She heard him swallow and looked up to see his Adam's apple bobbing pensively in his throat. 'Might be, one recourse is there,' he muttered at last. 'But it is endowed with many pitfalls and loopholes. Implementation will be extremely difficult.'
'Never mind, Nob Kissin Baboo,' said Paulette eagerly. 'Tell me, what is your idee? How can it be done?'
Through the season of festivities, the city resounded with celebrations, which made the silence within the camp all the more difficult to bear. When Diwali came, the migrants marked it by lighting a few lamps, but there was little cheer in the depot. There was still no word of when they would leave and every new day sent a fresh storm of rumours blowing through the camp. There were times when it seemed that Deeti and Kalua were the only people there who believed that a ship really would come to take them away; there were many who began to say, no, it was all a lie, that the depot was just a kind of jail where they had been sent to die; that their corpses would be turned into skulls and skeletons, so that they could be cut up and fed to the sahibs' dogs, or used as bait for fish. Often these rumours were started by the spectators and camp-followers who lurked perpetually outside the fence – vendors, vagrants, urchins, and others in whom the sight of the girmitiyas inflamed an inexhaustible curiosity: they would stand around for hours, watching, pointing, staring, as if at animals in a cage. Sometimes they would bait the migrants: Why don't you try to escape? Come, we'll help you run away; don't you see they're waiting for you to die so they can sell your bodies?
But when a migrant did run off, it was those very spectators who brought him back. The first to try was a grizzled, middle-aged man from Ara, a little weak in the head, and he had no sooner broken through the fence than they caught hold of him, tied his hands and dragged him back to the duffadar: they received a nice little reward for their pains. The would-be escapee was beaten and made to go without food for two days.
The climate of the city – hot, humid and damp – made things worse, for many people fell ill. Some recovered, but others seemed to want to sicken and fade away, so disheartened were they by the waiting, the rumours, and the disquieting feeling of being held captive. One night a boy became delirious: although very young, he had long, ash-smeared locks, like a mendicant's; people said he had been kidnapped and sold off by a sadhu. When the fever took hold of him, his body became scalding hot, and horrible sounds and imprecations began to pour from his mouth. Kalua and some of the other menfolk tried to fetch help, but the sirdars and maistries were drinking toddy and would pay no attention. Before daybreak there was a final outbreak of shouts and curses, and then the boy's body went cold. His death seemed to arouse much more interest among the overseers than his illness had done: they were unaccustomedly prompt in arranging to have the corpse carried away – for cremation, they said, at the nearby burning ghats – but who could know for sure? None of the girmitiyas was allowed to leave the depot to see what happened, so no one could say anything to the contrary when a vendor whispered through the fence that the boy had not been cremated at alclass="underline" a hole had been bored in his skull and his corpse had been hung up by the heels, to extract the oil – the mimiái-ka-tel – from his brain.
To counter the rumours and ill auguries, the migrants spoke often of the devotions they would perform the day before their departure: they talked of pujas and namazes, of recitations of the Qur'an and the Ramcharitmanas and the Alha-Khand. When they spoke of these rituals, it was in eager tones, as though the occasion was much to be looked forward to – but this was only because the dread inspired by the prospect of departure was so profound as to be inexpressible, the kind of feeling that made you want to squat in a corner, hugging your knees and muttering aloud, so that your ears would not be able to hear the voices in your head. It was easier to speak of the details of rituals, and to plan them minutely, comparing them all the while with the pujas and namazes and recitations of the past.
When the day finally came, it was not as they had envisioned: the only augury of their departure consisted of the sudden arrival at the camp of the gomusta, Nob Kissin Baboo. He hurried into the overseers' hut and was closeted with them for a while; afterwards, the sirdars and maistries gathered everyone together and then Ramsaran-ji, the duffadar, announced that the time had come for him to take his leave of them: from here on, until they reached Mareech and were each allotted to a plantation, they would be in the custody of a different set of guards, overseers and supervisors. This team had boarded their ship already and had made sure that the vessel was ready to receive them: they themselves would be boarded tomorrow. He ended by wishing them sukh-shánti, peace and happiness, in their new home and said he would pray to the Lord of Crossings to keep them safe: Jai Hanumán gyán gun ságar…
In Alipore Jail the season of festivals had been celebrated with no little fanfare: Diwali, in particular, was an occasion for the jemadars and their gangs to compete in a fiery display and many of the jail's inner courtyards had been lit up with lamps and improvised sparklers. The noise, food and festivity had had a perverse effect on Neel, causing a sudden collapse in the resolve that had sustained him thus far. On the night of Diwali, when the courtyard was ablaze with light, he had trouble rising from his charpoy and could not bring himself to step beyond the bars: his thoughts were only of his son, of the fireworks of years past, and the dimness, silence and denial that would be the boy's lot this season.
Over the next few days Neel's spirits sank lower and lower, so that when Bishu-ji came to announce that the date of their departure had been fixed, he responded with bewilderment: Where are they taking us?
To Mareech. Have you forgotten?
Neel rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. And when is that to be?
Tomorrow. The ship is ready.
Tomorrow?
Yes. They'll come for you early. Be ready. And tell Aafat too.
That was alclass="underline" having said what he had to, Bishu-ji turned on his heel and walked away. Neel was about to slump back into his charpoy when he noticed his cell-mate's eyes resting on him, as if to ask a question. Many days had passed since Neel had last performed the ritual of asking for his cell-mate's name, but now he stirred himself to say, in gruff English: 'We're leaving tomorrow. The ship is ready. They'll come for us in the morning.' Apart from a slight widening of the eyes, there was no response, so Neel shrugged and turned over on his charpoy.
With departure looming, the images and memories Neel had tried to bar from his mind came flooding back: of Elokeshi, of his home, of his husband-less wife and fatherless child. When he dozed off, it was only to be visited by a nightmare, in which he saw himself as a castaway on the dark void of the ocean, utterly alone, severed from every human mooring. Feeling himself to be drowning, he began to toss his arms, trying to reach towards the light.