It's too late for that. Sarju fixed her feverishly bright eyes on Deeti and whispered: I've dealt with these things all my life. I know, and before I go I want to show you something.
Moving her head off the cloth bundle that served as her pillow, Sarju pushed it towards Deeti: Here. Take this; open it.
Open it? Deeti was amazed, for Sarju had never before been known to open her bojha in anyone's sight: indeed her furtiveness about her baggage was so extreme that the others had often joked and speculated about the contents. Deeti had never joined in the teasing because Sarju's protectiveness seemed to her to be merely the fixation of a middle-aged woman who had precious few possessions to boast of. But she knew also that such manias were not easily overcome, so it was with some caution that she asked Sarju: Are you sure you want me to look inside?
Yes, said Sarju. Quickly. Before the others come.
Deeti had assumed that the bundle contained not much more than a few old clothes, maybe some masalas, and perhaps a couple of copper utensils: when she peeled away the first flaps of cloth she found more or less what she had expected – some old clothes and a few wooden spoons.
Here. Give it to me. Sarju thrust a twig-like hand into the bundle and pulled out a small pouch, not much bigger than her fist. She put it to her nose, took a deep breath and handed it to Deeti: Do you know what this is?
From the feel of the pouch, Deeti knew that it was filled with tiny seeds. When she raised it to her nose, she recognized the smell at once: Ganja, she said. These are seeds of ganja.
Sarju acknowledged this with a nod and handed over another pouch. And this?
This time it took Deeti several whiffs before she recognized what it was: Datura.
Do you know what datura can do? whispered Sarju.
Yes, said Deeti.
Sarju gave her a thin smile. I knew that you, and you alone, would know the value of these things. This most of all…
Sarju pushed yet another pouch into Deeti's hands. In this, she whispered, there is wealth beyond imagining; guard it like your life – it contains seeds of the best Benares poppy.
Deeti thrust her fingers into the pouch and rubbed the tiny, speck-like seeds between her fingertips. The familiar grainy feel transported her back to the environs of Ghazipur; suddenly it was as if she were in her own courtyard, with Kabutri beside her, making posth out of a handful of poppy seeds. How was it possible that after spending so much of her life with these seeds she had not had the foresight or wisdom to bring some with her – as a keepsake if nothing else?
Deeti extended her hand to Sarju, as if to give back the pouch, but the midwife pushed it back towards her. It's yours; take it, keep it. This, the ganja, the datura: make of them the best use you can. Don't let the others know. Don't let them see these seeds. They'll keep for many years. Keep them hidden till you can use them; they are worth more than any treasure. Inside my bojha, there are some spices, ordinary ones. When I'm gone, you can distribute them to the rest. But these seeds – these are for you alone.
Why? Why me?
Sarju raised a trembling hand to point to the images on the beam above Deeti's head. Because I want to be there too, she said. I want to be remembered in your shrine.
You will be, Sarju-didi, said Deeti, squeezing her hand. You will be.
Now put the seeds away quickly, before the others come.
Yes, didi, yes…
Afterwards, when Deeti took Sarju's untouched food back to the main deck, she found Kalua squatting under the devis and sat down beside him. As she was listening to the sighing of the sails, she became aware that there was a grain lodged under her thumbnail. It was a single poppy seed: prising it out, she rolled it between her fingers and raised her eyes, past the straining sails, to the star-filled vault above. On any other night she would have scanned the sky for the planet she had always thought to be the arbiter of her fate – but tonight her eyes dropped instead to the tiny sphere she was holding between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at the seed as if she had never seen one before, and suddenly she knew that it was not the planet above that governed her life: it was this minuscule orb – at once bountiful and all-devouring, merciful and destructive, sustaining and vengeful. This was her Shani, her Saturn.
When Kalua asked what she was looking at she raised her fingers to his lips and slipped the seed into his mouth.
Here, she said, taste it. It is the star that took us from our homes and put us on this ship. It is the planet that rules our destiny.
The first mate was one of those men who like to boost their sense of their own worth by coining nicknames for others. As always with those who play this trick, he was careful to thrust his epithets only on those who could not refuse his coin. Thus Captain Chillingworth's cognomen – 'Skipper Nabbs' – was used only behind his back, while Zachary's – 'Mannikin' – was said to his face, but usually out of earshot of others (this being a concession to the collective prestige of sahibs, and thus malums). As for the rest, only a few were notable enough to merit names of their own. Serang Ali – 'Sniplouse' – was one such, but the migrants were indifferently 'sukies' and 'slavies'; the silahdars and maistries were either 'Achhas' or 'Rum-Johnnies'; and the lascars were either 'Bub-dool' or 'Rammer-Sammy' – or just 'Sammy' for short.
Of all the people on the schooner, there was only one whose nickname denoted some measure of camaraderie on the part of the first mate: this was Subedar Bhyro Singh, whom he called 'Muffin-mug'. Unbeknownst to the mate, the subedar too had a name for him, which he used only in his absence: it was Malum na-Malum (Officer Don't-Know). This symmetry was not accidental, for between these two men there was a natural affinity that extended even to their appearance: although the subedar was much older and darker – heavier in the belly and whiter in the head – both were tall, barrel-chested men. Their mutuality of disposition, too, was such as to transcend the barriers of language and circumstance, allowing them to communicate almost without benefit of words, so that between them there could be said to exist, if not exactly a friendship, then certainly a joining of interests, and a mutual ease that made possible certain familiarities that would otherwise have been unthinkable in men of their respective stations – for example, the occasional sharing of grog.
One of the many matters in which the subedar and the first mate were perfectly in accord was their attitude towards Neel and Ah Fatt – or the 'Two Jacks' as Mr Crowle liked to call them (Neel being Jack-gagger and Ah Fatt, Jackin-ape). Often, of an afternoon, when Bhyro Singh led the two convicts around the deck on their daily Rogues' March, the first mate would join in the entertainment, urging Bhyro Singh on, as he prodded the convicts with his lathi: 'With a will there, Muffin-mug! Lay about cheerily now! Rattle their ruffles!'
Occasionally the mate would even step in to take the subedar's place. Flicking a length of rope like a whiplash, he would slash at the convicts' ankles, making them skip and jump, to the tune of: