A frown appeared on Baboo Nob Kissin’s bulging forehead as he looked up from his plateful of daal and puris. His eyes widened as they lingered on Neel and then narrowed; Neel could sense his bafflement as his gaze tried and failed to strip the beard and moustache from his face. He forced himself to stay calm and pasted a bland smile on his face. Nomoshkar, he said, joining his hands together.

Ignoring his greeting, Baboo Nob Kissin gestured to him to sit down. ‘What is your good-name, please?’ he said, switching to English. ‘I did not catch. Clarifications are required.’

‘Anil Kumar Munshi.’

‘And what-type employments you are engaging in?’

‘I am Seth Bahram Modi’s munshi.’

The Baboo’s eyebrows rose. ‘By Jove! Then we are like colleagues only.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because I am Burnham-sahib’s gomusta. He is also tai-pan.’

It took all of Neel’s self-control to conceal the shock that went through him at this. ‘Is Mr Burnham here now?’ he said, in a carefully expressionless voice.

‘Yes. He has come in his new ship.’

‘What ship?’

Once again, Baboo Nob Kissin’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as his gaze raked over Neel’s face. ‘Ship is called Ibis. Might be you have heard of it?’

Now, fortunately, a plate of biryani was laid before Neel. He lowered his eyes and shook his head. ‘Ibis? No, I have not heard of it.’

Baboo Nob Kissin let out a sigh and when he spoke again it was in Bengali.

Baboo Anil Kumar, I will tell you about the Ibis while you eat. It was only last year that Burnham-sahib acquired this ship and the moment I set eyes on her I knew she would bring about a great change in my life. You may ask how I, an English-educated Baboo, could know such a thing at one glance. Let me tell you: this person you see in front of you is not who you think. Inside the visible body there is someone else – someone hidden, someone who in another birth was a gopi, a girl who played with cows and made butter for the butter-thieving Lord. I have long known this, just as I know also that some day, the visible body will drop off and the inner form will step out, like a dreamer emerging from a mosquito-net after a good night’s sleep. But when? And how? These questions were much on my mind when I first saw the Ibis and I knew at once this ship would be the instrument of my transformation. On board there was a man by the name of Zachary Reid, a plain sailor you would think to look at him, but I knew at once that he too was not what he seemed. Even before I beheld him, I heard him playing the flute – the flute! – instrument of the divine musician of Vrindavan. I knew beyond a doubt his arrival was a sign, I knew I had to be on that ship – and by good fortune I was able to arrange for myself to be appointed the vessel’s supercargo.