Chewing his lip, Zachary looked at the watch again, remembering the moment when the serang had handed it to him. 'And if they caught the last owner, sir?' he said. 'What do you think they'd do?'

'Oh they'd have a lot of questions for him I don't doubt,' said the Captain. 'And if there was any hint of a connection with Danby I'm sure they'd hang him. Not the least doubt about it: there's a nubbing-chit waiting for any member of the Danby gang who's still on the prowl.'

After a few days the majority of the migrants began to recover from their seasickness. Yet, even as the others were getting better, a few showed no signs of improvement at all, and some grew steadily weaker and more helpless so that their bodies could be seen to be wasting away. Although their number was not large, they had a disproportionate effect on the others: following upon all the other mishaps of the journey, their deteriorating condition created an atmosphere of despondency and demoralization in which many who had recovered began to ail afresh.

Every few days, the maistries would sprinkle vinegar or powdered lime around the edges of the hold, and a few of the patients would be given foul-smelling, gummy potions to drink. Many would spit out the liquid as soon as the guards' backs were turned, for it was rumoured that the so-called medicine had been concocted from the hoofs and horns of pigs, cows and horses. In any case, the medicines seemed to have no effect at all on the worst-affected migrants, of whom there were about a dozen.

The next to die was a thirty-year-old coppersmith from Ballia, a man whose once-robust body had dwindled almost to a skeleton. He had no relatives on board, and only one friend, who was himself too ill to go on deck when the dead man's body was cast into the water.

At that time Deeti was still too weak to sit up or take notice, but by the time the next death occurred, she was well on her way to recovery: in this instance, the deceased was a young Muslim julaha from Pirpainti, who was travelling with two cousins. The dead weaver's companions were even younger than he, and neither of them was in a state to protest when a squad of silahdars came down to the dabusa and ordered them to heave the body up so that it could be tipped overboard.

Deeti was not especially inclined to intervene, but when it became clear that no one else was going to say anything, what could she do but speak up? Wait! she told the two boys. This isn't right, what they're telling you to do.

The three silahdars rounded on her angrily: You stay out of this; it's none of your business.

But of course it is, she retorted. He may be dead but he's still one of us: you can't just throw him away like the skin of a peeled onion.

So what do you expect? said the silahdars. Do you want us to stop and make a big tamasha every time a coolie dies?

Just a little izzat; some respect ... it's not right to treat us like this.

And who's going to stop us? came the sneering response. You?

Not me maybe, said Deeti. But there are others here ...

By this time, many of the girmitiyas had risen to their feet, not with the intention of confronting the silahdars, but mostly out of curiosity. The guards, however, had noted the stir of movement with no little apprehension. The three silahdars began to edge nervously towards the ladder, where one of them paused to ask, in a voice that was suddenly conciliatory: What's to be done with him, then?

Give his relatives some time to talk things over, said Deeti. They can decide what is necessary.

We'll see what the subedar says.

With that, the guards went back on deck, and after a half-hour or so, one of them shouted through the hatch to let the migrants know that the subedar had agreed to let the dead man's kin sort the matter out for themselves. This concession was met with jubilation below, and more than a dozen men offered their help in carrying the body up to the deck.

Later, the dead man's kin sought Deeti out to let her know that the body had been cleaned as prescribed before being consigned to the sea. Everyone agreed that this was a signal victory, and not even the most quarrelsome or envious men could deny that it was largely Deeti's doing.

Kalua alone was less than completely happy about the outcome. Bhyro Singh may have given in this time, he whispered in Deeti's ear, but he's not glad about it. He's been asking who was behind the trouble and whether it was the same woman as before.

Deeti, elated by her success, shrugged this off. What can he do now? she said. We're at sea - he can't send us back, can he?

'Take in the flying jib!' - Tan fulana-jib!

Through most of the morning the schooner had been close-hauled to the strengthening wind and the masts had been crowded thesam-thes, with a great press of sail. But now, with the sun overhead, the swells in the heaving sea had mounted to a height where the schooner was being continually p.o.o.ped by surging waves. Zachary, glorying in the power of the vessel, would have kept all her canvas aloft, but was over-ruled by the Captain, who ordered him to reduce sail.

'Standy by!' - Sab taiyar!

Taking in the flying-jib required only one man to go aloft, usually the quickest and lightest of the trikat-wale. Ascending almost to the truck of the foremast, the lascar would unloose the hinch that secured the sail's head, while the others waited below, between the bows, in order to wrestle the canvas down and stow it on its boom. By rights it should have fallen to Jodu to go up alone, but Mamdootindal hated to work on the jib-boom, especially when the thirty-foot spar was ploughing in and out of the water, drenching all those who were clinging to it. Under the pretext of making sure the job was done right, the tindal followed Jodu up the mast and made himself comfortable on the baopar side of the sabar-purwan, seating himself on the yard while Jodu climbed still further up, to wrestle with the hinch.

'Haul aft the sheet!' - Daman tan chikar!

Hold on! Mamdootindal's warning came just as the knot sprung loose.

Suddenly, as if seized by panic, the canvas reared up and flung itself against Jodu: it was as if a hunted swan were trying to beat off a pursuer with a frenzied thrashing of its wings. Just in time, Jodu fastened both arms around the mast and clung on, while the men below began to haul on the hanjes, to sheet the sail home. But with the updraughts blowing strong, the sail did not go easily and the canvas kept rearing up, as if to snap at Jodu's heels.

You see, said Mamdootindal, with no little satisfaction. It's not as easy as you launders think.

Easy? Who'd think that?

Slipping down from the masthead, Jodu seated himself astride the sabar yard so that he was sitting with his back to the tindal, with the mast in between. On either side of the schooner, the sea was striped with wide swathes of black shadow, marking the valleys between the swells. Up on the yard, where the ship's motions were exaggerated by the height of the mast, it was if they were sitting on a palm tree that was swaying from side to side. Jodu tightened his hold, weaving his arms through the sawais, knowing full well that with the water heaving as it was, a fall would mean certain death. With the wind gusting like this, it would take at least an hour to bring the schooner about, and the chances of survival were so slight that the afsars were unlikely even to change course: yet, there was no denying that the danger added a dash of mirch to the masala of the masts.

Mamdootindal was of the same mind. He pointed to the outermost tip of the jib-boom, which was known to the lascars as the Shaitan-jib - the Devil's-tongue - because so many sailors had lost their lives there. We're lucky to be here, he said. Just look at those poor b.u.g.g.e.rs down there - the gandus are getting a bath like they've never had. Chhi! How it would make Ghaseeti's kajal run!

Glancing down at the schooner's bows, Jodu saw that the Devil's-tongue was plunging in and out of the swells, ducking the lascars who were sitting astride it, and tossing plumes of water over the deck, drenching the migrants who were emerging from the hatch for their midday meal. Under Jodu's feet, below the footropes, there was an elliptical opening between the billowing trikat and the bara: this gap afforded a view of the waist of the schooner, and looking through it now, Jodu saw two sari-clad figures sitting crouched under the jamna devis. He knew, from the colour of the sari, that one of them was Munia, and he knew, too, from the incline of her veiled head, that she was looking at him.

This exchange of glances did not elude Mamdootindal, who curled his elbow around the mast to give Jodu a jab in the ribs. Are you staring at that girl again, you f.u.c.kwit of a launder?

Surprised by the severity of his tone, Jodu said: What's wrong with looking, Mamdoo-ji?

Listen to me, boy, said Mamdootindal. Can't you see? You're a lascar and she's a coolie; you're a Muslim and she's not. There's nothing for you in this: nothing but a whipping. Do you understand?

Jodu burst into laughter. Arre, Mamdoo-ji, he said, you take things too seriously sometimes. What's wrong with a couple of jokes and a laugh? Doesn't it help the time pa.s.s? And wasn't it you said that when Ghaseeti was my age she always got whoever she wanted - no jhula or bunk was safe from her?

Tchhi! Turning away from the wind, the tindal ejected a gob of spittle that sailed away across the length of the yard, landing in the sea on the far side of the schooner. Listen, boy, he muttered darkly, under his breath. If you don't know why this is different, then a dismasting may be just what you need.

Even with fetters on his wrists, Ah Fatt possessed a sureness of hand that was astonishing to Neel. That he should be able to pluck flies out of the air - not swat, but pluck, trapping the insects between the tips of thumb and forefinger - was remarkable enough, but that he should be able to do this in the dark seemed scarcely credible. Often, at night, when Neel was ineffectually flailing his hands at a fly or mosquito, Ah Fatt would catch hold of his arm and tell him to lie still: 'Shh! Let me listen.'

To ask for silence in the chokey was to expect too much: what with the creaking of the ship's timbers, the lapping of the water beneath the hull, the tread of the sailors above, and the voices of the migrants on the far side of the bulwark, it was never quiet within its confines. But Ah Fatt seemed to be able to use his senses in such a way as to block out some noises while focusing on others: when the insect made itself heard again, his hand would come shooting out of the darkness to put an end to its drone. It didn't seem to matter even if the insect settled on Neel's body: Ah Fatt would pluck it out of the darkness in such a way that Neel would feel nothing but a slight pinch on his skin.

But tonight it was neither the hum of an insect nor Neel's flailing that made Ah Fatt say: 'Shh! Listen.'

'What is it?'

'Listen.'

Suddenly Ah Fatt's fetters moved, and their rattle was followed by a frantic, high-pitched squeaking. Then there was a snapping sound, like that of a bone breaking.

'What was it?' said Neel.

'Rat.' An odour of excrement filled the chokey as Ah Fatt removed the cover of the toilet bucket to drop the dead creature inside.

Neel said: 'I don't understand how you can catch it with your bare hands.'

'Learnt.'

'To catch flies and mice?'

Ah Fatt laughed. 'No. Learnt to listen.'

'From whom?'

'Teacher.'

Neel, for all his connoisseurship of teachers and tutors, could think of none who would teach this particular skill. 'What kind of teacher would teach you that?'

'Teacher who teach to box.'

Neel was more than ever mystified. 'A boxing teacher?'

Ah Fatt laughed again. 'Strange no? Father made to learn.'

'But why?'

'He want me be like English Man,' said Ah Fatt. 'Want me learn things that Man must know - rowing, hunting, cricket. But in Guangzhou, there is no hunting and there is no garden for cricket. And rowing is done by servant. So he makes to learn boxing.'

'Your father? Did you live with your father then?'

'No. Live with Grandmother. In junk.'

The vessel was actually a Canton kitchen-boat, with a wide, flat prow, where dishes could be washed and pigs butchered. Aft of the prow was the galley, with a four-fire oven, sheltered by a bamboo roof; the middle section was sunken, and shaded by an awning, with a low table and benches for customers; the stern was square and high, with a double-decked house perched on it: this was where the family lived - Ah Fatt, his mother, his grandmother and whichever cousins or other relatives happened to be pa.s.sing through.

The kitchen-boat was a gift from Ah Fatt's father, and it was a step up in the world for the family: before the boy was born they had lived in a snail-boat that was half the size. Barry would have liked to do still better by his son, the guilt of whose illegitimacy lay heavy on him: he would gladly have bought Chi Mei and her family a house, in the city or in one of the nearby villages - Chuen-pi, for instance, or Whampoa. But this was a Dan family, bred to the river and unwelcome on land. Barry knew this, and raised no objection, although he did make it clear that he would have liked them to acquire a vessel that did him some credit: a big, colourful pleasure-barge, for instance, of the kind that he could have boasted of to his comprador, Chunqua. But Chi Mei and her mother were of thrifty stock, and a dwelling that provided no income was, to them, as useless a thing as a barren sow. Not only did they insist on buying a kitchen-boat, they moored it within sight of the Fanqui-town, so it happened that when Ah Fatt was put to work, helping with customers - which began almost as soon as he learnt to keep his footing on a tilted deck - he could be seen clearly from the windows of the White-hat factory.

Kya-re? the other Parsis would laugh; fine fellow you are, Barry - letting your b.a.s.t.a.r.d grow up like a boat-boy. For your daughters you're building mansions on Queensway - nothing for this b.u.g.g.e.r? True he's not one of us, but there's something there, no? Can't just turn your back on him ...

This was unjust, for it was patent for all to see, Parsis and others alike, that Barry was an indulgent and ambitious father, who had every intention of providing his only son with the wherewithal to set himself up as a gentleman of good standing: the boy was to be erudite, active and urbane, as handy with rod and gun as with book and pen; a Man who spouted Manliness like a whale exhales spray. If schools refused to accept the illegitimate son of a boatwoman, then he would hire special tutors, to teach him reading and penmanship, in Chinese and English - that way, he could always make a career for himself as a linkister, translating between the Fanquis and their hosts. There were many such in Canton, but most were utterly incompetent; the boy could easily learn to outdo them all and might even make a name for himself.

To find tutors who were willing to teach in a Dan kitchen-boat was no easy matter, but through Chunqua's good offices, some were found. Ah Fatt took readily to his lessons and every year when his father returned to Canton for the season, the records of his progress grew longer and longer, the calligraphy ever more stylish. Every year, Barry would bring extravagant gifts from Bombay, to thank his comprador for keeping an eye on the progress of the boy's education; every year Chunqua in turn would reciprocate with a present of his own, usually a book for the boy.

In Ah Fatt's thirteenth year, the present was a fine edition of that famous and beloved tale, Journey to the West.

Barry was much enthused when the name was translated for him: 'It'll do him good to read about Europe and America. Some day I will send him on a visit.'

Not without some embarra.s.sment, Chunqua explained that the West in question was somewhat nearer at hand; in fact it was intended to be none other than Mr Moddie's very own homeland - Hindusthan, or Jambudvipa as it was called in the old books.

'Oh?' Although no longer so enthusiastic, Barry gave the boy his present anyway, little knowing that he would soon regret this offhand decision. Later, he came to be convinced that it was this book that was responsible for the fancies that entered Ah Fatt's head: 'Want to go West ...'

Every time the boy saw him, he would plead to visit his father's homeland. But this was the one indulgence Barry could not grant: to think of letting the boy sail to Bombay on one of his father-in-law's ships; to imagine him walking down the gangplank, into a crowd of waiting relatives; to conceive of presenting his mother-in-law, his wife, his daughters, with fleshly evidence of his other life, in Canton, which they knew of only as a provenance for finely embroidered silks, pretty fans and torrents of silver - none of these notions could be entertained for more than a moment; why, it would be like unloosing an army of termites on the parqueted floors of his Churchgate mansion. The other Parsis in Canton might know about the boy, but he knew he could trust them to be discreet back home: after all, he, Barry, was not the only one to lapse from bach-elordom during these long months of exile. And even if a whisper or two were to reach his hometown, he knew people would ignore them so long as the evidence was kept safely hidden from view. If, on the other hand, he were to bring the boy back, for people to see with their own eyes, then a great flame of scandal would erupt from the doors of the fire-temple, to light a conflagration that would ultimately consume his lucrative living.

No, Freddy, listen to me, he said to Ah Fatt. This 'West' you've got in your head is just something that was made up in a silly old book. Later, when you're grown up, I'll send you to the real West - to France or America or England, some place where people are civilized. When you get there you'll be able to set yourself up as a prince or a foxhunting man. But don't think of Hindusthan; forget about it. It's the one place that's not good for you.

'And he was right,' said Ah Fatt. 'Was not good for me.'

'Why? What did you do?'

'Robbery. Did robbery.'

'When? Where?'

Ah Fatt rolled away, burying his face. 'Nother time,' he said, in a m.u.f.fled voice. 'Not now.'

The turbulence of the open sea had a calamitous effect on Baboo n.o.b Kissin's processes of digestion and many days pa.s.sed before he was able to make his way from the midships-cabin to the main deck. But when at last he stepped into the open air and felt the moisture of the sea on his face, he understood that all those days of dizziness, diarrhoea and vomiting were the necessary period of suffering that precedes a moment of illumination: for he had only to look at the spindrift that was flying off the schooner's bows to know that the Ibis was not a ship like any other; in her inward reality she was a vehicle of transformation, travelling through the mists of illusion towards the elusive, ever-receding landfall that was Truth.

Nowhere was this transformation more evident than in himself, for the presence of Taramony was so palpable within him now that his outer body felt increasingly like the spent wrappings of a coc.o.o.n, destined soon to fall away from the new being that was gestating within. Every day offered some fresh sign of the growing fullness of the womanly presence inside him - for example, his mounting revulsion at the coa.r.s.eness of the maistries and silahdars with whom he had perforce to live: when he heard them speaking of b.r.e.a.s.t.s and b.u.t.tocks, it was as if his own body were being discussed and derided; at times, his need to veil himself was so intense that he would pull a sheet over his head. His maternal stirrings too had now grown so exigent that he could not walk across the main deck without lingering awhile over that part of it which lay above the convicts' cell.

This proclivity earned him many earfuls of galis from the lascars, and several angry tirades from Serang Ali: 'What for you standi here likee c.o.c.k-a-roach? b.u.g.g.e.r too muchi foolo - nevva hit any use.'

Mr Crowle was even more direct: 'Pander, y'spigot-sucking gobble-p.r.i.c.k! With all the wide welkin around us, why d'ye always have to be beating the b.o.o.by right here? I tell yer, Pander, I see yer here again and I'm going to splice a c.u.n.tline to yer a.r.s.e.'

To these a.s.saults on his dignity the gomusta tried always to respond with queenly self-possession. 'Sir, I must deplore to your fulsome remarks. There is no need to pa.s.s dirty-dirty comments. Why all the time you are giving dagger-looks and criticizing? Only I have come to take air and refresh. If you are busy you need not bestow undue attention.'

But the semi-proximity of his lingering presence on deck was galling not just to the sailors, but also to Taramony, whose voice was now often in Baboo n.o.b Kissin's head, urging him to enter the very precincts of the chokey, to bring her closer to her adopted son. These promptings precipitated a raging conflict between the emergent mother, seeking to comfort her child, and that part of Baboo n.o.b Kissin which continued to be a worldly gomusta, bound by all manner of everyday proprieties.

But I can't go down there! he would protest. What will people think?

How does it matter? she would respond. You can do what you like: aren't you the ship's supercargo?

There was no denying that Baboo n.o.b Kissin was one of the few people on the Ibis who had the right of access to every part of the ship. As the supercargo, he often had business with the Captain and was regularly to be seen making his way into the officers' part of the ship, where he would sometimes lurk at Zachary's door, in the hope of hearing his flute once again. In his official capacity, he had also been empowered, by Mr Burnham, to inspect the other parts of the vessel, and he even had in his possession a set of spare keys for the chokey.

None of this was a secret from Taramony, and as the days pa.s.sed it became clear to Baboo n.o.b Kissin that if she was ever to manifest herself in him, then he would have to embrace every aspect of her being, including her capacity for maternal love. There was no getting out of it: he would have to find a way to the chokey.

Like an animal returning to its natural element, the Ibis seemed to grow ever more exuberant as she went lasking along on the open sea. The schooner had been on the Bay of Bengal for exactly a week when Paulette looked up from her washing one afternoon, and noticed that the sky above was a luminous, radiant blue, its colour deepened by flecks of cloud that mirrored the crests on the water below. The wind was blowing strong and hard, and the waves and clouds seemed to be racing each other across a single, vast firmament, with the schooner straining in pursuit, her timbers groaning with the effort of the chase. It was as if the alchemy of the open water had endowed her with her own will, her own life.

Leaning over the rail, Paulette gingerly lowered her balty to draw some water. As she was pulling the bucket up again a flying fish came rocketing out but only to leap back into the waves. The flutter of its wings drew a squeal of laughter from Paulette and startled her into tipping her balty over, spilling the water partly on herself and partly on the deck. Alarmed at the mess, she fell to her knees and was busily pushing the water down the scuppers when she heard a peremptory shout: 'You there - yes you!'

It was Mr Crowle, and much to Paulette's relief, he was shouting not at her, but at someone else: since his voice was pitched to the tone he commonly employed with the lowest of the lascars, Paulette a.s.sumed that he was shouting at some unfortunate launder or topas. But such was not the case; looking aft, she saw that it was Zachary who had been thus addressed. He was on the quarterdeck, heading back to his cabin after the end of his watch. His face went red as he came to the fife-rails. 'Were you speaking to me, Mr Crowle?'

'That's right.'

'What is it?'

'What's this hugger-mugger business over here? Were y'f.u.c.kin asleep on yer watch?'

'Where, Mr Crowle?'

'Come'n see for yer own bleedin self.'

This being a mealtime, the deck was about as noisy as it ever was, with dozens of girmitiyas, overseers, lascars and bhandaris talking, jostling and arguing over the food. The exchange between the mates brought the hubbub to an abrupt end: that there was bad blood between the malums was a secret to no one, and every eye turned to watch as Zachary made his way forward, towards the bows.

'What's wrong, Mr Crowle?' said Zachary, stepping up to the fo'c'sle-deck.

'You tell me.' The first mate pointed at something ahead and Zachary leant over the bows to take a look. 'D'ye have the eyes to see it, Mannikin - or do you need it explained?'

'I see the problem, Mr Crowle,' said Zachary straightening up. 'The traveller is unseized and the jib and martingale are afoul of the dolphin-striker. How it happened I cannot imagine, but I'll fix it.'

Zachary had begun to roll up his sleeves when Mr Crowle stopped him. 'Not yer job, Reid. Not yer place to tell me how it's to be fixed neither. Nor who's to do it.'

Turning aft, the first mate surveyed the deck with a hand over his eyes, squinting hard, as though he were looking for someone in particular. The search ended when he caught sight of Jodu, who was lounging in the kursi of the foremast: 'You there, Sammy!' He curled his finger to summon Jodu to the bows.

'Sir?' Taken by surprise, Jodu pointed to himself, as if to ask for confirmation.