I was the chhota-bhai, said Baburao, the little one, the youngest of four. When my brother died I was very small. My father decided that it would be best for me to go away so he found me a job as a chokra on a Manila-bound ship. He knew that if I stayed here I too would lose myself in the smoke, like my brothers.
Your older brother was not the only one then?
No, said Baburao. My two other brothers, they too went that way. Even though they saw what happened to my oldest brother, they could not stop themselves: they got greedy for money and went to work on the fast-crabs. One of them was found beheaded, his body floating in a creek near Whampoa. To this day we don’t know who killed him or why, but what’s for sure is that it had something to do with the ‘black mud’. The other brother lived longer, he married and had children. But he was a smoker too, and he died when he was in his mid-twenties. After that my father wanted to sell this junk – he said the mud had turned this river into a stream of poison. I was in Calcutta when this came to my ears. I could not bear the thought of selling the Kismat; I had grown up on it. I loved these waters and I decided it was time to come back.
And are you glad you did? said Paulette.
I used to be, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know now. The more I see, the more it worries me. I worry about my sons, my grandchildren. How can they live on this river without being choked by the smoke?
Here Baburao broke off and tapped her on the shoulder: Come, I’ll show you something.
Leading her up to the most elevated part of the poop-deck, he handed her a telescope.
Look there, he said, pointing upriver. You’ll see a big fort, down by the water, right at the river’s mouth. The lascars call it ‘Sher-ka-mooh’, the Tiger’s Mouth; the Angrez call it the Bogue. It was built just a few years ago, to defend the river, and to look at it you would think no one could ever get into such a stronghold. But at night you or I or anyone else could walk in, without anyone stopping us. The soldiers are all lost in smoke, and their officers too. This is a plague from which no one can escape.
*
Within a few hours, it was common knowledge in Fanqui-town that the Dent faction had triumphed in the boardroom. The Achha Hong received the details through Vico, who predicted a celebration and sure enough, it was soon learnt that some of the Seth’s friends would be coming by later in the day.
This set off something of a panic in the kitchen, but by the time the guests began to arrive Mesto had everything in hand: bottles of champagne had been chilled and several batches of croquettes, pakoras and samosas had been prepared and were ready to serve.
Mr Dent and Mr Burnham were the first to be shown up to the daftar; Mr Slade arrived soon afterwards, accompanied by several others. As the celebration got under way, the khidmatgars who were serving the guests kept the rest of the staff informed of what was happening up there: now Mr Burnham was offering a prayer of thanks for the divine guidance that had led their faction to victory; now Sethji was raising a toast to Mr Dent, congratulating him on his leadership.
Vico was the only one to express any reservations: The outcome’s not decided yet, he muttered darkly; Mr Dent may have outmanoeuvred Mr King, but the Yum-chae may not be so easy to fool. Patrão knows this: he is raising toasts all right, but I know he’s worried.
Towards the end of the evening the khidmatgars reported that the Seth was indeed looking a little strained. This was confirmed at dinner time, when Dent and his cronies left for the Club: despite being entreated to join them Bahram elected to stay at home and went straight to bed.
Down in the kitchen there was plenty of champagne left and a lot of food as well; with the Seth safely tucked away in his bedroom no one had to worry about keeping quiet. Glasses were quaffed and trays emptied and then Vico decided to teach everyone the basics of ballroom dancing: ‘Come, munshiji, let me show you a few steps. We will start with waltz.’
Mesto began to beat time on a huge brass dekchi and the others started to clap. Neel’s protests were drowned out and he was soon lumbering around the kitchen with Vico, trying to stay in step.
The sight of their cavorting quickly reduced the others to helpless laughter. A pitcher of grog appeared and was quickly emptied and then the others began to join in too – khidmatgars, chowkidars, kitchen-chokras, even the solemn shroffs; soon, except for Mesto, they were all whirling around the kitchen like children at a mela. Then, at a word from Vico, the tempo of the music changed. The new dance, announced the purser, was called a quadrille and under his instructions they formed themselves into two lines. With their arms interlinked, they rushed at each other, with such force that many were knocked down. They lay on the floor, laughing, and marvelling at the thought that something so ridiculous could pass for a dance.