The Glass Palace

by Amitav Ghosh

  Dolly was in bed when she read this letter. She was drinking a pungent concoction prescribed by a midwife and trying to rest. Some weeks earlier she had begun to suspect that she was pregnant and this intuition had been recently confirmed. As a result she’d been put on a regimen that required many different medicinal infusions and much rest. But rest was not always easy to come by in a household as busy and chaotic as her own. Even as she sat reading Uma’s letter, there were frequent interruptions—with the cook and U Ba Kyaw and the master-bricklayers bursting in to ask for instructions. In between trying to guess what was to be prepared for dinner and how much money U Ba Kyaw would have to be advanced for his next visit home, she tried to think of Uma, revelling in the freedom of being able to walk out alone, in Europe. She understood intuitively why Uma took such pleasure in this, even though she herself would not have cared for it at all. Her mind seemed to have no room for anything but the crowded eventlessness of her everyday life. It struck her that she rarely gave any thought to such questions as freedom or liberty or any other such matters.

  When she picked up a pen to write back to Uma, she could think of nothing to say; there was something incommunicable about the quotidian contentments of her life. She could try, for instance, to write about how her friend Daw Thi had stopped by last Wednesday and how they’d gone to look at the new furniture at Rowe and Co.; or else she could describe her last visit to the Kyaikasan racecourse and how Rajkumar had won almost one thousand rupees and had joked about buying a pony. But none of this seemed worth putting down on paper—certainly not in response to such concerns as Uma had expressed. Or else she could write about her pregnancy, about Rajkumar’s happiness, about how he’d immediately started to think of names (the child was to be a boy of course). But she was superstitious about these things: neither she nor Rajkumar was telling people yet and wouldn’t do so until it was unavoidable. Nor did she want to write to Uma about this subject: it would be as though she were flaunting her domesticity in her friend’s face; underscoring her childlessness.

  Two months passed without any further communication from Uma. As the days went by Dolly found herself less and less able to sleep. Shooting abdominal pains made her double over in bed at night. She moved into a room of her own, so as not to disturb Rajkumar. The midwife told her that everything was proceeding normally, but Dolly was not persuaded: she was increasingly sure that something had gone wrong. Then, late one night, the now-familiar pains changed suddenly into convulsions that shook the whole of her lower body. She realised that she was miscarrying and shouted for Rajkumar. He roused the household and sent people off in every direction—to fetch doctors, nurses, midwives. But it was too late and Rajkumar was alone with Dolly when the stillborn foetus was ejected from her body.

  Dolly was still convalescing when Uma’s next letter arrived. The letter bore a London address and opened with profuse apologies and an implied reproach. Uma wrote that she was saddened to think that they had allowed so many months to pass without an exchange of letters. She herself had been very busy in London, she said. Mrs Dutt had helped her find accommodation—as the paying guest of an elderly missionary lady who’d spent much of her life in India. The arrangement had worked out well and Uma had not lacked for company. Shortly after her arrival, people had begun to seek her out: mainly former friends and colleagues of the Collector’s, most of them English. Some of them had known her late husband at Cambridge, others had worked with him in India. They had all been very kind, showing her around the city, taking her to events of the sort the Collector had liked to attend— concerts, plays, lectures at the Royal Academy. After a while, Uma had begun to feel as though the Collector were with her again; she would hear his voice describing Drury Lane or Covent Garden, pointing to the notable features; telling her what was in good taste and what was not.

  Fortunately, she’d also kept up her connection with her shipboard friend, Mrs Dutt. It turned out that Mrs Dutt knew every Indian living in London, or almost. Through her she’d met many interesting people, most notably a lady by the name of Madame Cama. A Parsee from Bombay, Madame Cama seemed, at first glance, more European than Indian—in clothes, manner and appearance. Yet she, Uma, had never known anyone who spoke more truthfully or forthrightly on matters concerning India. She’d been kind enough to introduce Uma into her circle. Uma had never met such people—so interesting and idealistic, men and women whose views and sentiments were so akin to her own. Through these people Uma had begun to understand that a woman like herself could contribute a great deal to India’s struggle from overseas.

  Lately Madame Cama had been urging her, Uma, to visit the United States. She had friends among the Irish in New York, many of whom, she said, were sympathetic to India’s cause. She thought it important for Uma to meet these people and felt that she might like living in that city. Uma was thinking the matter over quite seriously. Of this she was certain at any rate: that she would not long remain in England. In London she was haunted by the notion that the whole city was conspiring to remind her of her late husband.

  Exhausted by the effort of reading this letter, Dolly dropped it on her bedside table. Later that day, when Rajkumar came home, he saw it lying there and picked it up.

  ‘From Uma?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Read it.’

  Rajkumar smoothed down the page and read the letter through, slowly, following Uma’s cramped handwriting with his forefinger, asking for Dolly’s help with such words as he could not follow. At the end, he folded the pages and put them back on Dolly’s bedside table.

  ‘She’s talking of going to New York.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s where Matthew is.’

  ‘Yes. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘You should send her his address. If she goes there, Matthew could help her settle in.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘And if you write to her you could also say that Saya John is worried about Matthew. He’s been writing to Matthew to come home—but Matthew hasn’t answered. Sayagyi can’t understand why he won’t come back. Perhaps Uma will be able to solve the puzzle.’

  Dolly nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘It’ll give me something to write about.’ She spent a week composing a letter, writing out the paragraphs one at a time. She made no mention of her condition. Having said nothing about her pregnancy, it seemed out of place to refer to a miscarriage. She wrote mostly about Saya John and Rajkumar and posted the letter to Uma’s London address.

  By the time Dolly heard back, Uma had already crossed the Atlantic; she was in New York, and had been there several weeks already. Again, she was full of apologies for not having written earlier—there was so much to write about that she did not know where to start. New York had proved to be all that she had hoped—a kind of haven for someone like herself, except that the shelter it afforded consisted not of peace and quiet but the opposite. It was the kind of place where one could lose oneself in the press of people. She had decided to remain here for the time being: even on the way over, she had known that this was a place that would be to her taste because so many of the other passengers were people who were tired of the ruthless hypocrisies of Europe, just as she was.

  But she also had something important to report, on the very subject that Dolly had written to her about. She had met Matthew Martins soon after her arrival in America; he had come to see her, at the Ramakrishna Mission in Manhattan, where she was staying temporarily. He was not at all the person she had expected; his resemblance to his father was very slight. He was athletic in build and very good-looking, extremely urbane in manner. She had quickly discovered that he had a great passion for motor cars; it had been instructive to walk down the streets with him, for he would point here and there and announce, like a magician: ‘there goes a brand-new new 1908 Hutton’; or ‘there’s a Beeston Humber’ or ‘that’s a Gaggenau . . .’

  As for the ‘mystery’ of his reluctance to leave New York, tha
t had been very quickly solved. It turned out that he had an American fiancee, a woman by the name of Elsa Hoffman. He’d introduced her to Elsa and Uma had thought her to be a very pleasant woman: her demeanour was briskly good-natured, in the American way, and she was fine-looking too, with a gentle, heart-shaped face and long black hair. They’d quickly become friends, she and Elsa, and one day Elsa had confided that she was secretly engaged to Matthew. She hadn’t told her family because she knew they’d disapprove and was afraid that they might try to send her away. And Matthew too was uncertain of how his father would respond—what with Elsa being a foreigner and a Protestant as well. Uma’s feeling was that this was all that prevented Matthew from returning. If only Saya John were to drop Matthew a hint, that he had nothing to fear on this score, then it was quite likely that he would change his mind about staying in America . . .

  By the time this letter was delivered to her, Dolly was perfectly recovered. She was so excited by Uma’s report that she decided to go immediately to Rajkumar’s timberyard, to give him the news. A hired gaari took her rattling down the dusty, village-like roads of Kemendine, to the black macadam of the Strand, where cargo ships stood moored along the wharves, past the Botataung Pagoda, with its goldfish-filled pools, across the railway crossing, and through the narrow lanes of Pazundaung to the walled compound that marked the premises of Rajkumar’s yard. Inside, a team of elephants was hard at work, stacking logs. Dolly spotted Rajkumar standing in the shade of the raised wooden cabin that served as his office. He was dressed in a longyi and vest, smoking a cheroot, his face and head powdered with sawdust.

  ‘Dolly!’ He was startled to see her at the yard.

  ‘I have news.’ She waved the letter at him.

  They climbed the ladder that led up to Rajkumar’s office. She stood over him while he read Uma’s letter and when he reached the end, she said: ‘What do you think, Rajkumar? Do you think Sayagyi would disapprove—about Matthew’s fiancee not being Catholic, and all that?’

  Rajkumar laughed out loud. ‘Sayagyi’s no missionary,’ he said. ‘He keeps his religion to himself. In all the years I worked for him he never once asked me to go to church.’

  ‘But still,’ said Dolly, ‘you have to be careful when you tell him . . .’

  ‘I will be. I’ll go and see him today. I think he’ll be relieved to know that this is all it is.’

  Soon after this, Dolly learnt that she was pregnant again. She forgot about Matthew and Elsa and even Uma: all her energies went into making sure that nothing went wrong again. Seven months went quickly by and then, on the doctors’ advice, she was moved to a mission hospital on Dufferin Road, not far from Kemendine.

  One day, Saya John came to see her. He seated himself beside her bed and took her hand, pressing it between his. ‘I’ve come to thank you,’ he said.

  ‘For what, Sayagyi?’

  ‘For giving me back my son.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sayagyi?’

  ‘I had a letter from Matthew. He’s coming home. He’s already making the arrangements. I know it’s you who’s to be thanked. I haven’t even told Rajkumar yet. I wanted you to be the first to know.’

  ‘No, Sayagyi—it’s Uma who’s to be thanked. It’s all because of her.’

  ‘Because of the both of you.’

  ‘And Matthew? Is he coming alone?’

  Saya John smiled, his eyes shining. ‘No. He’s bringing home a bride. They’re going to be married by special licence, just before they leave, so that they can travel together.’

  ‘So what will this mean, Sayagyi?’

  ‘It means that it’s time for me to move too. I’m going to sell my properties here. Then I’m going to go to Malaya, to get things ready for them. But there’s plenty of time yet. I’ll be here for the birth of your child.’

  Six weeks later Dolly was delivered of a healthy, eight-pound boy. To celebrate, Rajkumar shut down his yards and announced a bonus of a week’s wages for his employees. An astrologer was called in to advise them on the child’s names: he was to have two, as was the custom among Indians in Burma. After deliberations that lasted for several weeks, it was decided that the boy’s Burmese name would be Sein Win; his Indian name was to be Neeladhri—Neel for short. The names were decided on just in time for Saya John to hear of them before leaving for Malaya.

  Four years later, Dolly had a second child, another boy. Like Neel he was given two names, one Burmese and one Indian: they were, respectively, Tun Pe and Dinanath. The latter was quickly shortened to Dinu, and it was by this name that he was known at home.

  Soon after Dolly’s delivery Rajkumar had a letter from Saya John: by coincidence Elsa too had just had a baby, her first. The child was a girl and had been named Alison. What was more, Matthew and Elsa had decided to build a house for themselves, on the plantation: the land had already been cleared and a date fixed for the ground-breaking ceremony. Saya John was very keen that Rajkumar and Dolly attend the ceremony, along with their children.

  In the years since Saya John’s departure from Rangoon, Rajkumar had spent a great deal of his time travelling between Burma, Malaya and India. As a partner in the plantation he had been responsible for ensuring a steady supply of workers, most of them from the Madras Presidency, in southern India. Rajkumar had kept Dolly abreast of the plantation’s progress, but despite his pleas, she had not accompanied him on any of his trips to Malaya. She was not a good traveller, she had said. It had been hard enough to leave Ratnagiri to come to Burma; she was not in a hurry to go anywhere else. As a result, Dolly had never met Matthew and Elsa.

  Rajkumar showed Dolly Saya John’s letter, with the comment: ‘If you’re ever going to go there then this is the time.’

  After she’d read the letter Dolly agreed: ‘All right; let us go.’

  From Rangoon, it was a three day voyage to the island of Penang in northern Malaya. On their last day at sea, Rajkumar showed Dolly a distant blue blur on the horizon. This grew quickly into a craggy peak that rose like a pyramid out of the sea. It stood alone, with no other landfall in sight.

  ‘That’s Gunung Jerai,’ Rajkumar said. ‘That’s where the plantation is.’ In years past, he said, when the forest was being cleared, the mountain had seemed to come alive. Travelling to Penang, Rajkumar would see great black plumes of smoke rising skywards from the mountain. ‘But that was a long time ago: the place is quite changed now.’

  The steamer docked at Georgetown, the principal port on the island of Penang. From there it was a journey of several hours to the plantation: first they took a ferry to the road-and rail-head of Butterworth, across a narrow channel from Penang. Then they boarded a train that took them northwards through a landscape of lush green paddies and dense coconut groves. Looming ahead, always visible through the windows of the carriage, was the soaring mass of Gunung Jerai, its peak obscured by a cloudy haze. It rose steeply out of the plain, its western slopes descending directly into the sparkling blue waters of the Andaman Sea. Dolly, now habituated to the riverine landscapes of southern Burma, was struck by the lush beauty of the coastal plain. She was reminded of Ratnagiri, and for the first time in many years, she missed her sketchbook.

  This leg of their journey ended at Sungei Pattani, a district town on the leeward side of the mountain. The rail-track was newly laid and the station consisted of not much more than a length of beaten earth and a tiled shed. Dolly spotted Saya John as their train was pulling in; he looked older and a little shrunken; he was peering shortsightedly at a newspaper as the train chugged into the station. Standing beside him were a tall, khaki-clothed man and a woman in an ankle-length black skirt. Even before Rajkumar pointed them out, Dolly knew that they were Matthew and Elsa.

  Elsa came up to Dolly’s window when the train stopped. The first thing she said was: ‘I’d have known you anywhere; Uma described you perfectly.’

  Dolly laughed. ‘And you too—both of you.’

  Outside the rudimentary little station, there was a large compound. In its c
entre stood a thin sapling, not much taller than Dolly herself.

  ‘Why,’ Dolly said, startled, ‘that’s a padauk tree, isn’t it?’

  ‘They call them angsana trees here,’ Elsa said. ‘Matthew planted it, soon after Alison was born. He says that in a few years it’s going to grow into a huge umbrella, casting its shade over the whole station.’

  Now Dolly’s eyes were drawn to a startling new sight: a motorcar—a gleaming, flat-topped vehicle with a rounded bonnet and glittering, twelve-spoked wheels. It was the only car in the compound and a small crowd had gathered around to marvel at its brass lamps and shining black paint.

  The car was Matthew’s. ‘It’s an Oldsmobile Defender,’ he announced. ‘Quite a modest car really, but mint-new, this year’s model, a genuine 1914. It rolled out of the factory in January and was delivered to me six months later.’ He spoke like an American, Dolly noticed, and his voice bore no resemblance to his father’s.

  Theirs was a sizeable party: there was an ayah for Dinu and Neel as well as a man to help with the luggage. The car was not large enough for all of them. After Dolly, Elsa and the children had been seated there was room only for the ayah and Matthew, who was driving. The others were left behind to follow in a buggy.

  They drove through Sungei Pattani, along wide streets that were lined with tiled ‘shophouses’—storefronts whose facades were joined together to form long, graceful arcades. Then the town fell away and the car began to climb.

  ‘When was the last time you heard from Uma?’ Dolly said to Elsa.

  ‘I saw her last year,’ said Elsa. ‘I went to the States for a holiday and we met in New York.’ Uma had moved into an apartment of her own, Elsa said. She’d taken a job, as a publisher’s proof-reader. But she was doing other things too; she seemed to keep herself very busy.