I have carried on at too great a length (as you can see, the shocks of this morning have not cured me of my chatterbox habits). Ominous portents have continued to accumulate even during the hour I have spent at my desk. The pounding on the roof has grown louder – Mr Markwick believes the authorities are constructing bridges, to connect the factories to the buildings on the other side of Thirteen Hong Street. This will allow them better access to the hongs and sentries will be posted on each roof, to keep the enclave under watch …

… and now, looking up from my desk I see dozens of men fleeing from the hongs. They are all local men – the cleaners and cooks and coolies who worked as servants for the fanquis. They are carrying bundles and bowlas on their heads and running as if from the plague …

… and now someone is pounding on my door … Baburao must have come to the hotel to snatch this letter away … not another word … here I must end.

*

It was unusually hot that afternoon so Neel and several others were sitting in the coolest room in the house – the empty godown that adjoined the kitchen – when one of the khidmatgars came running in.

Arré, come and see what’s happening outside!

Knocking over tumblers of water and sherbet, they jumped to their feet and went racing to the front door. On opening it, they found a stream of Chinese workmen hurrying through the covered corridor, on the far side of the courtyard: they were heading towards the hong’s gates, carrying their mats and clothes, pots and pans.

Amongst the foreigners who sojourned regularly in Canton, Bahram was one of the few who travelled with his own entourage of servants. Since it was far cheaper to employ local men, most of the other merchants relied on their compradors to provide them with cooks, cleaners and coolies – it was these men who were now on the move, all of them at the same time. It was as if they had received warning of an impending eruption and were racing to get away.

Jostling for a place in the throng, Neel found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the coolies who regularly delivered provisions to the Achha Hong. ‘Attay! What for all you-fellow walkee chop-chop?’

‘Yum-chae have talkee – all China-yan must makee go. Can-na stay.’

They were at the Fungtai Hong’s gates now: on stepping into the Maidan, Neel saw that similar streams of coolies and servants were pouring out of all thirteen hongs. Many foreigners had gathered in knots, to watch the spectacle. Neel spotted Baboo Nob Kissin’s saffron-clad figure, standing under one of the flagpoles, and went to join him.

What is happening, Nob Kissin Baboo?

Obvious, isn’t it? said the gomusta. They are moving out all the natives. The enclave is going to be cut off and isolated from the city.

The exodus of the servants took only half an hour. Shortly after it ended several detachments of the local constabulary entered the Maidan. Some of the policemen fanned out, shouting orders and making announcements. Almost at once the barbers began to fold up their portable sunshades. The food vendors doused their fires and the men who hosted tabletop cricket-fights coaxed their insects back into their cages. While the hawkers and hucksters were packing up their gear, the other denizens of Fanqui-town – the touts and twicers and trolls – were also being rounded up and herded out.