River of Smoke(184)

In short, with her raised stern, her miscellaneous masts and barrel-shaped hull, the Kismat projected an image of wallowing ungainliness. But this was deceptive: once the mats were up on the masts, the junk provided as smooth a ride as any vessel of her size.

The journey started with a ceremony that seemed, in the beginning, to be very like the pujas Paulette had seen in Calcutta, with incense being offered to T’ien-hou and Kuan-yin (who were benevolent goddesses, explained Baburao, like Lakshmi and Saraswati in India). But then the ritual suddenly exploded, quite literally, into a spectacular tamasha with popping fireworks, banging gongs and the lighting of innumerable strips of red-and-gold paper (to frighten away the bhoots, rakshasas and other demons, said Baburao helpfully). All this, combined with the noise of alarmed ducks, crying babies and snuffling pigs, created an atmosphere such that Paulette would not have been surprised to see the junk flying off like a rocket. But instead, as the noise built to a climax, the Kismat’s matted sails went soaring up and she began to move ahead, leaving behind a long trail of smoke.

The waters at the mouth of the Pearl River were torn by cross-cutting currents and there were so many boats swarming about that the junk needed careful handling. Watching the crew as they went about their work, Paulette realized that it was not just the Kismat’s appearance that made her different from the Ibis and the Redruth: there was a marked contrast also in the way she was manned and crewed. Paulette had thought that the laodah of a junk was something like the nakhoda of an Indian boat – someone who combined, in part or whole, the functions of captain, supercargo and shipowner. But Baburao’s way of commanding his vessel was nothing like that of the nakhodas and sea-captains she had observed on the Hooghly and in the Bay of Bengal; and nor could the Kismat be said to be ‘manned’ – for her crew included several women whose duties were no different from those of the men. And no matter whether male or female, none of the crew would put up with barked orders and peremptory hookums: Baburao usually spoke to them in a tone of mild cajolery, as if he were trying to persuade them of the wisdom of doing as he asked. Stranger still was the fact that much of the time he said nothing at all: everyone seemed to know what they had to do without being told, and when Baburao did choose to interfere, the others did not hesitate to question his orders. When arguments broke out, they were usually resolved not by a display of authority or a show of force, but through the intervention of one of the women.

For several hours the junk threaded a slow and careful path through fleets of fishing boats, sharp-toothed reefs and small, wave-pounded islands. Then her bows turned towards a looming crag, fringed by a line of angry surf.

This, said Baburao, is Lintin Island.

The junk worked its way slowly around to a bay on the eastern side of the island, where two vessels of unusual appearance lay at anchor. The hulls were like those of Western sailships, but their masts had been cut off and their rigging removed, so they looked like barrels that had been cut lengthwise in half.

These were the last of the ‘hulks’ of Lintin, Baburao explained: in the past, they had been used solely for the purpose of storing and distributing opium. One of them was British, the other American, and they had been stationed at Lintin for many years, so that foreign opium-carriers could rid themselves of their wares before heading towards the customs houses that guarded the mouth of the Pearl River. Even a few years before, he said, there would have been many foreign vessels anchored in this bay, busily emptying their holds of ‘Malwa’ and ‘Bengal’; a flotilla of swift fast-crabs would have been sitting here too, waiting to whisk the cargo to the mainland.

Despite the ominous, eerie presence of the misshapen hulks, the bay was a wild and beautiful place, with clouds blowing past the island’s steeply rising heights. Baburao anchored the junk in the middle of the bay, manoeuvring her patiently into place, and choosing his spot with great care.

Now followed another ceremony, with incense, offerings and burnt paper.

Is this another puja? asked Paulette, and unlike the last time, Baburao was slow to answer. She had begun to regret having asked the question when he said, all of a sudden: Yes, it is a puja; but not like the last one. This is different.

O? Why?

Yes, this one is for my dada-bhai, my older brother, who died here …

It had happened many years before, Baburao explained, but he still could not pass that way without making a stop. The brother he was speaking of was his oldest, and he too had grown up on the Kismat, doing what his father and grandfather had done before him. But one day someone said to him: You’re a strong boy, why don’t you trying rowing a fast-crab? You’ll earn well, better than by fishing or sailing. How could anyone stop him? Every now and then he would go off to work the oars on one of those fast-crabs. It was hard work, but at the end of each run he would be given a little bit of opium as a cumshaw. He could have sold these, of course, and taken the money, but he was just a boy and often he ended up smoking his cumshaw instead. Soon he was working not for the pay but for the opium, and the harder he worked, the more he needed it. In a few years his body was wasted and his mind vacant; he could not row any longer and nor could he do anything else. He spent his time lying like a shadow on the Kismat’s foredeck. One day, when the junk was anchored in this spot he rolled over into the water and was never seen again.