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

Seven

Well before he looked at the papers that Zachary had given him, Baboo Nob Kissin knew that they would provide the sign he needed to confirm what was already clear in his heart. So confident was he of this, that on the way back from Bethel, in his caranchie, he was already dreaming of the temple he had promised to build for Ma Taramony: it would sit upon the edge of a waterway and it would have a soaring, saffron-coloured spire. There would be a wide, paved threshold in front, where great numbers of devotees could assemble, to dance, sing and worship.

It was in just such a temple that Nob Kissin Baboo had spent much of his own childhood, some sixty miles north of Calcutta. His family's temple was in the town of Nabadwip, a centre of piety and learning consecrated to the memory of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu – saint, mystic and devotee of Sri Krishna. One of the gomusta's ancestors, eleven generations removed, was said to have been among the saint's earliest disciples: he had founded the temple, which had been tended ever since by his descendants. Nob Kissin himself had once been in line to succeed his uncle as the temple's custodian, and in his boyhood he had been carefully groomed for his inheritance, being given a thorough education in Sanskrit and logic, as well as in the performance of rites and rituals.

When Nob Kissin was fourteen his uncle fell ill. Summoning the boy to his bedside, the old man had entrusted him with one last duty – his days were drawing to a close, he said, and it was his wish that his young wife, Taramony, be sent to an ashram in the holy city of Brindavan, to live out her widowhood: the journey being difficult and dangerous, he wanted Nob Kissin to escort her there personally before assuming his duties in the family temple.

It will be done, said Nob Kissin, touching his uncle's feet, you need say no more.

A few days later, the old man died, and shortly afterwards Nob Kissin set off for Brindavan, with his widowed aunt and a small retinue of servants. Although Nob Kissin was well past the usual age of marriage, he was still a brahmachari – a virginal celibate – as befitted a student who was undergoing the rigours of an old-fashioned education. The widow, as it happened, was not much older than Nob Kissin, for her late husband had married her only six years before, in a final effort to beget an heir. Through those years, Nob Kissin had rarely had occasion to meet or speak with his aunt, for he was often away, living with his gurus, in their tols, pathshalas and ashrams. But now, as the party travelled slowly westwards, towards Brindavan, the boy and his aunt were inevitably often in each other's company. That his aunt was a woman of uncommon charm and comeliness, Nob Kissin had always known – but he discovered now, to his astonishment, that she was also a person of extraordinary spiritual accomplishment, a devotee of a kind that he had never encountered before: one who spoke of the Lotus-Eyed Lord as if she had personally experienced the grace of his presence.

As a student and a brahmachari, Nob Kissin had been trained to turn his mind from sensual thoughts; in his education, so much stress was laid on the retention of semen that it was rarely, if ever, that the image of a woman succeeded in penetrating his mental defences. But now, rattling and rolling towards Brindavan, in a succession of boats and carriages, the boy's defences crumbled. Never once did Taramony permit him to touch her in an unchaste way – yet he would find himself trembling in her presence; at times his body would go into a kind of seizure, leaving him drenched in shame. At first he was merely confused and could think of no words to describe what was happening to him. Then he understood that his feeling for his aunt was but a profane version of what she herself felt for the divine lover of her visions; he understood also that only her tutelage could cure him of his bondage to his earthly desires.

I can never leave your side, he told her. I cannot abandon you in Brindavan. I would rather die.

She laughed and told him he was a foolish, vain fellow; Krishna was her only man, she said, the only lover she would ever have.

No matter, he said. You will be my Krishna and I will be your Radha.

She said incredulously: And you will live with me without touching me, without knowing my body, without knowing any other woman?

Yes, he said. Isn't that how you are with Krishna? Isn't that how the Mahaprabhu was?

And what of children?

Did Radha have children? Did any of the Vaishnav saints?

And your duties to your family? To the temple? What of all that?

I care nothing for such things, he said. You will be my temple and I will be your priest, your worshipper, your devotee.

When they reached the town of Gaya, she gave her assent: slipping away from their retainers, they turned around and made their way to Calcutta.

Although neither of them had been to the city before, they were not without resources. Nob Kissin still had their travel funds in his possession, as well as the silver that was to have provided the endowment for Taramony's incarceration in Brindavan. Put together, the sum was quite substantial, and it allowed them to rent a small house in Ahiritola, an inexpensive waterfront neighbourhood of Calcutta: there they took up residence, making no pretence of being anything other than they were, a widowed woman living with her nephew. No scandal ever attached to them, for Taramony's saintliness was so patently evident that she soon attracted a small circle of devotees and followers. Nob Kissin would have loved nothing better than to join this circle: to call her 'Ma', to be accepted as a disciple, to spend his days receiving spiritual instruction from her – this was all he wanted, but she would not allow it. You are different from the others, she told him, yours is a different mission; you must go into the world and make money – not just for our upkeep but as an endowment for the temple that you and I will build one day.

At her bidding, Nob Kissin went out into the city where his shrewdness and intelligence did not go long unnoticed. While working at the counter of a moneylender, in Rajabazar, he discovered that keeping accounts was no great challenge for someone of his education; having mastered it, he decided that his best hope for advancement lay in finding a place with one of the city's many English firms. To this end, he began to attend tutorial meetings in the house of a Tamil dubash – a translator who worked for Gillanders amp; Company, a big trading agency. He quickly established himself as one of the best students in the group, stringing together sentences with a fluency that astounded his master as well as his fellow pupils.

One recommendation led to another and one job to the next: starting as a serishta at Gillanders', Nob Kissin rose to become, successively, a carcoon at the Swinhoe factory, a cranny at Jardine amp; Matheson, a munshi at Ferguson Bros., and a mootsuddy at Smoult amp; Sons. It was from there that he found his way into the offices of Burnham Bros. where he rose quickly to the rank of gomusta and was entrusted with the shipping of migrant labour.

It was not just for his acumen and his fluency in English that Baboo Nob Kissin's employers valued his services: they appreciated also his eagerness to please and his apparently limitless tolerance of abuse. Unlike many others, he never took offence if a sahib called him a dung-brained gubberhead, or compared his face to a bandar's bunghole; if shoes or paperweights were hurled his way, then he would merely step aside, displaying a surprising agility for a man of his girth and weight. Insults he would endure with a detached, almost pitying smile: the one thing that put him out of countenance was to be struck by his employer's shoes or feet – which was scarcely to be wondered at, since such blows necessitated the inconvenience of a bath and a change of clothes. Indeed, he twice switched jobs to rid himself of employers who were too much in the habit of kicking their local staff. This too was one of the reasons why he found his present position particularly congenial: Mr Burnham might be a hard-driving man and a difficult taskmaster, but he never kicked or beat his employees and rarely swore. It was true that he often mocked his gomusta by addressing him as 'my Nut-Kissing Baboon' and the like, but he was generally careful to avoid these familiarities in public – and 'baboon', in any case, was not a term to which Baboo Nob Kissin could really object, since that creature was but an avatar of Lord Hanuman.

While furthering his employer's interests, Baboo Nob Kissin had not neglected to pursue a few opportunities of his own. Since much of his work consisted in acting as an intermediary and facilitator, he had acquired, over time, a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, many of whom relied on him for advice in matters pecuniary and personal. In time, his role as adviser turned into a thriving money-lending operation, often resorted to by gentlefolk who were in need of a discreet and reliable source of funding. There were some who came to him also for help in matters still more intimate: abstinent in all things but food, Baboo Nob Kissin regarded the carnal appetites of others with the detached curiosity with which an astrologer might observe the movements of the stars. He was unfailingly attentive to the women who appealed to him for assistance – and they in turn found him easy to trust, knowing that his devotion to Taramony would prevent him from exacting favours for himself. It was thus that Elokeshi had come to regard him as an indulgent and kindly uncle.

Yet, for all his success, there was one great sorrow in the gomusta's life: the experience of divine love that he had hoped to achieve with Taramony had been denied him by the pressing exigencies of his career. The house he shared with her was large and comfortable, but when he returned to it, at the end of the day, it was usually to find her surrounded by a circle of disciples and devotees. These hangers-on would linger late into the night, and in the morning, when the gomusta left for the daftar, his aunt was almost always asleep.

I've worked so hard, he would say to her; I've made plenty of money. When will you set me free from this worldly life? When will it be time to build our temple?

Soon enough, she would answer. But not yet. When the moment comes you will know.

Such were her promises and Baboo Nob Kissin accepted without question that they would be redeemed at a time of her choosing. But suddenly one day, with the temple still unbuilt, she was seized by a wasting fever. For the first time in two decades, Baboo Nob Kissin stopped going to work; he banished Ma Taramony's disciples and hangers-on from his house and nursed her himself. When he saw that his devotion was powerless against her disease, he begged her: Take me with you; don't abandon me to live alone in this world. Other than you there is nothing of value in my life; it is a void, an emptiness, an eternity of wasted time. What will I do on this earth without you?

You won't be on your own, she promised him. And your work in this world is not done yet. You must prepare yourself – for your body will be the vessel for my return. There will come a day when my spirit will manifest itself in you, and then the two of us, united by Krishna 's love, will achieve the most perfect union – you will become Taramony.

Her words caused a wild surging of hope in his heart. When will that day come? he cried. How will I know?

There will be signs, she said. You must keep careful watch, for the indications may be obscure and unexpected. But when they show themselves, you must not hesitate or hold back: you must follow them wherever they lead, even if they take you across the sea.

You give me your word? he said, falling to his knees. You promise it will not be too long?

You have my word, she replied. A day will come when I will pour myself into you: but till then you must be patient.

How long ago that was! Nine years and fifty weeks had passed since the day of her death and he had continued to live his accustomed life, clothed in the garb of a busy gomusta, working harder and harder, even as he grew ever more weary of the world and his work. As the tenth anniversary of her death approached he had begun to fear for his reason and had come to the decision that if the day passed without any sign yet being manifested, then he would renounce the world and go to Brindavan to live the life of a mendicant. And in making this pledge, he came to be convinced that the moment was at hand, the manifestation was on its way. He had grown so certain of this that now he felt no further anxiety or disquiet: it was at a calm, unhurried pace that he stepped off his caranchie and carried the ship's books into his silent, empty house. Spreading the papers on his bed, he leafed through them one by one until he came to the schooner's original crew manifest. When at last he saw the notation beside Zachary's name – 'Black' – he uttered no wild cry of joy – it was rather with a sigh of quiet jubilation that he rested his eyes on the scribbled word that revealed the hand of the Dark Lord. This was the confirmation he needed, he was certain of it – just as he was certain, also, that the messenger himself knew nothing of his mission. Does an envelope know what is contained in the letter that is folded inside it? Is a sheet of paper aware of what is written upon it? No, the signs were contained in the transformation that had been wrought during the voyage: it was the very fact of the world's changeability that proved the presence of divine illusion, of Sri Krishna's leela.

Separating the manifest from the other papers, Baboo Nob Kissin carried it to an almirah and placed it inside. Tomorrow he would roll it up tightly and take it to a coppersmith, to have it encased inside an amulet, so that it could be worn like a necklace. Should Mr Burnham ask for the manifest, he would tell him it was lost – such things happened often enough on long voyages.

As he was closing the almirah, Baboo Nob Kissin's eyes fell on a saffron-coloured alkhalla – one of the long, loose gowns that Taramony had liked to wear. On an impulse, he slipped it on, over his dhoti and kurta, and went over to a looking-glass. He was amazed by how well the robe fitted him. Reaching up to his head he undid the bindings of his tikki, shaking out his hair so that it fell to his shoulders. From now on, he decided, he would never again tie it or cut it; he would leave it open, to grow, so that it hung down to his waist, like Taramony's long, black locks. As he gazed at his own image, he became aware of a glow, spreading slowly through his body, as if it were being suffused by another presence. Suddenly his ears were filled by Taramony's voice: he heard her saying, once again, the words she had spoken in this very room – she was telling him that he must be prepared to follow the signs wherever they led, even across the sea. All at once, everything was clear and he knew why things had happened as they had: it was because the Ibis was to take him to the place where his temple would be built.

Neel and Raj Rattan were flying kites, on the roof of the Raskhali mansion in Calcutta, when the Commissioner of Police arrived with a detachment of silahdars and darogas. It was early evening, on a hot April day, with the last light of the setting sun shimmering on the Hooghly River. The nearby ghats were crowded with bathers, scrubbing away the dust of the day, and the moss-darkened roofs and terraces around the Raskhali Rajbari were filled with people, out to enjoy the sunset breeze. Everywhere in the neighbourhood conch-shells were sounding, to mark the lighting of the first lamps, and the muezzin's call could be heard at a distance, floating over the city.

When Parimal burst in, Neel's attention was centred on his kite, which was soaring high on the swirling green breeze of the month of Phalgun: he had no ears for what was said. Huzoor, Parimal repeated himself. You have to go down. He wants you.

Who? said Neel.

The English afsar from the jel-khana – he's come with a police paltan.

The news made little impression on Neel: it often happened that officials from the constabulary came to see him on some matter related to the zemindary. Still intent on his kite, Neel said: What's happened? Has there been a burglary or dacoity nearby? If they want help, tell them to talk with the gomusta-babus.

No, huzoor: it's you they want.

Then they should come back in the morning, Neel said sharply. This is not the time of day to come to a gentleman's house.

Huzoor: they won't listen to us. They insist…

Now, with the drum-like spindle of the kite-string still spinning in his hands, Neel shot a glance at Parimal and was surprised to see that he was on his knees, and that his eyes were overflowing. Parimal? he said, in astonishment. Yeh kya bát hai? Why are you making such a tamasha? What is going on?

Huzoor, Parimal said again, choking. They want you. They're in the daftar. They were on their way up here. I had to beg them to wait downstairs.

They were coming up here? Neel was speechless for a moment: this part of the roof lay in the most secluded part of the house, above the zenana; it defied credence that an outsider should think of setting foot in it.

Have they gone mad? he said to Parimal. How could they even think of such a thing?

Huzoor, Parimal implored him, they said not to waste time. They're waiting.

All right. Neel was more intrigued than alarmed by the sudden summons, but as he was leaving the roof, he stopped to ruffle Raj Rattan's hair.

Where are you going, Baba? said the boy, impatient of the interruption. Didn't you say we would fly kites till sunset?

And so we will, said Neel. I'll be back in ten minutes. The boy nodded and his attention veered back to his kite as Neel went down the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs lay the interior courtyard of the zenana, and in crossing this space Neel noticed that a hush had fallen over the house – unaccountably, for this was the time of day when all his elderly aunts, widowed cousins, and other female relatives and dependants were always at their busiest. There were at least a hundred of them in the house, and at this hour they were usually bustling from room to room, with freshly lit lamps and incense, watering the tulsi plants, ringing the bells of the temple, blowing conch-shells and making preparations for the night-time meal. But today the rooms around the courtyard were in darkness, with not a lamp to be seen, and the balustraded verandas were filled with the white-robed figures of his widowed relatives.

Leaving behind the silence of the interior courtyard, Neel stepped into the street-facing part of the compound, where lay the office wing of the house, and the barracks that accommodated the hundred or so guards employed by the Raskhali zemindary. Here too, the spectacle that met Neel's eyes was astonishing in its novelty: on stepping into the open space, he saw that the piyadas, paiks and lathiyals who made up his guard force had been penned into a corner of the grounds by a detachment of armed police. The guards were milling about in confusion, disarmed of their sticks, staves and swords, but on catching sight of the zemindar, they began to shout their cry: Joi Má Kali! Joi Raskhali! Neel raised a hand to silence them but their voices grew steadily louder, rising to a roar that rang through the neighbouring streets and alleys. Looking up, Neel saw that the terraces and balconies of the buildings that overlooked the courtyard were jammed with people, all staring down in curiosity. He quickened his pace and went quickly up the stairs that led to his office, on the second floor.

The zemindar's daftar was a large, disorderly room, strewn with furniture and files. As Neel entered, a red-uniformed English officer rose to his feet, with his high-crowned hat tucked under his arm. Neel recognized him at once: his name was Hall and he was a former infantry major who was now in charge of the city's constabulary; he had visited the Raskhali Rajbari several times – sometimes to discuss matters of public security, but also often as a guest.

Neel joined his hands together in greeting, and tried to summon a smile. 'Ah, Major Hall! What can I do for you? Pray allow me to oblige…'

The sombre expression on the Major's face remained unchanged as he said, in a stiffly official voice: 'Raja Neel Rattan, I regret that it is an unfortunate duty that brings me here today.'

'Oh?' said Neel: he noticed, abstractedly, that the Commissioner of Police was wearing his sword; although he had seen Major Hall in the Rajbari many times, he could not recall that he had ever come armed before. 'And what is the nature of your errand, Major Hall?'

'It is my painful duty to inform you,' the Major said formally, 'that I come bearing a warrant for your arrest.'

'Arrest?' The word was too outlandish to make immediate sense. 'You are here to arrest me?'

'Yes.'

'May I know what for?'

'For the crime of forgery, sir.'

Neel stared at him in incomprehension. 'Forgery? By Jove, sir, I must confess I do not find this the most amusing of jests. What am I said to have forged?'

Reaching into his pocket, the Major laid a piece of paper on an inlaid marble table. Neel did not have to look very closely to know what it was: it was one of the many dozen hundees he had signed over the last year. He smiled: 'This is no forgery, Major. I myself can vouch that it is not a counterfeit.'

The Major's finger descended to indicate a line where the name 'Benjamin Burnham' had been inscribed with a flourish. 'Do you deny, sir,' the Major said, 'that it was you who made this mark?'

'Not for a moment, Major,' Neel said evenly. 'But the matter is easily explained: there exists an agreement between Mr Burnham's firm and the Raskhali zemindary. This is a fact universally known…'

So far as Neel knew, the Raskhali hundees had always carried Mr Burnham's name: his gomustas had assured him that this was the time-honoured practice of the old Raja, who had agreed with his partner long ago that there was no need to send every note across town for endorsement – it was quicker and more efficient to have the needful done at the Halder residence. As it happened, the old Raja had never had a good hand in English, and the task had been performed for him by an underling; Neel, being something of a perfectionist in matters of calligraphy, had disliked the secretaries' crude script and had insisted on doing the job himself. All this was well known to Benjamin Burnham.

'I am afraid,' Neel said, 'that you have gone to much trouble for no reason. Mr Burnham will resolve this misunderstanding in a matter of minutes.'

The Major coughed into his fist in embarrassment. 'I am afraid I must still do my duty, sir.'

'But surely,' Neel protested, 'there will be no need, if Mr Burnham explains what happened?'

After a brief pause, the Commissioner said: 'It was Mr Burnham, sir, who alerted us to the crime.'

'What?' Neel gave a start of disbelief. 'But there is no crime…'

'This is a forged signature, sir. And there is a great deal of money at stake.'

'To write a man's name is not the same, surely, as forging his signature?'

'That depends on the intent, sir, which is for the court to decide,' said the Major. 'You may be sure that you will be given ample opportunity to make your case.'

'And in the meanwhile?'

'You must permit me to accompany you to Lalbazar.'

'To the jail?' said Neel. 'Like a common criminal?'

'Hardly that,' the Major said. 'We will make sure of your comfort; in consideration of your place in native society, we will even allow you to receive food from home.'

Now, at last, it began to sink in that the inconceivable was about to happen: the Raja of Raskhali was to be taken away by the police and locked in prison. Certain as he was that he would be acquitted, Neel knew that his family's reputation would never again be what it was, not after a crowd of neighbours had witnessed his arrest and forcible removal – all his relatives, his dependants, his son, even Elokeshi, would be mired in the shame.

'Do we have to go now?' Neel demurred. 'Today? In front of all my people?'

'Yes,' said Major Hall, 'I am afraid I can give you no more than a few minutes – to gather some clothes and personal effects.'

'Very well.'

Neel was turning to go when the Major said, sharply: 'I see that your men are in a state of some excitement. You should be aware that in the event of a disturbance, you will be held responsible and your case will suffer in court.'

'I understand,' Neel said. 'You need have no fear.'

The veranda adjoining the zemindar's office looked down upon a courtyard, and as he was stepping out, to make his way downstairs, Neel saw that this enclosure had suddenly turned white: his female relatives and dependants had come pouring out, in their widow's garb; catching sight of him now, they began a soft keening that turned quickly louder and more agitated; some flung themselves on the ground, while others began to beat their breasts. There was no question now of going back to the main house: Neel knew he would not be able to bring himself to force a passage through that throng. He waited just long enough to make sure that his wife, Malati, was not present among the women: even in the confusion of that moment, it was a great relief to know that she had not stepped out of the zenana – he was spared, at least, the humiliation of having the veil of her seclusion torn away.

Huzoor: Parimal appeared beside him, with a bag in hand. I have packed a few things – all that you will need.

Neel reached out in gratitude and squeezed his retainer's hands: all his life, Parimal had known exactly what he needed, often before he himself had known the want, but he had never felt as deeply indebted to him as he did now. He put out a hand to take the bag, but Parimal would not give it to him.

How can you carry your own luggage, huzoor? In front of the world's eyes?

The absurdity of this brought a smile to Neel's lips; he said: Do you know where they're taking me, Parimal?

Huzoor… Parimal lowered his voice to a whisper: If you but give the word, our men will fight back. You could escape… you could be concealed…

For a wild instant, the idea of escape lodged in Neel's mind – but only to vanish, as he recalled the map that hung in his daftar, and the red stain of Empire that had spread so quickly across it. Where would I hide? he said. The piyadas of Raskhali can't fight the battalions of the East India Company. No, there's nothing to be done.

Neel turned away from Parimal to step back into his daftar, where the Major was waiting for him, with a hand on the hilt of his sword. 'I am ready,' said Neel. 'Let us be done with this.'

Ringed by a half-dozen uniformed constables, Neel made his way down the stairs. When he stepped into the courtyard the voices of the white-clad women rose once again to a shriek and they threw themselves at the constables, trying to reach across their batons, to the prisoner. Neel held his head high, but he could not bring himself to meet their gaze; it was only when he was at the gates that he allowed himself to glance back. No sooner did he turn than his eyes met those of his wife, Malati, and it was as if he had never seen her before. The covers had dropped from her ever-veiled face, and she had torn open the bindings of her braids so that her hair lay on her shoulders like a dark shroud of grief. Neel stumbled and lowered his eyes; he could not bear for her to look at him; it was as if the uncovering of her face had stripped the veil from his own manhood, leaving him naked and exposed to the gloating pity of the world, to a shame that could never be overcome.

A covered hackney carriage was waiting in the lane outside and when Neel sat down in it, the Major took the seat opposite his. He was clearly relieved to have accomplished his end without violence, and as the horses began to move, he said, in a kinder tone than he had earlier used: 'I am sure it will all be sorted out quite soon.'

The carriage arrived at the end of the lane, and as it was turning the corner, Neel swivelled in his seat to take a last look at his house. He could see only the roof of the Raskhali Rajbari, and on it, outlined against the dimming sky, his son's head, leaning on a parapet, as if in wait: he recalled that he had said he would be back in ten minutes, and this seemed to him now the most unpardonable of all the lies in his life.

Ever since that night by the river, when Deeti had come to his help, Kalua had kept count of the days on which he was granted a glimpse of her, and the empty days in between. The tally was kept neither with any specific intention, nor as an expression of hope – for Kalua knew full well that between her and himself, none but the most tenuous connection could exist – yet the patient enumeration happened in his head whether he liked it or not: he was powerless to make it cease, for his mind, slow and plodding in some respects, had a way of seeking the safety of numbers. Thus it was that when Kalua heard of Deeti's husband's death, he knew that exactly twenty days had elapsed since that afternoon when she asked for his help in bringing Hukam Singh back from the opium factory.

The news came to him by chance: it was evening, and he was on his way back to his dwelling, in his cart, at the end of the day, when he was stopped by two men who were travelling on foot. Kalua knew they had come a long way because their dhotis were dark with dust and they were leaning heavily on their sticks. They held up their hands as he was passing by, and when his cart rumbled to a stop, they asked if he knew the dwelling of Hukam Singh, the former sepoy. I know it, said Kalua, and he pointed down the road and told them that to get there they would have to walk straight for two kos, and turn left after reaching a large tamarind tree. Then, after following a path through the fields for one hundred and twenty paces, they would have to turn left again, to walk another two hundred and sixty. The men were dismayed: It's almost dark, how will we find these paths? Just keep looking, said Kalua. And how long will it take? An hour, said Kalua, but maybe less.

The men began to plead with him to take them there in his cart: or they would be late, they said, and would miss everything. Late for what? Kalua asked, and the older of the two men said: For Hukam Singh's cremation and…

He was about to say something else, when his companion nudged him sharply with his stick.

Has Hukam Singh passed away? Kalua asked.

Yes, late last night. We set out as soon as we heard the news.

All right then, said Kalua. Come. I'll take you there.

The two men climbed on to the rear of the cart and Kalua shook his reins to set his oxen moving. After a good while had passed, Kalua inquired cautiously: And what of Hukam Singh's wife?

Let's see what happens, said the older man. Maybe we'll know tonight…

But here again he was interrupted by his companion and the sentence was never finished.

The oddly surreptitious behaviour of the two men set Kalua to wondering whether something untoward was under way. He made it his practice to think hard about everything he saw around him: as the cart rolled down the road, he asked himself why these men, who didn't know Hukam Singh well enough to be aware of the location of his dwelling, would come such a great distance to be present at his cremation. And why was the cremation to be near the dead man's home rather than in the cremation ghat? No: there was something in this that was out of the ordinary. Kalua became more and more convinced of this as they approached their destination – for he saw now that there were a great many others heading towards the same place, more than seemed likely to attend the funeral of a man like Hukam Singh, known by the world to be an incorrigible afeemkhor. When they reached the dwelling, his suspicions deepened, for he saw that the pyre was a great mound of wood, on the banks of the Ganga. Not only was it far larger than was necessary for the cremation of a single man, it was surrounded by a profusion of offerings and objects, as if it were being readied for some larger purpose.

It was dark now, and after the two travellers had alighted, Kalua tethered his oxcart in a field, some distance away, and returned on foot to the pyre. There were some hundred or so people there, and by listening to their conversations, he soon picked up the whispered sibilance of a word – 'sati'. It was all clear now: he understood. He made his way back, in the dark, to his tethered cart, and lay in it a while, to think through his next move. He thought slowly and carefully, examining the merits and drawbacks of several possible courses of action. Only one plan survived the winnowing, and when he rose to his feet again, he knew exactly what he had to do. First, he took the yoke off his oxen and freed them, to wander off along the riverbank: this was the most difficult part of all, for he loved those two animals as if they were his kin. Then, one nail at a time, he ripped the bamboo platform from the axle of his cart, and tied a rope tightly and securely around its middle. The platform was a large unwieldy object, but for Kalua the weight was negligible, and he had no trouble slinging it over his back. Keeping to the shadows, he crept along the river till he came to a sandbank that overlooked the pyre. He laid the bamboo platform on the sand and flattened himself on it, taking care to stay out of sight.

The clearing around the pyre was illuminated by many small fires, so when Hukam Singh's body was carried out of his dwelling, in procession, and laid upon the mound, Kalua had a clear view. Following close behind was a second procession, and upon its entry into the clearing, Kalua saw that it was headed by Deeti, in a resplendent white sari – except that she was slumped over, barely upright: she would not have been able to stand on her own feet, much less walk, had she not been supported by her brother-in-law, Chandan Singh, and several others. Half dragged and half carried, she was brought to the pyre and made to sit cross-legged on it, beside her husband's corpse. Now there was an outbreak of chanting as heaps of kindling were piled around her, and doused with ghee and oil to ready them for the fire.

On the sandbank, Kalua bided his time, counting, counting, to calm himself: his main asset, he knew, was neither his power nor his agility, but rather the element of surprise – for even he, with all his strength, could not hope to fight off fifty men or more. So he waited and waited, until the pyre was lit and everyone was intent upon the progress of the flames. Now, still keeping to the shadows, he crept down to the edge of the crowd and rose to his feet. Unloosing a roar, he began to whirl the bamboo platform above his head, holding it by the end of its rope. The heavy, sharp-edged object became a blur, cracking heads and breaking bones, clearing a path through the crowd – people fled from the hurtling projectile, like cattle scattering before some whirling demon. Racing to the mound, Kalua placed the platform against the fire, scrambled to the top, and snatched Deeti from the flames. With her inert body slung over his shoulder, he jumped back to the ground and ran towards the river, dragging the now-smouldering bamboo rectangle behind him, on its rope. On reaching the water, he thrust the platform into the river and placed Deeti upon it. Then, pushing free of the shore, he threw himself flat on the improvised raft and began to kick his heels in the water, steering out towards midstream. All of this was the work of a minute or two and by the time Chandan Singh and his cohorts gave chase, the river had carried Kalua and Deeti away from the flaming pyre, into the dark of the night.

The raft wobbled and spun as the currents swept it downstream, and every once in a while, a slick of water would run streaming over its surface. Under the impact of these dousings, the fog that clouded Deeti's mind began slowly to dispel and she became aware that she was on a river and there was a man beside her, holding her in place with his arm. None of this was surprising, for it was in exactly this way that she had expected to awaken from the flames – afloat in the netherworld, on the Baitarini River, in the custody of Charak, the boatman of the dead. Such was her fear of what she would see that she did not open her eyes: every wave, she imagined, was carrying her closer to the far bank, where the god of death, Jamaraj, held sway.

At length, when the journey showed no signs of ending, she plucked up the courage to ask how long the river was and how far the destination. There was no answer, so she called out the name of the boatman of the dead. Then, through the whisper of a deep, hoarse voice it was made known to her that she was alive, in the company of Kalua, on the Ganga – and there was no destination or aim to their journey except to escape. Even then she did not feel herself to be living in the same sense as before: a curious feeling, of joy mixed with resignation, crept into her heart, for it was as if she really had died and been delivered betimes in rebirth, to her next life: she had shed the body of the old Deeti, with the burden of its karma; she had paid the price her stars had demanded of her, and was free now to create a new destiny as she willed, with whom she chose – and she knew that it was with Kalua that this life would be lived, until another death claimed the body that he had torn from the flames.

Now there was a soft lapping and grinding, as Kalua nudged the raft to shore, and when it was lodged in the sand, he picked her up in his arms and placed her on the bank. Then, lifting up the raft, he disappeared into a stand of tall rushes, and when he came back to fetch her, she saw that he had laid the platform down in such a way as to turn it into a palette, a small, level island, hidden within the riverbank's greenery. After he had laid her on this bamboo floor, he drew back, as if to retreat and go elsewhere, and she understood that he was afraid, unsure of how she would respond to his presence, now that she was safe on land. She called to him, Kalua, come, don't leave me alone in this unknown place, come here. But when he lay down, she too was afraid: all of a sudden she was aware of how cold her body was, after its long immersion, and of the sopping wetness of her white sari. She began to shiver, and her hand, shaking, came upon his and she knew that he too was trembling, and slowly their bodies inched closer: as each sought the other's warmth, their damp, sodden clothing came unspooled, his langot and her sari. Now it was as though she was on the water again: she remembered his touch and how he had held her to his chest with his arm. On the side of her face that was pressed to his, she could feel the gentle abrasion of his unshaved cheek – on the other side, which was flattened against the deck, she could hear the whispering of the earth and the river, and they were saying to her that she was alive, alive, and suddenly it was as if her body was awake to the world as it had never been before, flowing like the river's waves, and as open and fecund as the reed-covered bank.

Afterwards, when she lay enveloped in his arms, he said, in his rough, hoarse voice: Ká sochawá? What're you thinking?

… Thinking how you saved me today; sochat ki tu bacháwelá…

It was myself I saved today, he said in a whisper. Because if you had died, I couldn't have lived; jinda na rah sakelá…

Shh! Don't say any more. Always superstitious, she shuddered at the mention of death.

But where will we go now? he said. What will we do? They'll hunt for us everywhere, in the cities and the villages.

Although she had no more of a plan than he did, she said: We'll go away, far away, we'll find a place where no one will know anything about us except that we are married.

Married? he said.

Yes.

Squirming out of his arms, she wrapped herself loosely in her sari and went off towards the river. Where are you going? he shouted after her. You'll see, she called over her shoulder. And when she came back, with her sari draped over her body like a veil of gossamer, it was with an armload of wild-flowers, blooming on the bank. Plucking a few long hairs from her head, she strung the flowers together to make two garlands: one she gave to him, and the other she took herself, lifting it up above his head and slipping it around his neck. Now he too knew what to do and when the exchange of garlands had bound them together, they sat for a while, awed by the enormity of what they had done. Then she crept into his arms again and was swept into the embracing warmth of his body, as wide and sheltering as the dark earth.