by Amitav Ghosh
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Arjun said calmly. ‘We’re a long way ahead. They won’t box us in.’ But even as he was speaking the Jowett’s engine had begun to splutter. And then suddenly the car went dead.
‘Do something, Arjun!’ Uma snapped. ‘We can’t stop here.’
‘The spark plug,’ Arjun muttered incredulously. ‘I knew I should have cleaned it this morning.’
‘Can’t you fix it?’
‘It’s going to take a few minutes.’
‘A few minutes!’ Uma said. ‘But they’ll be all around us. Arjun, how could you allow this?’
‘These things happen . . .’
Dinu and Arjun went around to the front and propped the hood open. The Jowett had been idling a good while in the courtyard and the engine was very hot. By the time the plug was fixed, the demonstration had closed around them. Marchers were flowing past on every side, some of them breaking ranks to stare at the stalled car and the two men standing beside the open hood. Arjun and Dinu got back into the car: there was nothing to do but sit and wait until the last demonstrators were past.
A marcher dropped a pamphlet through the car window. Arjun picked it up and glanced down at the front page. There were quotations from Mahatma Gandhi and a passage that said: ‘Why should India, in the name of freedom, come to the defence of this Satanic Empire which is itself the greatest menace to liberty that the world has ever known?’
Arjun was extremely irritated by this time and he made an angry, spitting noise. ‘Idiots,’ he said. ‘I wish I could stuff this down their throats. You’d think they’d have better things to do than march about in the hot sun . . .’
‘Watch what you say, Arjun,’ Uma said sharply, from the back seat. ‘I hope you know that I was meant to be in that march too. I don’t think you should be calling them idiots. After all what do you know about these things?’
‘Oh, well . . .’ Arjun was about to shrug this off when Dinu spoke up, unexpectedly, in his defence.
‘I think Arjun’s right,’ he said. ‘Those people are idiots . . .’
‘What?’ said Uma. ‘What are you talking about, Dinu?’
‘I’m talking about Fascism,’ Dinu said, ‘and why the most important thing right now is to fight it. Because if war does break out, it won’t be like any other war . . . Hitler and Mussolini are among the most tyrannical and destructive leaders in all of human history . . . They’re grotesque, they’re monsters . . . If they succeed in imposing their will on the world, we’ll all be doomed. Look at what they believe in . . . their whole ideology is about the superiority of certain races and the inferiority of others . . . Look at what they’re doing to Jews . . . And if they have their way they’ll destroy the working-class movement everywhere in the world . . . Their rule will be the most violent and despotic you can imagine, with some races at the bottom and some at the top . . . And don’t imagine for a moment that India and Burma will be better off if the British are defeated . . . The Germans’ plan is simply to take over the Empire and rule in their place . . . And think of what’ll happen in Asia . . . The Japanese are already aspiring to an Empire, like the Nazis and Fascists . . . Last year, in Nanking, they murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent people . . . The last we heard from Saya John, he said that many of his wife’s relatives had been killed . . . Lined up against walls and shot . . . Men, women, children . . . Do you think that if the Japanese army reached India they wouldn’t do the same thing here? If you do, you’re wrong . . . They would . . . They’re imperialists and racialists of the worst order . . . If they succeed, it’ll be the worst catastrophe in all of human history.’
Uma responded calmly. ‘Dinu,’ she said, ‘you must not think for one moment that I, or anyone in the Congress, has an iota of sympathy for the Nazis and Fascists. Absolutely not: they are exactly what you say—monstrous, grotesque. As Mahatma Gandhi has said, many times, they represent the exact opposite of everything we stand for. But as I see it, we are caught between two scourges: two sources of absolute evil. The question for us is, why should we pick one over the other? You say that Nazism will rule through violence and conquest, that it will institutionalize racialism, that it will commit unspeakable atrocities. All of this is true: I don’t dispute it for a moment. But think of the evils you have listed: racialism, rule through aggression and conquest. Is the Empire not guilty of all of this? How many tens of millions of people have perished in the process of this Empire’s conquest of the world— in its appropriation of entire continents? I don’t think there could ever be an accounting of the numbers. Worse still, the Empire has become the ideal of national success—a model for all nations to aspire to. Think of the Belgians, racing off to seize the Congo—they killed ten or eleven million people there. And what was it they wanted, other than to create a version of this Empire? Isn’t that what Japan and Germany want today—empires of their own?’
Bela leant over the seat, trying to break in. ‘We have to get back,’ she cried. ‘We can’t just sit here, arguing. It’s Manju’s wedding night.’
The last of the demonstrators were now past. Arjun started the car and turned it round. They went speeding down the road, towards Lankasuka.
But the argument was not over so far as Dinu was concerned. He turned round in his seat. ‘Aunt Uma,’ he said, ‘you’re always talking about the evils of Empire and what the British have done to India . . . But do you think that terrible things weren’t happening here before they came? Look at the way women are treated even today, look at the caste system, untouchability, widow-burning . . . all these terrible, terrible things.’
Uma retorted sharply: ‘Let me be the first to admit the horrors of our own society—as a woman I assure you that I am even more aware of them than you are. Mahatma Gandhi has always said that our struggle for independence cannot be separated from our struggle for reform. But having said this, let me add that we must not be deceived by the idea that imperialism is an enterprise of reform. Colonialists would like us to believe this, but there is a simple and clear refutation. It is true that India is riven with evils such as those you describe— caste, the mistreatment of women, ignorance, illiteracy. But take the example of your own country, Burma—they had no caste system there. On the contrary the Burmese were very egalitarian. Women had a high standing—probably more so than in the West. There was universal literacy. But Burma was conquered too, and subjugated. In some ways they fared even worse than we did at the hands of the Empire. It is simply mistaken to imagine that colonialists sit down and ponder the rights and wrongs of the societies they want to conquer: that is not why empires are built.’
Dinu gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Here you are, so full of indignation about the British. And yet you use the English language more often than not . . .’
‘That’s neither here nor there,’ Uma shot back. ‘Many great Jewish writers write in German. Do you think that prevents them from recognising the truth?’ From the driver’s seat, Arjun gave a shout: ‘Hold on!’ He threw the car into a steep turn, taking it through the gates of Lankasuka. As they were getting out, they were met by the sound of ululations and the trumpeting of conch-shells. They went racing upstairs to find Neel and Manju walking around the fire, his dhoti joined to her sari by a knot.
From under the hood of her sari, Manju had been peering about the room, looking everywhere for Arjun. When she finally saw him walking in, dressed in his grease-blackened clothes, her head snapped up, throwing off the hood. Everyone in the room froze, astonished by the sight of an unveiled bride. Just then, a moment before Manju had pulled her sari back in place, Dinu’s flash went off. Later, everyone was to agree that this was by far the best picture of the wedding.
The night was unbearably hot. Bela’s bed was drenched with sweat, despite the whirring of the electric fan overhead. She couldn’t sleep; she kept smelling the scent of flowers—the heady fragrances of the last, hottest nights before the breaking of the rains. She thought of Manju, in her flower-strewn bed downstairs, with Neel. It was strange how heat ha
d the effect of heightening the scent of flowers.
Her throat was dry, as parched as sand. She got out of bed and went into the hall outside. The house was dark and for the first time in weeks, there was no one about. The silence seemed almost unnatural, especially after the tumult of the last few days. She tiptoed through the hall to the veranda at the back of the house. There was a full moon, and its light lay on the floor glinting like silver foil. She glanced at the door of the room where Kishan Singh slept. It was, as always, slightly ajar. She wondered if she should shut the door. Stepping across the veranda, she went up to the door and looked in. She could see him lying on his mat, with his longyi tucked between his legs. A gust of wind blew the door a little further open. It seemed cooler inside. She slipped through and seated herself in a corner, with her chin on her knees.
Suddenly he stirred and sat up. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me—Bela.’
‘Bela?’
She heard a note of apprehension in his voice and she understood that it had more to do with Arjun than with herself; that he was afraid of what might happen if she was found in his room—an officer’s sister, a girl who’d just turned fifteen and was still unmarried. She didn’t want him to be afraid. She pushed herself across the floor and touched his hand. ‘It’s all right, Kishan Singh.’
‘And what if . . . ?’
‘Everyone’s asleep.’
‘But still . . .’
She saw that he was still afraid, so she stretched out her legs and lay down beside him. ‘Tell me Kishan Singh,’ she said, ‘when you were married—what was it like, your first night with your wife?’
He laughed softly. ‘It was strange,’ he said. ‘I knew that my friends and relatives were at the door listening and laughing.’
‘And your wife? Was she scared?’
‘Yes, but I was too—even more than her in some ways. Later, when we talked of it with others, we learnt that that is how it always is . . .’
He could have made love to her then and she would have let him, but she understood that he wouldn’t, not because he was afraid, but because of some kind of innate decency, and she was glad of this because it meant that it was all right to be there. She was happy just to be lying beside him, aware of his body, knowing that he was aware of hers. ‘And when your son was born,’ she said, ‘were you there?’
‘No. She was in the village and I was at the base.’
‘What did you do when you heard the news?’
‘I bought sweets from a halwai and I went to your brother and said: Sah’b, here is some mithai. He looked at me and asked: Why? So I said, Sah’b, I have a son.’
She tried to think of Arjun, in his uniform, talking to Kishan Singh. The picture wouldn’t come to life. ‘My brother— what is he like? As a soldier, I mean?’
‘He’s a good officer. The men, we like him.’
‘Is he hard on you?’
‘Sometimes. Of all the Indians in our battalion, he’s the one who’s the most English. We call him the “Angrez”.’
She laughed: ‘I must tell him.’
Suddenly he clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Shh.’ There was a sound, of someone stirring downstairs. He sat up in alarm. ‘They’re flying to Rangoon today,’ he said. ‘They’ll all be up early. You must go.’
‘Just a little longer,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s still night.’
‘No.’
He pulled her to her feet and led her to the door. Just as she was about to slip out, he stopped her. ‘Wait.’ With a hand under her chin, he kissed her, very briefly, but full on the lips.
When Neel shook her awake, Manju could not believe that it was already time.
‘Just a little longer,’ she pleaded. ‘Just a few more minutes.’
He put his chin against her cheek and tickled her with his beard. ‘Manju, the plane leaves at 4 a.m.,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got time . . .’
It was still dark when the chaos of departure got fully under way. Keyrings were found and forgotten; suitcases were sat upon and strapped with buckled belts; doors and windows were locked and checked and locked once again. A final round of tea was served and then, with the neighbourhood fast asleep, their luggage was loaded into a car. The family stood around the courtyard, waving: Uma, Bela, Arjun, their parents. Kishan Singh looked on from upstairs. Manju cried a little but there was no time for long goodbyes. Neel hurried her into the car and shut the door.
‘We’ll be back next year . . .’
It was so early that the roads were empty and it took just half an hour to drive to the Willingdon Air Base, on the banks of the Hooghly river. A few minutes later, Dolly, Rajkumar and Dinu arrived. At exactly 4 a.m. they were led to a jetty, where a sleek, grey motor-launch was waiting. The launch’s engine started with a roar and they went shooting upriver, with the decks tilted backwards at a rakish angle. It was very dark, and all Manju could see of her surroundings was the muddy circle of water that was illuminated by the launch’s powerful spotlight.
The launch slowed and the roar of its engine dwindled to a gentle whine. Its bows dropped back into the water and its spotlight roamed the waters ahead. Suddenly two immense white pontoons loomed out of the water and then the light climbed higher, illuminating the aircraft that was to take them to Rangoon. The plane was enormous, an eighteen-and-a-half-ton flying boat. The logo of the airline was painted on the plane’s tail and a name was written in large letters across its nose—Centaurus.
‘It’s a Martin C-130 seaplane,’ Neel whispered into Manju’s ear. ‘It’s the kind that does the Pacific run for PanAm.’
‘Like Humphrey Bogart’s plane, in China Clipper?’
‘Yes.’ He laughed. ‘And there was one in Flying Down to Rio too, remember, with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers?’
It was when she stepped through the hatch that the full extent of the plane’s size became evident to Manju. The interior was as spacious as a ship’s lounge, with deep, well-padded seats and glowing brass light fixtures. Manju pressed her nose to the window and saw the propellers starting to spin. Flecks of white froth appeared on the churning brown water below and then the shuddering fuselage began to advance, and the wake of its bow wave fanned out towards the invisible shore, rocking the little islands of water hyacinth that were floating downriver. A gurgling, sucking sound issued from the pontoons as the plane fought the water’s grip, gathering speed. Suddenly the Centaurus shot forward, as though catapulted by the beat of wind upon water. Manju saw the wind-drummed waters of the Hooghly falling away as the aircraft rose slowly above the river’s steep embankments. Soon the lights of the city were gone and there was only darkness below: they were now flying over the mangrove swamps of the Sunderbans, heading towards the Bay of Bengal.
Shortly afterwards a steward took Manju and Neel on a tour of the plane. They went straight through to the navigating bridge, where the captain and the first officer sat side by side, behind identical controls. The first officer explained that the Calcutta–Rangoon flight was only one leg of a fortnightly, eleven-thousand-mile round trip that took the Centaurus from Southampton to Sydney and back.
Behind the bridge lay the cabins of the main deck. There was an area for the stewards, a midship cabin, a smoking cabin and a promenade deck—an area that was kept free of seats, so that passengers could stretch their legs in mid-flight. Well appointed as everything was, it was the ingenious design of the kitchen and pantry that took Manju’s breath away. In an area that was no larger than the average closet, space had somehow been found for all the amenities of a first-rate restaurant—crockery, linen, silverware and even fresh flowers.
With dawn approaching the steward advised Manju and Neel to go to the promenade deck to watch the sunrise. They stepped through the arched entrance just in time to see the dark expanse of the Sunderbans yielding to the metallic glint of the Bay of Bengal. In the distance a sliver of colour had appeared on the horizon, like light leaking through a doorway. The dark skies turned quickly mauve and then a
shimmering translucent green, shot with streaks of crimson and yellow.
While Dinu was attempting to photograph the sunrise, Manju and Neel crossed the aisle to look in the other direction. Manju cried out loud: to the west lay a stupefying view. The horizon was obscured by a mass of darkness, a bank of cloud that was as vast as a mountain range. It was as though the Himalayas had been magically transported across the sea. So heavy were the cloudbanks that their flat bottoms seemed almost to touch the waves while their peaks towered far, far above the plane—great Everests of cloud reaching tens of thousands of feet into the sky.
‘The monsoons,’ Neel said incredulously. ‘We’ve run straight into the incoming rains.’
‘Is it going to be dangerous?’ Manju asked.
‘In some other aircraft perhaps,’ Neel said confidently. ‘But not in this one.’
They went back to their seats and soon sheets of rain were whiplashing against the windows with a force that made Manju flinch from the glass. Yet, the starkly visible violence of the weather had almost no effect upon the plane—the speedometer in the cabin showed the Centaurus to be flying at a steady 200 miles per hour. But a while later the captain announced that the Centaurus would make a change of altitude to ride out the storm. It would descend from its present cruising height of 3,000 feet to a few hundred feet above sea level.
Manju fell into a doze and was jolted awake only when a ripple of excitement ran through the plane. Land had been spotted on the starboard side: a picture-book island ringed with beaches. Huge waves were disintegrating into sheets of white foam on the sand. At the centre of the island there stood a striped black and white tower.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the captain announced, ‘what we have here is the lighthouse of Oyster Reef. You should have your first glimpse of Burma very shortly. Watch out for the Arakan coast . . .’
Then there it was—close enough to touch—a densely clotted carpet of mangrove, veined with thin creeks and silver rivulets. As Manju sat looking through the window, Neel whispered into her ear, telling her the story of how his grandmother— Rajkumar’s mother—had died somewhere below, on a sampan that was moored in one of those branching inlets.