The Glass Palace

by Amitav Ghosh

  The Queen was silent for a moment and then a slight smile appeared on her face.

  ‘Collector-sahib, you keep yourself so well informed. I’m surprised that none of your spies have ever thought to tell you that children can be born without a licence.’

  ‘So you mean the child . . .’

  ‘Yes. By your laws, the child will be a bastard.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘You’ve met him often.’ She fixed him with an unwavering gaze. ‘He is our coachman, a fine young man.’

  It was only now that the Collector began to grasp the full import of what she had said. ‘But what am I to report? What am I to tell the Government?’

  ‘You will convey what you have been told: you will say that our daughter is soon to have a child and that the father is our coachman, Sawant.’

  ‘But, Your Highness,’ the Collector said, ‘consider the Princess’s reputation, consider your standing in society.’

  ‘Our standing? And what exactly is that, Collector-sahib?’ ‘Your husband is the King of Burma, albeit deposed. Your daughter is a Princess.’

  ‘I assure you, Collector-sahib, that you of all people need not trouble to remind us of this.’

  He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. There was still time, he told himself: the matter could be handled discreetly, without any inkling of it reaching the public. The young man could be persuaded to go quietly back to his village and family. If he made trouble, Mr Wright and his policemen would deal with him.

  ‘Your Highness, I beg you to reflect. Is it appropriate that a Princess of Burma should link herself to a household employee, a servant?’

  A tiny, trilling laugh escaped the Queen’s lips. ‘Collector-sahib, Sawant is less a servant than you. At least he has no delusions about his place in the world.’

  The Collector stared at her. ‘I am frankly amazed,’ he said, ‘that Your Highness should choose to make light of such a scandal.’

  ‘Scandal?’ The Queen’s eyes hardened as she repeated the English word. ‘You have the insolence to come here and speak to us of scandals? There is no scandal in what my daughter has done. The scandal lies in what you have done to us; in the circumstances to which you have reduced us; in our very presence here. What did my daughters ever do, Collector-sahib, that they should have to spend their lives in this prison? Did they commit a crime? Were they tried or sentenced? We have heard so many lectures from you and your colleagues on the subject of the barbarity of the Kings of Burma and the humanity of the Angrez; we were tyrants you said, enemies of freedom, murderers. The English alone understand liberty, we were told; they do not put kings and princes to death; they rule through laws. If that is so, why has King Thebaw never been brought to trial? Where are these laws that we hear of? Is it a crime to defend your country against an invader? Would the English not do the same?’

  The Collector knew that the appropriate response was to make a gesture of protest, a show of indignation. But under the Queen’s hard-eyed scrutiny he was unable to find the right words.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said at last, ‘I am not your enemy. On the contrary I have acknowledged to you many times that I believe your grievances to be well-founded. The matter unfortunately is not in my hands. Please believe me when I say that I have only your best interests at heart. It is solely out of concern for you and your family that I am requesting you to reconsider your decision to accept this man—this coachman— into your family. I implore you, Your Highness, to think of how the public will view this—of the damage to your family’s reputation.’

  The Queen tilted her head. ‘We are not public servants, Collector-sahib. To us the opinions of people at large are a matter of utter indifference.’

  ‘I see your mind is made up.’

  ‘Shame on you, Collector-sahib, that you should presume to judge the conduct of my children; shame on you that you should have the effrontery to come into this house and speak to me of scandal.’

  The Collector rose to his feet. ‘Your Highness, may I mention one last consideration? I do not expect it to weigh very greatly with you, but I feel that I have the right none the less, to bring it to your attention. You should be aware that if this matter becomes public, as your custodian-in-chief it is I, in all likelihood, who will bear the blame. Indeed it would almost certainly mean the end of my tenure here as Collector.’

  ‘I assure you, Collector-sahib’—the Queen laughed—‘we are well aware of this.’ She laughed again, raising a tiny hand to cover her mouth. ‘I am sure you will find a way to preserve yourself. Public officials usually do. If not you’ll have only yourself to blame.’

  There was nothing more to say. With a few mumbled words of regret the Collector excused himself from the Queen’s presence. On his way out, he spotted Sawant coming out of the gatehouse. He could hear a woman’s voice, calling out from within. Walking past the door, eyes discreetly averted, he caught a whiff of the hot, damp air inside. He quickened his pace. Was this where they cohabited then, the coachman and the First Princess, in that tiny hutch of a room? A profusion of images welled up before his eyes: Sawant, leaning on the doorpost, stroking his oiled moustache, beckoning to the girl with a smile; the Princess, stealing in through an unlatched door while the rest of the household lay asleep; the rank little room, reeking of sweat and echoing to their muffled cries; the creaking of a charpai.

  He hurried into his gaari, calling impatiently to Kanhoji, ‘Chalo! Jaldi chalo, jaldi, to the Residency, quickly.’ He leant out of the gaari’s window, breathing hard, but even the cool night air could not clear his nostrils of the smell of that room. Was this love then: this coupling in the darkness, a princess of Burma and a Marathi coachman; this heedless mingling of sweat?

  And the Queen, with her snapping black eyes? He had heard it said once that she had always really loved Thebaw. But what could they possibly know of love, of any of the finer sentiments, these bloodthirsty aristocrats, these semi-illiterates who had never read a book in all their lives, never looked with pleasure upon a painting? What could love mean to this woman, this murderer, responsible for the slaughter of scores of her own relatives? And yet it was a fact that she had chosen captivity over freedom for the sake of her husband, condemned her own daughters to twenty years of exile. Would Uma do the same for him? Would anyone? He shivered, stretching out his arms to steady himself against the sides of the carriage.

  At the Residency, Uma was waiting up. She came running to the door to let him in, waving the servants away. ‘What happened? What did she say? Tell me.’

  ‘Where’s Dolly?’ the Collector asked.

  ‘She was tired. She went straight to bed.’

  ‘Come.’

  The Collector led her to their bedroom and shut the door. ‘You knew. Didn’t you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Uma, whatever I am, I’m not a fool. I’m talking about the Princess’s pregnancy.’

  Uma sat down on the edge of their mosquito-netted bed, averting her gaze.

  ‘So you knew, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dolly told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it never occurred to you to tell me? That this might be a matter of some importance? That it would have consequences for me?’

  ‘How could I tell you? I promised not to.’

  He came to stand beside her, looking down at her lowered head.

  ‘And your promise to Dolly meant more than the bond between us, you and me?’ He reached for her hands and took them gently into his own. ‘Look at me, Uma. Why could you not trust me? Have I ever betrayed you, in any way? Did you think I would not be discreet?’

  ‘I promised.’

  He stared at her in bemusement. ‘You’ve known of this for days, perhaps months. We were together all that time. Did you never once feel the desire to talk of this with me? Not as the Collector of Ratnagiri, not even as your husband, but just as a companion, someone in whose company you spend your days?’


  She pulled her hands free of his grip. What did he want of her? She did his bidding in all things: she went to the Club when he told her to; she went to all her appointments. What more was there to give?

  She began to sob, covering her face with her hands. The wifely virtues she could offer him he had no use for: Cambridge had taught him to want more; to make sure that nothing was held in abeyance, to bargain for a woman’s soul with the coin of kindness and patience. The thought of this terrified her. This was a subjection beyond decency, beyond her imagining. She could not bring herself to think of it. Anything would be better than to submit.

  thirteen

  It seemed to Uma that she had only just drifted off, after many long hours of sleeplessness, when she heard a voice at her bedside: ‘Memsahib! Memsahib!’

  She stirred drowsily, pushing her pillows back against the polished headboard. ‘Memsahib!’ It was an ayah, her face veiled by the cloudy gauze of the mosquito net. ‘Get up, memsahib! Get up!’ The windows were open and the ceiling was bathed in reflected sunlight. There was a smell of freshly mown grass in the air. She heard scythes hissing in the garden and remembered that she’d told the malis to mow the lawn.

  ‘Memsahib, wake up. A gentleman is waiting in the baithak-khana.’

  ‘A gentleman? Who?’

  ‘The one who was here for dinner yesterday—the bahaarka gentleman.’

  ‘Mr Raha?’ Uma sat up with a start. ‘What is he doing here?’

  ‘He asked to see you. And Dolly memsahib.’

  ‘Have you told her this?’

  ‘Dolly memsahib isn’t here. She left early this morning.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Very early. Kanhoji took her back to Outram House.’

  The mosquito net had somehow worked its coils around Uma: she couldn’t get the webbing off her face.

  ‘Why wasn’t I told?’

  ‘Collector-sahib said not to wake you.’

  She scratched impatiently at the net with clawed fingers. There was a tearing sound and a gap opened suddenly in front of her. She climbed through the rent, swinging her legs off the bed.

  It wasn’t like Dolly to leave in such a hurry, without a word.

  ‘Send some tea to the baithak-khana,’ she said to the ayah. ‘And tell the gentleman I’ll be out soon.’

  She dressed quickly and went hurrying down the corridor. She took the ayah with her into the drawing room, and left her squatting by the door for propriety.

  ‘Mr Raha?’

  He was on the far side of the room, blowing smoke through an open window. At the sound of her voice, he spun round, flicking away his cheroot. He was wearing ‘English’ clothes— a white linen suit.

  ‘Madame Collector, I am sorry to have disturbed you . . .’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ She began to cough. The room was foggy with acrid tobacco smoke.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He dispelled a cloud of smoke with an apologetic wave. ‘I came to thank you . . . for last night.’ There was a pause in which she heard him swallow as though he were trying to collect himself to say something. ‘And I wanted to thank Miss Sein too, if I could.’

  ‘Dolly? But she isn’t here. She’s gone back to Outram House.’

  ‘Oh.’ He fell into a chair, his lips working silently, as though he were saying something to himself. She noticed that his hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary from lack of sleep.

  ‘May I ask if she is likely to return here today?’

  ‘Mr Raha,’ said Uma quietly, ‘I have to say that I am a little surprised that you should concern yourself so much with someone you hardly know.’

  He looked up at her. ‘Madame Collector . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is something I should tell you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have not been entirely frank with you. Or your uncle.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘This was not my first meeting with Miss Sein. The truth is that it is because of her that I am here. I came in search of her.’

  ‘What?’ Uma tried to laugh. ‘There must be some mistake, Mr Raha. You are surely thinking of someone else. You could not have met Dolly before this. Dolly has lived here all her life. I can assure you of that. She hasn’t left Ratnagiri since she was ten years old.’

  ‘The girl I spoke of last night—the girl in the Glass Palace?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That was her—Dolly, Miss Sein.’

  Uma felt the breath rushing out of her body. She rose unsteadily to her feet, and stepped through one of the French windows into the garden. ‘Come, Mr Raha.’ Without waiting for him, she set off across the freshly cut lawn. The malis were busy sweeping the cut grass to take home to their cows and goats; they looked up and salaamed as she swept by.

  Rajkumar caught up with her at the bottom of the garden, just as she was opening the wicket gate. ‘This must seem very strange to you.’

  ‘Yes. It does.’

  She led him to the earthen seat beneath the peepul tree. The Kajali river shone like glass in the valley below. ‘Please sit down, Mr Raha.’

  ‘I didn’t know I would find her here,’ Rajkumar said. ‘Not for sure. This was just a place to begin—a way of settling a score with myself. As long as there existed a place where I could make enquiries, I had to come. I had no choice. I was sure that I’d find the matter settled: she would be married, I thought, or carrying someone else’s child. Or dead, or turned into something unrecognisable. That would be that, the sight of her would wash the memory from my mind, set me free. Then I walked into your house last night, and there she was. I knew her at once: her face, her expression. And then the matter was indeed out of my hands, but not in the way I expected.’

  ‘And you’d only seen her that one time?’

  ‘Twice. In Mandalay. But if I had met her a thousand times it would have been no different. I know that. I am sure of that. When I was very young, I used to work on a boat, a Chittagong sampan. This was a long time ago, even before I went to Mandalay. One day we were caught in a storm. We were on the open sea and the storm came up very suddenly, as they do off the coast of Bengal. Water began to pour into the boat, over the stern. I was roped to a mast and given a bucket to bale with. Soon the sky grew so dark that my surroundings became invisible, except by lightning. During one of those flashes, I noticed something. It was an animal, a small, green-backed turtle. It had been washed aboard by a wave and had somehow got itself caught in some netting. It was just beyond my reach, and the waves were hitting the boat so hard I didn’t dare undo my rope. We were both bound in our places, the turtle and I. At every flash of lightning, I looked up and there he was. And so it went, through that long, long night: the animal and I, watching one another, through the waves and the wind. Towards dawn the storm abated. I undid my ropes and unloosed the turtle from the net. I can see it clearly to this day. If you were to set a thousand turtles in front of me now, they would not be as real to me as that one animal.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Mr Raha?’

  ‘Who else can I tell?’

  ‘Tell Dolly.’

  ‘I tried to. Last night. I saw her going into the garden and I doubled back after leaving you.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She was determined to be angry—just as she was at dinner. She found fault with everything I said. She told me to go back. She would not see me again. I stayed up all night, thinking what do I do next? In any other place, I would have had people to turn to: my friends would have learnt her mind from her friends. I would have asked someone to speak to her family. Then I would have gone myself to meet her father. We would have discussed money, settlements. Things like that. I would have had some help. People to speak for me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Uma nodded. ‘There would have been intermediaries. Go-betweens. People who can explain us better than we can ourselves.’

  He was right, she knew—that was how these things happened: someone carried word from one mouth to
another and so it went, whispers travelling like tendrils along hothouse trellises. That was exactly how it had happened in her own case: one night, a gaari had come clattering into the paved courtyard of their family home in Calcutta—the house to which her father had given the name Lankasuka. There was a loud banging on the front door, downstairs. It was late, after dinner. Her father was in his study, busy working on his treatise on temple architecture. Her mother was preparing to go to bed. ‘Someone must have died,’ her mother had declared. ‘There’s only ever bad news at this time of night.’

  Uma and her little brother had gone running to the veranda that overlooked the courtyard. One of their aunts was standing by the door downstairs. ‘Has someone died?’ Uma had shouted.

  ‘Died?’ Her aunt had burst into laughter. ‘No, you silly girl. Let me in.’

  Uma and her brother had listened at the door while their mother conferred with the visitor. They heard them mention the Collector’s name and recognised it: they’d read about him recently, in newspapers and magazines. He was known to be a brilliant man. As a student, he’d done so well at Calcutta University that the well-to-do families of his neighbourhood had pooled their resources together to send him to Cambridge. He’d returned a minor hero, having been accepted into the grandest and most powerful imperial cadre, the Indian Civil Service.

  It transpired that he had seen Uma at a puja: she’d been sixteen at the time, a schoolgirl. On his return from Cambridge, he’d made enquiries about her. His family was none too pleased: they’d had proposals from all over the city and thought they could do much better. But he persisted, insisting that he didn’t want a conventional marriage. He’d be working with Europeans: it wouldn’t do to have a conservative, housebound wife. He needed a girl who would be willing to step out into society; someone young, who wouldn’t be resistant to learning modern ways.

  ‘And he’s asking about my Uma?’

  Her mother’s incredulous shriek had resounded through the house. Uma was by no means the best-looking or the most accomplished girl in her circle: she could neither sing nor sew; her hair wasn’t quite straight and she was thought to be too tall to be graceful.