Books
Sex 'n' drugs 'n' folderol
Published 01 May 2008
Sea of Poppies
Amitav GhoshJohn Murray, 471pp, £18.99
Amitav Ghosh's latest novel is set in an era of agricultural scandal: burgeoning western demand for profitable but inedible crops is causing starvation in the subaltern world. Throw in some imperialist cries of war in the name of "freedom" and things start to sound depressingly familiar - but the year is 1837 and opium, rather than biofuels or animal feed, is the culprit. The Chinese are hooked, the Indians have been coerced into cultivating the stuff, and Britain is the prosperous dealer. Recent Chinese attempts to curb the trade means that "gunboat diplomacy" is on the horizon.
Sea of Poppies opens in a remote village devastated by these circumstances. A young woman, Deeti, watches her inert husband yield to addiction; he collapses at the opium-packing factory where glazed workers move "as slow as ants in honey" and even the monkeys are sunk in a "miasma of lethargy". She has a small plot of land, but its poppies will not feed her and nor will the proceeds of their sale. After she is widowed, sati seems the most appealing option.
On the coast, near old Calcutta, a raja entertains British merchants and seaman aboard his budgerow. There is champagne and chicken and talk of forthcoming Chinese hostilities. But the bonhomie masks a perilous situation for the raja: he owes money to a prominent Liverpudlian trader and, with opium profits down, the thumbscrews are tightening. The raja is soon framed for fraud and bankrupted; notice of his crime is branded on his forehead; exile and ruin await him.
Upriver, the Ibis is preparing to set sail for Madagascar, loaded with a cargo of coolies and convicts (including the raja). Its captain is more interested in smoking than steering, and leaves proceedings to his sadistic first-mate. Out at sea, conditions deteriorate as boredom fans the flames of cruelty. The serang (boatswain) has a specially sharpened toenail for kicking sailors and local justice prevails. A mutiny is brewing.
This outline of events is barely skeletal: as in his previous novels, Ghosh juggles a huge cast, weaving in overlapping strands and themes: racial porosity, imperialist hypocrisy, cultural relativism. It is characteristic of his scope to have an entire vessel of protagonists. Moreover, this is merely part one in a prospective trilogy. The Opium Wars haven't even started, though it is implied that the Ibis will later be involved in them. There are various tantalising hints of an auspicious future for the characters. One will found a dynasty; another is starting a religion; all (at least all of the nice ones) are destined to end up in a shrine.
Sea of Poppies is bathed in rich vernacular; Ghosh is unstinting in his use of lexical obscu rities, having raided dictionaries of nautical jargon and 19th-century Hinglish. We encounter cutwater, fang and bowsprit; taliyamar, fana, pulwar and pateli. Men are accused of being cunnylappers and sailors are threatened bawdily: "I'm going to splice a cuntline to yer arse." French characters mix English with Hindi, and upper-caste Indians speak like the Queen. There is no glossary - a sensible move, for we are forced to immerse ourselves in the melting pot of dialects. The effect is pleasing, and pleasingly intelligible. Here is a merchant's (English) wife commending a girl for having caught the eye of an illustrious magistrate: "Can you imagine, dear, what a prodigious stroke of kismet it will be for you to puckrow Mr Kendalbushe? He's a nabob in his own right - made a mountain of mohurs out of the China trade. Ever since he lost his wife every larkin in town's been trying to bundo him. I can tell you, dear, there's a paltan of mems who'd give their last anna to be in your jooties."
While the novelty of such speech patterns is invigorating, it contributes to a general sense of caricature; and after 470 pages, we are left with a peculiar feeling that things are only beginning to warm up. This is both a strength and a weakness. Sea of Poppies is a thoroughly readable romp of a novel, filled with excellent set pieces, comic digressions (especially its comedies of manners), love interest, subterfuge and betrayal. We are left thirsty for more.
But its characters remain more "colourful" than believable. We don't really get under their skin, and this affects our ability to empathise. When one man receives a pitiless lashing, we shrink in physical more than emotional horror. We get a memorable and sweeping sense of 1830s southern India, but not of what it might have felt like to live in it: as a hopeful coolie, a fallen raja, a corrupt judge or an amorous memsahib. Siddhartha Deb recently accused epic Anglo-Indian fiction of succumbing to "the megalomania of the Borgesian map". And this is Ghosh's problem. His fiction is more than mere cartography; but it is not immune from cartography's dimensional limitations.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
