Sea of Poppies (40 page)

Yes, said the guard, with a guffaw of laughter. And after that you'll be off to your in-laws' palace, in Alipore. You'll be nicely looked after over there – nothing to worry about.

For a short while more, Neel's food continued to come from the Raskhali palace, but then, abruptly, it stopped. Instead, he was handed a wooden basin, a tapori of the kind that was used to serve all the lock-up's inmates: looking under the lid he saw that it contained a gruel-like mixture of dal and coarse rice. ‘What's this?' he asked the constable, and was answered by nothing more than a negligent shrug.

He took the basin inside, placed it on the floor and walked away, resolving to ignore it. But in a while hunger drove him back and
he seated himself cross-legged beside the basin and removed the lid. The contents had congealed into a grey slop and the smell made him gag, but he forced himself to scoop up a few grains with his fingertips. As he was raising his hand to his lips, it occurred to him that this was the first time in all his years that he had ever eaten something that was prepared by hands of unknown caste. Perhaps it was this thought, or perhaps it was just the smell of the food – it happened, at any rate, that he was assailed by a nausea so powerful that he could not bring his fingers to his mouth. The intensity of his body's resistance amazed him: for the fact was that he did not believe in caste, or so at least he had said, many, many times, to his friends and anyone else who would listen. If, in answer, they accused him of having become too
tãsh
, overly Westernized, his retort was always to say, no, his allegiance was to the Buddha, the Mahavira, Shri Chaitanya, Kabir and many others such – all of whom had battled against the boundaries of caste with as much determination as any European revolutionary. Neel had always taken pride in laying claim to this lineage of egalitarianism, all the more so since it was his prerogative to sit on a Raja's guddee: but why, then, had he never before eaten anything prepared by an unknown hand? He could think of no answer other than ease of habit: because he had always done what was expected of him; because the legion of people who controlled his daily existence had seen to it that it happened in that way and no other. He had thought of his everyday routines as a performance, a duty and nothing more; one of the many little enactments that were required by the demands of a social existence, by samsara – none of it was meant to be real; it was just an illusion, no more than a matter of playing a part in the great charade of conducting a householder's life. And yet there was nothing unreal about the nausea that had seized him now; it was not an illusion that his body was convulsed by a sensation of
ghrina
, a stomach-clenching revulsion that made him recoil from the wooden container in front of him.

Neel stood up and walked away, trying to steady himself: it was clear now that this was not just a matter of a single meal; it was a question of life and death, whether he'd be able to survive or not.
Returning to the tapori, he seated himself beside it, lifted a few morsels to his lips and forced himself to swallow them. It was as if he had ingested a handful of burning embers, for he could feel each grain blazing a trail of fire through his entrails – but he would not stop; he ate a little more, and a little more, until his very skin seemed to be peeling from his body. That night his dreams were plagued by a vision of himself, transformed into a moulting cobra, a snake that was struggling to free itself of its outworn skin.

Next morning he woke to find a sheet of paper under his door. It was a notice, printed in English: ‘Burnham Bros. announce the sale of a property awarded by a decision of the Supreme Court of Judicature, a handsome residence known as the Raskhali Rajbari . . .'

He stared at the sheet in a daze, running his eyes over it again and again. This was a possibility he had not allowed himself to contemplate: the deluge of his misfortunes was such that to protect himself from drowning under them, he had chosen not to inquire too closely into the precise implications of the Supreme Court's judgement. Now, his hands began to shake as he thought of what the sale of the Rajbari would mean for his dependants: what would become of the family's servants and retainers, the widowed female relatives?

And what indeed would become of Malati and Raj? Where would they go? His wife's family home, where her brothers now lived, was not a grand residence, like the Raskhali Rajbari, but it was certainly large enough to accommodate her. But now that she had irretrievably lost caste, along with her husband, there could be no question of her seeking shelter there; if her brothers took her in, their own sons and daughters would never be able to find spouses of their own station. Malati was too proud, he knew, to put her brothers in the situation of having to turn her away.

Neel began to pound upon his chained door. He kept at it until it was opened by a guard. He needed to send a message to his family, he told the constable; some arrangement had to be made to take a letter; he would insist until it was done.

Insist? sneered the constable, waggling his head in derision, and who did he think he was, some kind of raja?

But word must have percolated through, because later in the day, he heard a key turning in the lock. At that hour of the afternoon the
sound could only herald a visitor, so he went eagerly to the door, expecting to find Parimal on the threshold – or perhaps one of his gomustas or daftardars. But when the doors swung open, it was to reveal his wife and son, standing outside.

You? He could scarcely bring himself to speak.

Yes. Malati was wearing a red-bordered cotton sari, and although her head was covered, the garment was not draped in such a way as to veil her face.

You've come like this? Neel moved quickly to one side, so she could step out of public view. To a place where everyone can see you?

Malati tossed her head, so that her sari dropped to her shoulders baring her hair. How does it matter any more? she said quietly. We are no different now from anyone on the street.

He began to chew his lip, in concern. But the shame, he said. Are you sure you will be able to bear it?

Me? she said matter-of-factly. What's it to me? It wasn't for my own sake that I kept purdah – it was because you and your family wanted it. And it means nothing now: we have nothing to preserve and nothing to lose.

Now Raj's arm came snaking around Neel's waist, as the boy buried his face in his father's midriff. Looking down at his head, it seemed to Neel that his son had shrunk somehow – or was it just that he could not remember ever seeing him in a coarse cotton vest and knee-length dhoti?

Our kites . . . are they . . . ? He had been trying to keep his tone light and his voice punished him by dying in his throat.

I threw them all in the river, said the boy.

We've given away most of our things, Malati added quickly. Tucking in her sari, she took the jharu from the corner where the guard had left it and set to sweeping the floor. We've kept only what we can take with us.

Take where? said Neel. Where are you thinking to go?

It's all been arranged, she said, sweeping busily. You shouldn't worry.

But I must know, he insisted. Where are you going? You have to tell me.

To Parimal's place.

Parimal's place? Neel repeated the words after her, in bewilderment: he had never thought of Parimal as having a home of his own, other than his quarters in the Rajbari.

But where is Parimal's place?

Not far from the city, she said. I didn't know of it either, till he told me. He bought some land, years ago, with money saved from his earnings. He's going to give us a corner of it.

Neel sank helplessly on to his string bed, holding his son by the shoulders. He could feel the dampness of Raj's tears on his skin now, soaking through his tunic, and he pulled the boy closer, sinking his chin into his thick black hair. Then his own face began to smart and he realized that his eyes had welled up with a substance that was as corrosive as acid, tinged with the bitter gall of his betrayals of his wife and child, and with the bile that came from knowing that he had spent all his years as a somnambulist, walking through his days as if his life mattered no more than a bit-part in a play written by someone else.

Malati put away the jharu and came to sit beside him. We'll be all right, she said insistently. Don't worry about us; we'll manage. It's you who must be strong. For our sakes, if not your own, you have to stay alive: I could not bear to be a widow, not after all this.

As her words sank in, his tears dried on his cheeks and he spread out his arms to pull his wife and son to his chest. Listen to me, he said: I
will
stay alive. I make you this promise: I will. And when these seven years are over, I will return and I will take you both away from this accursed land and we will start new lives in some other place. That is all I ask of you: do not doubt that I will come back, for I will.

The tumasher for Captain Chillingworth, with all its fuss and goll-maul, was not long in the past when Paulette received yet another summons to the Burra BeeBee's bedchamber. The call came shortly after Mr Burnham's departure for his Dufter, and the wheels of his carriage were still crackling on the conkers of Bethel's drive when a khidmutgar knocked on Paulette's door to deliver the summons. This was not an hour of day which often found Mrs Burnham fully awakened from her nightly dose of laudanum, so it seemed only natural to
assume that the call was of especial urgency, prompted by an unannounced church tiffin or some other unexpected entertainment. But on being admitted to the BeeBee's bedchamber it became apparent to Paulette that this was an occasion truly without precedent – for not only was Mrs Burnham fully awake, she was actually on her feet, skipping prettily around the room, throwing open the shutters.

‘Oh Puggly!' she cried, as Paulette stepped in. ‘Pray, where
have
you been, dear?'

‘But Madame,' said Paulette. ‘I came all-a-sweet, as soon as I was told.'

‘Really, dear?' said the BeeBee. ‘It seems like I've been waiting an age. I thought for sure you were off to bake a brinjaul.'

‘Oh, but Madame!' protested Paulette. ‘It is not the bonne hour.'

‘No, dear,' Mrs Burnham agreed. ‘It would never do to be warming the coorsy when there's kubber like this to be heard.'

‘News?' said Paulette. ‘There is some news?'

‘Why yes, so there is; but we must sit on the cot, Puggly dear,' said Mrs Burnham. ‘It's not the kind of thing you want to be gupping about on your feet.' Taking Paulette by the hand, the BeeBee led her across the room and cleared a place for the two of them at the edge of her bed.

‘But what is it that has arrived, Madame?' said Paulette, in rising alarm. ‘Nothing bad, I hope?'

‘Good heavens, no!' said Mrs Burnham. ‘It's the best possible news, dear.'

Mrs Burnham's voice was so warm and her blue eyes so filled with fellow-feeling, that Paulette became a little apprehensive. Something was amiss, she knew: could it be that the BeeBee, with her uncanny powers of divination, had somehow uncovered the most pressing of her secrets? ‘Oh Madame,' she blurted out, ‘it is not about . . . ?'

‘Mr Kendalbushe?' Mrs Burnham prompted her delightedly. ‘Why, how did you know?'

Robbed of her breath, Paulette could only repeat, stupefied: ‘Mr Kendalbushe?'

‘You sly little shaytan!' said the BeeBee, slapping her wrist. ‘Did you guess or did someone tell you?'

‘Neither, Madame. I you assure, I do not know . . .'

‘Or was it just a case,' continued the BeeBee archly, ‘of two hearts chiming together, like gantas in a clock-tower?'

‘Oh Madame,' cried Paulette, in distress. ‘It is nothing like that.'

‘Well then I can't imagine how you knew,' declared the BeeBee, fanning herself with her nightcap. ‘As for myself, a talipot in a gale could not be knocked over as easily as I was when Mr Burnham told me this morning.'

‘Told you what, Madame?'

‘About his meeting with the judge,' said Mrs Burnham. ‘You see, Puggly, they had dinner at the Bengal Club yesterday, and after they'd bucked about this and that, Mr Kendalbushe asked if he might broach a rather delicate matter. Now, as you know, dear, Mr Burnham holds Mr Kendalbushe in the highest esteem so of course he said yes. And would you like to hazard a guess, Puggly dear, about what this matter was?'

‘A point of law?'

‘No, dear,' said Mrs Burnham, ‘far more delicate than that: what he wanted to ask was whether you, dear Puggly, might look favourably upon his suit.'

‘Suit?' said Paulette, in confusion. ‘But Madame, I cannot say. I have no memory of his costume.'

‘Not that kind of suit, you gudda,' said Mrs Burnham, with a good-natured laugh. ‘Suit of marriage is what he meant. Don't you samjo, Puggly? He's planning to propose to you.'

‘To me?' cried Paulette in horror. ‘But Madame! Why?'