The Glass Palace

by Amitav Ghosh

  On one of these early morning walks, Uma became aware that she was being followed. She looked over her shoulder, and saw a figure slipping out of view: it was either a boy or a man, she couldn’t tell. It was easy to lose sight of things in the rubber groves, especially in the half-light of dawn. The arrangement of the trees was such that things would slip away, from one line of sight into another, and you’d have no idea where they were in relation to yourself.

  The next day, hearing the crackle of leaves behind her, it was she who hid herself. This time she was able to catch a glimpse of him in the distance: it was a boy, thin, lanky and dark. He was dressed in a shirt and checked sarong. She took him to be one of the worker’s children.

  ‘You, there . . .’ she called out, her voice echoing through the tunnels of foliage. ‘Who are you? Come here.’ She caught a glimpse of the whites of his eyes, flaring suddenly in the darkness. Then he disappeared.

  Back at the house, Uma described the boy to Alison. ‘Do you know who he might be?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alison nodded. ‘His name is Ilongo. He’s from the coolie lines. Was he following you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He does that sometimes. Don’t worry; he’s completely harmless. We call him Morningside’s village idiot.’

  Uma decided to befriend the boy. She set about it carefully, taking little gifts with her each morning, usually fruit, rambutans, mangoes or mangosteens. On catching sight of him she’d stop and call out, ‘Ilongo, Ilongo, come here.’ Then she’d put her offering down on the ground and walk away. Soon, he became confident enough to approach her. The first few times, she made no attempt to talk. She set down her gifts and watched him retrieve them, from a distance. He was about ten, but tall for his age, and very thin. His eyes were large and very expressive: looking into them, she could not believe that he was a simpleton.

  ‘Ilongo,’ she said to him one day, in English, ‘why do you follow me around?’ When he didn’t answer she switched to Hindustani, asking the same question again.

  This produced an immediate effect: spitting out an orange seed, he suddenly began to speak.

  ‘After my mother leaves for Muster, I don’t like to stay in the house, all by myself.’

  ‘Are you alone at home then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘My father isn’t here.’

  ‘Why? Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you never met him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No. But my mother has a picture of him: he’s an important man, my mother says.’

  ‘Can I see the picture?’

  ‘I’ll have to ask my mother.’ Then something startled him and he vanished into the trees.

  A couple of days later, walking past a line of rubber tappers, Ilongo pointed to a woman with a strong, square face and a silver nose ring. ‘That’s my mother,’ he said. Uma made as though to approach her and the boy panicked. ‘No. She’s working now. The conductor will fine her.’

  ‘But I’d like to talk to her.’

  ‘Later. At our house. Come here at five, and I’ll take you.’

  That evening, Uma walked with Ilongo to the line of shacks where he lived. Their dwelling was small but neat and bare. Ilongo’s mother had changed into a bright, peacock-green sari in anticipation of Uma’s visit. She sent the boy out to play and set a pot of water on the fire, for tea.

  ‘Ilongo said you had a picture of his father.’

  ‘Yes.’ She handed over a piece of fading newsprint.

  Uma recognised the face at first glance. She realised now that she’d known all along, without wanting to acknowledge it to herself. She shut her eyes and turned the picture over so that she wouldn’t have to look at it. It was Rajkumar.

  ‘Do you know who this man is?’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know that he’s married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did it happen? Between you and him?’

  ‘They sent me to him. On the ship, when I was coming over. They called me out of the hold and took me up to his cabin. There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘That was the only time?’

  ‘No. For years afterwards, whenever he was here he’d send for me. He wasn’t so bad, better than some others. One time, I saw a picture of his wife and I said to him, she’s so beautiful, like a princess—what do you want with a woman like me?’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me that his wife had turned away from the world; that she’d lost interest in her home and her family, in him . . .’

  ‘And when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Many years ago. He stopped coming after I told him I was pregnant.’

  ‘Did he not want to have anything to do with the boy— with Ilongo?’

  ‘No. But he sends money.’

  ‘Why haven’t you spoken to his wife? Or to Mr or Mrs Martins? They could do something. What he’s done is very wrong: he can’t be allowed to abandon you like this.’

  Ilongo’s mother glanced at her visitor and saw that her face was flushed with indignation on her behalf. Now a note of anxiety entered the matter-of-fact tone of her voice. ‘Madame, you won’t speak of this to anyone?’

  ‘You can be sure that I will,’ Uma retorted. ‘This is a shameful business. I’ll go to the police if I need to . . .’

  At this the woman panicked. She came quickly across the room and sank to her knees at Uma’s feet. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head vehemently. ‘No. No. Please understand. I know you mean to help me but you are an outsider. You do not know how things are here.’

  ‘What do you want then?’ Uma rose angrily to her feet. ‘Do you want that I should just let this pass? That he should get away with it?’

  ‘This is my business. You have no right to speak of this to anyone . . .’

  Uma was breathing heavily, her chest heaving in anger. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘This man should be punished for what he has done to you—to you and to his own wife and family. Why do you want to keep this matter hidden?’

  ‘Because it will not help me to see him punished: it will only make things worse for everyone. The money will stop; there’ll be trouble. I am not a child: it is not for you to take this decision on my behalf . . .’

  Tears of frustration welled up in Uma’s eyes. She’d often railed against women who allowed themselves to be trapped within labyrinths of fear—but now, confronted with this circumstance she was helpless, herself a part of the maze.

  ‘. . . Madame, I want you to give me your word that you will not speak of this: I will not let you leave until you have.’

  There was nothing Uma could do but produce a forced nod of assent.

  nineteen

  From that point on, Uma’s journey began to acquire an involuntary, dream-like quality, with impressions and events following scattershot on each other, like hailstones battering against a netted screen.

  At Morningside, on the last day of her stay, Uma had a conversation with Dinu that took her completely by surprise. She’d noticed that Dolly spent an inordinate amount of time on her own, staying in her room all morning and rarely making an appearance downstairs before noon.

  Succumbing to curiosity, Uma asked Dinu: ‘Why doesn’t Dolly have breakfast with us? Why does she come down so late?’

  Dinu gave her a glance of surprise: ‘Don’t you know? She does her te-ya-tai in the morning.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know how to explain . . . I suppose you could say she meditates.’

  ‘Oh.’ Uma paused to digest this. ‘And when did this start?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s been doing it ever since I can remember . . . Was there a time when she didn’t?’

  ‘I don’t remember . . .’

  Uma changed the subject abruptly and didn’t touch on it again.

&
nbsp; The next stop on Uma’s itinerary was none other than Rangoon. Her trip had been so planned as to allow her to make the journey over from Malaya in the company of Dolly, Neel and Dinu. She was to stay with Dolly and Rajkumar for one month, before sailing on to Calcutta. While planning the trip, it was this leg of the journey that Uma had most looked forward to: she had imagined herself and Dolly spending hours together during the voyage, talking as they once had. Now, the prospect filled her with dread.

  But once they were on board, the constraints of the last few days disappeared almost magically. Gradually, the old intimacy returned, to the point where Uma could even bring herself to comment on Dolly’s daily periods of seclusion.

  One morning, when they were both out on deck, Uma said, ‘You know, Dolly, after we talked that first night, at Morningside, I thought it would be just like the old days. Do you remember, Dolly, at Ratnagiri, how we would talk through the night, and then when we woke up, we would start again, as though falling asleep were just an interruption? At Morningside, every morning, I’d say to myself, today I’ll go for a walk with Dolly and we’ll sit under a tree and look at the sea. But you were never there; you were never even down for breakfast. So one morning, I asked Dinu and he told me why you stayed so late in your room . . .’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I tried so hard to tell you about my life and you never said a word about yours; nothing about what’s on your mind or what you do with your time.’

  ‘What could I say, Uma? If I’d been better with words, perhaps I could have. But I didn’t know what to say. And especially to you . . .’

  ‘Why especially me?’

  ‘With you I feel that I have to account for myself—provide an explanation.’

  Uma saw that this was not untrue. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Dolly. Perhaps I would have found it hard to understand. It’s true that I’m not religious myself—but I would have tried to understand, simply because of you. And I’ll still try, Dolly, if you’ll let me.’

  Dolly was silent for a moment. ‘It’s hard to know where to start, Uma. You’ll remember that I wrote to you about Dinu’s illness? After it was over, I found that something had changed in me. I couldn’t go back to the life I’d led before. It wasn’t that I was unhappy with Rajkumar, or that I no longer felt anything for him: it was just that the things I did no longer filled my time or occupied my mind. It was the feeling that you get when your day is empty and there’s nothing to do— except that it went on, day after day. Then I heard about an old friend—we used to call her Evelyn. I heard she was at Sagaing, near Mandalay, and that she had become the head of a thi-la-shin-kyaung—what do you call it?—a Buddhist nunnery. I went up to see her, and I knew at once that that was where I wanted to be—that this would be my life.’

  ‘Your life!’ Uma stared at her, in shock. ‘But what about the boys?’

  ‘It’s because of them—and Rajkumar—that I haven’t gone yet. I want to see them settled first—in India perhaps, somewhere away from Burma, at any rate. Once they’re safe, I’ll feel free to go to Sagaing . . .’

  ‘Safe? But aren’t they safe where they are?’

  ‘Things have changed in Burma, Uma. I feel frightened now. There’s a lot of anger, a lot of resentment, and much of it is aimed at Indians.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Money, politics—’ Dolly paused—‘so many different things, who’s to say? Indian moneylenders have taken over all the farmland; Indians run most of the shops; people say that the rich Indians live like colonialists, lording it over the Burmese. I don’t know what the wrongs and rights of it are, but I know that I feel frightened for the boys—even for Rajkumar. Some time ago, Dinu was shouted at, on the streets: they called him Zerbadi—which is a swear word, for people who’re half-Indian, half-Burmese. And the other day in Rangoon, a crowd surrounded the car and shook their fists at me. I said to them:

  “Why are you doing this? What have I done to you?” Instead of giving me an answer, they began to chant Amyotha Kwe Ko Mayukya Pa Net . . .’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a political song: the gist of it is that it’s wrong for Burmese to marry foreigners—that women like me, who’re married to Indians, are traitors to their own people.’

  ‘Did you say anything to them?’

  ‘Yes I did. I was very angry. I said: “Do you know that I spent twenty years of my life in exile, with Burma’s last king? Over here you forgot all about us. What little joy we had came from Indians.”’

  ‘And what did they say to that?’

  ‘They looked sheepish and went away. But another time— who knows what they would do?’

  ‘Have you told Rajkumar—that you want the family to leave Burma?’

  ‘Yes. But of course, he won’t listen. He tells me: “You don’t understand. The economy wouldn’t work without Indian businessmen; the country would collapse. These protests about Indians are the work of agitators and troublemakers who’re just trying to incite the public.” I’ve tried to tell him that it’s he who doesn’t understand; that the Burma of today is not the Burma he came to when he was eleven. But of course he pays no attention . . .’ She broke off. ‘You’ll see what it’s like when we get there . . .’

  The next day, they reached Rangoon. The steamer was manoeuvring itself into position beside the floating pavilion of the Barr Street Passenger Jetty, when Uma spotted Rajkumar standing in the shade of the ornamental eaves. He gave her a broad smile and waved. His hair was greying brightly at the temples and he seemed larger and bulkier than ever, with an immense, bellows-like chest. Uma gritted her teeth and forced a smile on to her face.

  They drove to Kemendine in Rajkumar’s new car, a grey 1929 Packard saloon. On the way Rajkumar pointed out the changes in their surroundings. The city seemed transformed beyond recognition to Uma. There were stately hotels, enormous banks, fashionable restaurants, arcaded department stores and even nightclubs. The one landmark that seemed to be proof against these changes was the Shwe Dagon Pagoda. It was exactly as Uma remembered, its graceful, gilded hti rising above the city like a benediction.

  The Kemendine house had changed too: it still had its haphazard improvised look, but it was much larger now, with added-on floors above and sprawling wings at its side. Everywhere Uma looked there were caretakers, gardeners, chowkidars.

  ‘How much your house has grown!’ Uma said to Dolly. ‘You could have an army in here if you wanted.’

  ‘Rajkumar wants it to be large enough for the boys to live in,’ Dolly said. ‘They’re each to have a floor of their own. He sees himself ruling over one of those vast joint families, growing larger with every generation . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t look,’ said Uma, ‘as if you’re going to have a very easy time persuading him to leave.’

  ‘No. It’s going to be very hard . . .’

  Later in the day, Dinu brought a Burmese school-friend to see her. His name was Maung Thiha Saw and he was a gawky, eager-looking boy with a great mass of shiny black hair and thick, smudged spectacles. He was as talkative as Dinu was reserved, and he peppered Uma with unexpected questions about America and the Depression.

  The day was unnaturally still and airless and it was very hot inside the house. ‘Come,’ said Uma, ‘let’s talk outside—it may be a little cooler.’

  They went downstairs and stepped out to walk round the compound. A tall electricity pole stood by the front gate and as they were approaching it, Uma noticed that it had begun to tilt. She came abruptly to a stop and ran a hand over her eyes. Then suddenly her feet grew unsteady. She felt as though her legs were going to pitch her forward.

  ‘Dinu,’ she cried, ‘what’s happening?’

  ‘Earthquake!’ Dinu put a hand on her shoulders and they huddled together with their arms round each other. It seemed like a very long time before the heaving in the earth came to a stop. Warily they let go of each other and looked around, taking stock. Suddenly Maung Thiha Saw shouted, his eyes fixed on the hori
zon.

  ‘No!’

  Uma spun round, just in time to see the great golden hti of the Shwe Dagon toppling over.

  Soon after this, Uma made arrangements to travel round Burma with fellow-members of the Indian Independence League. From Rangoon she went eastwards to Moulmein and then turned north to go to Taunggyi, Toungoo, Meiktila and Mandalay. Everywhere she went she could see signs of a widening rift between Indians and their Burmese neighbours. Amongst students and nationalists an agitation was under way to separate Burma’s administration from that of British India. Many Indians saw this as a cause for alarm, believing that their safety would be threatened by a separation.

  Uma was riven by this controversy: she sympathized with the fears of the Indian minority and yet it troubled her that they believed their safety lay in what she saw as the root cause of the problem—the pattern of imperial rule and its policy of ensuring its necessity through the division of its subjects. On returning to Rangoon, Uma was quick to offer Dolly an apology: ‘Dolly, I hope you’ll forgive me for treating your fears so lightly. I can see now that there’s a lot to worry about. Frankly I feel utterly confused . . .’

  A few days before her departure for Calcutta, Uma went for an early morning drive with Dolly in the grey Packard. They went first to Rangoon’s Churchill Road, to look at the house where Queen Supayalat had died, a few years before.

  ‘Did you ever see her again, Dolly?’ Uma asked.

  ‘No.’ Dolly slowly shook her head. ‘As far as she was concerned, I was in the same boat as the Second Princess: banished for ever from her presence.

  On the way back, they drove past the Sule Pagoda and found the streets unusually quiet for that time of day. ‘I wonder why there are no rickshaws, no hawkers . . .’ Dolly paused to look around. ‘How odd: I can’t see a single Indian on the street.’