What followed was not unlike a hearing at a meeting of village elders, with the particulars of Neel's case being presented to the others by Bishu-ji. Speaking with the cogency of a lawyer, he told them about the Raskhali zemindary, the charge of forgery and the proceedings of the Supreme Court. How he had come by this information, Neel could not imagine, but he sensed that Bishu-ji wished him no harm and was grateful for his painstaking elaboration of the facts of his case.

From the exclamations of shock that greeted the end of Bishuji's recital, Neel understood that even among these long-term tenants of the jail, the penalty of transportation was regarded with an inexpressible horror. He was summoned to the centre of the gathering and made to display his tattooed forehead, which was examined with fascination and revulsion, sympathy and awe. Neel participated in the display without reluctance, hoping that the marks on his skin would entitle him to certain privileges, setting his lot apart from that of lesser convicts.

Presently, a silence fell, to indicate that the deliberations of the panchayat had ended, and Bishu-ji signalled to Neel to follow him across the courtyard.

Listen, he said, as they walked away, let me explain our rules to you: it is the custom here, when a new prisoner arrives, for him to be allotted to one or other of the jemadars, according to his origins and his character. But with someone such as yourself, this does not apply because the sentence you have been given will tear you forever from the ties that bind others. When you step on that ship, to go across the Black Water, you and your fellow transportees will become a brotherhood of your own: you will be your own village, your own family, your own caste. That is why it is the custom here for such men as you to live apart, in their own cells, separate from the rest.

Neel nodded: I understand.

At this time, continued Bishu-ji, there is only one other man here who bears the same sentence as you: he too is to be transported to Mareech, and the two of you will no doubt travel together. There -fore it is only right that you should share his cell.

There was an undertone in his voice that sounded a warning. Neel said: Who is this man?

Bishu-ji's face creased into a smile: His name is Aafat.

Aafat? said Neel, in surprise: the word meant 'calamity' and he could not imagine that anyone would choose it for a name. Who is this man? Where is he from?

He is from across the sea: the land of Maha-Chin.

He is Chinese?

So we think, from the look of him, said Bishu-ji. But it's hard to be sure, for we know almost nothing about him, except that he is an afeemkhor.

An addict? said Neel. But from where does he get his opium?

That's the thing, said the jemadar. He is an afeemkhor who has no opium.

They had reached the cell now and Bishu-ji was sorting through his keys to find the right one. This corner of the courtyard was dimly lit, and the cell was so silent that at first glance, Neel had the impression that it was empty. He asked where the addict was and Bishu-ji answered by opening the gate to push him inside.

He's there; you'll find him.

Inside there were two charpoys, both covered with a webbing of rope, and in the far corner there was a toilet bucket with a wooden lid. By the wall there stood an earthen pitcher of drinking water: apart from these few things, the cell seemed to contain nothing else.

But he's not here, said Neel.

He's there, said the jemadar. Just listen.

Gradually, Neel became aware of a whimpering sound, accompanied by a soft clicking, like the chattering of teeth. The sound was so close that its source had to be somewhere inside the cell: he dropped to his knees and looked under the charpoys, to discover an unmoving heap lying beneath one of them. He recoiled, more in fear than revulsion, as he might from an animal that was badly wounded or grievously sick – the creature was making a sound that was more like a whine than a moan, and all he could see of its face was a single glinting eye. Then Bishu-ji poked a stick through the bars and thrust it under the charpoy: Aafat! Come on out! Look, we've found you another transportee.

Prodded by the stick, a limb came snaking out from under the bed and Neel saw that it was a man's arm, encrusted with filth. Then the head showed itself, barely visible because of a thick coating of matted hair, and a straggling black beard that was twisted into ropes. As the rest of the body slowly emerged, it showed itself to be so thickly mired in dirt and mud that it was impossible to tell whether the man was naked or clothed. Then suddenly the cell was filled with the smell of ordure and Neel realized that it was not just mud the man was covered in, but also faeces and vomit.

Spinning around in disgust, Neel clutched the bars of the cell, calling out after Bishu-ji: You can't leave me here, have some pity, let me out…

Bishu-ji turned around and walked back.

Listen, he said, wagging a finger at Neel: Listen – if you think you can hide from this man you are wrong. From now on, you will never be able to escape this Aafat. He will be on your ship and you will have to travel with him to your jail across the Black Water. He is all you have, your caste, your family, your friend; neither brother nor wife nor son will ever be as close to you as he will. You will have to make of him what you can; he is your fate, your destiny. Look in a mirror and you will know: you cannot escape what is written on your forehead.

Jodu was not surprised to find Paulette growing increasingly morose and resentful after her late-night meeting with Zachary: it was clear that she blamed him, Jodu, for the failure of her plan, and often now, there was an unaccustomedly ugly edge to their usually harmless bickering. For two people to live in rancour, in a small boat, was far from pleasant, but Jodu understood that Paulette was in a cruel, even desperate, situation, with no money and few friends, and he could not bring himself to refuse her the refuge of his pansari. But the boat was just a rental, from a ghat-side boat-owner, due to be returned when the Ibis was ready to set sail. What would Paulette do after that? She refused to discuss the subject, and he could not blame her for this, since he could scarcely bear to think of it himself.

In the meanwhile, it was still raining hard, and one day Paulette got caught in a ferocious monsoonal downpour. Either because of the drenching or by reason of her state of mind, she fell ill. It was beyond Jodu's power to nurse her back in the boat, so he decided instead to take her to a family who had known her father well: they had long been malis at the Botanical Gardens, and had benefited greatly from Mr Lambert's generosity. With them she would be safe and well looked after.

The family lived in a village a little to the north of Calcutta, in Dakshineshwar, and on arriving at their door, Paulette received a welcome that was warm enough to allay any remaining qualms that Jodu may have had. Rest and get better, he said to her as he was leaving. I'll be back in two-three months and we can decide then what to do next. She answered with a wan nod, and that was where they left the matter.

Jodu rowed back to Calcutta, hoping to make some quick money with his boat. This was not to be, for the last few rainstorms of the monsoons proved to be the most furious of the season, and he had to spend almost all his time moored at the ghats. But when at last the rains ended, the air was cleaner and crisper than ever before, and the winds brisk and redolent of renewal: after the rain-slowed months of the monsoons, the rivers and roadways quickly filled up with traffic, as farmers hurried to bring their freshly harvested crops to the markets, and shoppers swarmed to the bazars, to buy new clothes for Durga Puja, Dussehra and 'Id.