'Oh no, sir,' said the gomusta. 'Nowadays all are going for pilgrimage by ship. Pilgrims cannot lose caste – this can also be like that. Why not?'

'Well I don't know,' said Mr Burnham, with a sigh. 'Frankly, I don't have time to think about it right now, with this Raskhali case coming up.'

This was the time, Baboo Nob Kissin knew, to play his best card. 'Regarding case, sir, can I kindly be permitted to forward one suggestion?'

'Why, certainly,' said Mr Burnham. 'As I recall, it was all your idea in the first place, wasn't it?'

'Yes, sir,' said the gomusta with a nod, 'it was myself only who suggested you this scheme.'

Baboo Nob Kissin took no little pride in having been the first to alert his employer to the advantages of acquiring the Raskhali estate: for some years, it had been rumoured that the East India Company was to relinquish its control on opium production in eastern India. Were that to happen, poppies might well become a plantation crop, like indigo or sugar-cane: with the demand rising annually in China, merchants who controlled their own production, rather than depending on small farmers, would stand to multiply their already astronomical profits. Although there was, as yet, no clear sign that the Company was ready to make the necessary concessions, a few far-sighted merchants had already started looking for sizeable chunks of land. When Mr Burnham began to make inquiries, it was Baboo Nob Kissin who reminded him that he need look no further than the hugely indebted Raskhali estate, which was already within his grasp. He was well acquainted with several crannies and mootsuddies in the Raskhali daftar, and they had kept him closely informed of all the young zemindar's mis-steps: like them, he regarded the new Raja as a dilettante, who had his nose in the air and his head in the clouds, and he fully shared their opinion that anyone so foolish as to sign everything that was put before him, deserved to lose his fortune. Besides, the Rajas of Raskhali were well known to be bigoted, ritual-bound Hindus, who were dismissive of heterodox Vaishnavites like himself: people like that needed to be taught a lesson from time to time.

The gomusta lowered his voice: 'Rumours are reaching, sir, that Raja-sahib's "keep-lady" is hiding in Calcutta. She is one dancer, sir, and her name is Elokeshi. Maybe she can provide affidavits to seal his fate.'

The shrewd glint in Baboo Nob Kissin's eye was not lost on his employer. Mr Burnham leant forward in his chair. 'Do you think she might testify?'

'Cannot say for sure, sir,' said the gomusta. 'But there is no harm in launching efforts.'

'I'd be glad if you would.'

'But then, sir,' the gomusta allowed his voice to trail away softly so that it ended on a note of interrogation: 'what to do about appointment of supercargo?'

Mr Burnham pursed his lips, as if to indicate that he understood precisely the bargain that was being proposed. 'If you can provide the affidavit, Baboon,' he said, 'the job is yours.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Baboo Nob Kissin, reflecting, once again, on what a pleasure it was to work for a reasonable man. 'You can repose all trust, sir. I will do maximum best.'

On the eve of Neel's first appearance in court the monsoons came crashing down, which was regarded as a good sign by all his well-wishers. To add to the general optimism, the Raskhali estate's court astrologer determined that the date of the hearing was extremely auspicious, with all the stars aligned in the Raja's favour. It was also learnt that a clemency petition had been signed by Bengal's wealthiest zemindars: even the Tagores of Jorasanko and the Debs of Rajabazar, who could agree on nothing else, had put aside their differences in this matter since it concerned a member of their own class. These bits of news provided so much cheer to the Halder family that Neel's wife, Rani Malati, paid a special visit to the Bhukailash temple where she provided a feast for a hundred Brahmins, serving each of them with her own hands.

The news was not enough, however, to dispose entirely of Neel's apprehensions, and he could not sleep at all the night before his first court appearance. It had been arranged that he would be transported to the courthouse before daybreak, under light guard, and his family had been given permission to send a team of retainers to help with his preparations. Dawn was still a couple of hours away when a rattle of wheels announced the approach of the estate's phaetongari; shortly afterwards, the Raskhali retinue arrived at Neel's door and from that point on, mercifully, he had no time to worry.

Parimal had brought two of the family priests with him, along with a cook and a barber. The Brahmin purohits had come bearing the most 'awake' of the images in the Raskhali temple, a gold-encrusted statue of Ma Durga. While the outer room of the apartment was being prepared for the puja, Neel was taken off to the bedchamber inside, where he was shaved, bathed and anointed with fragrant oils and flower-scented attars. By way of clothing, Parimal had brought along the finest Raskhali regalia, including a chapkan jacket ornamented with Aljofar seed-pearls, and a turban fitted with the famous Raskhali sarpech – a gold spray, inlaid with rubies from the Shan highlands. It was Neel himself who had asked for these accoutrements, but once they had been laid out on his bed he began to reconsider. Might it make the wrong impression if he presented himself in court in such a rich array of finery? But on the other hand, wasn't it also possible that a simpler outfit might be seen as an acknowledgement of guilt? It was hard to know what the proper attire was for a forgery trial. In the end, deciding that it would be best not to call attention to his clothes, Neel asked Parimal for a kurta of plain mushru' mulmul and an unbordered dhoti of Chinsura cotton. Parimal was kneeling to tuck in his dhoti when Neel asked: And how is my son?

He was busy with his kites till late last night, huzoor. He thinks you are away in Raskhali. We've made sure that he knows nothing of all this.

And the Rani?

Huzoor, said Parimal, since the moment you were taken away, she is without sleep or rest. She spends the days in prayer and there is not a temple or holy man she has omitted to visit. Today again she will spend the day in our temple.

And Elokeshi? said Neel. Has there been any word of her yet?

No, huzoor, none.

Neel nodded – it was best that she stay in hiding till the trial was over.

With his clothing completed, Neel was impatient to be on his way, but there was much else still to be done: the puja took the better part of an hour and then, after the priests had smeared his brow with sandalwood paste and sprinkled him with holy water and sacred durba grass, he was made to eat a meal composed of various kinds of auspicious foods – vegetables and puris, fried in the purest ghee, and sweets made with patali syrup, from his household's own sugar palms. When at last it was time to leave, the Brahmins led the way, clearing Neel's path of such impure objects as jharus and toilet buckets, and ushering away all carriers of ill-omen – sweepers, porters of night-soil and such. Parimal had already gone ahead to make sure that the constables who were accompanying Neel to the court were Hindus of respectable caste and could be entrusted with his food and water. Now, as Neel was climbing into the shuttered carriage, his retainers joined together to remind him, yet again, to make sure of keeping the windows closed, so that his gaze would encounter no ill-augured sights – on this of all days, it was best to take every possible precaution.

The carriage was slow and took the better part of an hour to cover the distance from Lalbazar to the New Courthouse, on the Esplanade, where Neel's case was to be tried. On arriving there, Neel was whisked quickly through the damp, gloomy building, past the vaulted room where most prisoners were held while awaiting their turn in court. The corridors filled with hisses and whispers as the other defendants began to speculate about who Neel was and what he'd done.