Sea Of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh

Summary of Sea Of Poppies

Winner of two Indiaplaza Golden Quill Awards, 2009 - Critics' Choice Award(Fiction) and Readers' Choice Award(Fiction).

The first in Amitav Ghosh’s new trilogy of novels, Sea of Poppies is a stunningly vibrant and intensely human work that confirms his reputation as a master storyteller. At the heart of this epic saga is a vast ship, the Ibis. Its destiny is a tumultuous voyage across the Indian Ocean to the Mauritius Islands. As to the people on board, they are a motley array of sailors and stowaways, coolies and convicts. In a time of colonial upheaval in the mid nineteenth century, fate has thrown together a truly diverse cast of Indians and Westerners, from a bankrupt Raja to a widowed village-woman, from a mulatto American freedman to a free-spirited European orphan. As they sail down the Hooghly and into the sea, their old family ties are washed away, and they view themselves as jahaj-bhais, or ship-brothers, who will build whole new lives for themselves in the remote islands where they are being taken. It is the beginning of an unlikely dynasty.

The sweep of this historical adventure spans the lush poppy fields by the Ganga, the rolling high seas, and the exotic backstreets of China at the time of the Opium Wars. But it is the panorama of characters, whose diaspora encapsulates the vexed colonial history of the East itself, which makes Sea of Poppies so breathtakingly alive—a masterpiece from one of the world's finest novelists.

Advance praise for Sea of Poppies
Ghosh, as always, proposes a very particular, non-Western form of humanism, a belief in commonalities that exist across “race”, class and culture. Political imperatives determine many of the relationships in the novel, but for the most part fail to quench the force of individual human emotions—memories and desires, disappointment and aspirations… Ghosh’s success as a historical novelist owes much to the distinctiveness of each of his characters and his gift for contingent storytelling. These are underpinned by a mass of researched, specialist information, which brings a bygone era and vanished experiences to life through vividly realized detail. Along the way, and seemingly incidentally, we get a taxonomy of the various types of opium and their effects, a compellingly believable account of what life in both mid-nineteenth-century Calcutta and its rural hinterland might have been like, and a welter of maritime detail . . . The seaboard sections rival those in Melville and Conrad, but the scenes ashore are equally gripping, and one leaves this long page-turner wishing it would continue. Sea of Poppies is a tremendous novel . . . and [the] Ibis Trilogy will surely come to be regarded as one of the masterpieces of twenty-first-century fiction.’—Literary Review

‘At [the] centre is the Ibis, an old slaving ship whose ragtag crew is now made up of sailors, stowaways and convicts. As their voyage across the Indian Ocean gets under way, the social codes that would separate these very different individuals on dry land are gradually worn down and their stories begin to overlap . . . Together, their experiences form part of a vivid picture of the East’s troubled colonial past . . . Each scene is boldly drawn, but it is the sheer energy and verve of Amitav Ghosh’s storytelling that binds this ambitious medley.’—Daily Mail

‘Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies . . . revisits in new, breathtakingly detailed and compelling ways some of the concerns of his earlier novels. Among these are the incessant movements of the peoples, commerce, and empires that have traversed the Indian Ocean since antiquity; and the lives of men and women with little power, whose stories, framed against the grand narratives of history, invite other ways of thinking about the past, culture and identity . . . With the colourful characters, another bedazzling aspect of Sea of Poppies is the clash and mingling of languages. Bhojpuri, Bengali, Laskari, Hindustani, Anglo-Indian words and phrases, and a fantastic spectrum of English . . . create a vivid sense of living voices as well as the linguistic resourcefulness of people in diaspora.’—The Independent

Praise for Amitav Ghosh
'I cannot think of another contemporary writer with whom it would be so thrilling to go so far, so fast' -The Times
'If there is a distinctive genre known as Indian Writing in English, then Amitav Ghosh is perhaps its most scholarly practitioner. Ghosh is a traveler in the physical as well as the metaphysical, a writer of formidable learning and intelligence' -Indian Express
'Ghosh has established himself as one of the finest prose writers of his generation of Indian writing in English' -Financial Times

About The Author
Amitav Ghosh(born 1956), is an Indian-Bengali author and literary critic known for his work in the English language.

Ghosh was born in Kolkata and was educated at The Doon School; St. Stephen's College, Delhi; Delhi University; and the University of Oxford, where he was awarded a Ph.D. in social anthropology.
Amitav Ghosh is one of India`s best-known writers. His books include The Circle of Reason, The Shadow Lines, In An Antique Land, Dancing in Cambodia, The Calcutta Chromosome, The Glass Palace, Incendiary Circumstances, The Hungry Tide. His most recent novel, Sea of Poppies, is the first volume of the Ibis Trilogy.
He is married to the writer, Deborah Baker, and has two children, Lila and Nayan. He divides his time between Kolkata, Goa and Brooklyn.

The migrants had been on the Ganga only a few days when the monsoons came sweeping up the river and deluged them with a thunderous downpour. They greeted the rains with cries of gratitude, for the preceding few days had been searingly hot, especially in the crowded hold. Now, with powerful winds filling its single, tattered sail, the ungainly pulwar began to make good time, despite having to tack continually between the banks. When the winds died and the showers stopped, the vessel would make use of its complement of twenty long-handled oars, the manpower being supplied by
the migrants themselves. The oarsmen were rotated every hour or so and the overseers were careful to ensure that every man served his proper turn. While under weigh, only the oarsmen, the crew and the overseers were allowed on deck—everyone else was expected to remain in the hold below, where the migrants were quartered. The hold ran the length of the vessel, and had no compartments or internal divisions: it was like a floating
storage shed, with a ceiling so low that a grown man could not stand upright in it for fear of hurting his head. The hold’s windows, of which there were several, were usually kept shut for fear of thieves, thugs and river-dacoits; after the rains came down they were almost permanently sealed, so that very little light penetrated inside, even when the clouds cleared. The first time Deeti looked into the hold, she had felt as though she were about to tumble into a well: all she could see, through the veil of her ghungta, were the whites of a great many eyes, shining in the darkness as they looked up and blinked into the light. She went down the ladder with great deliberation, being careful to keep her face veiled. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, she saw that she had descended into the middle of a packed assembly: several dozen men were gathered around her, some squatting on their haunches, some lying curled on mats, and some sitting with their backs against the hull. A ghungta seemed but a paltry shield against the assault of so many curious eyes, and she was quick to seek shelter behind Kalua. The women’s section of the hold lay well forward, in a curtained alcove between the bows: Kalua led the way there, clearing a path through the press of bodies. When they reached the alcove, Deeti came to an abrupt halt and her hand shook as she reached for the curtain. Don’t go far, she whispered nervously in Kalua’s ear. Stay close by—who knows what these women are like? Theekba—don’t worry, I’ll be nearby, he said, ushering her through. Deeti had expected the women’s part of the hold to be just as crowded as the men’s, but on stepping past the curtain, she found only a half-dozen figures inside, veiled by their ghungt as.

Some of the women were lying sprawled on the floor planks, but on Deeti’s entry they moved up to make room for her; she lowered herself slowly to her haunches, taking care to keep her face covered. With everyone squatting and every face covered, there followed a sizing-up that was as awkward and in conclusiveas the examination of a new bride by her husband’s neighbours. At first no one spoke, but then a sudden gust of wind caused
the pulwar to lurch, and the women found themselves tumbling and spilling over each other. Amidst the groans and giggles, Deeti’s ghungta slipped from her face, and when she hadr righted herself, she found that she was looking at a woman with a wide mouth from which a lone tooth protruded like a
tilted gravestone. Her name, Deeti would discover later, was Heeru, and she was given to fits of forgetfulness during which she would sit gazing vacantly at her fingernails. It would not take Deeti long to learn that Heeru was the most harmless of women, but at that first meeting, she was more than a little disconcerted by the directness of her curiosity. Who are you? Heeru demanded. Tohar nám patá batáv tani—if you don’t identify yourself, how will we know who you are? As the newcomer, Deeti knew that she would have to account for herself before she could expect the same of the
others. It was on her lips to identify herself as Kabutri-ki-ma— the name by which she had been known ever since her daughter’s birth—when it occurred to her that if she was to prevent her husband’s kinsmen from learning of her whereabouts, both she and Kalua would have to use names
other than those by which they were generally known. What then was to be her name? Her proper, given name was the first to come to mind, and since it had never been used by anyone, it was as good as any. Aditi, she said softly, I am Aditi. No sooner had she said it than it became real: this was
who she was—Aditi, a woman who had been granted, by a whim of the gods, the boon of living her life again. Yes, she Said, raising her voice a little, so that Kalua could hear her. I am Aditi, wife of Madhu.

The significance of a married woman using her own name was not lost on the others. Heeru’s eyes grew clouded with pity: she too had been a mother once and her name was, properly speaking, Heeru-ki-ma. Although her child had died a while ago, through a cruel irony of abbreviation, his name
had lived on in his mother. Heeru clicked her tongue sadly as she mulled over Deeti’s plight: So your lap is empty then? No children?

No, said Deeti.
Miscarriages? The question was asked by a thin, shrewd looking woman, with streaks of grey in her hair: this was Sarju, Deeti would discover later, the oldest among the women. Back in her village, near Ara, she had been a dái, a midwife, but a mistake in the delivery of a thakur’s son had caused her to be driven from her home. On her lap lay a large cloth bundle, over which her hands were protectively clasped, as if to safeguard a treasure.

That day on the pulwar, Deeti did not have the presence of mind to think of a proper answer when the midwife repeated her question: Miscarriages? stillborn? how did you lose the little ones?

Deeti said nothing, but her silence was suggestive enough to elicit an outburst of sympathy: Never mind . . . you are young and strong . . . your lap will soon be filled . . . In the midst of this, one of the others edged closer, a teenaged girl with long-lashed, trusting eyes: the mound of her
chin, Deeti noticed, bore an embellishment that perfectly complemented the oval shape of her face—a tattoo of three tiny dots, arrayed in an arrowhead pattern. É tohran ját kaun ha? the girl asked eagerly. And your caste?

I am . . .
Once again, just as she was about to provide an accustomed answer, Deeti’s tongue tripped on the word that came first to her lips: the name of her caste was as intimate a part of herself as the memory of her daughter’s face—but now it seemed as if that too were a part of a past life, when she had been someone else. She began again, hesitantly: We, my jora and

I . . .
Confronted with the prospect of cutting herself loose from her moorings in the world, Deeti’s breath ran out. She stopped to suck in a deep draught of air before starting again: . . . We, my husband and I, we are Chamars . . . At this, the girl gave a squeal and threw her arm delightedly around Deeti’s waist. You too? said Deeti.  No, said the girl. I’m from the Mussahars, but that makes us like sisters, doesn’t it? Yes, said Deeti smiling, we could be sisters—except that you’re so young you should be my niece. This delighted the girl: That’s right, she cried, you can be bhauji hamár—my sister-in-law. This exchange annoyed some of the other women, who began to scold the girl: What’s wrong with you, Munia? How does all that matter any more? We’re all sisters now, aren’t we? Yes, that’s right, said Munia, with a nod—but under the cover of her sari, she gave Deeti’s hand a little squeeze as if to affirm a special and secret bond. ‘Neel Rattan Halder, the time has come . . .’ No sooner had Mr Justice Kendalbushe begun his
concluding address than he had to start pounding his gavel, for a disturbance broke out in the courtroom when it came to be noted that the judge had omitted the defendant’s title. After order had been restored, the judge began again, fixing his eyes directly upon Neel, who was stationed below the podium, in a dock.

‘Neel Rattan Halder,’ said the judge, ‘the time has come to bring these proceedings to a close. Having given due consideration to all the evidence brought before this court, the jury has found you guilty, so it now becomes my painful duty to pass upon you the sentence of the law for forgery. Lest you be unaware of the seriousness of your offence, let me explain that under English law your offence is a crime of the utmost gravity and was until recently considered a capital crime.’ Here the judge broke off and spoke directly to Neel: ‘Do you understand what that means? It means that forgery was a hanging offence—a measure which played no small part in ensuring Britain’s present prosperity and in conferring upon her the stewardship of the world’s commerce. And if this crime proved difficult to deter in a country such as England, then it is only to be expected that it will be very much more so in a land such as this, which has only recently been opened to the benefits of civilization.

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