Sea of Poppies (73 page)

Yes, you did, Putli, came the answer. And others did too. But let me ask you: didn't I warn you about trying to get on this ship? And did you listen? No – of course not. You and I, we've always been like that, both of us. We've always been able to get away with things. But I suppose some day it stops, doesn't it? And then you have to start all over again.

This alarmed Paulette, not least because introspection had always been utterly foreign to Jodu; never before had she heard him speak in this vein.

And now, Jodu? she said. What's going to happen to you now?

I don't know, he said. Some of my shipmates say the whole tamasha will be forgotten in a day or two. But others think I'll be a target for the silahdars until we get into port.

And you? What do you think?

He took his time in answering, and when he spoke it was with an effort. For myself, Putli, he said, I'm done with the
Ibis
. After being beaten like a dog in front of everyone, I would rather drown than stay afloat in this cursed ship.

There was something implacable and unfamiliar in his voice and it made her glance at him again, as if to reassure herself that it was indeed Jodu who had spoken. The sight that met her eyes offered no such comfort: with his bruises and his swollen face and bloody clothes, he looked like the chrysalis of a being new and unknown. She was reminded of a tamarind seed that she had once wrapped in layers of damp cloth: after a fortnight of watering, when a tiny shoot had poked its head through, she had undone the wrappings to look for the seed – but in vain, for nothing remained of it but tiny shelllike fragments.

What will you do then, Jodu? she said.

He came closer and put his lips to the duct. Look, Putli, he whispered, I shouldn't be telling you this – but it's possible that some of us may be able to get off this ship.

Who? And how?

In one of the boats – me, the qaidis, some others too. Nothing's certain yet, but if it happens it'll be tonight. And there's something you may have to do for us – I don't know for sure yet, but I'll tell you when I do. In the meanwhile, not a word, to anyone.

Habés-pál
!

The hookum to heave-to was called in the middle of the morning. Below, in the dabusa, everyone knew that the ship would take in her sails when it was time for Kalua's flogging, and it was the change in the sound of the canvas, as much as the slowing of the vessel, that told
them the moment was imminent: with the masts stripped almost bare, the wind had begun to whistle as it tore through the rigging. The wind had held steady overnight, and the
Ibis
was still wallowing through heavy, foam-flecked swells. The sky had darkened in the meanwhile, with waves of grey cloud tumbling over each other.

Once the ship had slowed, the maistries and silahdars went about the business of mustering the migrants with a grim, almost salacious relish: the women were told to remain in the dabusa, but of the men, apart from a few who were too unwell to stand, all the rest were made to go above. The men stepped on deck expecting to find Kalua at the mast, in chains, but he was nowhere to be seen: he had been removed to the fana and would not be produced till later, when his entrance would have the greatest possible effect.

The schooner was pitching so hard that the migrants could not be kept on their feet, as at their last muster at Saugor Roads. The guards made them sit in rows, facing the quarter-deck, with their backs to the stern. As if to underline the exemplary nature of what they were about to witness, the guards and overseers were meticulous in ensuring that every man had a clear and unobstructed view of the frame-like contrivance that had been prepared for Kalua's flogging – a rectangular set of gratings that had been set against the centre of the fife-rails, with ropes tied to each corner for the shackling of his ankles and wrists.

Bhyro Singh had placed himself at the head of this assembly and he was wearing his old regimental uniform: a freshly laundered dhoti and a maroon-coloured coattee, with a subedar's stripes on the sleeves. While the guards were organizing the migrants, he sat cross-legged on a pile of ropes, combing the strands of a leather chabuk and pausing, from time to time, to send the lash cracking through the air. He paid no attention to the migrants, but they, on the other hand, could not tear their eyes from the gleaming lash of his whip.

Presently, after administering a last test to the chabuk, the subedar rose and signalled to Steward Pinto to summon the officers to the quarter-deck. The sahibs took a few minutes to appear, the Kaptan coming first and then the two malums. All three men were seen to be armed, for they had left their coats open in such a way that the butts of the pistols in their waistbands were clearly visible.
As was the custom, the Kaptan took his stand, not at the centre of the quarter-deck, but rather at the weather end, which happened to be on the schooner's dawa side. The two malums stood guard near the centre, on either side of the frame.

All this had unfolded at a slow, ceremonial pace, to allow the migrants time to absorb every element of it: it was as though they were being primed, not merely to watch the flogging, but actually to share in the experience of the pain. The timing and the gradual accumulation of details created a kind of stupor – not so much of fear, as of collective anticipation – so that when Kalua was led through their midst, it was as if they were all, severally, being tied to the frame for the flogging.

But there was one respect in which none of them could imagine themselves to be Kalua, which was his enormous size. He was brought on deck wearing only a langot, which had been pulled tight between his legs, so as to present the lash with the widest possible expanse of flesh and skin. The white band of the langot seemed to amplify his stature so that even before he had stepped up to the fiferail, it was clear that his body would not fit within the chosen frame: his head rose well above it, reaching up to the top of the rails, where it was level with the malums' knees. As a result, the bindings that had been prepared for him had to be rearranged: while his ankles remained at the two lower corners of the frame, his wrists had to be tied to the fife-rails, where they were aligned with his face.

When the ropes had been tied and tested, the subedar saluted the Kaptan and announced that all was ready:
Sab taiyár sah'b
!

The Kaptan answered with a nod and gave him the signal to start: ‘Chullo!'

The silence on deck was now so profound that the Kaptan's voice was clearly audible in the dabusa, as were the subedar's footsteps, when he measured out the paces for his run-up. Deeti gasped –
Hé Rám, hamré bacháo
! Paulette and the other women huddled over her, clamping their hands over their ears, in an effort to deaden the crack of the whip – in vain, as it turned out, for they could spare themselves no part of it, not the whistle of the leather as it curled through the air, nor the sickening crunch with which it bit into Kalua's skin.

Up on the quarter-deck, Zachary was the closest to Kalua, and he felt the impact of the whip through the soles of his feet. A moment later something stung him on his face; he drew the back of his hand across his cheek and saw that it was blood. He felt his gorge rise and took a backwards step.

Beside him, Mr Crowle, who had been watching with a smile, gave a chuckle: ‘No goose without gravy, eh, Mannikin?'

The swing of his arm had brought Bhyro Singh close enough that he could watch the weal rising on Kalua's skin. In savage satisfaction, he muttered into his ear:
Kuttá
! Scavenging dog, see what you've earned for yourself? You'll be dead before I'm done with you.

Kalua heard him clearly, through the buzzing in his head, and he asked, in a whisper: Malik – what have I ever done to you?

The question – as much as the bewildered tone in which it was asked – further enraged Bhyro Singh. Done? he said. Isn't it enough that you are what you are?

These words echoed through Kalua's head as the subedar walked away, to begin his next run: Yes, what I am is enough . . . through this life and the next, it will be enough . . . this is what I will live through, again and again and again . . .

Yet, even as he was listening to the echo of Bhyro Singh's voice, in some other part of his head he was counting the subedar's paces, numbering the seconds till the next blow. When the lash dug in, the pain was so fierce, so blinding, that his head slumped sideways, towards his wrist, so that he could feel the roughness of the rope against his lips. To keep himself from biting his tongue, he clamped his teeth upon the coil, and when the lash struck again, the pain made his jaws lock so that he bit clean through one of the four turns of rope with which his wrist was tied.

Again the subedar's voice was in his ear, speaking in a mocking whisper:
Kãptí ke marlá kuchhwó dokh nahin
– To kill a deceiver is no sin . . .

These words, too, echoed through Kalua's head –
kãptí
. . .
ke
. . .
marlá
. . .
kuchhwó
. . .
dokh
. . .
nahin
– each of the syllables marking one of the subedar's paces, going away and then turning around to come thundering back, until the lash flamed across his
back, and again he bit through another twist of rope: then it began once more, the enumeration of the syllables, the crack of the lash, and the tightening of his teeth – again, and yet again, until the bindings on his wrist were all but gone, except for a few last threads.

By this time, the drumbeat in Kalua's head had attuned itself so accurately to the subedar's paces that he knew exactly when the lash was uncoiling through the air, and he knew, too, exactly when to pull his hand free. As the subedar came rushing forward, he torqued his torso on the fulcrum of his waist and snatched the lash out of the air as it was curling towards him. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it snaking back so that it looped itself around Bhyro Singh's ox-like neck. Then, with a single, flowing sweep of his arm, he pulled the lash tight, jerking it with such force that before anyone could take a step or utter a sound, the subedar was lying dead on the deck, his neck broken.

D
own below, in the dabusa, the women were holding their breath: so far, the charging sound of Bhyro Singh's run-up had been followed always by the flesh-splitting crack of the lash as it bit into Kalua's back. But this time the rhythm was interrupted before reaching its climax: it was as though an unseen hand had snuffed out the peal of thunder that follows upon a bolt of lightning. And when the silence was broken, it was not by a noise of the kind they had expected, but by a concerted roar, as if a wave had come crashing down upon the vessel, swamping it in chaos: screams, shouts and the thudding of feet merged and grew in volume until the individual elements could not be told apart. The dabusa became once again a giant drum, pounded on by panicked feet above and angry waves below. To the women, it sounded as if the vessel were foundering and the menfolk were fighting to get away in the ship's boats, leaving them behind to drown. Running to the ladder the women scrambled up, towards the sealed exit, but just as the first of them reached it, the hatch flew open. Expecting a wave to come crashing down, the women leapt off the ladder – but instead of a torrent of water, there came first one migrant and then another, and still another, each tumbling over the other to escape the silahdars' flailing lathis. The women pounced on them, shaking them out of their shock, demanding to know what had happened and what was going on.