After the others had left, Kesri ferreted out his father’s stock of opium and tucked a pinch of it in his cheek. He soon fell asleep, and although he woke briefly when the others returned, he did not stir from his mat. Night had already fallen so no one came to rouse him and he soon drifted off again.
When next he woke it was very late and his brother was whispering in his year: Uthelu Kesri-bhaiya, wake up — come outside!
Still groggy from the opium, Kesri held on to his brother’s elbow and followed him through the sleeping house, to the charpoys under the mango tree.
Listen, Kesri-bhaiya, Bhim whispered. You have to hurry — Bhyro Singhji is waiting for you.
Ka kahrelba? Kesri rubbed his sleepy eyes with his knuckles. What are you talking about?
Yes, said Bhim. It’s true. I spoke to Bhyro Singhji at the mela today: I told him that you wanted to join the Company’s army but that Babuji does not wish it and wouldn’t give his permission. He said that Babuji’s wishes do not concern him at all. Babuji is not his relative, and he doesn’t care about his views. Calcutta is too far for Babuji to do anything about it.
Kesri was suddenly wide awake: So what did you say?
I told him that if you left without Babuji’s permission you would have no money or equipment, or even a horse. He said that this too would not matter — a horse is not necessary because they are travelling to Calcutta by boat. As for other necessities, he will give you a loan, to be paid back later.
And then?
He said that if you were sure in your mind that you want to go, then you should meet him and his men at the ghat by the river, at dawn. That is when their boat will be sailing. They will be waiting for you. Der na hoi — don’t be late.
Is this true? cried Kesri. Are you sure?
Yes, Kesri-bhaiya. Dawn is not so far off. If you start walking you will be there in time to meet them.
Desperate though he was to leave, Kesri was reluctant to leave his brother to face their father’s wrath alone. But Bhim reassured him, saying that he would be all right, their father wouldn’t know of his part in arranging Kesri’s departure so he would suffer no consequences. To the contrary he might even stand to benefit, because with Kesri gone he might well be asked to stay on at home, which would suit him nicely. In all likelihood Kesri would himself be forgiven once he started sending money home.
Kesri had never known his brother to think anything through so carefully. Was it you who came up with this plan? he said. Did you think of it yourself?
Bhim shook his head. Me? No. It was Deeti. It was all her doing. She told me to seek out Bhyro Singhji and she told me exactly what to say to him. She thought of everything. Even this.
He handed over a cloth bundle: It is a spare dhoti and some sattu. That is all you’ll need. Now hurry!
September 2, 1839
Guangzhou
Yesterday I was again invited to Compton’s print-shop, to meet with Zhong Lou-si.
It was a nice afternoon so we were able to sit outside, in the courtyard, under the cherry tree. For a while we spoke of inconsequential things, and then the conversation came around again, to the question of a British attack on China. Zhong Lou-si was a little more forthcoming today; he gave me to understand that he has been aware of the rumours for some time.
After a while he cleared his throat and spoke in a very gentle voice, as if to indicate that he was broaching a difficult and delicate subject.
Tell me, Ah Neel, he said. You are from Ban-gala are you not?
Haih, Lou-si.
We have heard, Ah Neel, he continued, that in Ban-gala there are many who are unhappy with British rule. It is said that the people there want to rise up in rebellion against the Yinglizi. Is this true?
It took me some time to compose my thoughts.
Lou-si, I said, there is no simple answer to your question. It is true that there are many in Bengal who are unhappy with foreign rule. But it is also true that many people have become rich by helping the British: they will go to great lengths to help them stay in power. And there are others who are happy to have them just because they have brought peace and security. Many people remember the turmoil of past times and they don’t want to go back to that.
Folding his hands in his lap, Zhong Lou-si leant forward a little, so that his eyes bored into mine.
And what about you, Ah Neel? What do you feel about the Yinglizi?
I was caught off-guard.
What can I tell you? I said. My father was one of those who supported the East India Company and I grew up under British rule. But in the end my family lost everything. I had to leave home and seek my living abroad. So you could say, that for me and my family British rule has been a disaster of our own making.
Compton and Zhong Lou-si were listening intently and they exchanged glances when I finished. Then, as if by pre-arrangement, Compton began to speak.
Ah Neel, Zhong Lou-si wants me to convey to you that he is mindful of the help you have given us in the past and very much appreciates it. Earlier this year, during the crisis, you gave us a lot of useful information and advice. He thinks that there is more that we can learn from you — and as I’ve told you he is now in charge of a bureau of translation and information-gathering.
He paused, to let his words sink in, and then continued: Zhong Lou-si wants to know if you would like to work with us. In the months ahead we may need someone who has a knowledge of Indian languages. You would be paid, of course, but it would mean that you would have to live here in Guangzhou for some time. And while you are working with us, you would have to cut off your relations with India and with foreigners. What do you think of this?
To say that I was astounded would not express a tenth part of what I felt: I suddenly realized that I could not answer Compton without picking sides, which is alien to my nature. I have always prided myself on my detachment — doesn’t Panini say that this is essential for the study of words, languages, grammar? This too was why I had liked Compton from the first, because I had recognized in him a kindred soul, someone who was interested in things — and words — merely because they existed. But I realized now that I was faced with a choice of committing my loyalties not just to a friend but to a vast plurality of people: an entire country, and one with which I have few connections.
Faced with this prospect my life seemed to flash past me. I remembered my English tutor, Mr Beasley, and how he had guided and encouraged my reading; I thought of the pleasure and excitement with which I had read Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift, and the long hours I’d spent committing passages of Shakespeare to memory. But I remembered also the night I was taken to Alipore Jail, and how I had tried to speak English with the British sarjeant who was on duty there: my words made no more difference to him than the chattering of crows. And why should I have imagined otherwise? It is madness to think that knowing a language and reading a few books can create allegiances between people.
Thoughts, books, ideas, words — if anything, they make you more alone, because they destroy whatever instinctive loyalties you may once have possessed. And to whom, in any case, do I owe my loyalties? Certainly not to the zamindars of Bengal, none of whom raised a finger for me when I was carted off to jail. Nor to the caste of my birth, which now sees me as a pariah, fallen and defiled. To my father then, whose profligacy ensured my ruin? Or perhaps to the British, who if they knew that I was still alive, would hunt me to the ends of the earth?
And as against this, what Compton and Zhong Lou-si were asking of me was to share the one thing that is truly my own: my knowledge of the world. For years I’ve filled my head with things that serve no useful purpose; few indeed are the places where the contents of my mind might be regarded as useful — but as luck would have it, this is one of them. Somehow, in the course of my life, I have acquired a great trove of information about things that might well be useful to Compton and Zhong Lou-si.