Chinmah was relieved to find that Ramsamy had built a fire, and, using a thawa she found in their room on the shelf, she’d cooked a few chapatis. While she was bending over the fire, something small but heavy had fallen to the ground from her sari. Scooping it up quickly, Chinmah had turned away from Ramsamy.

  It was a gold valayal, no doubt part of Lutchmee’s dowry, which she’d slipped into her hand as they’d parted at the port. Chinmah had tucked it into her blouse and made a mental note to bury it in a safe place. Looking to the sky, she’d thanked Shiva for the protection that had come to her in the shape of Lutchmee.

  ‘Enakku pasi.’

  ‘It’s ready,’ Chinmah had said to Ramsamy, who’d been sitting on the veranda, staring out into the night.

  Ramsamy seemed to be beset by some affliction that rendered it impossible for him to behave autonomously. Without being forced to, he found it too much to get out of bed, never mind go to work in the fields.

  Every day for the first working week at Mount Edgecombe, he slept through the bell, and no matter how much Chinmah shook and shouted at him, she couldn’t get him up. Royappen, a man who’d arrived at the same time as them and lived in the neighbouring lines, sometimes came to help, prodding and poking at the pile of bedclothes until the thin little man buried in them emerged and got dressed, protesting every step of the way. The Chinmah would have to urge and coax her husband all the way to the fields, walking the three or four miles with him.

  One day Ramsamy did no work at all, instead hiding among the sugar cane, and the sirdar was fuming when he returned just as the sun was setting. It was at that point that Kasim decided that Ramsamy needed more than a public flogging.

  The next day was a Sunday, and Kasim decided that it would not be a day of rest for Ramsamy. He caught the skinny shirker by his ear and instructed the other men to tie him to the trunk of a wattle tree that was used as one post of a washing line. Children who were at play stopped and gawked as Ramsamy’s hands were tied, his face pressed against the gnarled tree trunk. As all this was being done to him, he did not resist once.

  In a single motion, the sirdar ripped off Ramsamy’s dhoti, leaving Ramsamy naked, without any way to cover his scrawny buttocks. Almost everyone watched, only the older indentured Indians turning away and going about their domestic chores.

  Chinmah stood rooted to the spot, clutching Angel close, her hot tears falling onto the infant’s head. From nowhere Royappen appeared at her side. ‘Don’t look,’ he said and cupped his hands over her eyes. But Chinmah pushed his hands away and ran forward.

  Just then, the sjambok cracked like lightning as Kasim brandished it with a flourish, and a deep pink furrow appeared as if by magic on Ramsamy’s bony back. He screamed, a terrible sound from deep in his lungs. There was a pool of mud under his feet and he lost his footing, making the scene the most undignified thing Chinmah had ever seen.

  More cuts burrowed into his back, some as long as an arm. Ramsamy’s screams became one long wail, until he could scream no longer, and keep his footing no more, and his legs gave way, with only the ropes holding him upright.

  Chinmah moved to help him, but she was held back by her neighbour’s strong arms.

  The sirdar stopped whipping Ramsamy, then picked up a pail next to him and emptied it over the maimed man’s back. The ear-splitting scream that came out of him hung in the air and told everyone what was in the bucket: salt water.

  Satisfied, Kasim looked around, then spat on the ground. ‘No one feed him. I’ll be back later to take him down.’ As he walked back to his horse, he turned, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, ‘Let that be a lesson to you all!’

  The beating didn’t change things; in fact, it made them worse. Ramsamy still refused to get out of bed, and, despite Chinmah’s best attempts at cleaning his wounds and applying a turmeric paste, he wouldn’t speak to her. For two days he lay in bed while she went out to the fields with Angel on her back, in a sling made of an old sari.

  On the third day Kasim returned, this time with a new tactic. He issued Ramsamy with a fine – one that was so much that all the wages Chinmah had earned in the preceding eight days wouldn’t be enough to cover it.

  Angel wasn’t even a month old yet, and still breastfeeding. This, combined with the meagre portions of food Chinmah was eating, the strain of the additional work, and the emotional stress of what she was dealing with, took a toll on her body. That afternoon she collapsed in the field, her tiny body slumped on the ground, with Angel still on her back.

  The woman next to her saw her fall and untied Angel. Holding the baby, she ran to get Kasim.

  When the sirdar arrived, he filled a cup of water from the communal drinking pail and threw it in Chinmah’s face. When she didn’t respond, he clicked his tongue impatiently. There were penalties for Indian casualties on the farms, and no one wanted a dead young mother who had not even started to repay what had been spent to get her here. ‘Get her onto the wagon,’ he ordered, his tone irritable.

  The wagon had sugar cane on it, and the Indians moved it to one side and placed Chinmah’s limp body on it. They watched as Kasim cracked his whip and urged the oxen onto the road that led out of the plantation.

  Angel began to cry and the woman holding her asked around if anyone could feed her. A woman who also had a baby slung onto her back sat down and unbuttoned her blouse, easing her nipple into Angel’s mouth. Angel drank without hesitating.

  With Kasim gone, the Indians refreshed themselves from the nearby stream and shook their heads at the plight of the young mother who’d been carried away.

  Kasim knew the master would have no problem with him taking Chinmah to the doctor: rather that than not deal with the problem and risk the Protector getting involved.

  Dr James Carew, a settler from England, had made a good life for himself in his thirty-two years in South Africa. He saw his patients in rooms next to his house, just a few miles from Mount Edgecombe, which gave him the freedom to choose his work hours, and he also kept a surgery in Durban. He had a steady stream of patients from the planters as he was registered with the British colonial government as a doctor for the Indians. He’d seen most things and knew the effects of life on the plantations.

  The sirdar explained that the woman had collapsed, and helped the doctor to get Chinmah into the examination room. Instructing the sirdar to wait outside, Dr Carew looked carefully at the frail form of the girl on the bed. Her hair had come loose and he raised her head carefully and tucked it back behind her head. She was stirring.

  Dr Carew began his examination. He found a faint pulse in her neck first, then he loosened the young woman’s blouse, noticing the stained blouse from her milk. He listened to her heart and lungs with a stethoscope. He checked her mouth and nose for any obstructions. Her skin was hot to the touch but that would be expected if she’d been out in the fields.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, shining a small torch in Chinmah’s eyes.

  Focusing her gaze, Chinmah moaned and a stricken look crossed her face. ‘My baby,’ she said.

  For Dr Carew it was all making sense: this young woman had given birth fairly recently; she was undernourished and the fieldwork was too much for her, especially now, during the harvest.

  He helped her to sit up and offered her a rehydrating solution. It was sweet and thick but Chinmah drank it quickly.

  ‘You’re still feeding your baby, I see, but you’re too thin and weak. You shouldn’t be working,’ he said, kindly.

  Chinmah looked at him with a blank expression. ‘I have to. My husband does not want to,’ she whispered.

  ‘I think you need to rest here for a while. I’ll let the sirdar know and come back to check on you.’

  ‘No. I have to get back,’ Chinmah said, her voice rising. ‘Angel is alone.’ She tried to get to her feet but found that she needed to quickly lean back on the bed.

  ‘My dear, you need to rest,’ the doctor said, laying a gentle hand on Chinmah’s shoulder.

  Outside, Carew was firm with Kasim. ‘This woman should not be in the fields. I will have to let the Protector know. It’s not like Master Wilkington to let this sort of thing happen.’

  ‘Please, doctor, don’t report it,’ Kasim said, knowing how angry Wilkington would be if the Protector was brought into this. ‘We’ll take care of it, I promise. The master is away at the moment. If you tell the Protector, he’ll speak to the Indians and ask them questions, and they always paint a bleak picture, as you know.’

  The doctor nodded but stood his ground. ‘She’s still nursing, Kasim. She needs more food to eat, and she mustn’t be in the fields,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘Of course, Dr Carew. You have my word,’ Kasim said.

  After Chinmah’s collapse in the field, Ramsamy did return to work. The money he earned still had to be paid towards the fine but Sirdar Kasim allowed him to keep just enough for the family to buy food.

  After a few days of rest, and with the kindness of neighbours, Chinmah thought perhaps the worst was over. Angel was feeding well again, and Chinmah began feeling hopeful about their future. She also found that she could repay the kindness of the other women by minding their children while their mothers worked or washed or cooked.

  With rest and food, Chinmah soon felt strong enough to return to the fields. During work hours, Angel would be looked after by an ayah, who also cared for other children in the barracks. When it was break time for the Indians, the ayah would bring the children to the field so that Angel could breastfeed. Things were settling into a routine.

  Then, one morning, Ramsamy was slow to get ready. ‘Go, go, I will bring our tiffin,’ he said.

  Chinmah usually prepared a tiffin for Ramsamy and herself, but she nodded and left with Angel. Tenderly kissing her baby on her head before leaving her with the ayah, she walked on to the gathering point in the yard. At roll call, Chinmah looked for her husband, but Ramsamy had not turned up. Kasim was clearly annoyed but said nothing to Chinmah about it, simply instructing her to leave with six other women to work in a specific field.

  Chinmah had nothing to eat all day, and after she’d fed Angel she felt lightheaded as the sea of green blurred in and out of focus.

  That evening, Chinmah picked up Angel from the ayah and made her way home. Crossing the yard with her baby in her arms, she saw Ramsamy sitting with a group of men. Chinmah wanted to go over and ask him where he’d been but thought better of it. She didn’t want to humiliate him.

  With Angel slung on her back, she got the fire going and then cooked a simple potato curry with turmeric and rice for their evening meal.

  For the rest of that week, Ramsamy didn’t go to work at all. Chinmah made sure that she prepared her own tiffin, and also that she and Angel had left the room before the sirdar came to get Ramsamy. He would be dragged from his bed or whipped to get him to work. As soon as he got to the field, though, he would slip away the first chance he got.

  Every evening Chinmah saw him sitting under a tree with the other men, smoking dagga, a particularly strong strain of ganja that was easily available on the plantation. Sometimes they passed around kaffir beer, an alcoholic drink made with millet by the natives.

  Sirdar Kasim finally lost all patience, as nothing seemed to spur the lazy fellow on; even fining him, and cutting his and his family’s food rations, had not been enough to deter the man from shirking. When, on the Friday, the sirdar came by their room and imposed yet another fine on Ramsamy, and reduced their weekly rations even further, Chinmah felt a clammy wave of hopelessness wash over her. ‘Please, Ramsamy,’ she begged. ‘Please do this for the child, at least?’

  In his drugged state, Ramsamy was totally content, however. With half-closed eyes, he simply gave his desperate wife a sleepy smile.

  By the end of their second month, the little family was worse off than when they’d arrived. The money that Chinmah earned was only enough to pay the ayah for looking after Angel every day, and to buy the tiniest scraps of food. They owed the planter more in fines than they would ever be able to pay off, and Kasim had stopped giving Ramsamy even the little bit of money he’d initially allowed to buy food. Their rations had been cut almost to nothing, and there was precious little to eat; and the neighbours’ kindness could only go so far. Chinmah’s milk was beginning to dry up, and Angel often cried from hunger.

  Ramsamy, sitting with his new friend, Royappen – who would procure the dagga for both of them – seemed oblivious to the misery around him. And sometimes he would invite Royappen into their room, which always made Chinmah uncomfortable.

  PART IV

  TRIBULATION

  If the Colony cannot put up with the Indians … the only course … is to stop future immigration to Natal, at any rate for the time being.

  – The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi, Vol. I, 1958

  11

  Sezela Sugar Estate

  September 1909

  Henry Rouillard had just returned home from a meeting of the Indian Immigration Trust Board in Durban. The meeting hadn’t been very interesting but at the end of it the Protector of Indian Immigrants, John Tatham, had called him aside and mentioned that there was going to be an investigation on Sezela Sugar Estate. ‘You’ve had three times more deaths and losses than any other plantation of the same size. Why is that, Henry?’ he’d enquired.

  ‘I would think that the bottles of brandy and boxes of cigars that find their way from Sezela to your office each month would be encouragement enough for you to find a reasonable explanation for that, Inspector,’ Henry had said coolly.

  Tatham had fiddled with his collar and flushed pink. ‘Much is out of my hands now that that blasted Indian lawyer Gandhi and his newspaper is casting a light on the whole business.’

  ‘I heard,’ Henry had said, frowning. ‘He’s already opposing the three-pound tax rule in the Transvaal, as if Indians could stay here for nothing after all we planters paid to get them here in the first place.’

  ‘And the damned man has settled in Phoenix, which is only about twenty miles from Durban,’ Tatham had gone on. ‘He’s made it his base, and he’s helping Indians to become self-sufficient, and to claim the land that was promised to those who spent more than five years in indenture. He’s even set up a newspaper – the Indian View or Indian Opinion or something like that. And the Indians are reading it and getting ideas above their station.’

  ‘I knew educating them was never a good idea. I held out on building that coolie school for as long as I could.’

  ‘That Gandhi is a threat, Henry. Stop sending me gifts and get your house in order,’ Tatham had said.

  Henry had looked after him in surprise. The Protector had never spoken to him like that before …

  Now, in his study, Henry took a slow sip of his brandy, relaxing as its warmth flowed down his throat, soothing and softening the lines on his face. He leaned back in his chair and reached for his cigars. He selected one and, using a strong, quick motion, cut off the end, lit it and allowed it to burn evenly. He then sucked on it deeply, his cheeks puffing out as he held in the smoke. Slowly he exhaled, watching intently as the smoky rings wafted upwards.

  He decided he was mildly amused at the absurdity of it all: an Indian lawyer, fighting for the rights of the coolies. ‘That’s just ridiculous,’ he muttered to himself, swilling his brandy around in his glass.

  And, anyway, he had more serious things to think about – the matter of Kuppen, the sirdar he’d grown to trust even more than his brother, for one. Today he’d come to ask for permission to retire. True, Kuppen had been in his service for a long time – since the beginning, in fact – and he was no longer as quick or as sharp on the plantation with the coolies or the kaffirs. And he had looked tired when he’d come to see him, and had been limping heavily.

  ‘The man must be close to seventy,’ Henry mused, tipping more brandy into his glass.

  The other sirdars on his estate who might have stepped into Kuppen’s shoes just didn’t have what it took; Rouillard always observed their reactions when the Indians were sjambokked and he could see they were all too soft. They wouldn’t be able to keep the other coolies in line. Kearsney in Stanger had just had a new lot of coolies come through, and perhaps there was a man in that lot that he could buy from him – at a good rate, of course. He’d ask Kearsney at the next meeting.

  Then there was the matter of Elise. Henry placed his empty glass on the dark teak desk and the cigar in an ashtray, and massaged his temples. Thinking about his wife brought on a headache. She’d been distant towards him for some time. Perhaps being away from Hertfordshire for so long had put a strain on her. He’d honestly thought that the warm climate would be good for her but since the birth of their son four years before, she’d seemed to be fading, as if the air itself was sucking the life out of her.

  He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t happy in this paradise, this world that he’d built for them. She had the house and the servants and every imaginable convenience and extravagance, yet none of it seemed good enough any more. He felt unappreciated.

  Truth be told, she wasn’t doing anything that a wife or mother should do. The servants did the cooking and cleaning, and their ayah took care of William and Elizabeth. Instead, Elise slept often, and several doctors couldn’t find a cause for her lethargy and melancholy. Her eyes were often red-rimmed and puffy, and some days it looked as if she hadn’t bothered to even brush her hair.

  Elise was a shadow of the woman he’d married some twelve years back, when she’d loved to dance, had always dressed fashionably and had taken an interest in the business. Her musical laugh, her tumble of blonde curls and her piercing blue eyes had made his knees weak every time he’d looked at her.