Habés – habés kutté, habés! habés!
The schooner lurched to its jamna side and down in the darkness of the dabusa, people slipped and slid and tumbled upon each other like crumbs on a tilted tray. Neel put his eye to the air duct, and saw that a riot had broken out in the adjacent dabusa, with dozens of terrified migrants hurling themselves at the ladder, pounding on the fastened hatch, in a belated attempt at escape: Chhoro, chhoro – let us out, let us off…
There was no response from above, except for a series of hookums, ringing across the deck: 'Haul you bastards! Haul!' – Sab barábar! Habés salé, habés!
Exasperated by the futile thrashings of the girmitiyas, Neel shouted through the air duct: Be quiet you fools! There's no escape; no turning back…
Slowly, as the vessel's motion made itself felt in the pit of every stomach, the noise yielded to a pregnant, fearful stillness. Now the migrants began to absorb the finality of what was under way: yes, they were moving, they were afloat, heading towards the void of the Black Water; neither death nor birth was as fearsome a passage as this, neither being experienced in full consciousness. Slowly, the rioters backed away from the ladder and returned to their mats. Somewhere in the darkness, a voice, trembling in awe, uttered the first syllables of the Gayatri Mantra – and Neel, who had been made to learn the words almost as soon as he could speak, now found himself saying them, as if for the first time: Om, bhur bhuvah swah, tat savitur varenyam… O giver of life, remover of pain and sorrow…
'Ready about!' – Taiyár jagáh jagáh!
Up on the foremast, as the shudder of the Ibis's awakening ran from a-low to aloft, Jodu felt a tremor in the trikat-yard and knew that he had arrived at the moment his life had been building towards through many a long year; now, at last, he was leaving behind these muddy shores to meet the waters that led to Basra and Chin-kalan, Martaban and Zinjibar. As the mast began to sway, his chest swelled with pride to see how fine a figure the Ibis cut amongst the craft that clogged the river – the caramoussals and perikoes and budgerows. At this lofty elevation, it seemed as if the schooner had given him a pair of wings to soar above his past. Giddy with exhilaration, he hooked an arm around the shrouds and tore off his headcloth.
My salams to all of you, he shouted, waving to the unheeding shore: Jodu is on his way… oh you whores of Watgunge… you crimps of Bhutghat… Jodu's turned a lascar and he is gone… Gone!
Seventeen
Twilight brought the Ibis back to the Narrows, at Hooghly Point, and there, in the river's broad curve, she dropped anchor to wait out the night. Not till darkness had swallowed the surrounding banks were the girmitiyas allowed on deck; until then the gratings of the hatchway were kept firmly closed. The subedar and the overseers were agreed that the migrants' first taste of shipboard conditions had probably increased the likelihood of attempted break-outs: seen in daylight, the shore might present an irresistible temptation. Even after nightfall, when the attractions of land had been diminished by the howls of foraging jackal-packs, the maistries did not relax their vigilance: past experience had taught them that in every group of indentured migrants there were always a few who were desperate – or suicidal – enough to throw themselves into the water. When it came time to prepare the evening meal, they kept every migrant under watch. Even those who had been designated to serve as bhandaris were kept under guard while they stirred the chattas in the deckhouse chuldan. As for the rest, they were allowed up only in small groups, and were herded back into the dabusa as soon as they had finished their rice, dal and lime-pickle.
While the bhandaris and maistries were seeing to the feeding of the migrants, Steward Pinto and his mess-boys were serving roast lamb, mint sauce and boiled potatoes in the officers' cuddy. The portions were generous, for the steward had laid in two whole sides of fresh mutton before leaving Calcutta, and the meat was not likely to last long in the unseasonable heat. But in spite of the plenitude of food and drink, there was less conviviality in the cuddy than there was around the chuldan, where, from time to time, the migrants could even be heard singing a few snatches of song.
Májha dhára mé hai bera merá
Kripá kará ásrai hai tera
My raft's adrift in the current
Your mercy is my only refuge…
'Damned coolies,' muttered the Captain, through a mouthful of lamb. 'Bloody Doomsday couldn't put a stop to their caterwauling.'
A ship could take as long as three days, depending on the weather and the winds, to sail downriver from Calcutta to the Bay of Bengal. Between the river's estuary and the open sea lay the island of Ganga-Sagar, the last of the holy waterway's many pilgrimages. One of Neel's ancestors had endowed a temple on the island, and he had visited it several times himself. The erstwhile Halder zemindary lay about halfway between Calcutta and Ganga-Sagar, and Neel knew that the Ibis would pass his estate towards the end of the second day. This was a journey that he had made so often that he could feel the zemindary's approach in the river's bends and turns. As it drew near, his head filled with shards of recollection, some of them as bright and sharp as bits of broken glass. When the time came, almost as if to mock him, he heard the lookout cry out, above: Raskhali, we're passing Raskhali!
He could see it now: it couldn't have been clearer if the schooner's hull had turned into glass. There it was: the palace and its colonnaded verandas; the terrace where he had taught Raj Rattan to fly kites; the avenue of palash trees his father had planted; the window of the bedroom to which he had taken Elokeshi.
'What is it, eh?' said Ah Fatt. 'Why you hitting your head, eh?' When Neel made no answer, Ah Fatt shook him by the shoulders till his teeth rattled.
'The place we pass now – you know it, not know it?'
'I know it.'
'Your village, eh?'
'Yes.'
'Home? Family? Tell everything.'
Neel shook his head: 'No. Maybe some other time.'
'Achha. Other time.'
Raskhali was so close that Neel could almost hear the bells of its temple. What he needed now, was to be elsewhere, in a place where he could be free of his memories. 'Where's your home, Ah Fatt? Tell me about it. Is it in a village?'
'Not village.' Ah Fatt scratched his chin. 'My home very big place: Guangzhou. English call Canton.'