Sea of Poppies

Two slow days on the silt-clogged river brought the Ibis to the Narrows at Hooghly Point, a few miles short of Calcutta. There, beset by squalls and sudden gusts of wind, she dropped anchor to await the incoming tide that would carry her to her destination early next morning. The city being only a short distance away, a messenger was dispatched on horseback, to alert Mr Benjamin Burnham to the schooner's impending arrival.

The Ibis wasn't the only vessel to seek shelter at the Narrows that afternoon: also moored there was a stately houseboat that belonged to the estate of Raskhali, a large landholding a half-day's journey away. Thus it happened that the approach of the Ibis was witnessed by Raja Neel Rattan Halder, the zemindar of Raskhali, who was on board the palatial barge with his eight-year-old son and a sizeable retinue of attendants. Also with him was his mistress, a once-famous dancer, known to the world by her stage-name, Elokeshi: the Raja was returning to Calcutta, where he lived, after a visit to his Raskhali estate.

The Halders of Raskhali were one of the oldest and most noted landed families of Bengal, and their boat was among the most luxurious to be seen on the river: the vessel was a brigantine-rigged pi

The top deck of the budgerow was an open gallery, ringed by a waist-high deck rail: it was a tradition among the Raskhali zemindars to use this space for flying kites. The sport was much beloved of the Halder menfolk, and as with other such favoured pursuits – for example, music and the cultivation of roses – they had added nuances and subtleties that elevated the flying of kites from a mere amusement to a form of co

The squalls that brought the Ibis to Hooghly Point were of none of these colours: they were winds of a kind which the Halders were accustomed to speak of as 'suqlat' – a shade of scarlet that they associated with sudden reversals of fortune. The Rajas of Raskhali were famously a line that put great trust in omens – and in this, as in most other matters, Neel Rattan Halder was a devout upholder of inherited traditions: for over a year now, he had been pursued by bad news, and the sudden arrival of the Ibis, along with the changeable colour of the wind, seemed to him to be sure indications of a turn in his luck.

The present zemindar was himself named after the noblest of winds, the steady, blue breeze (years later, when it was time for him to enter Deeti's shrine, it was by a few strokes of this colour that she would make his likeness). Neel had but recently come into the title, having inherited it upon his father's death two years before: he was in his late twenties, and although well past his first youth, he retained the frail, etiolated frame of the sickly child he had once been. His long, thin-boned face had the pallor that comes from always being shielded from the full glare of the sun; in his limbs, too, there was a length and lea

Like others of his ilk, Neel had been betrothed at birth to the daughter of another prominent landowning family; the marriage had been solemnized when he was twelve, but had resulted in only one living child – Neel's eight-year-old heir presumptive, Raj Rattan. Even more than others of their line, this boy delighted in the sport of kite-flying: it was at his insistence that Neel had ventured up to the budgerow's uppermost deck on the afternoon when the Ibis dropped anchor at the Narrows.

It was the shipowner's flag, on the mainmast of the Ibis, that caught the zemindar's attention: he knew the chequered pe

Without unloosing his kite-string, Neel summoned his personal bearer, a tall, turbaned Benarasi called Parimal. Take a dinghy and row over to that ship, he said. Ask the serangs who the ship belongs to and how many officers are on board.

Huzoor.

With a gesture of acknowledgement, Parimal retreated down the ladder and soon afterwards, a slim paunchway pulled away from the Raskhali budgerow to nudge up alongside the Ibis. A scant half-hour later, Parimal returned to report that the ship belonged to Burnham-sahib, of Calcutta.

How many officers on board? Neel inquired.

Of hat-wearing topi-walas there are just two, said Parimal.

And who are they – the two sahibs?

One of them is a Mr Reid, from Number-Two-England, said Parimal. The other is a pilot from Calcutta, Doughty-sahib. Huzoor may remember him: in the old days he often used to come to the Raskhali Rajbari. He sends his salams.

Neel nodded, although he had no memory of the pilot. Handing his kite-string to a servant, he gestured to Parimal to follow him down to his stateroom, on the lower deck. There, after sharpening a quill, he picked up a sheet of paper, wrote a few lines and ran a handful of sand across the page. When the ink was dry, he handed the letter to Parimal. Here, he said, take this to the ship and deliver it personally to Doughty-sahib. Tell him the Raja is pleased to invite Mr Reid and himself to dine on the Raskhali budgerow. Come back quickly and let me know what they say.