Munia shuddered: I'm glad I'm not down here. It's much nicer where I work, on the roof of the deckhouse. The lascars pass right by when they're climbing up to fix the sails.
Do they ever say anything? Paulette asked.
Only him. Munia glanced over her shoulder at the trikat-yard, where Jodu could be seen standing on the footropes, at full stretch, reefing the foretopsail. Look at him! Always showing off. But he's a sweet boy, no denying that, and nice-looking too.
The terms of their siblingship being what they were, Paulette had given little thought to Jodu's appearance: now, as she looked up at his boyishly mobile face, his upturned lips, and the coppery glint in his raven's-wing hair, she could see why Munia might be attracted to him. Vaguely embarrassed by this, she said: What did you talk about?
Munia giggled: He's like a fox, that one: made up a story about how a hakim in Basra had taught him to tell people's fortunes. How? I said, and do you know what his answer was?
What?
He said: let me put my ear on your heart, and I'll tell you what the future holds. Better still, if I can use my lips.
That Jodu might have a strong amatory streak had never occurred to Paulette: she was shocked to hear of his boldness. But Munia! weren't there people around?
No, it was dark; no one could see us.
And did you let him? said Paulette. Listen to your heart?
What do you think?
Paulette slipped her head under Munia's ghungta, so she could look into her eyes. No! Munia, you didn't!
Oh Pugli! Munia gave a teasing laugh and pulled her ghungta away. You may be a devi, but I'm a shaitan.
Suddenly, over Munia's shoulder, Paulette saw Zachary stepping down from the quarter-deck. He seemed to be heading forward, on a course that would take him right past the devis. As he approached, Paulette's limbs tensed involuntarily and she pulled away from Munia to flatten herself against the bulwark. As it happened, she had one of his shirts in her hands, and she tucked it quickly out of sight.
Surprised by Paulette's fidgeting, Munia said: What's the matter?
Although Paulette's face was buried in her knees, and her ghungta was drawn almost to her ankles, Munia had no difficulty in following the direction of her gaze. Just as Zachary was walking past, she gave a hiccup of laughter.
Munia, be quiet, Paulette hissed. That's no way to behave.
For who? said Munia, tittering in delight. Look at you, acting the devi. But you're no different from me. I saw who you had your eye on. He's got two arms and a flute just like any other man.
Right from the start, it was made clear to the convicts that their days would be spent largely in picking and rolling istup – or oakum, as Neel insisted on calling it, giving the fibre its English name. At the start of each day, a large basket of the stuff was brought to them, and they were expected to turn it into usable pickings by nightfall. They were told also that, unlike the migrants, they would not be allowed on deck at mealtimes: their food would be sent to them below, in taporis. But once each day, they would be released from the chokey and given time to empty their shared toilet bucket and to wash their bodies with a few mugfuls of water. Afterwards, they would be taken above and given a few minutes' exercise, consisting, usually, of a turn or two around the main deck.
This last part of the convicts' routine, Bhyro Singh was quick to appropriate: the pretence that they were a pair of plough-oxen and he a farmer, tilling a field, seemed to give him endless delight; he would loop their chains around their necks, in such a way that they were forced to stoop as they walked; then, shaking their fetters like reins, he would make a clicking, tongue-rolling noise as he drove them along, occasionally slicing at their legs with his lathi. It wasn't just that the infliction of pain gave him pleasure (though this was no small part of it): the blows and insults were also intended to show everyone that he, Bhyro Singh, was uncontaminated by the degraded creatures who had been placed in his power. Neel had only to look into his eyes to know that the disgust that he and Ah Fatt inspired in the subedar far surpassed anything he might have felt for more commonplace criminals. Thugs and dacoits, he would probably have regarded as kindred spirits and treated with some respect, but Neel and Ah Fatt did not fit that mould of man: for him they were misbegotten, befouled creatures – one because he was a filthy foreigner and the other because he was a fallen outcaste. And even worse, if possible, was the fact that the two convicts appeared to be friends and that neither seemed to want to overmaster the other: to Bhyro Singh this was a sign that they were not men at all, but castrated, impotent creatures – oxen, in other words. While driving them around the deck, he would shout, for the amusement of the maistries and silahdars:… Ahó, keep going… don't weep for your balls now… tears won't bring them back.
Or else he would rap them on the genitals and laugh when they doubled up: What's the matter? Aren't you hijras, you two? There's no pleasure or pain between your legs.
In order to turn the convicts against each other, the subedar would sometimes give one an extra helping of food, or make the other take a double turn at cleaning the toilet buckets: Come, let's see if you have a taste for your sweetheart's dung.
In the failure of these stratagems, he evidently perceived a subtle undermining of his own position, for if ever he saw Neel and Ah Fatt coming to each other's assistance on deck, he would vent his anger with furious lashings of his lathi. What with the swaying of the schooner, the unsteadiness of their legs, and the weight of their fetters, it was difficult for Ah Fatt and Neel to take more than a few steps at a time without falling or faltering. Any attempt by either to help the other would result in kicks and swipes of the lathi.
It was in the midst of one such flurry of blows that Neel heard the subedar say: Sala, get up. The Chhota Malum's heading this way: on your feet now – don't dirty his shoes.
Neel was struggling to his feet when he found himself looking into a face that he remembered well. Before he could stop himself, he said aloud: 'Good afternoon, Mr Reid.'
That a convict should have the spleen to address an officer was so incredible to Bhyro Singh that he slammed his lathi on Neel's shoulder, knocking him to his knees: B'henchod! You dare look the sahib in the eye?
'Wait!' Zachary stepped forward to stop the subedar's hand. 'Wait a minute there.'
The mate's intervention so inflamed the subedar that for a moment he glowered as if he were about to hit Zachary next. But then, thinking the better of it, he stepped back.
In the meanwhile, Neel had risen to his feet and was dusting his hands. 'Thank you, Mr Reid,' he said. Then, unable to think of anything else, he added: 'I trust you are well?'
Zachary peered into his face, frowning. 'Who are you?' he said. 'I know the voice, but I confess I can't place…'
'My name is Neel Rattan Halder. You may remember, Mr Reid, that you dined with me some six months ago, on – on what was then – my budgerow.' This was the first time in many months that Neel had spoken to anyone on the outside, and the experience was so strangely exhilarating that he could almost have imagined himself back in his own sheeshmahal. 'You were served, if my memory does not fail me, some duck soup and a roast of Sudden-Death. Forgive me for mentioning these details. Food has been much on my mind of late.'
'Gollation!' cried Zachary suddenly, in astonished recognition. 'You're the Roger, aren't you? The Raja of…?'
'Your memory does not mislead you, sir,' said Neel, bowing his head. 'Yes, I was indeed once the Raja of Raskhali. My circumstances are very different now, as you can see.'
'I had no idea you were aboard this vessel.'
'No more was I aware of your presence on board,' said Neel, with an ironic smile. 'Or I would certainly have tried to send up my card. I had imagined somehow that you had already returned to your estates.'