from "The Sea of Poppies" by Amitav Ghosh

[...] He breathed a nostalgic sigh. 'Oh they were grand old goll-mauls, those Rascally burra-khanas! No better place to get your tatters tickled.'

            Zachary nodded, as if no word of this had escaped him. ‘I take it you know him well then, Mr Doughty – our host of this evening?’

           ‘Not him, so much as his father. This young fellow’s no more like the old man than stink-wood is like mahogany.’ The pilot grunted in disapproval. ‘Seem if there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s a bookish native: his father was a man who knew how to keep his jibb where it belonged – wouldn’t have been seen dead with a book. But this little chuckeroo gives himself all kinds of airs – a right strut-noddy if ever I saw one. It’s not as if he’s real nobility, mind: the Rascallys call themselves Rogers, but they’re just Ryes with an honorary title – bucksheesh for loyalty to the Crown.’

            Mr Doughty snorted contemptuously. ‘These days it takes no more than an acre or two for a Baboo to style himself as More-Roger. And the way this one jaws on, you’d think he’s the Padshaw of Persia. Wait till you hear the barnshoot bucking in English – like a bandar reading aloud from The Times.’ He chuckled gleefully, twirling the knob of his cane. ‘Now that’ll be something else to look forward to this evening, apart from the chitchky – a spot of bandar-baiting.’

            He paused to give Zachary a broad wink. ‘From what I hear, the Rascal’s going to be in for a samjaoing soon enough. The kubber is that his cuzzanah is running out.’

            Zachary could no longer sustain the pretence of omniscience. Knitting his eyebrows, he said: ‘Cu – cuzzanah? Now there you go again, Mr Doughty: that’s another word I don’t know the meaning of.’

            This naïve, if well-meant, remark earned Zachary a firm dressing-down: it was about time, the pilot said, that he, Zachary, stopped behaving like a right gudda – ‘that’s a donkey in case you were wondering.’ This was India, where it didn’t serve for a sahib to be taken for a clodpoll of a griffin: if he wasn’t fly to what was going on, it’d be all dickey with him, mighty jildee. This was no Baltimore – this was a jungle here, with biscobras in the grass and wanderoos in the trees. If he, Zachary, wasn’t to be diddled and taken for a flat, he would have to learn to gubbrow the natives with a word or two of the zubben.

            Since this admonishment was delivered in the strict but indulgent tone of a mentor, Zachary plucked up the courage to ask what ‘the zubben’ was, at which the pilot breathed a patient sigh: ‘the zubben, dear boy, is the flash lingo of the East. It’s easy enough to jin if you put your head to it. Just a little peppering of nigger-talk mixed with a few girleys. But mind your Ourdoo and Hindee doesn’t sound too good: don’t want the world to think you’ve gone native. And don’t mince your words either. Mustn’t be taken for a chee-chee.’

            Zachary shook his head again, helplessly. ‘Chee-chee? And what d’you mean by that, Mr Doughty?’

            Mr Doughty raised an admonitory eyebrow. ‘Chee-chee? Lip-lap? Mustee? Sinjo? Touch o’tar… you take my meaning? Wouldn’t challo at all, dear fellow: no sahib would have one at his table. We’re very particular about that kind of thing out East. We’ve got our BeeBees to protect, you know. It’s one thing for a man to dip his nib in an inkpot once in a while. But we can’t be having luckerbaugs running loose in the henhouse. Just won’t ho-ga: that kind of thing could get a man chawbuck’d with a horsewhip!’

            There was something in this, a hint or suggestion, that made Zachary suddenly uncomfortable. Over the last two days he had come to like Mr. Doughty, recognizing, in the leer of his hectoring voice and meaty face, a kindly, even generous spirit. Now it was almost as if the pilot were trying to give him a word of warning, cautioning him in some roundabout way.

            Zachary tapped the deck rail and turned away. ‘By your leave, Mr Doughty, I’d best make sure I’ve got a change of clothes.’

            The pilot nodded in agreement. ‘Oh yes: we’ll have to get ourselves all kitted out. Glad I thought to bring along a fresh pair of sirdrars.’ […]

Tłumaczenie 
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Książkę opublikowało wydawnictwo Picador (2009).