An epic novel of the opium trade by "A writer of supreme skill and intelligence (Atlantic Monthly)."
About the Author
AMITAV GHOSH is the internationally bestselling author of many works of fiction and nonfiction, including the novel The Glass Palace, and the recipient of numerous prizes and awards. He divides his time among Kolkata and Goa, India, and Brooklyn, New York.
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SEA OF POPPIES (Chapter One)One
The vision of a tall-masted ship, at sail on the ocean, came to Deeti on an otherwise ordinary day, but she knew instantly that the apparition was a sign of destiny, for she had never seen such a vessel before, not even in a dream: how could she have, living as she did in northern Bihar, four hundred miles from the coast? Her village was so far inland that the sea seemed as distant as the netherworld: it was the chasm of darkness where the holy Ganga disappeared into the Kala-Pani, 'the Black Water'.
It happened at the end of winter, in a year when the poppies were strangely slow to shed their petals: for mile after mile, from Benares onwards, the Ganga seemed to be flowing between twin glaciers, both its banks being blanketed by thick drifts of white-petalled flowers. It was as if the snows of the high Himalayas had descended on the plains to await the arrival of Holi and its springtime profusion of colour.
The village in which Deeti lived was on the outskirts of the town of Ghazipur, some fifty miles east of Benares. Like all her neighbours, Deeti was preoccupied with the lateness of her poppy crop: that day, she rose early and went through the motions of her daily routine, laying out a freshly washed dhoti and kameez for Hukam Singh, her husband, and preparing the rotis and achar he would eat at midday. Once his meal had been wrapped and packed, she broke off to pay a quick visit to her shrine room: later, after she'd bathed and changed, Deeti would do a proper puja, with flowers and offerings; now, being clothed still in her night-time sari, she merely stopped at the door, to join her hands in a brief genuflection.
Soon a squeaking wheel announced the arrival of the ox-cart that would take Hukam Singh to the factory where he worked, in Ghazipur, three miles away. Although not far, the distance was too great for Hukam Singh to cover on foot, for he had been wounded in the leg while serving as a sepoy in a British regiment. The disability was not so severe as to require crutches, however, and Hukam Singh was able to make his way to the cart without assistance. Deeti followed a step behind, carrying his food and water, handing the cloth-wrapped package to him after he had climbed in.
Kalua, the driver of the ox-cart, was a giant of a man, but he made no move to help his passenger and was careful to keep his face hidden from him: he was of the leather-workers' caste and Hukam Singh, as a high-caste Rajput, believed that the sight of his face would bode ill for the day ahead. Now, on climbing into the back of the cart, the former sepoy sat facing to the rear, with his bundle balanced on his lap, to prevent its coming into direct contact with any of the driver's belongings. Thus they would sit, driver and passenger, as the cart creaked along the road to Ghazipur - conversing amicably enough, but never exchanging glances.
Deeti, too, was careful to keep her face covered in the driver's presence: it was only when she went back inside, to wake Kabutri, her six-year-old daughter, that she allowed the ghungta of her sari to slip off her head. Kabutri was lying curled on her mat and Deeti knew, because of her quickly changing pouts and smiles, that she was deep in a dream: she was about to rouse her when she stopped her hand and stepped back. In her daughter's sleeping face, she could see the lineaments of her own likeness - the same full lips, rounded nose and upturned chin - except that in the child the lines were still clean and sharply drawn, whereas in herself they had grown smudged and indistinct. After seven years of marriage, Deeti was not much more than a child herself, but a few tendrils of white had already appeared in her thick black hair. The skin of her face, parched and darkened by the sun, had begun to flake and crack around the corners of her mouth and her eyes. Yet, despite the careworn commonplaceness of her appearance, there was one respect in which she stood out from the ordinary: she had light grey eyes, a feature that was unusual in that part of the country. Such was the colour - or perhaps colourlessness - of her eyes that they made her seem at once blind and all-seeing. This had the effect of unnerving the young, and of reinforcing their prejudices and superstitions to the point where they would sometimes shout taunts at her - chudaliya, dainiya - as if she were a witch: but Deeti had only to turn her eyes on them to make them scatter and run off. Although not above taking a little pleasure in her powers of discomfiture, Deeti was glad, for her daughter's sake, that this was one aspect of her appearance that she had not passed on - she delighted in Kabutri's dark eyes, which were as black as her shiny hair. Now, looking down on her daughter's dreaming face, Deeti smiled and decided that she wouldn't wake her after all: in three or four years the girl would be married and gone; there would be enough time for her to work when she was received into her husband's house; in her few remaining years at home she might as well rest.
With scarcely a pause for a mouthful of roti, Deeti stepped outside, on to the flat threshold of beaten earth that divided the mud-walled dwelling from the poppy fields beyond. By the light of the newly risen sun, she saw, greatly to her relief, that some of her flowers had at last begun to shed their petals. On the adjacent field, her husband's younger brother, Chandan Singh, was already out with his eight-bladed nukha in hand. He was using the tool's tiny teeth to make notches on some of the bare pods - if the sap flowed freely overnight he would bring his family out tomorrow, to tap the field. The timing had to be exactly right because the priceless sap flowed only for a brief period in the plant's span of life: a day or two this way or that, and the pods were of no more value than the blossoms of a weed.
Chandan Singh had seen her too and he was not a person who could let anyone pass by in silence. A slack-jawed youth with a brood of five children of his own, he never missed an opportunity to remind Deeti of her paucity of offspring. Ka bhaíl? he called out, licking a drop of fresh sap from the tip of his instrument. What's the matter? Working alone again? How long can you carry on like this? You need a son, to give you a helping hand. You're not barren, after all . . .
Being accustomed to her brother-in-law's ways, Deeti had no difficulty in ignoring his jibes: turning her back on him, she headed into her own field, carrying a wide wicker basket at her waist. Between the rows of flowers, the ground was carpeted in papery petals and she scooped them up in handfuls, dropping them into her basket. A week or two before, she would have taken care to creep sideways, so as not to disturb the flowers, but today she all but flounced as she went and was none too sorry when her swishing sari swept clusters of petals off the ripening pods. When the basket was full, she carried it back and emptied it next to the outdoor chula where she did most of her cooking. This part of the threshold was shaded by two enormous mango trees, which had just begun to sprout the dimples that would grow into the first buds of spring. Relieved to be out of the sun, Deeti squatted beside her oven and thrust an armload of firewood into last night's embers, which could still be seen glowing, deep inside the ashes.
Kabutri was awake now, and when she showed her face in the doorway, her mother was no longer in a mood to be indulgent. So late? she snapped. Where were you? Kám-o-káj na hoi? You think there's no work to be done?
Deeti gave her daughter the job of sweeping the poppy petals into a heap while she busied herself in stoking the fire and heating a heavy iron tawa. Once this griddle was heated through, she sprinkled a handful of petals on it and pressed them down with a bundled-up rag. Darkening as they toasted, the petals began to cling together so that in a minute or two they looked exactly like the round wheat-flour rotis Deeti had packed for her husband's midday meal. And 'roti' was indeed the name by which these poppy-petal wrappers were known although their purpose was entirely different from that of their namesake: they were to be sold to the Sudder Opium Factory, in Ghazipur, where they would be used to line the earthenware containers in which opium was packed.
Kabutri, in the meanwhile, had kneaded some atta and rolled out a few real rotis. Deeti cooked them quickly, before poking out the fire: the rotis were put aside, to be eaten later with yesterday's leftovers - a dish of stale alu-posth, potatoes cooked in poppy-seed paste. Now, her mind turned to her shrine room again: with the hour of the noontime puja drawing close, it was time to go down to the river for a bath. After massaging poppy-seed oil into Kabutri's hair and her own, Deeti draped her spare sari over her shoulder and led her daughter towards the water, across the field.
The poppies ended at a sandbank that sloped gently down to the Ganga; warmed by the sun, the sand was hot enough to sting the soles of their bare feet. The burden of motherly decorum slipped suddenly off Deeti's bowed shoulders and she began to run after her daughter, who had skipped on ahead. A pace or two from the water's edge, they shouted an invocation to the river - Jai Ganga Mayya ki . . . - and gulped down a draught of air, before throwing themselves in.
They were both laughing when they came up again: it was the time of year when, after the initial shock of contact, the water soon reveals itself to be refreshingly cool. Although the full heat of summer was still several weeks away, the flow of the Ganga had already begun to dwindle. Turning in the direction of Benares, in the west, Deeti hoisted her daughter aloft, to pour out a handful of water as a tribute to the holy city. Along with the offering, a leaf flowed out of the child's cupped palms. They turned to watch as the river carried it downstream towards the ghats of Ghazipur.
The walls of Ghazipur's opium factory were partially obscured by mango and jackfruit trees but the British flag that flew on top of it was just visible above the foliage, as was the steeple of the church in which the factory's overseers prayed. At the factory's ghat on the Ganga, a one-masted pateli barge could be seen, flying the pennant of the English East India Company. It had brought in a shipment of chalán opium, from one of the Company's outlying sub-agencies, and was being unloaded by a long line of coolies.
Ma, said Kabutri, looking up at her mother, where is that boat going?
It was Kabutri's question that triggered Deeti's vision: her eyes suddenly conjured up a picture of an immense ship with two tall masts. Suspended from the masts were great sails of a dazzling shade of white. The prow of the ship tapered into a figurehead with a long bill, like a stork or a heron. There was a man in the background, standing near the bow, and although she could not see him clearly, she had a sense of a distinctive and unfamiliar presence.
Deeti knew that the vision was not materially present in front of her - as, for example, was the barge moored near the factory. She had never seen the sea, never left the district, never spoken any language but her native Bhojpuri, yet not for a moment did she doubt that the ship existed somewhere and was heading in her direction. The knowledge of this terrified her, for she had never set eyes on anything that remotely resembled this apparition, and had no idea what it might portend.
Kabutri knew that something unusual had happened, for she waited a minute or two before asking: Ma? What are you looking at? What have you seen?
Deeti's face was a mask of fear and foreboding as she said, in a shaky voice: Beti - I saw a jahaj - a ship.
Do you mean that boat over there?
No, beti: it was a ship like I've never seen before. It was like a great bird, with sails like wings and a long beak.
Casting a glance downriver, Kabutri said: Can you draw for me what you saw?
Deeti answered with a nod and they waded ashore. They changed quickly and filled a pitcher with water from the Ganga, for the puja room. When they were back at home, Deeti lit a lamp before leading Kabutri into the shrine. The room was dark, with soot-blackened walls, and it smelled strongly of oil and incense. There was a small altar inside, with statues of Shivji and Bhagwan Ganesh, and framed prints of Ma Durga and Shri Krishna. But the room was a shrine not just to the gods but also to Deeti's personal pantheon, and it contained many tokens of her family and forebears - among them such relics as her dead father's wooden clogs, a necklace of rudraksha beads left to her by her mother, and faded imprints of her grandparents' feet, taken on their funeral pyres. The walls around the altar were devoted to pictures that Deeti had drawn herself, in outline, on papery poppy-petal discs: such were the charcoal portraits of two brothers and a sister, all of whom had died as children. A few living relatives were represented too, but only by diagrammatic images drawn on mango leaves - Deeti believed it to be bad luck to attempt overly realistic portraits of those who had yet to leave this earth. Thus her beloved older brother, Kesri Singh, was depicted by a few strokes that stood for his sepoy's rifle and his upturned moustache.
Now, on entering her puja room, Deeti picked up a green mango leaf, dipped a fingertip in a container of bright red sindoor and drew, with a few strokes, two wing-like triangles hanging suspended above a long curved shape that ended in a hooked bill. It could have been a bird in flight but Kabutri recognized it at once for what it was - an image of a two-masted vessel with unfurled sails. She was amazed that her mother had drawn the image as though she were representing a living being.
Are you going to put it in the puja room? she asked.
Yes, said Deeti.
The child could not understand why a ship should find a place in the family pantheon. But why? she said.
I don't know, said Deeti, for she too was puzzled by the sureness of her intuition: I just know that it must be there; and not just the ship, but also many of those who are in it; they too must be on the walls of our puja room.
But who are they? said the puzzled child.
I don't know yet, Deeti told her. But I will when I see them.
The carved head of a bird that held up the bowsprit of the Ibis was unusual enough to serve as proof, to those who needed it, that this was indeed the ship that Deeti saw while standing half-immersed in the waters of the Ganga. Later, even seasoned sailors would admit that her drawing was an uncannily evocative rendition of its subject, especially considering that it was made by someone who had never set eyes on a two-masted schooner - or, for that matter, any other deep-water vessel.
In time, among the legions who came to regard the Ibis as their ancestor, it was accepted that it was the river itself that had granted Deeti the vision: that the image of the Ibis had been transported upstream, like an electric current, the moment the vessel made contact with the sacred waters. This would mean that it happened in the second week of March 1838, for that was when the Ibis dropped anchor off Ganga-Sagar Island, where the holy river debouches into the Bay of Bengal. It was here, while the Ibis waited to take on a pilot to guide her to Calcutta, that Zachary Reid had his first look at India: what he saw was a dense thicket of mangroves, and a mudbank that appeared to be uninhabited until it disgorged its bumboats - a small flotilla of dinghies and canoes, all intent on peddling fruit, fish and vegetables to the newly arrived sailors.
Zachary Reid was of medium height and sturdy build, with skin the colour of old ivory and a mass of curly, lacquer-black hair that tumbled over his forehead and into his eyes. The pupils of his eyes were as dark as his hair, except that they were flecked with sparks of hazel: as a child, strangers were apt to say that a pair of twinklers like his could be sold as diamonds to a duchess (later, when it came time for him to be included in Deeti's shrine, much would be made of the brilliance of his gaze). Because he laughed easily and carried himself with a carefree lightness, people sometimes took him to be younger than he was, but Zachary was always quick to offer a correction: the son of a Maryland freedwoman, he took no small pride in the fact of knowing his precise age and the exact date of his birth. To those in error, he would point out that he was twenty, not a day less and not many more.
It was Zachary's habit to think, every day, of at least five things to praise, a practice that had been instilled by his mother as a necessary corrective for a tongue that sometimes sported too sharp an edge. Since his departure from America it was the Ibis herself that had figured most often in Zachary's daily tally of praiseworthy things. It was not that she was especially sleek or rakish in appearance: on the contrary, the Ibis was a schooner of old-fashioned appearance, neither lean, nor flush-decked like the clippers for which Baltimore was famous. She had a short quarter-deck, a risen fo'c'sle, with a fo'c'sle-deck between the bows, and a deckhouse amidships, that served as a galley and cabin for the bo'suns and stewards. With her cluttered main deck and her broad beam, the Ibis was sometimes taken for a schooner-rigged barque by old sailors: whether there was any truth to this Zachary did not know, but he never thought of her as anything other than the topsail schooner that she was when he first signed on to her crew. To his eye there was something unusually graceful about the Ibis's yacht-like rigging, with her sails aligned along her length rather than across the line of her hull. He could see why, with her main- and headsails standing fair, she might put someone in mind of a white-winged bird in flight: other tall-masted ships, with their stacked loads of square canvas, seemed almost ungainly in comparison.
One thing Zachary did know about the Ibis was that she had been built to serve as a 'blackbirder', for transporting slaves. This, indeed, was the reason why she had changed hands: in the years since the formal abolition of the slave trade, British and American naval vessels had taken to patrolling the West African coast in growing numbers, and the Ibis was not swift enough to be confident of outrunning them. As with many another slave-ship, the schooner's new owner had acquired her with an eye to fitting her for a different trade: the export of opium. In this instance the purchasers were a firm called Burnham Bros., a shipping company and trading house that had extensive interests in India and China.
The new owners' representatives had lost no time in calling for the schooner to be dispatched to Calcutta, which was where the head of the house, Benjamin Brightwell Burnham, had his principal residence: the Ibis was to be refitted upon reaching her destination, and it was for this purpose that Zachary had been taken on. Zachary had spent eight years working in the Gardiner shipyard, at Fell's Point in Baltimore, and he was eminently well-qualified to supervise the outfitting of the old slave-ship: but as for sailing, he had no more knowledge of ships than any other shore-bound carpenter, this being his first time at sea. But Zachary had signed on with a mind to learning the sailor's trade, and he stepped on board with great eagerness, carrying a canvas ditty-bag that held little more than a change of clothes and a penny-whistle that his father had given him as a boy. The Ibis provided him with a quick, if stern schooling, the log of her voyage being a litany of troubles almost from the start. Mr Burnham was in such a hurry to get his new schooner to India that she had sailed short-handed from Baltimore, shipping a crew of nineteen, of whom nine were listed as 'Black', including Zachary. Despite being undermanned, her provisions were deficient, both in quality and quantity, and this had led to confrontations, between stewards and sailors, mates and fo'c'slemen. Then she hit heavy seas and her timbers were found to be weeping: it fell to Zachary to discover that the 'tween-deck, where the schooner's human cargo had been accommodated, was riddled with peepholes and air ducts, bored by generations of captive Africans. The Ibis was carrying a cargo of cotton, to defray the costs of the journey; after the inundation, the bales were drenched and had to be jettisoned.
Off the coast of Patagonia, foul weather forced a change in course, which had been plotted to take the Ibis across the Pacific and around Java Head. Instead, her sails were set for the Cape of Good Hope - with the result that she ran afoul of the weather again, and was becalmed a fortnight in the doldrums. With the crew on half-rations, eating maggoty hardtack and rotten beef, there was an outbreak of dysentery: before the wind picked up again, three men were dead and two of the black crewmen were in chains, for refusing the food that was put before them. With hands running short, Zachary had put aside his carpenter's tools and become a fully fledged foretopman, running up the ratlines to bend the topsail.
Then it happened that the second mate, who was a hard-horse, hated by every black man in the crew, fell overboard and drowned: everyone knew the fall to be no accident, but the tensions on the vessel had reached such a point that the ship's master, a sharp-tongued Boston Irishman, let the matter slip. Zachary was the only member of the crew to put in a bid when the dead man's effects were auctioned, thus coming into possession of a sextant and a trunk-load of clothes.
Soon, being neither of the quarter-deck nor of the fo'c'sle, Zachary became the link between the two parts of the ship, and was shouldering the duties of the second mate. He was not quite the novice now that he had been at the start of the voyage, but nor was he equal to his new responsibilities. His faltering efforts did nothing to improve morale and when the schooner put in to Cape Town the crew melted away overnight, to spread word of a hell-afloat with pinch-gut pay. The reputation of the Ibis was so damaged that not a single American or European, not even the worst rufflers and rum-gaggers, could be induced to sign on: the only seamen who would venture on her decks were lascars.
This was Zachary's first experience of this species of sailor. He had thought that lascars were a tribe or nation, like the Cherokee or Sioux: he discovered now that they came from places that were far apart, and had nothing in common, except the Indian Ocean; among them were Chinese and East Africans, Arabs and Malays, Bengalis and Goans, Tamils and Arakanese. They came in groups of ten or fifteen, each with a leader who spoke on their behalf. To break up these groups was impossible; they had to be taken together or not at all, and although they came cheap, they had their own ideas of how much work they would do and how many men would share each job - which seemed to mean that three or four lascars had to be hired for jobs that could well be done by a single able seaman. The Captain declared them to be as lazy a bunch of niggers as he had ever seen, but to Zachary they appeared more ridiculous than anything else. Their costumes, to begin with: their feet were as naked as the day they were born, and many seemed to own no clothing other than a length of cambric to wind around their middle. Some paraded around in drawstringed knickers, while others wore sarongs that flapped around their scrawny legs like petticoats, so that at times the deck looked like the parlour of a honeyhouse. How could a man climb a mast in bare feet, swaddled in a length of cloth, like a newborn child? No matter that they were as nimble as any seaman he'd ever seen - it still discomfited Zachary to see them in the rigging, hanging like monkeys on the ratlines: when their sarongs blew in the wind, he would avert his eyes for fear of what he might see if he looked up.
After several changes of mind, the skipper decided to engage a lascar company that was led by one Serang Ali. This was a personage of formidable appearance, with a face that would have earned the envy of Genghis Khan, being thin, long and narrow, with darting black eyes that sat restlessly upon rakishly angled cheekbones. Two feathery strands of moustache drooped down to his chin, framing a mouth that was constantly in motion, its edges stained a bright, livid red: it was as if he were forever smacking his lips after drinking from the opened veins of a mare, like some bloodthirsty Tartar of the steppes. The discovery that the substance in his mouth was of vegetable origin came as no great reassurance to Zachary: once, when the serang spat a stream of blood-red juice over the rail, he noticed the water below coming alive with the thrashing of shark's fins. How harmless could this betel-stuff be if it could be mistaken for blood by a shark?
The prospect of journeying to India with this crew was so unappealing that the first mate disappeared too, taking himself off the ship in such a hurry that he left behind a bagful of clothes. When told that the mate was a gone-goose, the skipper growled: 'Cut his painter, has he? Don't blame him neither. I'd of walked my chalks too, if I'd'a been paid.'
The Ibis's next port of call was to be the island of Mauritius, where they were to exchange a cargo of grain for a load of ebony and hardwood. Since no other sea-officer could be found before their departure, the schooner sailed with Zachary standing in for the first mate: thus it happened that in the course of a single voyage, by virtue of desertions and dead-tickets, he vaulted from the merest novice sailor to senior seaman, from carpenter to second-in-command, with a cabin of his own. His one regret about the move from fo'c'sle to cabin was that his beloved penny-whistle disappeared somewhere on the way and had to be given up for lost.
Before this, the skipper had instructed Zachary to eat his meals below - 'not going to spill no colour on my table, even if it's just a pale shade of yaller.' But now, rather than dine alone, he insisted on having Zachary share the table in the cuddy, where they were waited on by a sizeable contingent of lascar ship's-boys - a scuttling company of launders and chuckeroos.
Once under sail, Zachary was forced to undergo yet another education, not so much in seamanship this time, as in the ways of the new crew. Instead of the usual sailors' games of cards and able-whackets, there was the clicking of dice, with games of parcheesi unfolding on chequerboards of rope; the cheerful sound of sea-shanties yielded to tunes of a new kind, wild and discordant, and the very smell of the ship began to change, with the odour of spices creeping through the timbers. Having been put in charge of the ship's stores Zachary had to familiarize himself with a new set of provisions, bearing no resemblance to the accustomed hardtack and brined beef; he had to learn to say 'resum' instead of 'rations', and he had to wrap his tongue around words like 'dal', 'masala' and 'achar'. He had to get used to 'malum' instead of mate, 'serang' for bosun, 'tindal' for bosun's mate, and 'seacunny' for helmsman; he had to memorize a new shipboard vocabulary, which sounded a bit like English and yet not: the rigging became the 'ringeen', 'avast!' was 'bas!', and the cry of the middle-morning watch went from 'all's well' to 'alzbel'. The deck now became the 'tootuk' while the masts were 'dols'; a command became a 'hookum' and instead of starboard and larboard, fore and aft, he had to say 'jamna' and 'dawa', 'agil' and 'peechil'.
One thing that continued unchanged was the division of the crew into two watches, each led by a tindal. Most of the business of the ship fell to the two tindals, and little was seen of Serang Ali for the first two days. But on the third, Zachary came on deck at dawn to be greeted with a cheerful: 'Chin-chin Malum Zikri! You catchi chow-chow? Wat dam t'ing hab got inside?'
Although startled at first, Zachary soon found himself speaking to the serang with an unaccustomed ease: it was as if his oddly patterned speech had unloosed his own tongue. 'Serang Ali, where you from?' he asked.
'Serang Ali blongi Rohingya - from Arakan-side.'
'And where'd you learn that kinda talk?'
'Afeem ship,' came the answer. 'China-side, Yankee gen'l'um allo tim tok so-fashion. Also Mich'man like Malum Zikri.'
'I ain no midshipman,' Zachary corrected him. 'Signed on as the ship's carpenter.'
'Nevva mind,' said the serang, in an indulgent, paternal way. 'Nevva mind: allo same-sem. Malum Zikri sun-sun become pukka gen'l'um. So tell no: catchi wife-o yet?'
'No.' Zachary laughed. ''N'how bout you? Serang Ali catchi wife?'
'Serang Ali wife-o hab makee die,' came the answer. 'Go topside, to hebbin. By'mby, Serang Ali catchi nother piece wife . . .'
A week later, Serang Ali accosted Zachary again: 'Malum Zikri! Captin-bugger blongi poo-shoo-foo. He hab got plenty sick! Need one piece dokto. No can chow-chow tiffin. Allo tim do chheechhee, pee-pee. Plenty smelly in Captin cabin.'
Zachary took himself off to the Captain's stateroom and was told that there was nothing wrong: just a touch of the back-door trots - not the flux, for there was no sign of blood, no spotting in the mustard. 'I know how to take care o' meself: not the first time I've had a run of the squitters and collywobbles.'
But soon the skipper was too weak to leave his cabin and Zachary was handed charge of the ship's log and the navigation charts. Having been schooled until the age of twelve, Zachary was able to write a slow but well-formed copperplate hand: the filling of the log-book posed no problem. Navigation was another matter: although he had learnt some arithmetic at the shipyard, he was not at ease with numbers. But over the course of the voyage, he had been at pains to watch the Captain and the first mate as they took their midday readings; at times he had even asked questions, which were answered, depending on the officers' moods, either with laconic explanations or with fists to his ear. Now using the Captain's watch, and a sextant inherited from the dead mate, he spent a good deal of time trying to calculate the ship's position. His first few attempts ended in panic, with his calculations placing the ship hundreds of miles off course. But on issuing a hookum for a change of course, he discovered that the actual steering of the ship had never been in his hands anyway.
'Malum Zikri think lascar-bugger no can do sail ship?' said Serang Ali indignantly. 'Lascar-bugger savvi too muchi sail ship, you look-see.'
Zachary protested that they were three hundred miles off course for Port Louis and was answered with an impatient retort: 'What for Malum Zikri make big dam bobbery'n so muchee bukbuk and big-big hookuming? Malum Zikri still learn-pijjin. No sabbi ship-pijjin. No can see Serang Ali too muchi smart-bugger inside? Takee ship Por'Lwee-side three days, look-see.'
Three days later, exactly as promised, the twisted hills of Mauritius appeared on the jamna bow, with Port Louis nestled in the bay below.
'I'll be dickswiggered!' said Zachary, in grudging admiration. 'Don't that just beat the Dutch? You sure that the right place?'
'What I tell you no? Serang Ali Number One sabbi ship-pijjin.'
Zachary was to learn later that Serang Ali had been steering his own course all along, using a method of navigation that combined dead reckoning - or 'tup ka shoomar' as he called it - with frequent readings of the stars.
The Captain was now too ill to leave the Ibis, so it fell to Zachary to conduct the shipowners' business on the island, which included the delivery of a letter to the owner of a plantation, some six miles from Port Louis. Zachary was making ready to go ashore with the letter when he was intercepted by Serang Ali, who looked him up and down in concern.
'Malum Zikri catch plenty trouble'n he go Por'Lwee like that.'
'Why? Don see nothin wrong.'
'Malum look-see.' Serang Ali stepped back and ran a critical eye over Zachary. 'What dam cloth hab got on?'
Zachary was dressed in his workaday clothes, canvas trowsers and the usual sailor's banyan - a loose-fitting tunic made, in this instance, of coarse and faded Osnaburg cloth. After weeks at sea his face was unshaven and his curly hair was grimy with grease, tar and salt. But none of this seemed untoward - he was just delivering a letter after all. He shrugged: 'So?'
'Malum Zikri go so-fashion to Por'Lwee, no come back,' said Serang Ali. 'Too muchi press gang in Por'Lwee. Plenty blackbirder wanchi catch one piece slave. Malum go be shanghaied, made slave; allo time floggin, beatin. No good.'
This gave Zachary pause for thought: he went back to his cabin and looked more closely at the possessions he had accumulated as a result of the death and desertion of the two ships' mates. One of them had been something of a dandy and there were so many clothes in his trunk as to intimidate Zachary: what went with what? What was right for which time of day? It was one thing to look at these fine go-ashores on others, but to step into them was quite another matter.
Here again, Serang Ali came to Zachary's aid: it turned out that among the lascars there were many who boasted of skills apart from sailoring - among them a kussab who had once worked as a 'dress-boy' for a shipowner; a steward who was also a darzee and earned extra money by sewing and mending clothes; and a topas who had learnt barbering and served as the crew's balwar. Under Serang Ali's direction, the team went to work, rifling through Zachary's bags and trunks, picking out clothes, measuring, folding, snipping, cutting. While the tailor-steward and his chuckeroos busied themselves with inseams and cuffs, the barber-topas led Zachary to the lee scuppers and, with the aid of a couple of launders, subjected him to as thorough a scrubbing as he had ever had. Zachary offered no resistance until the topas produced a dark, perfumed liquid and made as if to pour it into his hair: 'Hey! What's that stuff?'
'Champi,' said the barber, making a rubbing motion with his hands. 'Champoo-ing too good . . .'
'Shampoo?' Zachary had never heard of this substance: loath as he was to allow it on his person, he gave in, and to his own surprise, he was not sorry afterwards, for his head had never felt so light nor his hair smelled so good.
In a couple of hours Zachary was looking at an almost unrecognizable image of himself in the mirror, clothed in a white linen shirt, riding breeches and a double-breasted summer paletot, with a white cravat knotted neatly around his neck. On his hair, trimmed, brushed and tied with a blue ribbon at the nape of his neck, sat a glossy black hat. There was nothing missing, so far as Zachary could see, but Serang Ali was still not satisfied: 'Sing-song no hab got?'
'Clock.' The serang slipped his hand into his vest, as if to suggest that he was reaching for a fob.
The idea that he might be able to afford a watch made Zachary laugh. 'No,' he said. 'I ain got no watch.'
'Nebba mind. Malum Zikri wait one minute.'
Ushering the other lascars out of the cabin, the serang disappeared for a good ten minutes. When he came back, there was something hidden in the folds of his sarong. Shutting the door behind him, he undid his waist knot and handed Zachary a shining silver watch.
'Geekus crow!' Zachary's mouth fell open as he looked at the watch, sitting in his palm like a gleaming oyster: both its sides were covered with intricately filigreed designs, and its chain was made of three finely chased silver strands. Flipping the cover open, he stared in amazement at the moving hands and clicking cogs.
'It's beautiful.' On the inner side of the cover, Zachary noticed, there was a name, engraved in small letters. He read it out loud: '"Adam T. Danby". Who was that? Did you know him, Serang Ali?'
The serang hesitated for a moment and then shook his head: 'No. No, sabbi. Bought clock in pawnshop, in Cape Town. Now blongi Zikri Malum's.'
'I can't take this from you, Serang Ali.'
'Is all right, Zikri Malum,' said the serang with one of his rare smiles. 'Is all right.'
Zachary was touched. 'Thank you, Serang Ali. Ain nobody never gave me nothin like this before.' He stood in front of the mirror, watch in hand, hat on head, and burst into laughter. 'Hey! They'll make me Mayor, for sure.'
Serang Ali nodded: 'Malum Zikri one big piece pukka sahib now. Allo propa. If planter-bugger coming catch, must do dumbcow.'
'Dumbcow?' said Zachary. 'What you talkin bout?'
'Must too muchi shout: planter-bugger, you go barnshoot sister. I one-piece pukka sahib, no can catch. You takee pistol in pocket; if bugger try shanghai, shoot in he face.'
Zachary pocketed a pistol and went nervously ashore - but almost from the moment he stepped on the quay he found himself being treated with unaccustomed deference. He went to a stable to hire a horse, and the French owner bowed and addressed him as 'milord' and couldn't do enough to please him. He rode out with a groom running behind him, to point the way.
The town was small, just a few blocks of houses that faded away into a jumble of shacks, shanties and other hut-houses; beyond, the path wound through dense patches of forest and towering, tangled thickets of sugar-cane. The surrounding hills and crags were of strange, twisted shapes; they sat upon the plains like a bestiary of gargantuan animals that had been frozen in the act of trying to escape from the grip of the earth. From time to time, passing between fields of sugar-cane, he would come upon gangs of men who would put down their scythes to stare at him: the overseers would bow, raising their whips deferentially to their hats while the workers gazed in expressionless silence, making him glad of the weapon in his pocket. The plantation house came into view while he was still a long way off, through an avenue of trees with peeling, honey-coloured bark. He had expected a mansion, like those in the plantations of Delaware and Maryland, but in this house there were no grand pillars or gabled windows: it was a one-storeyed wood-framed bungalow, skirted by a deep veranda. The owner, Monsieur d'Epinay, was sitting on the veranda in his drawers and suspenders - Zachary thought nothing of this, and was taken aback when his host apologized for his state of undress, explaining, in halting English, that he had not expected to receive a gentleman at this time of day. Leaving his guest to be waited on by an African maidservant, M. d'Epinay went inside and emerged a half-hour later, fully dressed, and regaled Zachary with a meal of many courses, accompanied by fine wines.
It was with some reluctance that Zachary checked his watch and announced that it was time for him to leave. As they were walking out of the house, M. d'Epinay handed him a letter that was to be delivered to Mr Benjamin Burnham, in Calcutta.
'My canes are rotting in the field, Mr Reid,' said the planter. 'Tell Mr Burnham that I need men. Now that we may no longer have slaves in Mauritius, I must have coolies, or I am doomed. Put in a word for me, will you not?'
With his farewell handshake, M. d'Epinay offered a word of warning. 'Be careful, Mr Reid; keep your eyes open. The mountains around are filled with marrons and desperadoes and escaped slaves. A gentleman on his own must be careful. Make sure your gun is never far from your hands.'
Zachary trotted away from the plantation with a grin on his face and the word 'gentleman' ringing in his ears: there were clearly many advantages to being branded with this label - and more of these became apparent when he arrived at the dockside quarter of Port Louis. With nightfall, the narrow lanes around the Lascar Bazar had come alive with women, and the sight of Zachary, in his paletot and hat, had a galvanic effect on them: clothes became the newest addition to his list of praiseworthy things. Thanks to their magic, he, Zachary Reid, so often disregarded by the whores of Fell's Point, now had women hanging off his arms and elbows: he had their fingers in his hair, their hips pressing against his own, and their hands toying playfully with the horn buttons of his broadcloth trowsers. One of them, who called herself Madagascar Rose, was as pretty a girl as he had ever seen, with flowers behind her ears and painted red lips: dearly would he have loved, after ten months on a ship, to be dragged behind her door, to stick his nose between her jasmined breasts and to run his tongue over her vanilla lips - but suddenly there was Serang Ali, in his sarong, blocking the lane, his thin acquiline face compressed into a dagger of disapproval. At the sight of him, the Rose of Madagascar wilted and was gone.
'Malum Zikri no hab got dam brain inside?' demanded the serang, arms akimbo. 'Hab got water topside, in he head? What for wanchi flower-girl? He not big pukka sahib now?'
Zachary was in no mood for a lecture. 'Get knotted, Serang Ali! Can't nobody turn a sailor from a snatchwarren.'
'Why for Malum Zikri wanchi pay for jiggy-pijjin?' said the serang. 'Oc-to-puss no have see? Is too muchi happy fish.'
This had Zachary foundering. 'Octopus?' he said. 'What's that got to do with anything?'
'No hab see?' said Serang Ali. 'Mistoh Oc-toh-puss eight hand hab got. Make heself too muchi happy inside. Allo time smile. Why Malum not so-fashion do? Ten finger no hab got?'
It wasn't long before Zachary threw up his hands in resignation and allowed himself to be led away. All the way back to the ship, Serang Ali kept brushing dust off his clothes, fixing his cravat, straightening his hair. It was as if he had acquired a claim on him, in having aided in his transformation into a sahib; no matter how much Zachary cursed and slapped his hands, he would not stop: it was as if he had become an image of gentility, equipped with all that it took to find success in the world. It dawned on him that this was why Serang Ali had been so determined to keep him from bedding the girls in the bazar - his matings, too, would have to be arranged and supervised. Or so he thought.
The skipper, still ailing, was now desperate to get to Calcutta and wanted to weigh anchor as soon as possible. But when told of this, Serang Ali disagreed: 'Cap'tin-bugger plenty sick,' he said. 'If no catchi dokto, he makee die. Go topside too muchee quick.'
Zachary was ready to fetch a doctor, but the Captain would not let him. 'Not goin't'a have no shagbag of a leech fingerin me taffrail. Nothing wrong with me. Just the running scoots. I'll be better the minute we make sail.'
The next day the breeze freshened and the Ibis duly stood out to sea. The skipper managed to stagger out to the quarter-deck and declared himself to be all a-taunto but Serang Ali was of another opinion: 'Captin catchi Cop'ral-Forbes. Look-see - he tongue go black. Better Malum Zikri keep far from Captin.' Later, he handed Zachary a foul-smelling decoction of roots and herbs. 'Malum drinki he: no catchi sick. Cop'ral-Forbes - he one piece nasty bugger.' On the serang's advice Zachary also made a change of diet, switching from the usual sailor's menu of lobscouse, dandyfunk and chokedog to a lascar fare of karibat and kedgeree - spicy skillygales of rice, lentils and pickles, mixed on occasion with little bits of fish, fresh or dry. The tongue-searing tastes were difficult to get used to at first, but Zachary could tell the spices were doing him good, scouring his insides, and he soon grew to like the unfamiliar flavours.
Twelve days later, just as Serang Ali had predicted, the Captain was dead. This time there was no bidding for the dead man's effects: they were thrown overboard and the stateroom was washed and left open, to be cauterized by the salt air.
When the body was tipped into the sea it was Zachary who read from the Bible. He did it in a voice that was sonorous enough to earn a compliment from Serang Ali: 'Malum Zikri number-one joss-pijjin bugger. Church-song why no sing?'
'No can do,' said Zachary. 'Ain could never sing.'
'Nebba mind,' said Serang Ali. 'One-piece song-bugger hab got.' He beckoned to a tall, spidery ship's-boy called Rajoo. 'This launder blongi one-time Mission-boy. Joss-man hab learn him one-piece saam.'
'Psalm?' said Zachary, in surprise. 'Which one?'
As if in answer, the young lascar began to sing: ' "Why do the heathen so furiously rage together . . . ?"'
In case the meaning of this had escaped Zachary, the serang considerately provided a translation. 'That mean,' he whispered into Zachary's ear, 'for what heathen-bugger makee so muchi bobbery? Other works no hab got?'
Zachary sighed: 'Guess that just about sums it all up.'
By the time the Ibis dropped anchor at the mouth of the Hooghly River, eleven months had passed since her departure from Baltimore, and the only remaining members of the schooner's original complement were Zachary and Crabbie, the vessel's ginger cat.
With Calcutta just two or three days away, Zachary would have been only too glad to get under weigh immediately. Several days went by while the fretful crew waited for a pilot to arrive. Zachary was asleep in his cabin, dressed in nothing but a sarong, when Serang Ali came to tell him that a bunder-boat had pulled alongside.
'Misto Dumbcow hab come.'
'Pilot. He too muchi dumbcowing,' said the serang. 'Listen.'
Cocking his head, Zachary caught the echo of a voice booming down the gangway: 'Damn my eyes if I ever saw such a caffle of barnshooting badmashes! A chowdering of your chutes is what you budzats need. What do you think you're doing, toying with your tatters and luffing your laurels while I stand here in the sun?'
Pulling on an undershirt and trowsers, Zachary stepped out to see a stout, irate Englishman pounding the deck with a Malacca cane. He was dressed in an extravagantly old-fashioned way, with his shirt-collar up on high, a coat that was cut away in the skirts, and a Belcher fogle around his waist. His face, with its bacony hue, its mutton-chop whiskers, beefy cheeks and liverish lips, looked as if it could have been assembled upon a butcher's counter. Behind him stood a small knot of porters and lascars, bearing an assortment of bowlas, portmanteaus and other baggage.
'Do none of you halalcores have any wit at all?' The veins stood out on the pilot's forehead as he shouted at the unbudging crew: 'Where's the mate? Has he been given the kubber that my bunder-boat has lagowed? Don't just stand there: jaw! Hop to it, before I give your ganders a taste of my lattee. Have you saying your bysmelas before you know it.'
'I do apologize, sir,' said Zachary, stepping forward. 'I'm sorry you had to wait.'
The pilot's eyes narrowed in disapproval as they took in Zachary's dishevelled clothes and bare feet. 'Caulk my dead lights, man!' he said. 'You've certainly let yourself go, haven't you? Won't do when you're the only sahib on board - not if you don't want to be borak-poked by your darkies.'
'Sorry, sir . . . just a bit discombobb'd.' Zachary stuck out his hand. 'I'm the second mate, Zachary Reid.'
'And I'm James Doughty,' said the newcomer, giving Zachary's hand a grudging shake. 'Formerly of the Bengal River Pilot Service; currently bespoke arkati and turnee for Burnham Bros. The Burra Sahib - Ben Burnham, that is - asked me to take charge of the ship.' He waved airily at the lascar who was standing behind the wheel. 'That's my seacunny over there; knows exactly what to do - could take you up the Burrempooter with his eyes closed. What'd you say we leave the steering to that badmash and find ourselves a drop of loll-shrub?'
'Loll-shrub?' Zachary scratched his chin. 'I'm sorry, Mr Doughty, but I don't know what that is.'
'Claret, my boy,' the pilot said airily. 'Wouldn't happen to have a drop on board, would you? If not, a brandy-pawnee will do just as well.'
Reading Group Guide
Questions for Discussion
1. Discuss how the relationships between the various classes of people aboard the Ibis change throughout the novel. To what extent does the caste system affect these relationships? Which characters undergo the most significant changes?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This carefully researched and beautifully written novel brought me back to my childhood of post independent India of the 1950ies, to Benares,Ghazipur, Patna and Calcutta. The places and people had hardly changed since the 1830ies. The Raj had still existed. The absorbtive power of Ghosh's construction of events is simply stunning. A very enjoyable novel. I am looking forward to the next in the Ibis series
Ghosh's characters are amazing. I can't wait until the next book in the trilogy to find out what happens. The pidgin is a little hard in the beginning--but stay with it. Either use the strange lexicon in the back or a dictionary, or just keep reading. You don't really need to know the exact meaning of the words these characters use; the sense is clear. In his narration, Ghosh's language is beautiful.
the only drawback is the practically incomprehensible dialects encountered early on before the book grabs you and you can't put it down. I am looking forward to the next one as I am enthralled with the characters and their stories. you just have to keep reading in the beginning.
The Ibis Trilogy is magneficent and I can't wait for the third book to be published. This is the story of the British East India's actions which lead to the Opium wars. Sea of Poppies introduces you to most of the characters, and tells of the opium industry in India which was controlled by the East India Company. River of Smoke, the second in the trilogy is mainly set in Canton, and in the factory area where the European and American merchant live work. You'll really enjoy these books
I have just finished reading Sea of Poppies and its sequel (whatever) and found the subject matter and various characters were portrayed in a humorous loving manner. The historical references and the period and places of this story were wonderful, BUT attempting to slog thru the pidgin English words, was a task that was more then difficult....the characters kept calling me back, to finish the books....but then again I was not happy with the unsatisfactory manner with which many of the characters that I had so cared for, were not referenced again, these folks were not just left hanging.....they were discarded.
Quite possibly the best book I have ever read! Amitov Ghosh never disappoints, and in this trilogy he delivers the finest set of developed characters from every circumstance of life's trivals one could hope to encounter on it's journey. Destined to be a classic.
What a rich and amazing story. I loved it all. The characters were wonderful. The dialects were very difficult to understand, but don't let that stop you. It's too good to miss. I am waiting for October.
At first I wasn¿t sure if audio was the right format to use for this novel, but after hearing Phil Gigante do the first of his many characterizations, I was reassured. When he got to the lascars and especially Serang Ali, I knew not only was it the right format, it was the best format. Phil is to be congratulated on his performance. The rolling pidgin dialect was almost musical and almost understandable. Without access to a glossary and without knowing how in the least to spell a lot of what I heard, it was up to my brain to fill in contextual details and make sense of the slang. Maybe I didn¿t get very single little syllable, but mostly I got it. Gigante¿s vocal fluidity more than made up for anything doubtful. Oh and is it just me, or does the pidgin sound a lot like Hutese, the language Jabba and his cronies spoke? I won¿t go into the plot here since it¿s done elsewhere and it would be too exhaustive. Suffice to say that the threads of many separate lives and situations come together in a very confined way. I liked how much attention each character got. When the author dips us into each world, he leaves us there for long enough to be immersed and develop bonds with each character and sympathy for each situation. He didn¿t just give us a few short paragraphs and then jerk us into a new scenario, a device I loathe, but neither did he string it out so long that we forgot about others¿ details when reintroduced to them. Nicely judged and timed.The world of 18th century India is largely unknown to me and was fascinating to read about. Ditto for shipboard life. I have no idea how accurate either portrayal is, but they have the ring of authenticity. Both are highly ritualized and have strictures that if broken carry severe penalties. Both feature people desperate to either make the best of them or escape them entirely and I¿m anxiously awaiting the 2nd installment.
¿The vision of a tall-masted ship, at sail on the ocean, came to Deeti on an otherwise ordinary day, but she knew instantly that the apparition was a sign of destiny, for she had never seen such a vessel before, not even in a dream: how could she have, living as she did in Northern Bihar, four hundred miles from the coast? Her village was so far inland that the sea seemed as distant as the netherworld: it was the chasm of darkness where the holy Ganga disappeared into the Kala-Pani, `the Black Water.¿¿So begins the rip-snortin tale of high seas adventure aboard the Ibis in 1838, as told by Amitav Ghosh in Sea of Poppies, a novel that landed on the Booker shortlist in 2008. Many people, including me, believe it should have won the prize that year, that the Booker judges got it wrong (again) and this first book of a planned trilogy should have taken the gold, for what¿s not to love here: adventure, drama, mystery, crime, romance, action and violence. What makes this book stand out from other books that might fall into the action/adventure genre is the writing. Ghosh¿s writing sets a standard that few authors can hope to match. His prose beautifully sings throughout the narrative and after almost 500 pages he leaves you clambering for more. I¿m ready for the next installment of the trilogy. Please he¿s had two years. Isn¿t it ready yet? I can¿t wait!The deftly drawn characters seem so real that you¿ll swear you actually know and have talked to them. Deeti, one of the strongest female characters in recent memory (mine), takes center stage from page one. Abused, abandoned and on her own, she gives up everything in order to survive and, once on the ship, the other women look to her for guidance. Her determination and grit allow her to overcome her dire circumstances. Before the ship sets sail, when she and the others realize what is before them, the author gives us this:¿The knowledge that this was the last they would see of their homeland, created an atmosphere of truculence and uncertainty, in which no provocation seemed too slight for a quarrel. Once fights broke out, they escalated at a pace that was bewildering to everyone, including the participants; in their villages they would have had relatives, friends and neighbors to step between them, but here there were no elders to settle disputes, and no tribes of kinfolk to hold a man back from going for another¿s throat.¿On the male side Ghosh has created an upstanding character torn between what he knows is right and trying to fit in among a group of despicable sea faring cutthroats. Zachary is among only three Americans on board and is desperately trying to keep a secret that, if revealed, would cost him his position as first mate.And then you have the two key players in the narrative, who have neither head nor heart: opium, which plays an important role in the story. It¿s the main source of income, in one way or another, for most of those on board and Ghosh adroitly draws a portrait depicting its ability to also destroy lives; and the ship, the Ibis, which is the real star of the show. It¿s the entity that draws everyone together, and over the course of the trilogy, I believe, it will be both a curse and a source of comfort. Very highly recommended.
Sea of Poppies was the first book of a new trilogy written by Amitav Ghosh. Set during the Opium Wars between the British Empire and China, it¿s the story of a group of international characters who are flung together on a large ship, Ibis, who must cross the Indian Ocean at the beginning of the war.Ghosh took many pages to set up the back stories of each character who will eventually end up sailing on the Ibis. There¿s Zachary, an American freedsman, and Paulette, a French orphan. And Neel, a broke and disgraced raja and Deeti, a widowed Indian villagewoman ¿ all of their stories showed how their personal struggles landed them on a dangerous journey across the sea.The back of my edition contained a robust glossary, which was extraordinarily helpful as I tried to understand much of the dialogue in this book. Many passages drifted by me like a foreign language, and I had a hard time following the conversations, which proved to be a distraction for me.Many reviewers have compared Ghosh¿s writing style to Dickens, and that¿s probably the best description I can muster too. Ghosh introduced a multitude of characters, all centered on some type of struggle. My biggest complaint about Sea of Poppies was the long time it took Ghosh to get his characters on the ship, which was the crux of the story. Considering this is the first book of a trilogy, it¿s understandable that Ghosh needed to set up the story. For an impatient reader like me, though, it was hard for me to get into the book. Add in the foreign jargon, and the whole experience felt more like homework than reading.
Opium, adventure, and romance on the high seas! During the Raj! This was really rollicking. And wow, what a vivid book. It's almost unbelievable how vibrant it is. When you're reading it, it feels like a Jumanji scene where you open up the book and can immediately hear the sounds of the ship and smell the poppies and spices and everything floods into Technicolor, and then when you close the book it all stops. And then you keep opening and closing it for fun or until someone makes you knock it off.I had the kind of little kid reading experience that I don't always get as an adult - the goodies are good and the baddies are bad and that's completely satisfying. I am positive that if I ever met the goodies, we'd be BFF and have amazing piratey adventures, and I'd spit on the baddies because they make you go Grrrrr in a mostly fun way. It's still a very thoughtful book, but in an awesome display of res ipsa loquitur, every single insight that emerges does so by way of moving the story forward.So plot-wise, what is going on? You've got a whole ensemble of characters from different walks of life in early 19th century India - so sailors and lascars and a former Raj who is now imprisoned as a debtor and a French woman born in India and a widow who is on the run from her family for taking up with a man below her caste and a second mate who is a free person of color from America. Oh, and the devout temple-building guy who thinks he is transforming into a dead woman's spirit. And many more. And all of their fortunes come together on the Ibis, a former slaver that is now being used to transport indentured Indian labor to the Mauritius islands and opium to China.I am assured there will be sequels. They cannot possibly be released quickly enough.I should note that a lot, a lot of the dialogue is written out in pidgin and one could fight with the glossary or just try to roll with it. I did the latter, and it worked out.Grade: ARecommended: Hearty yes, especially to anyone who likes action-adventure intrigue type stuff. Weirdly, as much as I like historical fiction, here the historical setting seems almost incidental. I mean, it's excellently done, but almost so well crafted that you hardly notice it.
I referred to this book on my LiveJournal as the unholy spawn of Patrick O'Brian and Salman Rushdie, and I meant that as a compliment. Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies is utterly irresistible. It manages to be thoroughly postcolonial (it is set during the 1830s, in the poppy fields in India, and then aboard a ship transporting a load of coolies to Mauritius; the bad guys are the British because of the opium trade to China), and really a good enjoyable read, incorporating real old-fashioned *stories* that play with cliche but keep veering off in more original directions. There are strong female characters who have convincing backstories, rather than feeling like 21st century women in costume. And just . . . story. This is a book that is both immensely well-researched and intelligent, as well as fun. And it has a whole array of characters who you will like and cheer on.It is the first book of a trilogy and an awful lot of time is spent getting the characters all in one place, but as their stories are fascinating, I didn't mind at all. The ending is very much a "to be continued." For some readers, the use and celebration of language may be an obstacle: the text is filled with Hindi and Urdu and Hindusthani and Bengali words and phrases, as well as a character who speaks in pidgin, an Englishman whose speech is peppered with Hobson-Jobson style Anglo-Indian, and a French character who keeps getting similar French and English words mixed up. But it all makes sense in context, and for me, those barriers to understanding really projected what was going on in that time and place.Read this book! It's tremendously enjoyable.
What an incredible tale to satisfy many kinds of appetites. A broad array of interesting characters, as far apart in caste and location as can be at the start, come together as if drawn by a force of nature.Set in 1830s India to start, it's rich with historical background at the level of daily lives. From a raja to workers of the opium fields, from the owner of a shipping fleet to a part-black lascar (sailor), with other oddly assorted lives mixed in to this tower of Babel. Throw in a Chinese prisoner, some pirates, a feared male who transmogrifies in a startling manner, and you have just some of the intriguing characters who you have to take seriously in their various plights. Sea of Poppies is an old time adventure on land and sea that promises to keep you invested in long-term outcomes.This is the first of a promised trilogy that is destined for the Opium Wars in China. The first volume ends like the Perils of Pauline and I don't know how long I can bear to wait for volume two. I really want to know what's nextPick it up if you're at serious about broadening your experience and want entrancing writing. I got hooked on Amitav Ghosh through his The Hungry Tide and The Glass Palace. Wonderful, wonderful.
Amitav Ghosh does wonderfully to potray the pre-Sepoy Mutiny India, which was ruled by the "Company Bahadur" rather than the British Government. He draws upon the helplessness of British Parliament in the matters of the company's dealings in the far east and South East Asia. He also does well to bring out the dual nature of British judiciary and the British Clergy. Mr. Burnham quotes some English Gentleman as saying that Jesus Christ is for free trade.What is ironical is the fact that on one hand, Britain was busy evangelizing China, on the other hand, it didn't see it its own responsibility to ensure the well being of the new converts.The woes the opium trade brought to India and to China are well illustrated. It talks about the artificially created shortage of food in the northern plains in India, as more and more farmers were forced to grow opium. We have much to learn from our history, which we often neglect. We have seen something similar happen in the last couple of years, when there was a global food cricis due to bio fuels. With genetically modified food, we might be heading towards another disaster.It is to be hoped that the next book in the trilogy will do more to explain the plantation economy of the British in the islands of Asia.Many have remarked that the end of the book is rather abrupt, but I see it as the setting of the stage for a marvellous trilogy.A few other things that might deserve mention are the wonderful imagery that Ghosh manages to divert into his writings, and the beauty of the Bhojpuri language - the Lingua Franca of Indian music - beautiful folk poetry on the Thumri and Dadra lines. Its a pity that this beauty, although translated to English by Ghosh after each passage, loses much of its rustic native attractiveness.Ghosh also does well to mention the Indophiles among the Britishers - Hume and Chatterton - the reference to the Asiatic Society embedded in their mention. In fact, the research material for this book was drawn upon heavily from the archives of the Asiatic Society.In all, a book worth reading.
Sea of Poppies has a vibrant cast of characters, placed in India and the Indian Ocean during the time preceding the Opium Wars. The main character it seems is the ship, the Ibis, where almost everyone ends up by the end of the novel. Then there's a mulatto son of an American slave woman who comes up in the world a bit, a Raj who falls down in the world quite a lot, a wife of an opium addict, a French orphan, and perhaps some pirates. I was able to keep track of the cast without getting overwhelmed - it was slightly more difficult to understand the local words peppered throughout the dialogue and description. Although there is a glossary in the back of the book, at times I had to ask my (fortunately) Hindi-speaking sisters for an explanation after a line or two threw me. Still, it was infinitely less annoying than say, Wuthering Heights, where certain choppy lines made me want to hurl the novel off a cliff.Otherwise, it's certainly a page-turner, though without giving anything away, the ending was abrupt. It left me wanting to know how things would turn out for some of the sea travellers. Perhaps the author wanted us to use our imagination along with his hints interspersed throughout the story.Certainly this is one I'd recommend for anyone interested in historical novels, especially those centered around India in British colonial times.
This first installment of the planned Ibis trilogy about, vaguely, the 19th century Opium Wars, seems like it might be a trial initially. To begin with, the novel comes with its own 50-page glossary at the back, what with all the Anglo-Indian, regional Indian, sailor-pidgin, and occasional French and Chinese words thrown in. Somehow, though, the reader manages to pick up the lingo, or at least roll with it, so that it stops being a distraction and instead helps create a unique, vibrant world. Sea of Poppies is a sprawling, picaresque story in which the cast of rich and poor, erudite and ignorant, lofty and deranged cross paths with a charmingly loopy logic. If Dickens had been asked to write a saga for Bollywood, this novel might be the result.
Amitav Ghosh, has created a rich historical saga centering on the impact the opium trade had on a multitude of people in the 19th century. Shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, I found it a surprising choice. Although I did enjoy the novel, I found the hodgepodge of languages present more disconcerting than appealing. Entire paragraphs escaped my understanding as the words ranged from Bengali to English to Asian to Pidgin to Lascar. I often had a sense of the meaning, but not a real knowledge of it. Perhaps that was the point, but I thought that it distracted from what could otherwise have been a fascinating history. and this linguistic mishmash could be better served elsewhere.
Deeti, an Indian woman who grows poppies, has a vision of a ship ¿ an odd vision because she lives 400 miles from the sea and has never seen a boat such as this¿but her vision is a premonition and the ship has a name: Ibis. Thus begins Amitav Ghosh¿s sprawling, historical saga Sea of Poppies. What follows is a story with a vast cast of characters whose paths ultimately cross enroute to the island of Mauritius aboard the Ibis ¿ a former slave ship manned by a motley crew including an opium addicted captain, a freed American slave, and a foul-mouthed first mate with a penchant for cruelty. The voyagers include Paulette (a French woman with a sense of adventure who is fleeing an unacceptable situation in India), and Neel (a man who has been convicted of a crime he did not commit). But it is the Indian indentured workers who take center stage in a novel about caste, freedom, and human connection. And it is Deeti who becomes the central figure ¿ a strong woman who marries beneath her caste and is respected by the other women aboard the ship.The novel is beautifully imagined and captures the hopelessness of the opium factory workers, the daily lives of the villagers, the violence of ship law, and the diversity of an India in the mid-nineteenth century. Ghosh¿s use of language in the novel is brilliant. Filled with strange words, pidgin English, and unusual sentence structure ¿ the book at first seems unwieldy. But Ghosh succeeds where other less talented authors might not. The language, used with appropriate context, becomes almost like a musical score in a movie. Ghosh¿s use of language demonstrates the way language can unite or divide people, and confuse or clarify situations. It is a powerful technique that works.Historically, Sea of Poppies is set just prior to the Opium Wars and revolves around the British involvement in India and their trade practices exporting opium from India to China. Ghosh reveals the damage done by British colonial rule and the devastation wreaked upon the Indian economy, as well as society at large. Although apparently Ghosh¿s creative inspiration was the indentured people of India, he says in an interview: ¿[...] once I started researching into it, it was kind of inescapable ¿ all the roads led back to opium. The indentured emigration [out of India] really started in the 1830s and that was [around the time of] the peak of the opium traffic. That decade culminated in the opium wars against China.¿Ghosh is skilled at creating character¿and in Sea of Poppies the characters are memorable and complex.Although filled with adventure and interesting plot twists, Sea of Poppies is also about what makes us human in the face of crisis. One particularly memorable part of the novel to me was when Neel loses his caste and is convicted of the crime of forgery. Thrown into jail, he is forced to share a cell with an Asian named Ah Fatt who is hopelessly addicted to opium and lies in his own waste. For Neel, a man of stature who is fastidously clean, the situation is almost unbearable. And then he makes a self-discovery about what it means to care for another human being. It was moments like these in the story which elevated it above the typical historical novel.Some readers have found the ending of Sea of Poppies to be abrupt and unresolved. I would agree. However, this book is the first in a planned trilogy which may explain the ending. At any rate, Sea of Poppies completely enthralled me and I am looking forward to the next two books.Readers who love world and historical literature, and who enjoy richly textured sagas will love Sea of Poppies.Highly recommended.
"Sea of Poppies" red like an Indian version of "The Fellowship of the Ring". No coincidence that it is part of a trilogy! Ghosh's story is a daring blend of social classes/castes, languages, religions and more represented in a wonderful array of characters, all of whom dare to begin their journey out into the sea aboard the Ibis, a schooner. This is a love story, an adventure, a metaphor for life and more. The reader meets and either loves or abhors each of the memorable characters, their marvelous names, their multitude of histories, and their multiple aspects. I am definitely looking forward to reading the next installment of the trilogy, "River of Smoke".
One has to get used to the use of jargon, but this was fabulous. Can't wait to read the second volume, River of Smoke.
"How had it happened that when choosing the men and women who were to be torn from this subjugated plain, the hand of destiny had strayed so far inland, away from the busy coastlines, to alight on the people who were, of all, the most stubbornly rooted in the silt of the Ganga, in a soil that had to be sown with suffering to yield its crop of story and song? It was as if fate had thrust its fist through the living flesh of the land in order to tear away a piece of its stricken heart."This book is the beginning of what promises to be a sweeping saga. It follows multiple storylines, introduces a host of characters whose lives will eventually intertwine, and is set against the beautiful backdrop of colonial India. On top of all that, it is beautifully written. Divided into the three parts, the first part of the book concerns itself with setting up the backstories of the main characters. This was the slowest part for me because there is a lot to learn and a lot to remember in order to set the stage for the rest of the book. The second part of the book advances the storylines in preparation for bringing the main characters together in the third and final part of the book - the sea voyage aboard the Ibis:"It was not that she was especially sleek or rakish in appearance: neither lean, nor flush-decked like the clippers for which Baltimore was famous. She had a short quarter-deck, a risen fo'c's'le, with a fo'c's'le-deck between the bows, and a deckhouse amidships, that served as a galley and cabin for the bos'ns and stewards. With her cluttered main deck and her broad beam, the Ibis was sometimes taken for a schooner-rigged barque by old sailors: whether there was any truth truth to this Zachary did not know, but he never thought of her as anything other than the topsail schooner that she was when he first signed on to her crew. To his eye there was something unusually graceful about the Ibis's yacht-like rigging, with her sails aligned along her length rather than across the line of her hull. He could see why, with her main- and headsails standing fair, she might put someone in mind of a white-winged bird in flight: other tall-masted ships, with their stacked loads of square canvas, seemed almost ungainly in comparison." This book is well worth the time that it takes to assemble and discern the stories of its main characters. The third part of the book is much too short; the sea voyage was an old fashioned adventure filled with intrigue that passed much too quickly - I wanted more. I only had two gripes with this book, both of which are small and inconsequential in comparison to what the book has to offer its readers. The first is that this book contains a glossary which is more frustrating than illuminating. My advice is simply to ignore the glossary. There are passages in this book where you will feel like you are reading some obscure language that makes no sense, but if you keep reading, you will find that somehow, magically, you can discern the context of the words if not the individual meanings. This is more than sufficient to enjoy the book, as these passages do not make up the majority of the book. My second gripe is that this book cannot stand on its own. I know that it is part of an intended trilogy, and that it is an epic which means that this book is merely the first leg of the journey. However, that being said, I would have liked the ending to have less abruptness. The story felt SO unfinished, as if it had ended mid-sentence. I prefer a book that you feel could stand on its own even if it is part of a series. The beautiful writing and the well developed plot and characters more than make up for this, so by all means, do not hesitate to dive into this story, after all, the second book is already available, and so you can begin immediately, if you choose, on the second leg of the journey.**Baboo Nob Kissin is one of the more colorful characters in the book, and one of my personal favorites. Here is a quote that tickled me
Sea of Poppies is a magnificently sprawling book ¿ the first in a trilogy, in fact ¿ set in a magnificently sprawling place and time: India in the 1830s, at the height of British colonialism. The cast of characters is large, but you get to know each one very well as the novel switches from one point of view to another. While the story starts with all the characters dispersed, they are gradually brought together by the intertwined strands of fate that direct their lives. And each character has a secret to hide; each one is in some way living as someone they are not. So the themes of deception and difference are established. By the cliffhanger ending, all of the characters are onboard a former slave ship heading across the ¿Black Water¿ to Mauritius ¿ literally heading out into the unknown.What I loved most about this novel is the use of language. The characters speak a wide variety of languages ¿ Hindi, Bengali, French, English, shipboard pidgin, to name a few ¿ and the text is liberally sprinkled with foreign words and phrases. (The careful reader will notice that quotation marks are omitted whenever the characters speak a language other than English, a distinction that is important for the plot.) This may be off-putting at first, but the trick is to relax and let meaning flow from context, rather than trying to understand each word. Gradually, the rhythm of the writing will overcome and enchant you.Ghosh particularly delights in playing with puns and misunderstandings of spoken language in a way that reminds me of Shakespeare. Some of the funniest scenes in the book occur when the misunderstandings lead characters into suggestive dialogues filled with double entendres. Yes, Sea of Poppies is often funny, but it is also suspenseful, epic and evocative of a time and place that may have never actually existed as depicted here but is nonetheless wonderfully realized.
Ghosh's novel offers a peak into early 1800's India and the divisions between different castes. The well-developed characters stories are intertwined into a shared adventure. The build-up to this adventure is a bit drawn out, but filled with the unexpected that keeps the story going.
If you are interested in place and especially Asia this is the book for you. It is the first of a trilogy, the second of which was just published and well received. I am taken by alien cultures and at the hands of a master such as Ghosh it is dazzling. Sea of Poppies is definitely worth a detour.
A brilliant book about a fascinating time, would have been 5 stars but for the over use of various pidgin and other phrases and words, which after a time became a little too distracting.