Flood of Fire by Amitav Ghosh Page B

goolie-pouch, and an assortment of edged weapons, long and short.
    Kesri, in the meantime, was busy ploughing the poppy fields. But try as he might, he could not stop thinking of his brother Bhim’s forthcoming journey to Delhi, mounted on a horse, with his weapons slung behind him and a fine new turban on his head. By contrast his own bare body, with a filthy langot knotted around the waist and flies settling on his pooling sweat, was a reminder of the lifetime that lay ahead of him, of trudging endlessly behind draught animals, jumping aside when they spurted dung in mid-stride, season after season, watching the crops come and go, counting it a luxury to snatch an hour’s sleep in the shade of a tree in the afternoon, and at the end of the day, struggling to wash away the mud that had hardened into a second layer of skin between his toes. And in the meantime Bhim would be going from city to city,filling his bags with booty, eating rich meats and fowl and revelling in the embraces of beautiful women.
    Abandoning the oxen in the middle of the field Kesri went to sit under a tree; tears trickled down his cheeks as he sat there, clutching his knees. That was how Deeti found him when she brought over his mid-day meal of rotis and achar: she understood without asking what the matter was; she stayed with him through the afternoon and helped him finish the ploughing.
    At the end of the day, when they were walking home, she said: Don’t worry, it will happen. You will leave too.
    But when, Deeti? Batavela . Tell me – when?
    *
    For several days after his unfortunate encounter with Mrs Burnham and her daughter, Zachary lived in hourly fear of being evicted from his comfortable new lodgings on the budgerow. It seemed just a matter of time before a khidmatgar arrived with a letter to inform him that his employment had been terminated because of his lapse from decorum.
    But as the days went by, with no dismissal, he decided that Mrs Burnham had perhaps decided to grant him another chance. Still, he knew he could not be complacent – occasional flashes of light in the mansion’s windows suggested that he was still under observation – so he went to great lengths to observe all the proprieties in matters of dress and deportment. When working in exposed parts of the boat, he made sure that he was clothed from neck to toe, no matter how hot it was.
    But other than this minor annoyance, Zachary was perfectly content to be living on the budgerow. His days were uneventful but not unrewarding: he got up early and worked steadily till sunset; when he needed help he called on the mansion’s khidmat-gars but mostly he was content to labour on his own. His quiet and frugal existence seemed to excite the pity of the household staff and they kept him supplied with leftovers – in fact he could not remember a time in his life when he had eaten so well and lived in such comfort.
    Best of all were the nights. The bed was itself like an embrace, soft and yielding, and the solitude and quiet were an even greater luxury. Nourished by the fine food and peaceful surroundings hisimagination grew so vigorously concupiscent that it took no effort to summon Paulette out of the shadows and into his bed – and the pleasures of his trysts with her were so intense that he often sampled them several times in one night.
    One morning, while working on the foredeck, Zachary heard Annabel’s voice, calling from the shore: ‘Holloa there!’
    He raised a finger to his cap. ‘Hello, Miss Annabel.’
    â€˜I came to say goodbye – I’m leaving for Hazaribagh today.’
    â€˜Well, I wish you a safe and pleasant journey, Miss Annabel.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    She took a step closer. ‘Tell me, Mr Mystery,’ she said, ‘you knew Paulette, didn’t you?’
    â€˜So I did.’
    â€˜Do you think you may see her again soon?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I hope