Zemindar Page 2

  Towards the end of the voyage, as we sailed north-east in the Indian Ocean, Charles took to joining Mr Roberts and myself as we promenaded the deck each fine morning. Emily, finding the heat too much for her and fearing for her complexion, spent most of her time in her cabin or the sparsely furnished saloon, garnering criticisms of her fellow travellers. While he was ill, Charles had paid no thought to how I was passing my time, but now that he was up and about, I found he seemed to resent the pleasure I found in Mr Roberts’s company. I could see no reason for this resentment; he knew nothing detrimental of my friend. But I learned to dread his appearance as our comfortable conversations à deux necessarily came to an end, and what followed too often became mere argument between Charles and Mr Roberts in which I would take no part. I could not hide from myself that Charles, speaking out of ignorance and prejudice, had no right to engage in dispute about things Indian with a man as well-informed and just of mind as my friend. The trend of Mr Roberts’s mind was to inform—not to contend—and often I was embarrassed into silence by the forbearance of the one and the unthinking arrogance of the other. Mr Roberts, typically, saw into my mind and tried to ease it.

  ‘You must not be so sensitive, Miss Hewitt,’ he said, watching Charles stride away in a pet after a particularly silly argument about caste, a matter about which Charles conceivably knew less than I did, which was next to nothing.

  ‘Mr Flood is mistaken, but entitled to his opinion, after all.’

  ‘Not when it is based on prejudice alone,’ I disagreed.

  ‘Then why did you not tell him so?’

  ‘Because I thought you would,’ I answered.

  ‘Oh, no! My dear Miss Hewitt, I am far too old to tell a young man he doesn’t know what he is talking about. He is bound to find it out in due course, and more or less painfully no doubt.’

  ‘I admire your self-control,’ I said unhappily, not caring to see my idol’s feet of clay so obviously apparent.

  ‘You must not mind when men disagree; they do it all the time, and generally are the better for it.’

  ‘But … but he made himself look a fool!’ I burst out.

  Mr Roberts laughed. ‘Ah, yes, that’s the barb! And you think that some of the foolishness must attach itself to you? Isn’t that it? But, Miss Hewitt, none of us is responsible for our relations, even less our relations by marriage. You must not expect them to behave as you would, understand the things in which you are interested—merely because you are connected with them. That is beyond the capacity of human nature, and the family, as you must know by now, is the field most likely to give rise to contention and … er … embarrassment.’

  We left it at that. Mr Roberts was in many ways a wise man, but not where the young female heart was concerned.

  At breakfast on that steamy August morning when we first sighted land, all the passengers took their places at the table except the two old ‘Bengal civilians’, who never appeared before midday. All knew by then that landfall had been achieved, and an air of relieved cheerfulness pervaded the party. Even the salt beef, ship’s biscuits and dried apricots went down more easily now that we had the prospect of fresh vegetables and good meat so near.

  ‘Oh, Miss Hewitt,’ said Elvira Wilkins as she sprinkled sugar on to her apricots, ‘what a treat I can promise you when you taste your first mango! It is quite the queen of fruits.’

  ‘Not better than the peach, surely?’ objected Emily, who was inclined to resent the imputation that anything could be superior that was not English.

  ‘Oh, vastly, I assure you!’ said Elvira innocently. ‘It combines something of the peach and the plum while being quite unlike either. There is no describing it—except in superlatives.’ I watched her curiously as she ladled her apricots into her mouth. Like many thin and bloodless people, she had a hearty appetite, and spent a large part of her time, now that she was recovered from the sea-sickness, thinking and talking about food. I was about to say I looked forward to my first experience of this exotic fruit, when Elvira’s mother broke in.

  ‘Now don’t believe a word of it. Nasty things mangoes are; resinous at one end and apt to give you the runs!’

  ‘Mama!’ expostulated Elvira, blushing to the roots of her thin hair, while the two young clerks giggled, the military men looked pained and Emily pretended not to have heard.

  ‘Well now, and so they do, as everyone well knows! What’s more, you eat too much of ’em and you get dreadful sores, big as florins, all up your legs. It happened to me, and I have the scars still!’

  For a horrid moment I was afraid Mrs Wilkins was going to display these mementos of intemperate mango eating, but Mr Roberts came to the rescue.

  ‘Well, what about lychees, Mrs Wilkins? Do you care for them?’

  ‘They look right pretty growing, that I’ll allow. Like huge bunches of cherries with hard, knobbly skins.’

  ‘How curious,’ said Emily. ‘What are they like inside?’

  ‘Eyeballs!’ grunted Mrs Wilkins, and everyone laughed. Yet it transpired that, when peeled, this fruit did resemble the human eyeball, but bore a large brown stone at its centre.

  Then everyone who had been to India before came forward with their own experiences of various gustatory delights, from which it was but a short step to our being warned of how to deal with all the evils prevalent in the country, from pests to the plague, and since disaster is so much more dramatic a possibility for general conversation than food, I rose from the table with my head full of half-credible stories of snakes lying coiled in shoes, scorpions lurking in the folds of a dress, mad dogs rushing through city streets, heat that killed hundreds, rain that washed away whole towns, and noseless lepers begging at every corner.

  But, despite these horrors, we were assured that no luxury known to our Western world was unobtainable in India provided one had the money to pay for it, and the country itself produced all manner of refinements to living unknown in England. The interest and anticipation aroused in me by Mr Roberts’s scholarly accounts of the country were now whetted by the more trivial reports of our fellow travellers, so that it was with some impatience that I watched, all through that day, the coastline grow gradually nearer.

  By nightfall we could see the winking lights of coastal villages and, when we had dined, the night being fine, we sat on deck watching the pinpoints of gold advance and recede mysteriously under the stars as we skirted the convolutions of the land.

  Black water, silver crested, lapped languidly against the aged timbers of the hull; above us furled canvas told us we were standing out in the roads until daylight, and the scream of gulls, diving into the bilge in search of gullish delights, spoke more eloquently than maps or instruments, or even those distant anonymous lights, of land ahead. We were all relaxed and content, and even Charles and Mr Roberts puffed their cigars together in amity.

  ‘I think I am correct in believing that you do not intend to remain long in Calcutta, Mr Flood,’ said Mr Roberts after a time, probably more in order to make conversation than from any real interest in our movements.

  ‘No longer than we can help,’ Charles answered. ‘I have some business to attend to, but as soon as that is accomplished we shall move on up-country. Lucknow is our first destination.’

  ‘Ah! A magnificent city, sir. And in the cold weather a very pleasant one. You have friends there, no doubt?’

  ‘My wife has a cousin—Army, y’know—with whom we intend to spend some time. But I also have some family business to attend to in Oudh. In fact I hope to make the acquaintance of a relative, a half-brother, whom I have never met. He lives some distance outside Lucknow, I believe.’

  ‘Also in the Army?’

  ‘No, he’s not in the Army. Nor in the civil administration. As a matter of fact I hardly know what he does do, except that it is something connected with land—farming and so on, no doubt. We know very little of him, and I suspect he knows even less of me. His mother is my mother, but on the death of her first husband she left India and the b
oy, who was about four years old, was given over to his paternal grandparents for rearing. My mother has not seen him since. So now, more to please her than myself, as we are going as far as Lucknow, I intend to make myself known to my brother. He is … er … now what is the term? Oh, yes! He calls himself a zemindar. Whatever that may be!’

  ‘Indeed—a zemindar? Most interesting!’ There was a note of genuine interest in Mr Roberts’s voice.

  ‘I suppose I must seem very ignorant, Mr Roberts,’ Charles continued after a moment’s hesitation, ‘but what exactly is a zemindar? The term has been much bandied about in my family, but no one has ever given me a satisfactory definition of it.’

  ‘Oh, it is quite simple really. The word is really two words—zemin and dar—and means, literally, a holder or guardian of land. Zemindari is a system of direct taxation, land tenure and kindred matters instituted by the Moguls (who, as you no doubt know, conquered India about three hundred years ago) and much in use in the northern parts of India to this day. As Muslims, the Moguls found it expedient to appoint their co-religionists as viceroys or governors over their Hindu subjects, and these in turn appointed other minor officials, subdividing their own duties in return for suitable reimbursement from the men they appointed. The zemindar was given the right to raise rents and taxes for the state, and in return was allowed the hereditary right to a—generally—large tract of land, as well as other privileges.’ Mr Roberts, who enjoyed imparting information, regarded his glowing cigar tip for a moment as he marshalled his sentences.

  ‘A thoroughly feudal system it is, with overlord, landlord and fief. In the course of time, as you may imagine, such tax-collectors became wealthy and powerful men, for so long as the Treasury at Delhi received the stipulated amount, no one cared how much extra the zemindar squeezed out of the peasants for his own pocket. Many of those who have taken to themselves the title of Rajah or Nawab today are in fact no more than zemindars. Naturally, this system has always been very open to abuse. Graft, sir, and corruption, are the great evils of India, and, as you can no doubt envisage, a system based on personal integrity and probity cannot help but fail in such a society.’

  ‘No doubt, no doubt!’ Charles answered somewhat impatiently. ‘But my brother is no Muslim. How is it that he is, or rather calls himself a zemindar?’

  ‘Well, perhaps he—though more likely his father before him—bought the right to levy the taxes in a certain district and administer the land. This would have been sufficient to give him title to the land. Or he may have acquired the rights and title in quite a different fashion. Fifty years ago, when the whole country was rife with internecine warfare, many strange things took place. Much money and more land changed hands, shall we say, dubiously. Or perhaps your half-brother was asked to take over the district legitimately, because of the absenteeism or other dereliction of the former owner. I have known this to happen in my own time, but not, of course, in Oudh, which has so recently been annexed by the British. But … however he might have come by his estate, you can take my word for it that on his own acres your brother, Mr Flood, is a very great man!’

  ‘You astonish me. I believe he is a wealthy man, of course. My mother, naturally enough, does not speak much of her previous marriage or her brief time in India, but I had, nevertheless, got the impression that the family into which she had married was somehow not … well, not quite comme il faut, if you understand me. For instance my half-brother was sent to school not in England, nor even in Scotland, though his name is Scottish, but in France!’

  ‘But, Mr Flood, there is really nothing against receiving an education in France. The French are a most cultivated people.’

  ‘Just so—but it’s deuced queer all the same, don’t you agree?’

  Mr Roberts merely smiled to himself, reflecting no doubt on the stubborn insularity of the average English gentleman.

  ‘So! A zemindari estate in Oudh,’ he mused aloud. ‘I have no doubt that you will find your half-brother’s mode of life most interesting. It is very unlike the life we more mundane and humdrum mortals must live in this country, you’ll find. Much grander; often downright luxurious, indeed. They enjoy a sense of spaciousness, of almost total freedom in their everyday existence, much envied by the military and mercantile element tied to the routine of office or parade ground. You will of course visit your relative on his estate?’

  ‘Really can’t be sure, sir. My mother wrote to inform him of our intended visit, but no reply had arrived by the time we left home. He probably thinks we will be a nuisance. But I shall have to try to see him for my mother’s sake. Then, if he wishes, he can leave us to our own devices, and I am sure we will do very well without him. Taking into account his family’s total disregard of my mother over all these years, I will ask no favours from any Erskine, even though he is my mother’s son.’

  Mr Roberts looked up suddenly.

  ‘Erskine?’ he queried. ‘Your half-brother would not by any chance be Mr Oliver Erskine—of Hassanganj?’

  ‘Why, yes, he is,’ agreed Charles. ‘Do you know him then?’

  ‘Not personally. But we have corresponded, and I am to meet him this coming winter. He has recently begun the cultivation of indigo and I have been able to assist him with advice. His name, however, is well known in northern India, even outside Oudh.’

  ‘Ah! Then perhaps you can tell me more about him. What manner of man is he, Mr Roberts?’

  ‘As I say, I do not know him personally.’ I thought Mr Roberts spoke guardedly. ‘I believe—that is, I have heard—that he is a man of most marked character and attainment. Perhaps, well, a trifle eccentric. But a most able man, most able. He has made quite a reputation for himself within the Kingdom of Oudh … as an administrator!’ he added hurriedly.

  I felt certain that Mr Roberts could have told us a good deal more regarding Mr Erskine, but Emily, becoming bored with a conversation in which she could take no part, insisted that we should all sing part-songs to while away the rest of the evening, and so my curiosity had perforce to remain unsatisfied for the time.

  CHAPTER 2

  I had hoped to be up on deck early the following morning to observe our entry into the broad mouth of the River Hooghly, upon which the city of Calcutta stands, but instead spent the time between waking and breakfast gophering the frilled sleeves and hem of the muslin dress that Emily had decided was the only garment she could wear for the disembarkation. I thought the dress was unsuitable for the occasion, but Mrs Wilkins had told Emily that the arrival of any ship from ‘Home’ was a social event in Calcutta, and that all the European residents would be at the quayside to watch the new arrivals, even if they had no excuse for greeting them, so nothing would content Emily but to appear in a gown more suited to a garden party than travel. Lacking a maid, and Emily being unhandy with a gophering iron, the tedious task of freshening the yards of frilled muslin fell to me. However, even in my tiny cabin I realized when we had left the open sea, since there was so great a difference between the manner in which the timbers of the ship had creaked and strained and the whole vessel laboured in meeting the surge of the ocean, and the calm of our progress once we were in fresh waters.

  I hurried through my breakfast and then flew up on deck, tying the strings of my large straw hat as I went in a way that would surely have shocked my Aunt Hewitt, who said that no lady ever appeared in public before making sure that every button and bow was precisely fastened. But I was not thinking of my aunt’s dictums on deportment at that moment.

  We were sailing, very slowly, up a river that at first sight seemed more an inland sea since it was so wide the banks were scarcely discernible. It was very hot and the sunlight, diffused by haze, was reflected back from a great shimmering sheet of almost motionless brown water, upon which a few native craft bobbed with their nets trailing behind them. Here and there a marshy island raised itself a few feet above the water, or a mud-bank fingered a trail of ripples on the water. I was disappointed that no more was visible, but felt too restl
ess to return to the saloon or my cabin. So, in spite of the heat, I decided to spend the morning in the shade of the bulkhead where a bench had been placed for the passengers’ comfort.

  I had my sewing with me, but, though I made an attempt to work, I soon put it away and sat with idle hands, watching the banks close in as we progressed upstream. Soon I could see indications of the native life: temples with white onion domes, villages of mud huts thatched with palm leaves clustering at the water’s edge, and miles of drying fishing nets. Palms and bamboos were all I recognized of the vegetation, but sometimes I caught tantalizing glimpses of flowering trees and shrubs. As the morning wore on, we passed more small craft of every description, from dug-out canoes plied by native fishermen to quite elaborate vessels bearing Europeans to work or pleasure; these generally hailed us joyfully in passing. I pitied Emily, whose fair complexion kept her below decks during most of the daylight hours, and for the first time saw some advantage in having an unfashionably dark skin which no amount of sun could damage.

  We were close enough to the shore to observe a road running through groves of trees and along which travelled a diversity of traffic, when a sudden curious noise, between a blast and a wail, made me start and caused Mr Roberts, who had just joined me, to laugh at my discomfiture.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s only a conch—a large shell which is held to the lips, so’—he cupped his hands against his mouth—‘and blown into. Probably some holy man in that little temple there honouring his patron deity.’

  ‘Then I hope for the sake of the deity’s eardrums he doesn’t often get honoured,’ I said, making room for Mr Roberts beside me.

  ‘That is one of the most typical sounds of India,’ he said. ‘That and the sound of dogs barking in the villages at night. When I am at Home, I can never get accustomed to the absolute quiet of the English night, particularly in the country. For so many years I have been used to the ceaseless rumble and murmur of Indian nights, the dogs, the squeak of unoiled cartwheels—people here generally travel by night, you see—the crickets, the hoot of the nightjars, and in the rains the deep croaking of the toads. All the sounds that spell familiarity to me.’