In the flickering light, Deeti could see sacks of grain and dal, piled high on the floor of the storeroom. The shelves along the sides were crammed with jars of spices, bundles of onion and garlic, and huge martabans of pickled limes, chillies and mangoes. The air was befogged with white dust, of the kind that is sweated by bags of grain; as the door of the storeroom slammed shut, a flake of red chilli entered Deeti's eye.
So?
Unhurriedly, Bhyro Singh latched the door of the storeroom and stuck his candle upright, in a sack of rice. Deeti had been facing away from him all this while, but she turned around now, holding her ghungta in place with one hand and rubbing her eye with the other.
What does this mean? she said, in a show of defiance. Why did you want to see me alone?
Bhyro Singh was wearing a langot and a banyan, and now, as Deeti turned towards him, the mound of his belly surged out of the confinement of the two flimsy garments. The subedar made no attempt to pull his vest down: instead, he cupped his hands under his belly and moved it tenderly up and down, as though he were weighing it. Then, he picked a bit of lint out of the gaping mouth of his belly-button and examined it closely.
So? he said again. How long did you think you could hide from me, Kabutri-ki-ma?
Deeti felt herself choke and stuffed a fistful of her ghungta into her mouth, to keep from crying out loud.
Why so quiet? Nothing to say to me? Bhyro Singh reached for her ghungta: No need to cover up any more. It's just you and me here. Just us.
Pulling her veil down, he tipped her head back with a finger and nodded in satisfaction: The grey eyes; I remember them, filled with witchery. The eyes of a chudail, some people thought – but I always said, no, those are the eyes of a whore.
Deeti tried to strike his hand away from her neck, but it stayed where it was. If you knew who I was, she said, still defiant, why didn't you say something earlier?
His lips curled in derision: And bring shame on myself? Acknowledge a tie with a woman like you? A whore who's run away with a filth-sweeper? An overheated bitch who's brought shame on her family, her village, her in-laws? You take me for a fool? Don't you know I have daughters of my own, to marry off?
Deeti narrowed her eyes and spat back: Be careful. My jora is waiting, above.
Your jora? said Bhyro Singh. You can forget about that scavenging piece of filth. He'll be dead before the year's out.
I ká káhat ho? she gasped. What's this you're saying?
He ran a finger up her neck and tweaked her ear-lobe: Don't you know, he said, that I'm the one who's in charge of your allotments? Don't you know it's me who decides who your master will be in Mareech? I've already set your jora's name down for a plantation up north. He'll never come out from there alive. You can take my word for it: that shit-shoveller you call a husband is as good as dead.
And me? said Deeti.
You? He smiled and stroked her neck again. For you I have other plans.
What?
The tip of his tongue flicked over his lips and there was a rasp in his voice as he said: What does anyone want from a whore? His hand slipped through the neck of her choli and began to fumble for a handhold.
For shame, said Deeti, pushing his hand away. For shame…
There's nothing here that's new to me, he said, smiling. I've seen the grain-bag and I know it's full – dekhlé tobra, janlé bharalba.
Áp pe thuki! cried Deeti. I spit on you and your filth.
He leant forward so that his belly was against her breasts. He smiled again: Who do you think it was who held your legs open on your wedding night? Did you think that green twig of a launda, your brother-in-law, could have done it on his own?
Have you no shame? said Deeti, choking. Is there nothing you won't say? Do you know I'm with child?
Child? Bhyro Singh laughed. A child from that scavenger? By the time I'm done with you, his spawn will be dribbling out of you like an egg-yolk.
Tightening his hold on her neck, he reached up to a shelf with his other hand. His fist came back to brandish a foot-long roti-rolling belan under her nose.
So what do you say, Kabutri-ki-ma? he said. Are you whore enough for this?
It wasn't Deeti's cry for help but Munia's echo of it that was audible on the main deck, where Kalua was squatting between two silahdars with his hands bound by a length of rope. He had stayed quietly in place since Deeti was led away, giving careful thought to what he would have to do if it came to the worst. The silahdars were lightly armed, with knives and lathis, and it would be no great matter, Kalua knew, to break away from them. But after that, what? If he were to storm into the guard's kamra, he would run into many more men, and more armaments too: they would kill him before he could do Deeti any good. Far better to sound an alarm that would be heard in every quarter of the ship – and the perfect instrument for that was no more than a few paces away, the deckhouse ghanta. If he could but set the bell ringing, the migrants would be alerted and the officers and lascars would come on deck in force.
Back at home, in his ox-cart, it had been a habit with Kalua to count the squeaks of his wheel to keep an accurate measure of time and distance. Now, he found that the same purpose was served by counting the swells that were advancing towards the vessel, lifting her bows and setting them down, as they passed. After ten such had gone by, he knew something must be wrong, and it was exactly then that he caught the sound of Munia's voice, shouting: Bhauji? What're they doing…?
The schooner was in a steep roll, so that Kalua could feel the tilted bulwark lying aslant against the soles of his feet. Ahead of him, the deck was like a hillside, sloping upwards. Using the bulwark as a springboard, he jumped forwards, frog-like, covering half the distance to the bell in one leap. His move was so sudden the silahdars had yet to stir when he reached the lanyard that was attached to the bell's clapper. But the line had to be unwound from its eyebolt before it could be tugged, and this pause gave the guards the time they needed to fall upon him; one of them brought a lathi crashing down on his hands, while the other threw himself on his back, trying to wrestle him to the deck.
Kalua made a double fist out of his bound hands and swung out at the lathi-wielding silahdar, knocking him off his feet. Turning with the momentum of the swing, he took hold of the other man's arm and pulled him off his back, headfirst, slamming him down on the deck. Then he caught hold of the bell's lanyard, tore it free, and set the clapper swinging.