Of course Asha-didi’s parents knew exactly what he was up to, and they were none too pleased – partly because they guessed from the boy’s speech that he was a boat-fellow by origin; and partly because they had long had another, more suitable, groom in mind for their eldest daughter. But despite all that, Asha-didi’s father had decided to take him in anyway, and not out of charity either, but only because he was a shrewd merchandiser who prided himself on his business acumen. He reckoned that the young sailor might have something valuable to offer, something that was vital to any shipchandler’s business: the ability to take a boat out on the river, to vie for the custom of newly arrived ships. Until then, he had handled this job himself, but he was no boatman, and had always had to hire Hooghly River khalasis to operate his sampan, being regularly cheated in the process. Could it be that this young fellow would know how to manage the boat, on the crowded river? The answer was by no means self-evident, for the sampans of the Hooghly were quite different from the craft from which they took their name: the ‘three-board’ saam-pan of the Pearl River. Being upcurved both in stem and stern, the Hooghly version of the vessel was more like a canoe in shape and handled quite differently.
But Ah Bao was born to the water, and rare indeed was the boat that could defeat him: the sampan posed no challenge to him and he conquered it easily. Nor was oarsmanship the only useful skill that he had learnt on the Pearl River: the ghat-serangs and riverfront thugs who tried to put the squeeze on him found that he had dealt with their like all his life; and those who yelled jeers and taunts at him -Chin-chin-cheenee! – discovered that he was no stranger to budmashing, barnshooting and galee-gooler. He quickly gained the respect of the other boatmen, and became a familiar figure on the waterfront: people called him Baburao.
Soon Baburao was so indispensable to the family business that no one could remember why he had been considered an unsuitable groom for Eldest Daughter: objections evaporated, messages went back and forth between the families and matters were arranged to everyone’s satisfaction. After the banquet, which was held on a budgerow, the couple settled into a room in the family compound and that was where Asha-didi gave birth to five of their nine children.
Although Baburao settled into his new life with gusto, Calcutta was not to him what it was to his wife. He had grown up on the vessel from which his family made their living; a junk that plied the coastal trade routes around Canton, with his father as its laodah. Theirs was a small craft, and even though it was neither speedy nor especially comfortable, to Baburao it was home. When it came to his ears that his father was thinking of selling the junk he did not hesitate for a moment: letters and gifts travelled regularly between Calcutta and Canton by way of the sea traffic between the cities; Baburao went from ship to ship until he found an acquaintance who could be trusted to persuade his father to hold off for just a little while longer. The money for passages was raised with the help of the community and a few months later the couple set sail for China with their children.
After the move, it was Asha-didi who found herself in the position of having to communicate with her family through nautical go-betweens, and when a serang or a seacunny showed up, bearing gifts and messages, it seemed only natural to offer him something that she herself was often homesick for – an Achha meal, of the kind she had grown accustomed to eating in Calcutta. As word of her cooking spread, more and more Acchas began to seek her out, not just lascars, but also sepoys, sentries and daftardars. As the number of visitors grew, so did the costs of feeding them and a day came when Baburao said, in exasperation, that if they were going to be feeding so many people they might as well make some money from it. The more they thought about it, the more sense it made: after all, Baburao’s junk could be used to procure supplies from Macau, where masalas, daals, achars and other Achha comestibles were easy to find, because of the sizeable Goan population. And did they not have before them the example of Asha-didi’s parents, who had done well by filling a similar need, providing foods that were hard to procure in a foreign place?
The success of the eatery had allowed Asha-didi and her family to set up other business ventures, but for herself the kitchen-boat remained her principal passion; she was never more content than when seated at her accustomed place – between the cash-box and the cooking-fires.
Having always seen Asha-didi in that seat, that was where Neel’s eyes went when he stepped on to the prow of the boat and passed through the pavilion that formed the eatery’s entrance: for him, one of the pleasures of seeing her was that each meeting was an occasion for a fleeting renewal of the jolt of surprise he had experienced the first time she greeted him in Bengali, with some perfectly casual phrase, something like nomoshkar, kemon achhen? – words that would have seemed banal in a Calcutta alleyway, but had the sound of a magical mantra when pronounced on a Canton kitchen-boat.
But today, within moments of stepping on the boat, it became clear to Neel that the surprises that awaited him were of a different order: not only was Asha-didi not in her usual place, a couple of her daughters-in-law were bustling about, pulling the windows shut: it appeared that the eatery was being closed down – even though it was only mid-morning and the day had just begun.
Low-slung and rectangular, the kitchen-boat was a barge-like vessel with raised pavilions at both ends; in the middle was a long shed, with benches running along the sides and a single, common table in between – this was where meals were served. Looking through the doorway, Neel saw that Asha-didi was at the back of the boat, helping to put out the cooking-fires. She happened to look up and was evidently startled to see Neel, for she came hurrying down the length of the boat. Her first words, when she reached him, were not those of her usual greetings: instead, with an abruptness that was almost rude, she said: Ekhaney ki korchhen? What are you doing here?
Neel was so startled he could only stammer: I just came to eat…
Na! She cut him short. You shouldn’t be here now.
Why not?
The authorities have just sent word, telling us to shut down.
Oh? said Neel. But why?
She shrugged: They just want to make sure there’s no trouble around here.
This puzzled Neel. What kind of trouble? he said. I just came through the Maidan and I didn’t see anything amiss on the way.
Really? She pressed her painted lips together and raised an eyebrow: And did you look towards the river?
No.
Look then.
She put a hand on his elbow and turned him around, so that he was facing the river: he saw now that the open channel in mid-stream, usually so busy at this time of day, had emptied of traffic. All the tubs, coracles and sampans had scattered to either side to make way for two war-junks that were converging on Fanqui-town from different directions.
War-junks were rarely seen in this stretch of water and they made an arresting sight: they had castellations at either end and were strung with a great number of flags and pennants. One of them was quite close, and as it approached Neel saw that it was bearing a sizeable contingent of troops – not the usual soldiery to be seen around the city, but tall Manchu guardsmen.
What is happening? said Neel. Do you know?
Asha-didi looked over her shoulder and then gestured to him to bend lower.
I don’t know for sure, she whispered, but I think there’s going to be some sort of raid. On one of the factories.
Suddenly alarmed, Neel said: Which one, do you know?
She smiled and gave his arm a reassuring pat: Not yours, don’t worry. It’s the farthest one: do you know it?
Do you mean the Creek Factory?
She gave him a nod and then added: Yes. The Eho Hong.