Sea of Poppies (62 page)

After a few days the majority of the migrants began to recover from their seasickness. Yet, even as the others were getting better, a few showed no signs of improvement at all, and some grew steadily weaker and more helpless so that their bodies could be seen to be wasting away. Although their number was not large, they had a disproportionate effect on the others: following upon all the other mishaps of the journey, their deteriorating condition created an atmosphere of despondency and demoralization in which many who had recovered began to ail afresh.

Every few days, the maistries would sprinkle vinegar or powdered lime around the edges of the hold, and a few of the patients would be given foul-smelling, gummy potions to drink. Many would spit out the liquid as soon as the guards' backs were turned, for it was rumoured that the so-called medicine had been concocted from the hoofs and horns of pigs, cows and horses. In any case, the medicines seemed to have no effect at all on the worst-affected migrants, of whom there were about a dozen.

The next to die was a thirty-year-old coppersmith from Ballia, a man whose once-robust body had dwindled almost to a skeleton. He had no relatives on board, and only one friend, who was himself too ill to go on deck when the dead man's body was cast into the water.

At that time Deeti was still too weak to sit up or take notice, but by the time the next death occurred, she was well on her way to recovery: in this instance, the deceased was a young Muslim julaha from Pirpainti, who was travelling with two cousins. The dead weaver's companions were even younger than he, and neither of them was in a state to protest when a squad of silahdars came down to the dabusa and ordered them to heave the body up so that it could be tipped overboard.

Deeti was not especially inclined to intervene, but when it became clear that no one else was going to say anything, what could she do but speak up? Wait! she told the two boys. This isn't right, what they're telling you to do.

The three silahdars rounded on her angrily: You stay out of this; it's none of your business.

But of course it is, she retorted. He may be dead but he's still one of us: you can't just throw him away like the skin of a peeled onion.

So what do you expect? said the silahdars. Do you want us to stop and make a big tamasha every time a coolie dies?

Just a little
izzat
; some respect . . . it's not right to treat us like this.

And who's going to stop us? came the sneering response. You?

Not me maybe, said Deeti. But there are others here . . .

By this time, many of the girmitiyas had risen to their feet, not with the intention of confronting the silahdars, but mostly out of curiosity. The guards, however, had noted the stir of movement with no little apprehension. The three silahdars began to edge nervously towards the ladder, where one of them paused to ask, in a voice that was suddenly conciliatory: What's to be done with him, then?

Give his relatives some time to talk things over, said Deeti. They can decide what is necessary.

We'll see what the subedar says.

With that, the guards went back on deck, and after a half-hour or so, one of them shouted through the hatch to let the migrants know that the subedar had agreed to let the dead man's kin sort the matter out for themselves. This concession was met with jubilation below, and more than a dozen men offered their help in carrying the body up to the deck.

Later, the dead man's kin sought Deeti out to let her know that the body had been cleaned as prescribed before being consigned to the sea. Everyone agreed that this was a signal victory, and not even the most quarrelsome or envious men could deny that it was largely Deeti's doing.

Kalua alone was less than completely happy about the outcome. Bhyro Singh may have given in this time, he whispered in Deeti's ear, but he's not glad about it. He's been asking who was behind the trouble and whether it was the same woman as before.

Deeti, elated by her success, shrugged this off. What can he do now? she said. We're at sea – he can't send us back, can he?

‘Take in the flying jib!' –
Tán fulána-jíb!

Through most of the morning the schooner had been close-hauled to the strengthening wind and the masts had been crowded thesam-thes, with a great press of sail. But now, with the sun overhead, the swells in the heaving sea had mounted to a height where
the schooner was being continually pooped by surging waves. Zachary, glorying in the power of the vessel, would have kept all her canvas aloft, but was over-ruled by the Captain, who ordered him to reduce sail.

‘Standy by!' –
Sab taiyár!

Taking in the flying-jib required only one man to go aloft, usually the quickest and lightest of the trikat-wale. Ascending almost to the truck of the foremast, the lascar would unloose the hinch that secured the sail's head, while the others waited below, between the bows, in order to wrestle the canvas down and stow it on its boom. By rights it should have fallen to Jodu to go up alone, but Mamdoo-tindal hated to work on the jib-boom, especially when the thirty-foot spar was ploughing in and out of the water, drenching all those who were clinging to it. Under the pretext of making sure the job was done right, the tindal followed Jodu up the mast and made himself comfortable on the baopar side of the sabar-purwan, seating himself on the yard while Jodu climbed still further up, to wrestle with the hinch.

‘Haul aft the sheet!' –
Dáman tán chikár!

Hold on! Mamdoo-tindal's warning came just as the knot sprung loose.

Suddenly, as if seized by panic, the canvas reared up and flung itself against Jodu: it was as if a hunted swan were trying to beat off a pursuer with a frenzied thrashing of its wings. Just in time, Jodu fastened both arms around the mast and clung on, while the men below began to haul on the hanjes, to sheet the sail home. But with the updraughts blowing strong, the sail did not go easily and the canvas kept rearing up, as if to snap at Jodu's heels.

You see, said Mamdoo-tindal, with no little satisfaction. It's not as easy as you launders think.

Easy? Who'd think that?

Slipping down from the masthead, Jodu seated himself astride the sabar yard so that he was sitting with his back to the tindal, with the mast in between. On either side of the schooner, the sea was striped with wide swathes of black shadow, marking the valleys between the swells. Up on the yard, where the ship's motions were exaggerated by the height of the mast, it was if they were sitting on
a palm tree that was swaying from side to side. Jodu tightened his hold, weaving his arms through the sawais, knowing full well that with the water heaving as it was, a fall would mean certain death. With the wind gusting like this, it would take at least an hour to bring the schooner about, and the chances of survival were so slight that the afsars were unlikely even to change course: yet, there was no denying that the danger added a dash of mirch to the masala of the masts.

Mamdoo-tindal was of the same mind. He pointed to the outermost tip of the jib-boom, which was known to the lascars as the
Shaitán-jíb
– the Devil's-tongue – because so many sailors had lost their lives there. We're lucky to be here, he said. Just look at those poor buggers down there – the gandus are getting a bath like they've never had.
Chhi!
How it would make Ghaseeti's kajal run!

Glancing down at the schooner's bows, Jodu saw that the Devil's-tongue was plunging in and out of the swells, ducking the lascars who were sitting astride it, and tossing plumes of water over the deck, drenching the migrants who were emerging from the hatch for their midday meal. Under Jodu's feet, below the footropes, there was an elliptical opening between the billowing trikat and the bara: this gap afforded a view of the waist of the schooner, and looking through it now, Jodu saw two sari-clad figures sitting crouched under the jamna devis. He knew, from the colour of the sari, that one of them was Munia, and he knew, too, from the incline of her veiled head, that she was looking at him.

This exchange of glances did not elude Mamdoo-tindal, who curled his elbow around the mast to give Jodu a jab in the ribs. Are you staring at that girl again, you fuckwit of a launder?

Surprised by the severity of his tone, Jodu said: What's wrong with looking, Mamdoo-ji?

Listen to me, boy, said Mamdoo-tindal. Can't you see? You're a lascar and she's a coolie; you're a Muslim and she's not. There's nothing for you in this: nothing but a whipping. Do you understand?

Jodu burst into laughter. Arre, Mamdoo-ji, he said, you take things too seriously sometimes. What's wrong with a couple of jokes and a laugh? Doesn't it help the time pass? And wasn't it you
said that when Ghaseeti was my age she always got whoever she wanted – no jhula or bunk was safe from her?

Tchhi!
Turning away from the wind, the tindal ejected a gob of spittle that sailed away across the length of the yard, landing in the sea on the far side of the schooner. Listen, boy, he muttered darkly, under his breath. If you don't know why this is different, then a dismasting may be just what you need.

Even with fetters on his wrists, Ah Fatt possessed a sureness of hand that was astonishing to Neel. That he should be able to pluck flies out of the air – not swat, but pluck, trapping the insects between the tips of thumb and forefinger – was remarkable enough, but that he should be able to do this in the dark seemed scarcely credible. Often, at night, when Neel was ineffectually flailing his hands at a fly or mosquito, Ah Fatt would catch hold of his arm and tell him to lie still: ‘Shh! Let me listen.'

To ask for silence in the chokey was to expect too much: what with the creaking of the ship's timbers, the lapping of the water beneath the hull, the tread of the sailors above, and the voices of the migrants on the far side of the bulwark, it was never quiet within its confines. But Ah Fatt seemed to be able to use his senses in such a way as to block out some noises while focusing on others: when the insect made itself heard again, his hand would come shooting out of the darkness to put an end to its drone. It didn't seem to matter even if the insect settled on Neel's body: Ah Fatt would pluck it out of the darkness in such a way that Neel would feel nothing but a slight pinch on his skin.

But tonight it was neither the hum of an insect nor Neel's flailing that made Ah Fatt say: ‘Shh! Listen.'

‘What is it?'

‘Listen.'

Suddenly Ah Fatt's fetters moved, and their rattle was followed by a frantic, high-pitched squeaking. Then there was a snapping sound, like that of a bone breaking.

‘What was it?' said Neel.

‘Rat.' An odour of excrement filled the chokey as Ah Fatt removed the cover of the toilet bucket to drop the dead creature inside.

Neel said: ‘I don't understand how you can catch it with your bare hands.'

‘Learnt.'

‘To catch flies and mice?'

Ah Fatt laughed. ‘No. Learnt to listen.'

‘From whom?'

‘Teacher.'

Neel, for all his connoisseurship of teachers and tutors, could think of none who would teach this particular skill. ‘What kind of teacher would teach you that?'

‘Teacher who teach to box.'

Neel was more than ever mystified. ‘A boxing teacher?'

Ah Fatt laughed again. ‘Strange no? Father made to learn.'

‘But why?'

‘He want me be like English Man,' said Ah Fatt. ‘Want me learn things that Man must know – rowing, hunting, cricket. But in Guangzhou, there is no hunting and there is no garden for cricket. And rowing is done by servant. So he makes to learn boxing.'

‘Your father? Did you live with your father then?'

‘No. Live with Grandmother. In junk.'

The vessel was actually a Canton kitchen-boat, with a wide, flat prow, where dishes could be washed and pigs butchered. Aft of the prow was the galley, with a four-fire oven, sheltered by a bamboo roof; the middle section was sunken, and shaded by an awning, with a low table and benches for customers; the stern was square and high, with a double-decked house perched on it: this was where the family lived – Ah Fatt, his mother, his grandmother and whichever cousins or other relatives happened to be passing through.