Flood of Fire by Amitav Ghosh

woman’s thigh – and before he knew it his hawser was trying to bore a hawse-hole through the flap of his breeches.
    That night he wept to think that an animal – a goat! – had produced such an effect on him: how much lower was it possible to fall?
    When the khidmatgars brought him trays he would stare morosely at them, wondering whether they too had ever visited the Onanian isles. He would examine their faces for signs of the symptoms listed in the pamphlet: pimples, inflammations, rapid blinking, dark patches around the eyes and an unnatural pallor. On none of them were the signs so prominently visible as they were on himself. They had probably married early, he guessed, and would thus never have needed to resort to the solitary vice.
    But even these inoffensive reflections were fraught with danger. One thought would lead to another and visions of the khidmatgars’ intimacies with their wives would flash through his head. The hairy hand that bore the tray would evoke the rounded shape of a breast; a calloused knuckle, on the fingers that gifted him a bowl of dumbpoke, would turn into a dark, swollen nipple – and all of a sudden his jib-boom would be a-taunt in his drawers and he would have to push his chair deeper under the table.
    His condition being what it was, nothing was more terrifying to Zachary than the prospect of accidentally encountering Mrs Burnham. For this reason he spent all his time on the budgerow, hardly ever setting foot on shore. But one morning, in despair, he decided that confinement was making his condition worse and he forced himself to go for a walk.
    As he marched along the riverbank, his head felt lighter than it had in many days. The twitching in his groin also began to abate – but still, as a precaution, he kept his eyes rigidly fixed on the ground. But his confidence grew as he walked and he began to look around more freely. And to his surprise, many sights that would have hoisted his mizzen just the day before – the bulge ofa breast under a sari; a woman’s ankle, twinkling down the street – aroused not the faintest flutter.
    As his assurance increased he let his eyes wander where they wished, allowing them to dwell, promiscuously, on voluptuous clouds and suggestively heaving trees. Finding no cause for concern he even ventured to pronounce the proscribed words: mullet, gullet and so on until he arrived finally at a full-throated ‘Paulette!’ – and still his foredeck remained perfectly ship-shape, with his tackle tightly snugged down.
    He stopped and drew a breath that coursed euphorically through his body: it was as if he had been granted a reprieve, a cure! Turning around, he strolled joyfully back to the budgerow, and there, as if to confirm his exculpation, he found a visitor waiting.
    It was Mr Doughty, bearing an invitation to the Harbourmaster’s Dance, a fancy-dress ball intended to raise money for the Mariners’ Mission in Calcutta: it was the custom to give away a few tickets to indigent but deserving young sailors.
    Zachary understood that Mr Doughty had gone to some trouble to procure a ticket for him and thanked him profusely. ‘But the trouble is, Mr Doughty, I don’t have a costume.’
    But Mr Doughty had thought of this too. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, my boy. I’ve got one for you – same thing I’ll be wearing. Why don’t you come over early and eat dinner with us that day? I’ll get you all kitted out – won’t cost a thing and you’ll enjoy yourself, I promise.’

Three

    E very year at the start of winter, around the time that the festival of Naga Panchami was celebrated, a mela was held at the akhara where Kesri went to train. Along with all the usual fairground attractions, a special raised ring was prepared and wrestlers came from afield to test and prove themselves.
    The mela lasted several days and attracted a great number of sepoys, jawans