Flowers in the Blood (10 page)

Our tour finished inside the godown, a cool, dark storehouse where the dried cakes were lined in frames. “They will remain here through the summer. The boys will watch to be certain they are not attacked by weevils, turning them to prevent mildew. By next October they will be completely dry, hard, and in condition to be packed into cases of forty cakes each. The cases will be auctioned in Calcutta, where the Sassoons will buy them for delivery to the Chinese market.”

My heart pounded fiercely. “Are you going back to China?”

“Of course—” My stricken face alarmed him, and he put his arm. around my quaking shoulders. “That's a long time off, after the auction in October. Let's not think of it now.”

An Indian manager—a
gomastah
—dressed primly in a suit with a vest approached my father and handed him a sheaf of accounting papers. Papa loosened his grip on me and eased himself away. The two men walked off to a corner of the godown and conferred about the figures.

A tide of emotions swept over me. What would I do without a mother or a father? My stomach contracted. The air in the musty godown clogged my throat. I made my way to the nearest door—

opposite the one we had entered—feeling frightened and sorry for myself.

A muffled, almost animallike howl startled me.

I looked up to see, across the yard, a boy being beaten with one of the wooden paddles used to stir the raw opium. One worker held him down and tried to silence him while another struck his shoulders, his buttocks, and the back of his legs so forcefully I could hear the crack of the wood against his frail bones. Another boy heaved and sputtered as buckets of water were poured over him as he stood in a deep vat.

I ran for my father.

“Papa!” As I grabbed his arm, several documents fell to the mucky ground. Not caring, I urgently pulled him toward the yard.

“Dinah! What is—?”

“Come. A boy is hurt—”

“Hurt? An accident?” he asked as he let me lead him.

By the time we got there, the first boy was slumped against the wall. Huge welts were splayed on his back and chest. The thin skin around his ribs had burst. Blood trickled in rivulets, pooling at his waist. The other boy, still standing in the tub, was being brushed with harsh twig brooms. Everyone froze as my father looked at the injured children, then back at me. The brutality ceased. Now my father would punish the cruel bosses.

“That is enough” was all he said as he led me away. “It's not what you think, Dinah. Those boys are thieves. The workers are recovering what was stolen and making certain the culprits have learned their lesson.”

Tears welled in my eyes. “But how—?”

“Listen to me, Dinah, those boys rolled around in the poppy residue, coating their bodies with opium. If a boy can escape unnoticed to the bazaar, bad men will wash him down to distill and collect the residue, paying him four or five annas. You would not object to someone being beaten for stealing my purse, would you? Well, that powder is almost as valuable as gold. Why, one godown alone contains more than ten lacs of opium. If we let one boy off lightly, the others will take the risk. By beating one, we prevent a hundred more crimes.”

I trembled with exhaustion as much as confusion as my father carried me to the home of the gomastah, where we were given a simple meal of rice and fish. I slept the whole way back to our lodgings, awaking only when Yali prepared me for bed. I let her tuck me in, pretending to sleep until she snored rhythmically beside me on the floor. Then I got up and opened the door to my father's bedroom. He slept alone. I climbed in beside him and fell asleep. After that I spent every night with him until we made our way back to Calcutta and everything changed again.

 6 

 

F
or several weeks my father and I made similar forays to inspect the opium operations as far west as Benares, as far east as Monghyr. This was the first time I felt my father entirely sympathetic to me and I made every effort to meet his expectations by being a good companion, which meant watching his signals for when he wanted to chat and when he wanted me to be silent. Almost every Sabbath we lit candles with others who shared our faith. Instead of living in Calcutta where there were two synagogues and about a thousand Jews, these enterprising souls were often the only Jews in their communities. Abraham Cohen in Bhagalpur, Samuel Duek in Dinapur, Hilali Moses in Ghazipur, and Yoram Moses in Gorakhpur each talked with my father about daughters or nieces who would soon require husbands.

The granddaughter of one of the Moses brothers was so attentive to his every whim, I asked my father, “Do you like her?”

“She is a fine young lady.”

“Will you marry her?”

“No, Dinah. It is too soon for me to consider taking another wife.”

“But you will . . . someday,” I said, hoping this would not irritate him.

“Possibly, but it will not be the Moses girl, don't worry. Besides, you are such good company.”

He could not have said anything that would have pleased me more.

The cyclical processes of the opium business began to lose their fascination, and as the Gangetic plain began to absorb the penetrating blasts from the sun, the days at my father's side wilted me to the point I moved sluggishly, my strength and curiosity drained like a much-scored poppy. I began to dream of my high, cool bedroom on Theatre Road, where the servants prepared fresh
tatties
, reed mats soaked with water and placed at the windows to cool air currents as they entered the room, and where there were new books to read. I missed my grandparents—even Aunt Bellore and the other Sassoons.

Sometimes we traveled overland on Grand Trunk Road, down baked, parched roads. A few trips could be made by railway, which, when it speeded along, were tolerable. I remember one car filled with pale, panting English soldiers in shirtsleeves who gave me sweets and seemed amused when I told them I was helping my father in “the opium business.”

“Only one more place to visit and then we return home,” Papa sighed. “Won't you like that?”

“Oh, yes! I cannot wait to see Jonah and Asher and—” I thought it wise not to mention my grandparents.

The day before Passover, we arrived in Monghyr, where we would stay the whole holiday week with the Josephs, a Jewish family who managed the Sassoon interests in the area. Monghyr was situated inside an old Moghul fort. Within the fort, a rocky spur projected into the river. My father and I climbed out on it to examine the temples. Across the river we could see carts drawn by bullocks with wide, curving horns and huge eyes, moving as though in a trance, and barefoot men with burdens on their heads, their dark limbs accentuated by their white garments. My father held my hand. I was content.

The morning of the first seder, my father asked if I wished to remain with the Josephs to help prepare for the evening meal.

“No, I prefer to be with you.”

He seemed flattered by my loyalty. “Today we will ride in palanquins,” he announced.

“What's a palanquin?” I asked.

“You must have seen the enclosed litters. They're mounted on poles carried by four bearers.”

“Oh, those boxes with shutters. Why will we need them?”

“The track out to this refinery is too rocky and narrow for a carriage and too hot for the Josephs' horses,” he explained.

I found I liked riding lying down. As we bumped along, I made a list of the ways we had traveled so far: by boat, by train, by elephant, by cart, by several types of carriages, by horseback, by foot, and now by palanquin. I thought about the seder table laden with the traditional foods and the familiar ritual, and I imagined returning to Calcutta with so many stories to tell. For that hour, at least, all was right with the world, I decided, and fell asleep.

This new gomastah—a tall Indian with squinty eyes—was not as cordial as most of the others had been. With a sullen expression he led us to the godowns. My father randomly selected four finished balls, took them outside, and laid them on planks in the sun. He poked, sniffed, weighed, and checked them scrupulously. From the distance I

kept, I could see the manager fidgeting and wondered what might be happening, since my father had not behaved this way before. Using a pronglike tool, my father took a sample from four balls and prepared them in separate pots. Very slowly he measured water, mixed it with the opium, and set the combination over a small fire he had made on the earth.

The process took almost an hour, during which the opium samples were simmered, strained, and kept boiling until, by evaporation, each bowl was reduced to the thick consistency of syrup. The odor was reminiscent of something as soothing as the cleft of Yali's bosom. No, not Yali. Mama. I felt a wave of exhilaration, followed by a churning in my stomach. I backed away from the smoke and leaned against the scratchy plaster surface of a far wall while my father continued with his perplexing maneuvers.

From a satchel he lifted out a heavy tube with an elliptical earthenware cup at one end. He placed a pea-size sample into the bowl, bent over the flame, and drew a breath. His face turned red. He sputtered and coughed. After wiping his eyes, he cleaned the bowl and placed another hunk in it, repeating the process. This time he spat on the ground, wheeled around, and shouted,
“Soo-er ka baccha,”
which meant something like “son of a pig.” Anyway, his angry meaning was obvious. He took a long breath, then continued to chastise the manager in a gruff, slow voice. The gomastah quaked and apologized throughout his tongue-lashing. In order to increase the weight of the article—and consequently his profits—this processor had adulterated the juice of the poppy by mixing it with molasses. Later I learned that other swindlers used sugar, poppy seed, clayey mud, even cow dung for the same purpose.

At the end of his tirade my father swept the remains of the opium balls he had sampled onto the ground, then stamped them into the dust. “Men have been killed at Lintin Island for delivering excrement like this! I shall not risk my men or my name any further with you. Not only that, I will make a report, reminding every Calcutta merchant to avoid your chests this year—and the next as well.”

Papa gathered up his gear and turned his back to the man, who continued to sputter excuses. As my father led me away abruptly, he muttered, “We are finished here. Might as well return to Monghyr and rest before the seder.”

When we reached the end of the lane where we had left the palanquins resting in the shade of a banyan tree, he was vexed to discover one set of bearers had bolted. He threw up his hands and cursed the remaining palanquin-wallahs.

Not wishing to remain a moment longer than necessary, he placed me in the only sedan. “I shall walk alongside.”

Traveling in the heat of the day, I soon dozed off, but awoke to the sound of conversation. Opening the curtains, I could see my father was now accompanied by five men who said they were making a pilgrimage to Hardwar, where hordes descended in April to celebrate the solar New Year with temple visits and river baths. One pilgrim said he hoped to see a depression in a stone that was supposed to be a footprint of Vishnu, the god of preservation.

“What is another name for the Ganges?” I called out.

“Samsara-visa-nasini
, destroying the poison of illusion,” the man nearest me responded.

Several others crowded around me, surprised to see a young white girl.
“Hansa-swarupini
, embodied in the forms of swans,” a hefty pilgrim suggested in a funny, high voice. So pleased was I by this poetic addition that I repeated it twice.

Another man, whose face I could not quite glimpse because he was on my father's far side, called out,
“Ajnana-timira-bhanur
, a light amid the darkness of ignorance.”

The man's hand lifted in a gesture I almost took for a blessing until, horrified, I realized he was about to strike my father. A flutter of my curtain blocked my view. My palanquin ceased moving; the bearers had frozen.
“Thugs!”
they shouted. For a second my body floated above my mattress as they flung away their poles. The hovering moment ended with a crash.

I must have been knocked senseless for a few minutes, for when I opened my eyes, my litter was jumbled with broken crockery and splintered wood. When I reached to free myself, a sharp pain in my elbow traveled down my arm. My forearm was no longer attached at the correct angle. The sight of it caused me to reel back until a trickle of water from a broken jug stirred me. I listened for any sound of the pilgrims or our bearers. There were only the squawks of crows, the shrill cries of mynahs.

Gasping with pain, I managed to sit myself up and push my feet outside. “Papa?” I looked over where I had seen him last. Only a dusty residue rose from the steaming road. In the distance I thought I saw a human figure, but it was just the wavy currents of heat. The bearers had dispersed. The pilgrims had vanished—and my father with them.

I crawled back into the wreckage of my sedan, propping the broken supports so they formed a rude shelter that would protect me from the blazing sun. An hour must have passed before the need to urinate overwhelmed me. My arm, if I held it perfectly still, throbbed, but did not shoot excruciating barbs down my left side. I thought I could get to the side of the roadway. The movement made the pain more severe, but I gritted my teeth and found I could tolerate it. Crouching in the high grass, I relieved myself, but as I stood up, a shooting pain caused me to lose my balance. I toppled to the left, slamming my arm into a clod of earth. The blow felt as if I had been impaled by a hot iron, and I screamed. A quiver shot up my spine as I waited to be saturated with pain again. The absence of the sharp sensations was even more unnerving. With a guarded movement I touched my elbow. As long as I held the arm to my chest at a particular angle, there was a deep soreness, but nothing like the searing torment I had felt before. I found a seat on a slight rise above the road and tried to figure out what I must do.

The bearers had cried, “Thugs!” What did it mean? Bewildered, feeling abandoned, I began to cry.

When I became thirsty I rooted around in the palanquin to see if any jugs had been spared. Remarkably, a small one had been cushioned enough so only the lip had cracked. A full cup of liquid remained, which I drank down at once. I debated pulling the litter to the embankment, but decided against it for two reasons: I would be harder to spot, and even more pressing in my mind was the thought that beasts lurking in the forest would prefer me under the trees than in the clear. Many times during the paddle-boat journey we had spied tigers along the riverbank, particularly in the twilight hours. They slipped between the trees, revealing a shock of tail, or glint of eye, or sinuous ripple of body, never the whole flank of cat. I recalled that tales of tiger shoots had been a favorite among the passengers, and I hoped they were lapping up the river waters and not foraging inland that night.

As I was trying to push thoughts of tigers out of my mind, a rustle in the bushes on the opposite side of the road froze me. A pair of enormous eyes glinted. “Missy-baba . . .” came the whisper. A terrifying moment passed before I realized that tigers did not speak. I focused on the short, muscular man who stood before me. He was one of the bearers who had bolted. He said he would take me back to the opium factory. I did not think the gomastah would be particularly pleased to see me again, so I pointed in the direction we had been going.

“Too far for
baba-log
, little people.” He touched my sore arm, causing me to leap in pain.

“Ail” I cringed.

He apologized, then scooped me into his arms, cradling me like a baby the whole way back to the refinery.

The bearer talked excitedly to the gomastah and his wife, boasting of how he had saved me from the thugs. The woman was wearing a pale violet sari that flattered her luminescent skin. Seeing me frightened and in pain, she caressed my hair and cooed to me as she would to an infant. When I was calm, she had me stand before her while she ran her fingers lightly down my dislocated arm. Delicately she pressed around the elbow joint, then walked her fingers down to my wrist and up to my shoulder. Then she went to the shelf over a charcoal stove and poured hot water out of a brass bowl. She filled this with an aromatic oil which she warmed over the coals. After dipping her hands in the glistening pool, she dabbed the back of my hand, my inner arm, my elbow. The pressure of her massage unexpectedly increased, but before I could back away in protest, her fingers worked in unison to crack and snap my joint. I felt as if I had been lifted from the floor by some unseen force, then lowered harshly. I blinked, gasped, and dared to glance at my injured arm. It looked normal! Tentatively I moved it to the right and left. I grinned at the kindly woman, who lowered me onto a mat and offered me a platter of steaming vegetables, puffed bread, and cups of sweet tea.

While I ate, the gomastah discussed what they should do. I understood enough of their language to realize they were anxious to be of service to me. With their tampered opium exposed, they faced ruin— not only for that season, but perhaps forever if they lost their license to process for the government. Here was a way to win my father's silence and gain back their good name.

Very quietly they questioned me about what had happened, the woman speaking to me, then relating my words to her husband, who remained at a distance so as not to frighten me further. They seemed agitated as I described the blow to my father's neck and shoulders and his swift disappearance. The gomastah called in the bearer to ascertain where the incident had occurred, then ran off to rally laborers for a search.

I sipped tea and watched the antics of a baby beginning to walk while the woman again massaged my sore arm with the warm, perfumed oil. I fell asleep on a
charpoy
—a rude cot—awakening to a familiar voice. Mr. Joseph had come for me.