The Glass Palace

by Amitav Ghosh

  Ilongo’s mother was near-sighted and prematurely bent. When Ilongo introduced him, Dinu could tell that she already knew exactly who he was. She asked him to come closer and touched his face with fingers that were cracked and callused. She said, in Hindustani, ‘My Ilongo looks much more like your father than you do.’

  In some region of his consciousness Dinu understood exactly what she was saying, but he responded to her words as though to a pleasantry. ‘Yes, that’s true. I can see the resemblance.’

  Apart from this one charged moment, the visit went well. Saya John seemed unusually alert, almost his old self. They all ate several helpings of noodles and at the end of the meal, Ilongo’s mother served thick, milky tea in glass tumblers. When they left, they were all aware—in a manner that was not in the least uncomfortable—that a visit that had begun as a meeting between strangers, had somehow changed, in tone and texture, to a family reunion.

  On the way back to the house they sat three abreast in the truck, with Ilongo driving and Saya John in the middle. Ilongo looked visibly relieved, as though some sort of hurdle had been crossed. But Dinu found it hard to give shape to the thought that Ilongo might be his half-brother. A brother was what Neel was—a boundary to mark yourself off against. This was not what Ilongo was. If anything, Ilongo was an incarnation of his father—as he’d been in his youth, a far better man than the one whom he, Dinu, had known. There was some consolation in this.

  It was on this night that Dinu mentioned his suspicions to Alison for the first time. She’d slipped into his room after dinner, as she sometimes did after settling her grandfather in his bed. At midnight she woke to see Dinu sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette. ‘What’s the matter, Dinu? I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Dinu told her about his visit to Ilongo’s mother and what she had said. Then he looked straight into her eyes and asked: ‘Tell me, Alison . . . am I just imagining all this—or is there something to it?’

  She shrugged and took a puff of his cigarette, without answering the question. So he asked again, more insistently: ‘Is there any truth to this, Alison? You should tell me if you know . . .’

  She said: ‘I don’t know, Dinu. There were always rumours.

  But nobody’s ever said anything directly—not to me anyway. You know how it is—people don’t talk about these things.’

  ‘And you? Do you believe these . . . these rumours?’

  ‘I didn’t used to. But then Grandfather said something that made me change my mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That your mother had asked him to look after Ilongo.’

  ‘So she knows—my mother?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He lit another cigarette, in silence. Alison knelt beside him and looked into his face: ‘Are you upset? Angry?’

  He smiled, stroking her naked back. ‘No. I’m not upset. . . and no angrier than I’ve always been. That’s the strange thing really—knowing the kind of man my father is, it comes as no surprise. It just makes me want never to go back home . . .’

  A few days later Alison sent up a letter that had just arrived. Dinu was working in his dark room and he broke off to look at the envelope: it was from Rangoon, from his father. Without another thought, he tore it up and went back to work.

  That evening, after dinner, Alison asked: ‘Dinu, did you get the letter?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It was from your father, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Didn’t you read it?’

  ‘No, I tore it up.’

  ‘Didn’t you want to know what he was writing about?’

  ‘I know what he was writing about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He wants to sell his share of Morningside . . .’

  She paused and pushed her plate away. ‘Is that what you want too, Dinu?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to be here for ever . . . I’m going to set up a studio in Sungei Pattani, and make a living from my camera. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do—and this is as good a place as any to do it.’

  thirty-one

  The night Ilongo brought Arjun to Morningside House, Dinu, Alison and Saya John were in the dining room, sitting at the long mahogany table. On the walls glowed the bamboo-shelled sconces that Elsa had designed. The room was filled with a rich, warm light.

  Ilongo was smiling broadly, in anticipation of Dinu’s surprise. ‘Look who I’ve brought with me.’ Then Arjun walked through the door, dressed in uniform, with his cap in his hands. His Sam Browne glistened in the golden glow of the bamboo sconces.

  ‘Arjun?’

  ‘Hello.’ Arjun walked around the table and patted Dinu on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you, old chap.’

  ‘But, Arjun . . .’ Dinu stood up. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ll tell you soon enough,’ Arjun said. ‘But won’t you introduce me first?’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course,’ Dinu turned to Alison. ‘This is Arjun. Neel’s brother-in-law—Manju’s twin.’

  ‘I’m so glad you came.’ Alison leant over to Saya John and spoke softly into his ear. ‘Grandfather, this is Dinu’s brother-in-law,’ she said. ‘He’s posted at the army base in Sungei Pattani.’

  Now it was Arjun’s turn to be surprised. ‘How did you know I was posted at Sungei Pattani?’

  ‘I saw you in town the other day.’

  ‘Really? I’m amazed that you noticed.’

  ‘Of course I noticed,’ She threw back her head to laugh. ‘In Sungei Pattani a stranger stands out.’

  Dinu broke in. ‘You didn’t say anything to me, Alison . . .’

  ‘I just saw a man in a uniform.’ Alison laughed. ‘How was I to know he was your brother-in-law?’

  ‘I knew,’ Ilongo said. ‘I knew the moment I saw him.’

  ‘He did.’ Arjun nodded. ‘I walked into the estate office to ask for Dinu. And before I’d even opened my mouth he said: “Aren’t you Mr Neel’s brother-in-law?” You could have knocked me over with a feather. I said: “How did you know?” and he said: “Mr Dinu showed me a picture—from your sister’s wedding.”’

  ‘So I did.’

  Dinu recalled that it was two years since he and Arjun had last met—in Calcutta. Arjun seemed to have grown in the meanwhile—or was it just that he had filled out his uniform? Even though Arjun had always been tall, Dinu could not remember ever feeling dwarfed in his presence as he did now.

  ‘Well,’ said Alison brightly. ‘You must have something to eat—both you and Ilongo.’

  The table was spread with dozens of small, colourful china bowls. Most of them still had their contents intact.

  Arjun eyed the food with longing. ‘A real meal, at last . . .’

  ‘Why?’ said Alison. ‘Don’t they feed you at your base?’

  ‘They do their best I suppose.’

  ‘There’s plenty here for both of you,’ Alison said. ‘So sit down—Ilongo, you too. The cook’s always complaining that we send the food back untouched.’

  Ilongo shook his head. ‘I can’t stay . . .’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. My mother will be waiting.’

  Ilongo left and another place was laid at the table, next to Alison’s. Arjun seated himself and Alison began to pile his plate with food.

  ‘We call this ayam limau purut—chicken with lime leaves and tamarind; and here’s some prawn sambal with screwpine leaves; and these are belacan brinjals; and over there is some chinchalok with chillies—shrimps, pickled in lime juice; and this here is fish steamed with ginger buds . . .’

  ‘What a feast! And this was just an everyday dinner?’

  ‘My mother was always very proud of her table,’ Alison said. ‘And now it’s become a habit of the house.’

  Arjun ate with gusto. ‘This food is wonderful!’

  ‘Your aunt Uma loved it too. Do you remember, Di
nu? That time?’

  ‘Yes I do.’ Dinu nodded. ‘I think I even have pictures.’

  ‘I’ve never eaten anything like this,’ Arjun said. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘It’s Nyonya food,’ Alison said. ‘One of the world’s last great secrets, my mother used to say.’

  Suddenly Saya John spoke up, catching them all by surprise.

  ‘It’s the flowers that make the difference.’

  ‘The flowers, Grandfather?’

  Saya John looked at Arjun with eyes that were fleetingly clear. ‘Yes—the flowers in the food. Bunga kentan and bunga telang—ginger flowers and blue flowers. They’re what give the food its taste. That’s what Elsa always says.’

  A shadow passed over his face and his eyes grew cloudy again. He turned to Alison. ‘We must remember to send Matthew and Elsa a telegram,’ he said. ‘They should stop in Malacca on the way back.’

  Alison rose quickly from her chair. ‘You must excuse us,’ she said to Arjun. ‘My grandfather is tired. I should take him up to bed.’

  ‘Of course.’ Arjun stood up.

  Alison helped Saya John to his feet and led him slowly across the room. At the door, she turned to look back at Arjun. ‘It’s nice to have a visitor who likes our food—the cook’s always saying that Dinu doesn’t eat at all. She’ll be delighted you enjoyed her cooking. You must come again.’

  ‘I will.’ Arjun grinned. ‘You can be sure of that.’

  There was a warmth and lightness in Alison’s voice that Dinu hadn’t heard before. Watching her from his place at the table, he was conscious of a sudden rush of jealousy.

  ‘Well old chap,’ said Arjun, in a booming, hearty voice, ‘did you know that you’ve got everyone worried at home?’

  ‘No.’ Dinu flinched. ‘And there’s really no need to shout.’ It was a struggle to muster the self-control to go on talking to Arjun.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Arjun laughed. ‘Didn’t mean to put you out . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’

  ‘I had a letter from Manju, you see—that’s how I knew where to find you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She said they hadn’t heard from you in a while.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘What would you like me to tell them?’

  Dinu raised his head with great deliberation. ‘Nothing,’ he said flatly. ‘I’d like you to tell them nothing

  Arjun raised an eyebrow. ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘It’s not very complicated.’ Dinu shrugged. ‘You see . . . my father sent me here because he wants to sell our share of Morningside.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Now that I’m here . . . I’ve decided it wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  ‘You’ve grown to like the place I suppose?’

  ‘It’s not just that.’ Dinu looked Arjun straight in the eye.

  ‘It’s Alison really.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’ve met her . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Arjun nodded.

  ‘You probably know what I mean.’

  ‘I think you’re trying to tell me something, Dinu.’ Arjun pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Let me guess: are you saying you’ve fallen for her?’ He laughed.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I see. And do you think she’s keen on you too?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Hasn’t she told you so?’

  ‘Not . . . in so many words.’

  ‘Hope you’re right then.’ Arjun laughed again and the light sparkled on his perfect teeth. ‘I have to say I don’t know if she’s right for a chap like you—a woman like that.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter, Arjun . . .’ Dinu tried to smile. ‘In my case it’s something I have to believe . . .’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘You see—I’m not like you, Arjun. It’s never been easy for me to get on with people—especially women. If something went wrong . . . between me and Alison, that is . . . I don’t know how I’d cope . . .’

  ‘Dinu, am I right to think that you’re warning me—telling me to stay away?’

  ‘Perhaps I am.’

  ‘I see.’ Arjun pushed his plate away. ‘There’s really no need, you know.’

  ‘Good.’ Dinu felt a smile returning to his face. ‘Well, that’s out of the way then.’

  Arjun looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made yourself clear. So perhaps I should be off. You’ll make my excuses to Alison?’

  ‘Yes . . . of course.’

  They went together to the front door. Arjun’s Ford V8 staff car was parked outside, under the porch. Arjun opened the door and held out his hand. ‘It was nice to see you, Dinu,’ he said. ‘Even if briefly.’

  Dinu was suddenly ashamed of his lack of generosity. ‘I don’t mean to send you away, Arjun . . .’ he said guiltily. ‘Please don’t think that you’re not welcome. You must come back . . . Soon . . . I’m sure Alison would like that.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Yes. Me too.’

  Arjun appraised this with a frown. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You must . . . you must come back.’

  ‘I will then, if you don’t mind, Dinu. It would be nice to get away from the base every now and again.’

  ‘Why? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not wrong exactly—but it’s not always as pleasant as it might be . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know how to explain, Dinu. Ever since we’ve got to Malaya nothing’s been the same.’

  Arjun’s entry into their lives was like a turning of the seasons. He dropped by almost daily, often bringing Hardy or some other friends with him. Sungei Pattani had now become the headquarters of the 11th Division, and Arjun had linked up with many old acquaintances and friends. In the evenings he would gather them together and drive up from the base, in whatever vehicle was at hand—sometimes an Alvis staff car, sometimes a Ford V8, sometimes, even, a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Usually they came after nightfall, driving up with their headlights blazing sounding triumphal flurries on their horns.

  ‘They’re here!’ Alison would run down to the kitchen to warn the cook.

  It was evident that she enjoyed these visits; Dinu could tell that it delighted her to see the house filled with people again. She produced clothes that he did not know she possessed: until then he’d seen her only in the plain dresses she wore to the office, and an occasional silk cheongsam. Now richly coloured, beautifully tailored clothes poured out of her closets— elegant hats and gowns that her mother had ordered from Paris, in Morningside’s heyday.

  Almost every evening the house echoed to the sound of parade-ground voices and loud laughter. They seemed never to stop laughing, these young officers—the smallest joke would set them roaring, pounding each other on the back. They usually brought bottles of whisky, gin or rum from their mess. Sometimes Kishan Singh came with them to serve them their drinks. They would sit out on the veranda, sipping stengahs and gin slings. As if by magic, vast quantities of food would appear on the dining-room table. Alison would lead them in and then Arjun would take over, showing his friends round the table, explaining the dishes in minute detail: ‘Look over here, this is duck—it’s cooked in sugar-cane juice, you’ve never tasted anything like it. And here, see, these prawns? They’re made with flowers—ginger buds—that’s what gives them that amazing taste . . .’

  Dinu would look on, like a spectator at a circus: he knew that the part of host should have been his own to play. But with each of these evenings he could feel his presence in the house diminishing, shrinking. It didn’t seem to matter whether Arjun came alone or was accompanied by a troop of his friends. He seemed to have a way of filling the house, even when he was on his own. There was no denying that there was something magnetic about him—a self-confidence, a habit of command, an exuberant abundance of appetites. Dinu knew he could not hope to keep up with him.

  At the end
of each meal, Arjun would crank up the gramophone and clear the rugs off the hardwood floors. He and his friends would take turns dancing with Alison. It was a revelation to Dinu to discover how well she danced—better than anyone he’d ever known, just as well as dancers in the movies—with flair and rhythm and an energy that seemed inexhaustible. Amongst the men, Arjun was the best dancer by far. At the end of each night, he would put on his favourite record—Tommy Dorsey’s band playing ‘I’m Getting Sentimental Over You’. Everyone else would pull back to make space for them, and when the record came scratching to a stop the room would fill with applause. At the end of these evenings Alison seemed scarcely to remember that he, Dinu, still existed.

  Once in a while Arjun would announce that he had succeeded in scrounging some extra petrol from the ‘pilot chappies’ at the airstrip. They would set out on an expedition, sometimes just the three of them, sometimes as a part of a much larger crowd. One such foray took them to the lodge that sat atop the summit of Gunung Jerai. A group of pilots had commandeered the place for a party; they were to be Arjun’s guests.

  They went in a Ford V8 staff car. To get to the summit they had to circle around the mountain driving past quiet kampongs with palm-shaded mosques. Children waved at them from ricefields, standing on tiptoe to reach above the grain-heavy stalks. It was a cloudy late November day and there was a cool breeze blowing in from the sea.

  The road that led to the summit was not much better than a dirt track. It tacked back and forth across the slope, rising steeply. The mountainside was thickly forested and the track wound through dense patches of jungle. It was several degrees cooler than in the plain, and the sun was blocked by a constant, quick-moving blanket of cloud. At the top the vegetation ended abruptly and the lodge appeared—it looked a little like an English cottage, except that it was surrounded by a balcony that provided dramatic views of the coast and the surrounding plains.

  The balcony was crowded with servicemen in grey, blue, khaki and bottle-green. Scattered among the uniforms were a few women dressed in brightly printed cottons. Somewhere inside the lodge a band was playing.

  Arjun and Alison went off into the lodge to dance and Dinu was left to himself. He walked round the balcony, past tables that were draped in flapping white cloths. The view of the plain was hindered by a mantle of clouds blowing in from the sea. But every so often the wind would tear the cloud-cover apart, providing spectacular glimpses of the plain: he caught sight of Sungei Pattani, at the foot of the mountain, with hundreds of acres of rubber stretching away from it in all directions. In the distance, he spotted the craggy peaks of the island of Penang and the finger-like wharfs of the port of Butterworth. The north–south highway ran like a great stripe across the landscape, approaching from the southern end of the plain and disappearing towards the north, where the border lay. Along the west lay the Andaman Sea, alight with the bright colours of the sunset.