Flood of Fire by Amitav Ghosh Page B

– and in time she had grown to accept that in these matters it was best to trust her husband’s judgement. So in the end she had yielded to his entreaties and allowed him to dispose of her inheritance as he thought best.
    What had happened to that money? Why had nobody mentioned it to her? For a while she clung to the reassuring notion her family was avoiding the subject because they did not want to raise it in company. It was true certainly that between her daughters, her sisters, her grandchildren and her own sizeable contingent of bais and khidmatgars, there was scarcely a moment when she was alone. Even her nights were not really her own, for there was always someone at hand to make sure that she took a liberal dose of laudanum before going to bed.
    Shireen was not ungrateful for her family’s support, yet, after a while, it became apparent to her that there was something odd about the nature of their sympathy. Her relatives’ concern seemed to be focused entirely on herself – her departed husband seemed hardly to figure in their thoughts. When she made an attempt to reverse this, by announcing that she wanted to hold a lavish ‘Farvandin roj’ ceremony for Bahram, in the Fire Temple, no one paid her any mind. Instead, without consulting Shireen, the family organized a small service that was attended only by a few close relatives.
    When she tried to question her daughters about this they fobbedher off by muttering about the expense. She knew then that something was being concealed from her and that she would have to take matters into her own hands. The next day she sent notes to her brothers asking them to visit her as soon as possible.
    Next morning, punctilious as ever, they came up together, dressed for the day, in crisp angarkhas and neatly tied white turbans. After a few conventional words of greeting Shireen said: I’m glad you’ve come; I’ve been wanting to ask you about some things.
    What things?
    About my husband’s business dealings. I know he had sunk a lot of money into this last trip to China. I was wondering what became of his investments.
    There was a silence and Shireen saw that they were exchanging glances, as if to urge each other to go first. To make it easier for them to speak she broke in: You must tell me; I should know.
    They fell on this opening with some relief.
    The situation was very unfortunate, they said. Bahram-bhai had made some terrible mistakes; his love of risk had led to calamity; he had taken an enormous gamble and his wager had gone disastrously awry.
    Shireen’s fingers snaked through the folds of her white sari seeking the comfort of the sacred kasti threads that were girdled around her waist.
    What happened? she said. Tell me about it.
    After some hesitation they began to speak together: It was not entirely Bahram’s fault, they said. He had been caught unawares by recent developments in China. Soon after he reached Canton a new viceroy had been appointed, a mandarin by the name of Commissioner Lin – by all accounts a power-crazed madman. He had detained all the foreign merchants and forced them to surrender the opium they had shipped to China that season. Then he had personally overseen the destruction of their cargoes – goods worth millions of Spanish dollars! Bahram was among the biggest losers; his entire cargo had been seized and destroyed – a consignment that he had bought mostly with borrowed money. As a result his debts to his creditors in Bombay were still unpaid; had he returned he would have had to default and declare bankruptcy – this wasn’t surprising perhaps; he had always been a gambler and a speculator, just like his grandfather before him.
    Shireen listened as if in a daze, with her hands clasped on her lap. When they had finished, she said: Is there really nothing left? Nothing?
    They shook their heads: there was nothing. Bahram had left behind nothing but debts. Such were the