Flood of Fire (43 page)

A few more steps brought them to the starboard deck-rails where they stopped to look towards the horizon. Then Zadig cleared his throat awkwardly: ‘Actually, Bibiji … what I said is not true. In Egypt, where I was born, I have another family … and other children.'

For a moment Shireen thought she had misheard. ‘Another family? I don't understand. Do you mean you had been married before?'

‘Yes, Bibiji – but it's not so simple.'

‘Then?'

‘Bibiji – what happened is this. I was married off very young, to my cousin. The marriage was arranged within the family, mainly for reasons of business. It did not work out very well, although my wife and I had two sons and a daughter. I was always travelling, because of my work – and it happened that while passing through Colombo once I met Hilda. She was a widow, a Catholic. I began to spend more time in Colombo, and then my son was born.'

Shireen gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘So this woman in Colombo – she was not your wife …?'

‘She was my common-law wife, Bibiji. But in time it was she who became the woman to whom I felt I was really married.'

‘And your real wife? What became of her? Was she … abandoned?'

‘No, Bibiji!' Zadig protested. ‘It wasn't like that. In Cairo we lived in the midst of many relatives, in the family compound – just as you do in Bombay. My wife was not alone – and I settled most of my property on her, and on our children. She was well looked after.'

Shireen's ears were beginning to burn. ‘So you left your wife, your children to go and live with …?'

She could not bring herself to say the word ‘mistress'.

‘Bibiji, the children I had with Hilda were mine too – and the fact that they were not recognized as such, by law, meant that they needed me more. There was no family in Colombo to look after them. Surely I could not have left them to their fate?'

Shireen felt her gorge rise, and had to lean against the bulwark.

‘What's the matter, Bibiji? Are you all right?'

Turning her back on him, Shireen rushed off to her stateroom. Fortunately Rosa wasn't there: Shireen threw herself on the bed and closed her eyes.

Over the next few days Shireen could not bring herself to step out on deck again. Her mind kept returning to the plight of Zadig Bey's wife: an abandoned woman who had been forced to bring up her children by herself, while her lawfully married husband went off to live with another woman, in another country. She tried to think of what her own life would have been like, if she had had to live out her years in the Mestrie mansion as an abandoned wife.
Her family would have been sympathetic of course, but she knew she'd have been crushed by the shame alone.

She realized now that this fate might well have befallen her as well: Bahram too must have contemplated abandoning his family in order to live with his Chinese mistress and his illegitimate son. He and Zadig had to have discussed the matter and he must have been tempted to follow his friend's example.

The thought sickened Shireen, making her feel that she never wanted to have anything to do with Zadig Bey: the man was a libertine, a rake, a
luccha
.

When she finally resumed her walks on deck she made sure that Rosa was always with her. If they happened to come across Zadig Bey, she would acknowledge his greetings with a polite nod, without saying a word in return.

The coldness of her demeanour surprised Rosa, who said: Bibiji, are you not speaking to Mr Karabedian? Why?

It's not proper, said Shireen curtly. Word may get back to Bombay.

Rosa gave her a shrewd look but did not dispute what she had said.

It was not till the
Hind
was approaching Calcutta that Shireen again found herself alone with Zadig Bey, by chance one day. Crossing the deck, he came straight over to her.

‘Bibiji, I'm sorry if I offended you that day. I should not have spoken as I did.'

She bit her lip, to keep it from quivering. Suddenly the question that had been circling in her head these last many days burst out of her mouth.

‘Zadig Bey, tell me: did my husband ever think of doing what you did? Did he think of leaving me and my daughters and going off to live with his … with his mistress?'

Zadig answered with an emphatic shake of his head. ‘No, Bibiji! That is one thing I can assure you of. You and your daughters were too important to him. He would never have done what I did – he was a different man.'

Although this did much to set Shireen's mind at rest it did not entirely assuage her misgivings about Zadig. She continued to avoid him until the
Hind
arrived in Calcutta.

But once the ship had dropped anchor it became harder to stay
out of his way. They were both shown around Calcutta by members of their own communities and it turned out that there was a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing between the Parsi and Armenian families of the city. What was more, they all lived in the same area and the Parsi agiary on Ezra Street, where Shireen daily went to pray, was just around the corner from the Armenian Church on Old China Street. Since Zadig was often there it was hard to avoid him. When they met it was easier to behave in a normal way than to be unnaturally stiff and distant.

Soon enough, they were again pacing the
Hind'
s quarter-deck together.

*

Four days after the
Hind
dropped anchor in Calcutta, Captain Mee took Kesri and a team of camp-followers on board, to make preparations for the company's embarkation.

Down in the steerage-deck two large compartments and a few cabins had been set aside for the Bengal Volunteers. One of the cumras was assigned to the sepoys and the other to the camp-followers. Both cabins were cavernous, spanning most of the length and width of the ship; yet, even when empty, they appeared cluttered and congested, partly because the ceiling was so low that a man could not stand up straight without knocking his head. Moreover the compartments were divided up by long lines of upright beams, from which hammocks were suspended in double rows, one above the other.

Kesri disliked hammocks and was quick to commandeer a cabin for himself. Not only was it equipped with a bunk, it even had a small window. The stench of bilgewater was already strong in the steerage deck and Kesri knew from experience that the smell would get far worse when the
Hind
was at sea and her insides were all churned up. A breath of fresh air would seem like the rarest of luxuries then.

The Volunteers' last morning was spent mostly in the garrison's hospital: regulations called for every sepoy to clear a medical examination before boarding a transport ship. Afterwards, B Company mustered on a parade ground and Captain Mee made a brief speech, through interpreters. He told the sepoys that they were embarking on a historic mission and would gain great honour. In
China they would have many opportunities to cover themselves with glory, he said, and the trophies they brought back would be treasured forever in their homes.

The talk of history and glory made little impression on the sepoys. They listened impassively, their faces even stiffer than usual. Only when the captain announced that he had arranged for money to be distributed, as advances on salary payments, did the sepoys liven up. Accountants from the company's daftar were in attendance and the men quickly formed lines at their desks; also in attendance were shroffs who could arrange for remittances to be sent to Bihar, through hawala networks. As always the sepoys sent most of their money home, keeping only a little for themselves. This, in the end, was what mattered to them most, neither history nor glory, but the sustenance of their families, back in their villages.

Later in the day there was a dangal, a wrestling tournament that Kesri had organized in the hope that it would take the sepoys' minds off their impending departure. He himself played the part of referee, and even though the event went by without incident, Kesri could tell that the participants' hearts were not in it: the bouts were like practice sessions and there was little cheering.

Afterwards the company's pundit, who was also travelling to China with them, performed a puja followed by a recitation of the Hanuman Chaalisa.

Kesri had hoped that the familiar ceremonies would help the men get past the untoward happenings of the last few weeks – desertions, executions, omens and the like. But instead the rituals seemed to deepen their sense of foreboding: even from the way they prayed, Kesri could tell that their minds were filled with misgiving.

Later that evening the company's daftar sent over a half-dozen munshis to transcribe the sepoys' last letters home.

The munshis set up their desks in front of the barracks and the men gathered around in small groups, to dictate their letters. Kesri took the first turn and being well aware that the men were listening to him he was careful to strike an optimistic note. Addressing his letter to his brother Bhim, he said:

Although the men listened attentively, few of them echoed Kesri's optimism. When it was their turn to dictate letters most of them struck a note of resignation.

The mood of the men gave Kesri much to worry about for the next day. He knew that an embarkation was a performance in its own right and the army's Burra Sahibs would be watching closely. It was vital for the sepoys to get off to a good start by acquitting themselves well – and in their present state of mind he doubted that they would.

But when the time came, B Company did him proud by putting on a flawless display. With drums beating and fifes trilling the notes of ‘Troop' they marched out of the fort's western gate in double column. On reaching the designated staging ground they wheeled into line and presented arms in perfect order. Then, squad by squad, they fell out and were ferried to the
Hind
in lighters. After the last sepoy had boarded, the lighters began to transfer the company's allotment of howitzers, mortars and field-pieces.

The camp-followers had embarked earlier and by the time the sepoys came aboard everything was in order to receive them. But despite all the planning and preparation, there was still a great deal of confusion. Very few of the sepoys had been on a deep-water ship before and some of them became disoriented when they stepped below deck. As tempers rose the camp-followers bore the brunt of it, as always: many had to put up with cuffs and kicks.

After ignoring the gol-maal for a while Kesri brought things to order by unloosing a bellow that shook the timbers:
Khabardar!
He made the men stand to attention, beside their hammocks, and proceeded to give them a dhamkaoing that made their breath run short. He ended with dire warnings about what lay ahead: seasickness, flooding, objects cannoning around in bad weather, and so on. His most urgent strictures, however, concerned a hazard of a different kind – the lascars. These were the greatest budmashes on earth, he told the sepoys. To a man, lascars were thieves, drunkards, lechers and brawlers, with skulls as thick cannonshells. They were the sepoys' natural enemies and would steal from them at the least opportunity: they had to be watched at every moment, especially when they were hanging from the ropes like bandars.

Chastened, the men began to settle down, and when it came time to weigh anchor Kesri did not have the heart to confine them below deck. He gave them permission to go above to take a last look at the city.

Leading the way was Kesri himself: he stepped on the maindeck just as the
Hind
began to move. Almost simultaneously a battery in Fort William started to fire a salute of minute-guns.

Zachary too was up on deck: as the shots rang out, the planks under his feet seem to tremble in response. He remembered the last time he had set sail from this city, on the
Ibis
, with a shipload of coolies and overseers. It amazed him to think that only sixteen months had passed since that day – for the difference between that departure and this one seemed almost as great as the gap between the man he had been then and who he was now.

From the other end of the maindeck, Kesri drank in the sights of the receding city – the temples, the houses, the trees – as if he were seeing them for the last time.

As the city slipped past a strange, cold feeling crept through him and he realized, with a shock, that deep in his heart he too had come to believe that he would never see his homeland again.