertain your proposal.'

'And why so?'

Neel thought of his last visit to Raskhali and the public meetings where his tenants and managers had pleaded with him not to sell the zemindary and deprive them of the lands they had farmed for generations. He thought of his last visit to his family's temple, where the priest had fallen at his feet, begging him not to give away the temple where his forefathers had prayed.

'Mr Burnham,' Neel said, 'the zemindary of Raskhali has been in my family for two hundred years; nine generations of Halders have sat in its guddee. How can I give it away to settle my debts?'

'Times change, Raja Neel Rattan,' Mr Burnham said. 'And those who don't change with them, are swept away.'

'But I have a certain obligation to the people,' said Neel. 'You must try to understand – my family's temples are on that land. None of it is mine to sell or give away: it belongs also to my son and his yet unborn children. It is not possible for me to make it over to you.'

Mr Burnham blew out a mouthful of smoke. 'Let me be honest with you,' he said quietly. 'The truth is you have no option. Your debts to my company would not be covered even by the sale of the estate. I am afraid I cannot wait much longer.'

'Mr Burnham,' said Neel firmly, 'you must forget about your proposal. I will sell my houses, I will sell the budgerow, I will sell everything I can – but I cannot part with the Raskhali lands. I would rather declare bankruptcy than hand over my zemindary to you.'

'I see,' said Mr Burnham, not unpleasantly. 'Am I to take that as your final word?'

Neel nodded. 'Yes.'

'Well then,' said Mr Burnham, staring at the glowing tip of his cheroot. 'Let it be understood then, that whatever happens, you have only yourself to blame.'