A few days later, with Hukam Singh's condition growing steadily worse, she learnt that some distant relatives were travelling to the village where she was born: they agreed readily when she asked them to deliver her daughter to the house of her brother, Havildar Kesri Singh, the sepoy. The boat was to leave in a few hours and the pressure of time made it possible for Deeti to remain dry-eyed and composed as she tied Kabutri's scant few pieces of clothing in a bundle. Among her few remaining pieces of jewellery were an anklet and a bangle: these she fastened on her daughter, with instructions to hand them over to her aunt: She'll look after them for you.

Kabutri was overjoyed at the prospect of visiting her cousins and living in a household filled with children. How long will I stay there? she asked.

Until your father gets better. I'll come to get you.

When the boat sailed away, with Kabutri in it, it was as if Deeti's last connection with life had been severed. From that moment she knew no further hesitation: with her habitual care, she set about making plans for her own end. Of all her concerns, perhaps the least pressing was that of being consumed by the cremation fire: a few mouthfuls of opium, she knew, would render her insensible to the pain.

Seven.

Well before he looked at the papers that Zachary had given him, Baboo n.o.b Kissin knew that they would provide the sign he needed to confirm what was already clear in his heart. So confident was he of this, that on the way back from Bethel, in his caranchie, he was already dreaming of the temple he had promised to build for Ma Taramony: it would sit upon the edge of a waterway and it would have a soaring, saffron-coloured spire. There would be a wide, paved threshold in front, where great numbers of devotees could a.s.semble, to dance, sing and worship.

It was in just such a temple that n.o.b Kissin Baboo had spent much of his own childhood, some sixty miles north of Calcutta. His family's temple was in the town of Nabadwip, a centre of piety and learning consecrated to the memory of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu - saint, mystic and devotee of Sri Krishna. One of the gomusta's ancestors, eleven generations removed, was said to have been among the saint's earliest disciples: he had founded the temple, which had been tended ever since by his descendants. n.o.b Kissin himself had once been in line to succeed his uncle as the temple's custodian, and in his boyhood he had been carefully groomed for his inheritance, being given a thorough education in Sanskrit and logic, as well as in the performance of rites and rituals.

When n.o.b Kissin was fourteen his uncle fell ill. Summoning the boy to his bedside, the old man had entrusted him with one last duty - his days were drawing to a close, he said, and it was his wish that his young wife, Taramony, be sent to an ashram in the holy city of Brindavan, to live out her widowhood: the journey being difficult and dangerous, he wanted n.o.b Kissin to escort her there personally before a.s.suming his duties in the family temple.

It will be done, said n.o.b Kissin, touching his uncle's feet, you need say no more.

A few days later, the old man died, and shortly afterwards n.o.b Kissin set off for Brindavan, with his widowed aunt and a small retinue of servants. Although n.o.b Kissin was well past the usual age of marriage, he was still a brahmachari - a virginal celibate - as befitted a student who was undergoing the rigours of an old-fashioned education. The widow, as it happened, was not much older than n.o.b Kissin, for her late husband had married her only six years before, in a final effort to beget an heir. Through those years, n.o.b Kissin had rarely had occasion to meet or speak with his aunt, for he was often away, living with his gurus, in their tols, pathshalas and ashrams. But now, as the party travelled slowly westwards, towards Brindavan, the boy and his aunt were inevitably often in each other's company. That his aunt was a woman of uncommon charm and comeliness, n.o.b Kissin had always known - but he discovered now, to his astonishment, that she was also a person of extraordinary spiritual accomplishment, a devotee of a kind that he had never encountered before: one who spoke of the Lotus-Eyed Lord as if she had personally experienced the grace of his presence.

As a student and a brahmachari, n.o.b Kissin had been trained to turn his mind from sensual thoughts; in his education, so much stress was laid on the retention of s.e.m.e.n that it was rarely, if ever, that the image of a woman succeeded in penetrating his mental defences. But now, rattling and rolling towards Brindavan, in a succession of boats and carriages, the boy's defences crumbled. Never once did Taramony permit him to touch her in an unchaste way - yet he would find himself trembling in her presence; at times his body would go into a kind of seizure, leaving him drenched in shame. At first he was merely confused and could think of no words to describe what was happening to him. Then he understood that his feeling for his aunt was but a profane version of what she herself felt for the divine lover of her visions; he understood also that only her tutelage could cure him of his bondage to his earthly desires.

I can never leave your side, he told her. I cannot abandon you in Brindavan. I would rather die.

She laughed and told him he was a foolish, vain fellow; Krishna was her only man, she said, the only lover she would ever have.

No matter, he said. You will be my Krishna and I will be your Radha.

She said incredulously: And you will live with me without touching me, without knowing my body, without knowing any other woman?

Yes, he said. Isn't that how you are with Krishna? Isn't that how the Mahaprabhu was?

And what of children?

Did Radha have children? Did any of the Vaishnav saints?

And your duties to your family? To the temple? What of all that?

I care nothing for such things, he said. You will be my temple and I will be your priest, your worshipper, your devotee.

When they reached the town of Gaya, she gave her a.s.sent: slipping away from their retainers, they turned around and made their way to Calcutta.

Although neither of them had been to the city before, they were not without resources. n.o.b Kissin still had their travel funds in his possession, as well as the silver that was to have provided the endowment for Taramony's incarceration in Brindavan. Put together, the sum was quite substantial, and it allowed them to rent a small house in Ahiritola, an inexpensive waterfront neighbourhood of Calcutta: there they took up residence, making no pretence of being anything other than they were, a widowed woman living with her nephew. No scandal ever attached to them, for Taramony's saintliness was so patently evident that she soon attracted a small circle of devotees and followers. n.o.b Kissin would have loved nothing better than to join this circle: to call her 'Ma', to be accepted as a disciple, to spend his days receiving spiritual instruction from her - this was all he wanted, but she would not allow it. You are different from the others, she told him, yours is a different mission; you must go into the world and make money - not just for our upkeep but as an endowment for the temple that you and I will build one day.

At her bidding, n.o.b Kissin went out into the city where his shrewdness and intelligence did not go long unnoticed. While working at the counter of a moneylender, in Rajabazar, he discovered that keeping accounts was no great challenge for someone of his education; having mastered it, he decided that his best hope for advancement lay in finding a place with one of the city's many English firms. To this end, he began to attend tutorial meetings in the house of a Tamil dubash - a translator who worked for Gillanders & Company, a big trading agency. He quickly established himself as one of the best students in the group, stringing together sentences with a fluency that astounded his master as well as his fellow pupils.

One recommendation led to another and one job to the next: starting as a serishta at Gillanders', n.o.b Kissin rose to become, successively, a carc.o.o.n at the Swinhoe factory, a cranny at Jardine & Matheson, a munshi at Ferguson Bros., and a mootsuddy at Smoult & Sons. It was from there that he found his way into the offices of Burnham Bros. where he rose quickly to the rank of gomusta and was entrusted with the shipping of migrant labour.

It was not just for his ac.u.men and his fluency in English that Baboo n.o.b Kissin's employers valued his services: they appreciated also his eagerness to please and his apparently limitless tolerance of abuse. Unlike many others, he never took offence if a sahib called him a dung-brained gubberhead, or compared his face to a bandar's bunghole; if shoes or paperweights were hurled his way, then he would merely step aside, displaying a surprising agility for a man of his girth and weight. Insults he would endure with a detached, almost pitying smile: the one thing that put him out of countenance was to be struck by his employer's shoes or feet - which was scarcely to be wondered at, since such blows necessitated the inconvenience of a bath and a change of clothes. Indeed, he twice switched jobs to rid himself of employers who were too much in the habit of kicking their local staff. This too was one of the reasons why he found his present position particularly congenial: Mr Burnham might be a hard-driving man and a difficult taskmaster, but he never kicked or beat his employees and rarely swore. It was true that he often mocked his gomusta by addressing him as 'my Nut-Kissing Baboon' and the like, but he was generally careful to avoid these familiarities in public - and 'baboon', in any case, was not a term to which Baboo n.o.b Kissin could really object, since that creature was but an avatar of Lord Hanuman.

While furthering his employer's interests, Baboo n.o.b Kissin had not neglected to pursue a few opportunities of his own. Since much of his work consisted in acting as an intermediary and facilitator, he had acquired, over time, a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, many of whom relied on him for advice in matters pecuniary and personal. In time, his role as adviser turned into a thriving moneylending operation, often resorted to by gentlefolk who were in need of a discreet and reliable source of funding. There were some who came to him also for help in matters still more intimate: abstinent in all things but food, Baboo n.o.b Kissin regarded the carnal appet.i.tes of others with the detached curiosity with which an astrologer might observe the movements of the stars. He was unfailingly attentive to the women who appealed to him for a.s.sistance - and they in turn found him easy to trust, knowing that his devotion to Taramony would prevent him from exacting favours for himself. It was thus that Elokeshi had come to regard him as an indulgent and kindly uncle.

Yet, for all his success, there was one great sorrow in the gomusta's life: the experience of divine love that he had hoped to achieve with Taramony had been denied him by the pressing exigencies of his career. The house he shared with her was large and comfortable, but when he returned to it, at the end of the day, it was usually to find her surrounded by a circle of disciples and devotees. These hangers-on would linger late into the night, and in the morning, when the gomusta left for the daftar, his aunt was almost always asleep.

I've worked so hard, he would say to her; I've made plenty of money. When will you set me free from this worldly life? When will it be time to build our temple?

Soon enough, she would answer. But not yet. When the moment comes you will know.

Such were her promises and Baboo n.o.b Kissin accepted without question that they would be redeemed at a time of her choosing. But suddenly one day, with the temple still unbuilt, she was seized by a wasting fever. For the first time in two decades, Baboo n.o.b Kissin stopped going to work; he banished Ma Taramony's disciples and hangers-on from his house and nursed her himself. When he saw that his devotion was powerless against her disease, he begged her: Take me with you; don't abandon me to live alone in this world. Other than you there is nothing of value in my life; it is a void, an emptiness, an eternity of wasted time. What will I do on this earth without you?

You won't be on your own, she promised him. And your work in this world is not done yet. You must prepare yourself - for your body will be the vessel for my return. There will come a day when my spirit will manifest itself in you, and then the two of us, united by Krishna's love, will achieve the most perfect union - you will become Taramony.

Her words caused a wild surging of hope in his heart. When will that day come? he cried. How will I know?

There will be signs, she said. You must keep careful watch, for the indications may be obscure and unexpected. But when they show themselves, you must not hesitate or hold back: you must follow them wherever they lead, even if they take you across the sea.

You give me your word? he said, falling to his knees. You promise it will not be too long?

You have my word, she replied. A day will come when I will pour myself into you: but till then you must be patient.

How long ago that was! Nine years and fifty weeks had pa.s.sed since the day of her death and he had continued to live his accustomed life, clothed in the garb of a busy gomusta, working harder and harder, even as he grew ever more weary of the world and his work. As the tenth anniversary of her death approached he had begun to fear for his reason and had come to the decision that if the day pa.s.sed without any sign yet being manifested, then he would renounce the world and go to Brindavan to live the life of a mendicant. And in making this pledge, he came to be convinced that the moment was at hand, the manifestation was on its way. He had grown so certain of this that now he felt no further anxiety or disquiet: it was at a calm, unhurried pace that he stepped off his caranchie and carried the ship's books into his silent, empty house. Spreading the papers on his bed, he leafed through them one by one until he came to the schooner's original crew manifest. When at last he saw the notation beside Zachary's name - 'Black' - he uttered no wild cry of joy - it was rather with a sigh of quiet jubilation that he rested his eyes on the scribbled word that revealed the hand of the Dark Lord. This was the confirmation he needed, he was certain of it - just as he was certain, also, that the messenger himself knew nothing of his mission. Does an envelope know what is contained in the letter that is folded inside it? Is a sheet of paper aware of what is written upon it? No, the signs were contained in the transformation that had been wrought during the voyage: it was the very fact of the world's changeability that proved the presence of divine illusion, of Sri Krishna's leela.

Separating the manifest from the other papers, Baboo n.o.b Kissin carried it to an almirah and placed it inside. Tomorrow he would roll it up tightly and take it to a coppersmith, to have it encased inside an amulet, so that it could be worn like a necklace. Should Mr Burnham ask for the manifest, he would tell him it was lost - such things happened often enough on long voyages.

As he was closing the almirah, Baboo n.o.b Kissin's eyes fell on a saffron-coloured alkhalla - one of the long, loose gowns that Taramony had liked to wear. On an impulse, he slipped it on, over his dhoti and kurta, and went over to a looking-gla.s.s. He was amazed by how well the robe fitted him. Reaching up to his head he undid the bindings of his tikki, shaking out his hair so that it fell to his shoulders. From now on, he decided, he would never again tie it or cut it; he would leave it open, to grow, so that it hung down to his waist, like Taramony's long, black locks. As he gazed at his own image, he became aware of a glow, spreading slowly through his body, as if it were being suffused by another presence. Suddenly his ears were filled by Taramony's voice: he heard her saying, once again, the words she had spoken in this very room - she was telling him that he must be prepared to follow the signs wherever they led, even across the sea. All at once, everything was clear and he knew why things had happened as they had: it was because the Ibis was to take him to the place where his temple would be built.

Neel and Raj Rattan were flying kites, on the roof of the Raskhali mansion in Calcutta, when the Commissioner of Police arrived with a detachment of silahdars and darogas. It was early evening, on a hot April day, with the last light of the setting sun shimmering on the Hooghly River. The nearby ghats were crowded with bathers, scrubbing away the dust of the day, and the moss-darkened roofs and terraces around the Raskhali Rajbari were filled with people, out to enjoy the sunset breeze. Everywhere in the neighbourhood conch-sh.e.l.ls were sounding, to mark the lighting of the first lamps, and the muezzin's call could be heard at a distance, floating over the city.

When Parimal burst in, Neel's attention was centred on his kite, which was soaring high on the swirling green breeze of the month of Phalgun: he had no ears for what was said. Huzoor, Parimal repeated himself. You have to go down. He wants you.

Who? said Neel.

The English afsar from the jel-khana - he's come with a police paltan.

The news made little impression on Neel: it often happened that officials from the constabulary came to see him on some matter related to the zemindary. Still intent on his kite, Neel said: What's happened? Has there been a burglary or dacoity nearby? If they want help, tell them to talk with the gomusta-babus.

No, huzoor: it's you they want.

Then they should come back in the morning, Neel said sharply. This is not the time of day to come to a gentleman's house.

Huzoor: they won't listen to us. They insist ...

Now, with the drum-like spindle of the kite-string still spinning in his hands, Neel shot a glance at Parimal and was surprised to see that he was on his knees, and that his eyes were overflowing. Parimal? he said, in astonishment. Yeh kya bat hai? Why are you making such a tamasha? What is going on?

Huzoor, Parimal said again, choking. They want you. They're in the daftar. They were on their way up here. I had to beg them to wait downstairs.

They were coming up here? Neel was speechless for a moment: this part of the roof lay in the most secluded part of the house, above the zenana; it defied credence that an outsider should think of setting foot in it.

Have they gone mad? he said to Parimal. How could they even think of such a thing?

Huzoor, Parimal implored him, they said not to waste time. They're waiting.

All right. Neel was more intrigued than alarmed by the sudden summons, but as he was leaving the roof, he stopped to ruffle Raj Rattan's hair.

Where are you going, Baba? said the boy, impatient of the interruption. Didn't you say we would fly kites till sunset?

And so we will, said Neel. I'll be back in ten minutes. The boy nodded and his attention veered back to his kite as Neel went down the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs lay the interior courtyard of the zenana, and in crossing this s.p.a.ce Neel noticed that a hush had fallen over the house - unaccountably, for this was the time of day when all his elderly aunts, widowed cousins, and other female relatives and dependants were always at their busiest. There were at least a hundred of them in the house, and at this hour they were usually bustling from room to room, with freshly lit lamps and incense, watering the tulsi plants, ringing the bells of the temple, blowing conch-sh.e.l.ls and making preparations for the night-time meal. But today the rooms around the courtyard were in darkness, with not a lamp to be seen, and the bal.u.s.traded verandas were filled with the white-robed figures of his widowed relatives.

Leaving behind the silence of the interior courtyard, Neel stepped into the street-facing part of the compound, where lay the office wing of the house, and the barracks that accommodated the hundred or so guards employed by the Raskhali zemindary. Here too, the spectacle that met Neel's eyes was astonishing in its novelty: on stepping into the open s.p.a.ce, he saw that the piyadas, paiks and lathiyals who made up his guard force had been penned into a corner of the grounds by a detachment of armed police. The guards were milling about in confusion, disarmed of their sticks, staves and swords, but on catching sight of the zemindar, they began to shout their cry: Joi Ma Kali! Joi Raskhali! Neel raised a hand to silence them but their voices grew steadily louder, rising to a roar that rang through the neighbouring streets and alleys. Looking up, Neel saw that the terraces and balconies of the buildings that overlooked the courtyard were jammed with people, all staring down in curiosity. He quickened his pace and went quickly up the stairs that led to his office, on the second floor.

The zemindar's daftar was a large, disorderly room, strewn with furniture and files. As Neel entered, a red-uniformed English officer rose to his feet, with his high-crowned hat tucked under his arm. Neel recognized him at once: his name was Hall and he was a former infantry major who was now in charge of the city's constabulary; he had visited the Raskhali Rajbari several times - sometimes to discuss matters of public security, but also often as a guest.

Neel joined his hands together in greeting, and tried to summon a smile. 'Ah, Major Hall! What can I do for you? Pray allow me to oblige ...'

The sombre expression on the Major's face remained unchanged as he said, in a stiffly official voice: 'Raja Neel Rattan, I regret that it is an unfortunate duty that brings me here today.'

'Oh?' said Neel: he noticed, abstractedly, that the Commissioner of Police was wearing his sword; although he had seen Major Hall in the Rajbari many times, he could not recall that he had ever come armed before. 'And what is the nature of your errand, Major Hall?'

'It is my painful duty to inform you,' the Major said formally, 'that I come bearing a warrant for your arrest.'

'Arrest?' The word was too outlandish to make immediate sense. 'You are here to arrest me?'

'Yes.'

'May I know what for?'

'For the crime of forgery, sir.'

Neel stared at him in incomprehension. 'Forgery? By Jove, sir, I must confess I do not find this the most amusing of jests. What am I said to have forged?'

Reaching into his pocket, the Major laid a piece of paper on an inlaid marble table. Neel did not have to look very closely to know what it was: it was one of the many dozen hundees he had signed over the last year. He smiled: 'This is no forgery, Major. I myself can vouch that it is not a counterfeit.'

The Major's finger descended to indicate a line where the name 'Benjamin Burnham' had been inscribed with a flourish. 'Do you deny, sir,' the Major said, 'that it was you who made this mark?'

'Not for a moment, Major,' Neel said evenly. 'But the matter is easily explained: there exists an agreement between Mr Burnham's firm and the Raskhali zemindary. This is a fact universally known ...'

So far as Neel knew, the Raskhali hundees had always carried Mr Burnham's name: his gomustas had a.s.sured him that this was the time-honoured practice of the old Raja, who had agreed with his partner long ago that there was no need to send every note across town for endors.e.m.e.nt - it was quicker and more efficient to have the needful done at the Halder residence. As it happened, the old Raja had never had a good hand in English, and the task had been performed for him by an underling; Neel, being something of a perfectionist in matters of calligraphy, had disliked the secretaries' crude script and had insisted on doing the job himself. All this was well known to Benjamin Burnham.

'I am afraid,' Neel said, 'that you have gone to much trouble for no reason. Mr Burnham will resolve this misunderstanding in a matter of minutes.'

The Major coughed into his fist in embarra.s.sment. 'I am afraid I must still do my duty, sir.'

'But surely,' Neel protested, 'there will be no need, if Mr Burnham explains what happened?'

After a brief pause, the Commissioner said: 'It was Mr Burnham, sir, who alerted us to the crime.'

'What?' Neel gave a start of disbelief. 'But there is no crime ...'

'This is a forged signature, sir. And there is a great deal of money at stake.'

'To write a man's name is not the same, surely, as forging his signature?'

'That depends on the intent, sir, which is for the court to decide,' said the Major. 'You may be sure that you will be given ample opportunity to make your case.'

'And in the meanwhile?'

'You must permit me to accompany you to Lalbazar.'

'To the jail?' said Neel. 'Like a common criminal?'

'Hardly that,' the Major said. 'We will make sure of your comfort; in consideration of your place in native society, we will even allow you to receive food from home.'

Now, at last, it began to sink in that the inconceivable was about to happen: the Raja of Raskhali was to be taken away by the police and locked in prison. Certain as he was that he would be acquitted, Neel knew that his family's reputation would never again be what it was, not after a crowd of neighbours had witnessed his arrest and forcible removal - all his relatives, his dependants, his son, even Elokeshi, would be mired in the shame.

'Do we have to go now?' Neel demurred. 'Today? In front of all my people?'

'Yes,' said Major Hall, 'I am afraid I can give you no more than a few minutes - to gather some clothes and personal effects.'

'Very well.'

Neel was turning to go when the Major said, sharply: 'I see that your men are in a state of some excitement. You should be aware that in the event of a disturbance, you will be held responsible and your case will suffer in court.'

'I understand,' Neel said. 'You need have no fear.'

The veranda adjoining the zemindar's office looked down upon a courtyard, and as he was stepping out, to make his way downstairs, Neel saw that this enclosure had suddenly turned white: his female relatives and dependants had come pouring out, in their widow's garb; catching sight of him now, they began a soft keening that turned quickly louder and more agitated; some flung themselves on the ground, while others began to beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. There was no question now of going back to the main house: Neel knew he would not be able to bring himself to force a pa.s.sage through that throng. He waited just long enough to make sure that his wife, Malati, was not present among the women: even in the confusion of that moment, it was a great relief to know that she had not stepped out of the zenana - he was spared, at least, the humiliation of having the veil of her seclusion torn away.

Huzoor: Parimal appeared beside him, with a bag in hand. I have packed a few things - all that you will need.

Neel reached out in grat.i.tude and squeezed his retainer's hands: all his life, Parimal had known exactly what he needed, often before he himself had known the want, but he had never felt as deeply indebted to him as he did now. He put out a hand to take the bag, but Parimal would not give it to him.

How can you carry your own luggage, huzoor? In front of the world's eyes?

The absurdity of this brought a smile to Neel's lips; he said: Do you know where they're taking me, Parimal?

Huzoor ... Parimal lowered his voice to a whisper: If you but give the word, our men will fight back. You could escape ... you could be concealed ...

For a wild instant, the idea of escape lodged in Neel's mind - but only to vanish, as he recalled the map that hung in his daftar, and the red stain of Empire that had spread so quickly across it. Where would I hide? he said. The piyadas of Raskhali can't fight the battalions of the East India Company. No, there's nothing to be done.

Neel turned away from Parimal to step back into his daftar, where the Major was waiting for him, with a hand on the hilt of his sword. 'I am ready,' said Neel. 'Let us be done with this.'

Ringed by a half-dozen uniformed constables, Neel made his way down the stairs. When he stepped into the courtyard the voices of the white-clad women rose once again to a shriek and they threw themselves at the constables, trying to reach across their batons, to the prisoner. Neel held his head high, but he could not bring himself to meet their gaze; it was only when he was at the gates that he allowed himself to glance back. No sooner did he turn than his eyes met those of his wife, Malati, and it was as if he had never seen her before. The covers had dropped from her ever-veiled face, and she had torn open the bindings of her braids so that her hair lay on her shoulders like a dark shroud of grief. Neel stumbled and lowered his eyes; he could not bear for her to look at him; it was as if the uncovering of her face had stripped the veil from his own manhood, leaving him naked and exposed to the gloating pity of the world, to a shame that could never be overcome.