With its saloons, cabins and staterooms, the poop-deck was by far the most lavishly appointed part of the vessel. During the day, much of it was lit by a soft, natural light, filtering in from above through a series of ornamental skylights. As a result, the interior was free of the gloomy dankness that was so common inside wooden ships: instead it had a spacious, airy feel. The main corridor was panelled in mahogany and was hung with framed etchings of the ruins of Persepolis and Ecbatana. Here too Neel would have liked to linger, but Vico moved him briskly along until they came to the door that led to the Owners’ Suite. Then he raised a hand to knock.
Patrao, the munshi’s here – Freddy sent him.
Bring him in.
Bahram was at his desk, dressed in a light cotton angarkha and jootis of silver-threaded brocade; the beard that framed his jaw was neatly trimmed and he was wearing a simple, but impeccably tied turban.
In the Seth’s face, with its fine, high-bridged nose and dark brow, Neel could see the provenance not only of Ah Fatt’s good looks, but also of some of his other attributes – his sharp-eyed intelligence, for instance, as well as a certain element of wilclass="underline" a determination that bordered upon ruthlessness. But there the resemblance ended for in Bahram there was no trace of Ah Fatt’s wounded vulnerability: his manner was voluble, good humoured and disarmingly effervescent. This, Neel could see, was no small part of his charm.
Arre, munshiji, he cried out, gesticulating with both his hands. Why are you standing there like a tree? Come closer, na?
The cadences of his voice instantly dispelled Neel’s memories of his meetings with his father: he saw at once that Bahram bore no resemblance at all to the old zemindar – or indeed to any of the wealthy and influential men he had known in his previous life. In Bahram there was none of the world-weary boredom and sensual exhaustion that marked so many of those men; on the contrary, his restless manner, like his rustic accent, spoke of an energetic and unaffected directness.
‘What is your good-name?’
Neel had already decided to name himself after his new trade: Anil Kumar Munshi, Sethji.
Bahram nodded and pointed to a straight-backed chair. Achha, munshiji, he said. Why don’t you sit on that kursi over there, so we can look each other in the eye?
As you wish, Sethji.
In stepping up to the chair, Neel had a vague intuition that this was a test of some kind – a gambit which Bahram used in interviewing certain kinds of employees. What exactly was being tested he could not think, so he did as he had been instructed and seated himself on the chair, without preamble.
This was evidently the right thing to do, for Bahram responded with an outburst of enthusiasm. Good! he cried, giving his desk a delighted slap. Ekdum theek! Very good!
What exactly he had done right, Neel did not know, and it was Bahram himself who enlightened him. ‘Glad to see’, he said in English, ‘that you can manage chair-sitting. Can’t stand those floor-squatting munshis. In my position, how to put up with daftari-fellows who are always crawling on the ground? Foreigners will laugh, no?’
Ji, Sethji, said Neel. He bowed his head deferentially, mimicking the manner of the munshis he had himself once employed.
‘So you have seen the world a little, eh munshiji?’ said Bahram. ‘Done a chukker or two? Tasted something other than daal-bhat and curry-rice? Munshis who can manage chair-sitting are not easy to find. Can you handle knife-fork also? Little-little at least?’
Ji, Sethji, said Neel.
Bahram nodded. ‘So you met Freddy, my godson, here in Singapore, is it?’
Ji, Sethji.
‘And what you were doing before that? How you arrived here?’
Neel sensed that this question was intended not only as an inquiry into his past, but also as a test of his English – so it was in his clearest accents that he recounted the story he had prepared: that he was a member of a family of scribes from the remote kingdom of Tripura, on the borders of Bengal; having fallen out of favour with the court, he had been forced to make a living in commerce, working for a succession of merchants as a munshi and dubash. He had travelled from Chittagong to Singapore with his last employer who had died unexpectedly: this was why his services were now available.
The story seemed to hold little interest for Bahram, but he was clearly impressed by Neel’s fluency. Pushing back his chair he rose to his feet and began to pace the floor. ‘Shahbash munshiji!’ he said. ‘Phataphat you are speaking English. You will put me to shame no?’
Neel understood that he had unwittingly put the Seth on his mettle. He decided that from then on he would use Hindusthani whenever possible, leaving it to Bahram to speak English.
‘You can write nastaliq, also?’
Ji, Sethji.
‘And Gujarati?’
No, Sethji.
Bahram seemed not at all displeased by this. ‘That is all right. No need to know everything. Gujarati I can manage myself.’
Ji, Sethji.
‘But reading-writing is not all it takes to make a good munshi. Something else also there is, no? You know about what I am talking?’
I’m not sure, Sethji.
Bahram came to a halt in front of Neel, clasped his hands behind his back, and leant down so that his eyes were boring into Neel’s. ‘What I am talking is trust – shroffery – or sharaafat as some would say. You know the words no, and meanings also? For me munshi is the same as shroff, except that he deal with words. Just as shroff must lock the safe, so must munshi lock the mouth. If you are working for me, then everything you read, everything you write, all must be locked inside your head. That is your treasury, your khazana.’
Then, Bahram walked around the chair, placed his hands on Neel’s neck and turned his head from side to side.
‘You understand no, munshiji? Even if some dacoit tries to twist your head off, safe must stay closed?’
The tone of Bahram’s voice was playful rather than threatening, yet there was something in his manner that conveyed a faint sense of menace. Although discomfited, Neel managed to keep his composure. Ji, Sethji, he said. I understand.
Good! said Bahram cheerfully. But one more thing you should know: writing letters will not be the biggest part of your job. More important by far is what I call ‘khabar-dari’ – getting the news and keeping me informed. People think that only rulers and ministers need to know about wars, politics and all that. But that was only in the old days. Nowadays we are in a different time: today a man who does not know the khabar is a man who is headed for the kubber. This is what I always say: the news is what makes money. Do you understand me?
I’m not sure, Sethji, Neel mumbled. I don’t understand how the news can be of help in making money.
All right, said Bahram, pacing the floor. I will tell you a story that may help you understand. I heard it when I visited London with my friend, Mr Zadig Karabedian. It was twenty-two years ago – in 1816. One day someone took us to the Stock Exchange and pointed out a famous banker, one Mr Rothschild. This man had understood the importance of khabar-dari long before anyone else, and he had set up his own system for sending news, with pigeons and couriers and all. Then came the Battle of Waterloo – you have heard of it, no?
Ji, Sethji.
The day the battle was fought everyone was nervous in the London Stock Exchange. If the English lost, the price of gold would fall. If they won it would rise. What to do? Buy or sell? They waited and waited, and of course this banker was the first to know what had happened at Waterloo. So what do you think he did?