Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh Page B

uttered an audible gasp – for suddenly she understood. It was a few years now since the rumours had begun to circulate in the villages around Ghazipur: although she had never seen a girmitiya before, she had heard them being spoken of. They were so called because, in exchange for money, their names were entered on ‘girmits’ – agreements written on pieces of paper. The silver that was paid for them went to their families, and they were taken away, never to be seen again: they vanished, as if into the netherworld.
    Where are they going, malik? said Kalua, in a hushed voice, as if he were speaking of the living dead.
    A boat will take them to Patna and then to Calcutta, said the guard. And from there they’ll go to a place called Mareech.
    Unable to restrain herself any longer, Deeti joined in the conversation, asking, from the shelter of her sari’s ghungta: Where is this Mareech? Is it near Dilli?
    Ramsaran-ji laughed. No, he said scornfully. It’s an island in the sea – like Lanka, but farther away.
    The mention of Lanka, with its evocation of Ravana and his demon-legions, made Deeti flinch. How was it possible that the marchers could stay on their feet, knowing what lay ahead? She tried to imagine what it would be like to be in their place, to know that you were forever an outcaste; to know that you would never again enter your father’s house; that you would never throw your arms around your mother; never eat a meal with your sisters and brothers; never feel the cleansing touch of the Ganga. And to know also that for the rest of your days you would eke out a living on some wild, demon-plagued island?
    Deeti shivered. And how will they get to that place? she asked Ramsaran-ji.
    A ship will be waiting for them at Calcutta, said the duffadar, a
jaház
, much larger than any you’ve ever seen: with many masts and sails; a ship large enough to hold hundreds of people . . .
    Hái Rám!
So that was what it was? Deeti clapped a hand over her mouth as she recalled the ship she had seen while standing in the Ganga. But why had the apparition been visited upon her, Deeti, who had nothing to do with these people? What could it possibly mean?
    Kabutri was quick to guess what was on her mother’s mind. She said: Wasn’t that the kind of ship you saw? The one like a bird? Strange that it showed itself to you.
    Don’t say that! Deeti cried, throwing her arms around the girl. A tremor of dread went through her and she hugged her daughter to her chest.

    Moments after Mr Doughty had announced his arrival, Benjamin Burnham’s boots landed on the deck of the
Ibis
with a weighty thud:the shipowner’s fawn breeches and dark jacket were dusty after the journey from Calcutta, and his knee-length riding boots were flecked with mud – but the ride had clearly invigorated him, for there was no trace of fatigue on his glowing face.
    Benjamin Burnham was a man of imposing height and stately girth, with a full curly beard that cloaked the upper half of his chest like a plate of glossy chainmail. A few years short of fifty, his step had not lost the bounce of youth and his eyes still had the brilliant, well-focused sparkle that comes from never looking in any direction other than ahead. The skin of his face was leathery and deeply tanned, a legacy of many years of energetic activity in the sun. Now, standing erect on deck, he hooked his thumb in the lapel of his jacket and ran a quizzical eye over the schooner’s crew before stepping aside with Mr Doughty. The two men conferred for a while and then Mr Burnham went up to Zachary and extended a hand. ‘Mr Reid?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Zachary stepped up to shake his hand.
    The shipowner looked him up and down, in approval. ‘Doughty says for a rank griffin, you’re a pucka sort of chap.’
    â€˜I hope he’s right, sir,’ said Zachary, uncertainly.
    The shipowner smiled, baring a set of large,