by Amitav Ghosh
Wrinkling her nose, Bela squinted through her gold-rimmed glasses. ‘U Tun Pe? Let me see . . .’ She mumbled under her breath: ‘Ko Tun Pe . . . U Tun Pe . . . Why yes! That sounds right . . .’ She turned the cutting over. ‘But when was this picture taken?’
‘Nineteen-eighty-eight.’
Bela pursed her lips. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Jaya.
But don’t get carried away. It could be someone else. In Burma thousands of people have the same name. And in any case, Dinu would have been seventy-four in 1988. That is to say, he’d be eighty-two if he were still alive. And he was never robust, what with his leg. It’s very unlikely . . .’
‘You’re probably right,’ Jaya said, taking the picture back. ‘But I still have to find out. I have to know for sure.’
It was Bela who provided Jaya with her next lead. She gave her a name: Ilongo Alagappan. ‘Try to find him—if anyone knows about Dinu it will be him.’
Over the last two years, in order to keep in touch with her son, Jaya had familiarised herself with e-mail and the Internet. She had an account at a commercial computer centre and the next time she went by, she bought herself a half-hour on the Web. First, she keyed in a search under the words: ‘U Tun Pe’. Nothing turned up. She rested her fingers on the keyboard and took a deep breath. Then she typed in the words ‘Ilongo Alagappan’ and hit ‘enter’.
The search engine quivered, like a hound that had sniffed a hot trail. For a long, nerve-racking minute, an icon winked on the monitor. Suddenly the screen quivered again and a message appeared: the list of entries under ‘Ilongo Alagappan’ ran to five hundred and sixty items. Jaya got up from her chair and went to the manager’s desk. ‘I think I’m going to need an extra hour. Maybe two . . .’
She went back to her seat and started with item number one. She began to copy paragraphs into a separate file. She discovered that Ilongo was a prominent figure in Malaysian politics; he’d been a minister in the Government and had been honoured with a title—‘Dato’. His career had started after the war, when plantation workers had begun to form trade unions. Many had become active in politics and Ilongo was one such; in a few short years he had become one of the most important trade-unionists in the country—something of a legend in the plantations. He had founded a co-operative and had raised enough money to buy the Morningside plantation. This was at a time when rubber prices had slumped and thousands of workers were losing their jobs. He had been responsible for transforming Morningside into one of the flagship enterprises of the co-operative movement. The plantation workers’ unions had grown into an extraordinary success story: there were health-care systems, pensions, educational programmes, worker-retraining projects.
One of the items on the screen listed a web page for the ‘Morningside Co-operative’. Jaya decided to take a chance. She logged in and left a message for Ilongo. She introduced herself and said that she was gathering material for a book— on her great-aunt Uma and her grandfather, Rajkumar. She very much wanted to interview him, she wrote; she would be grateful for the favour of a response.
The next day she got a phone call from the manager of the computer centre. He was very excited. ‘Good news, didi! Message for you! From Malaysia! We are all so happy! Someone is sending you a plane ticket . . .’
So striking was Ilongo’s resemblance to Rajkumar that when Jaya first set eyes on him, at the Sungei Pattani railway station, the hairs rose on the back of her neck. Like Rajkumar, Ilongo was built on a generous scale: he was tall, wide-shouldered, very dark, and he too had a substantial belly, of the kind that is produced not by lethargy but rather by an excess of energy— his stomach was like an extra fuel tank, strapped to the outside of a truck. His hair was white and rumpled and he had a great deal of it, all over him—his arms, his chest, his knuckles: its lightness was a startling contrast to the colour of his skin. His face, like Rajkumar’s, was deeply creased, with heavy dewlaps and jowls; it was enormous, thorny, and it seemed to be constructed mainly of armature, as though nature had equipped it for survival in the deep seas.
Only his speaking voice came as a true surprise. He sounded nothing like Rajkumar, in either English or Hindustani. His English was distinctively Malaysian—soft, peppered with floating interrogatives—la?—a very engaging, congenial manner of speech.
They stepped out of the station and Ilongo led her to a boxy, four-wheel-drive Toyota Land Cruiser. The vehicle’s doors bore the logo of the co-operative that owned Morningside. They climbed in and Ilongo took out a flat tin box and lit a cheroot. This added to the eerie resemblance to Rajkumar.
‘So tell me about your book,’ he said. ‘What is it going to be about?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she said. ‘Maybe after I’ve interviewed you. I’ll have a better idea.’
On the way to Morningside, Ilongo told her a little about his career and about the making of the Morningside co-operative. Timothy Martins, Alison’s brother, had served in the US army during the war, as an interpreter. He’d been in the Pacific Theatre and at the end of the war, he’d come to Sungei Pattani for a brief visit. Ilongo had gone to see him. ‘Aren’t you going to visit Morningside?’ he’d asked. Timothy had answered with a flat ‘No’. He had no wish to return; the estate was a living reminder of everything that he wished to erase from his memory—the death of his parents, his sister, his grandfather; he wanted nothing so much as to be rid of it. Besides he had no interest in running a plantation. It was clear that the future of rubber, as a commodity, was none too bright. The war had stimulated research; substitutes were on their way. ‘I’m going to put Morningside up for sale,’ Timothy had told Ilongo. ‘You should let everyone know.’
The estate was on the market for almost two years. There were no buyers. Timothy was not the only businessman who could see that the demand for rubber had run its course. All over Malaya, thousands of plantation workers were out of work; investors were buying up estates and selling off the land in parcels. In the end Ilongo had decided to take matters into his own hands: it was either that, or seeing everyone thrown out. He’d gone around with a begging bowl—quite literally— and in the end the money had been found.
‘There it is,’ Ilongo said proudly, pointing ahead. ‘Morningside.’
They drove under an arched sign. The legend Morningside Estate was emblazoned across it in fine but faded Gothic characters. Underneath, in brighter, but more simple lettering there appeared the words: A property of the Malaysian Plantation Workers’ Co-operative. Gunung Jerai lay directly ahead, its peak veiled by a dense curtain of cloud.
The road headed uphill, snaking through alternating tracts of rubber and a crop of another kind—a short, stubby palm. These were oil palms, Ilongo explained, currently a more profitable investment than rubber: the plantation was increasing the acreage of the one at the expense of the other.
Jaya was fascinated by the oil palms: clusters of yellowish-orange fruit hung from the stub-like trunks, each as big as a lamb. The air was very still and it seemed to have the texture of grease. Between the palms there were bird-houses elevated on poles. These were for owls, Ilongo explained: the oil-rich fruit attracted great quantities of rodents; the birds helped keep their numbers under control.
Then Morningside House appeared ahead. It was freshly painted and had a bright cheerful look: its roof and shutters were red, while the rest of the house was a pale lime-green. There were trucks and cars parked in front—under the porch and all along the driveway. People were bustling about all over the grounds.
‘The house seems very busy,’ Jaya said.
‘It is,’ said Ilongo. ‘I like to feel that it’s being put to good use. I and my family occupy just one part of it: the rest of it serves as the co-op’s office. I didn’t want the house to become a monument. It’s better this way: it serves a useful function.’
They drove round the house to the rear entrance. Mrs Alagappan, Ilongo’s wife was waiting for them. She was tall and grey-haired, dressed in a green silk sari. The two of
them lived alone in their part of the house: their children were grown up, all of them ‘well settled and doing fine’. One of their daughters was in the civil service; another was a doctor; their son was a businessman, based in Singapore.
‘It’s just the two of us now.’
Every year, in the winter, they took a holiday on a cruise ship. The house was filled with mementoes of visits to South Africa, Mauritius, Fiji, Australia; there was a picture of the two of them dancing in a ship’s ballroom. She was in a silk sari; he in a grey safari suit.
Mrs Alagappan had prepared idlis and dosas in anticipation of Jaya’s arrival. After lunch she was shown up to the guest room. She walked through the door and found herself facing the mountain through an open window. The clouds had cleared from the peak. On a wall beside the window there hung a photograph of the same view.
Jaya came to a dead stop, looking from the picture to the mountain and back. Ilongo was standing behind her. She turned to him. ‘Dato?’ she said. ‘Who took that picture?’
He smiled. ‘Who do you think?’
‘Who?’
‘Your uncle—Dinu.’
‘And do you have other photographs of his?’ ‘Yes—many. He left a huge collection here, with me. That’s why I wanted you to come. I thought he would have wanted you to have them. I’m getting old now, and I don’t want them to be forgotten. I wrote to Dinu to ask what I should do but I never heard back . . .’
‘So you’re in touch with him then?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that—but I had news of him once.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, it was a while ago now . . .’
Some five years earlier, Ilongo said, the co-operative had decided to start a programme for migrant workers. Malaysia’s increasing prosperity had begun to draw many migrants from all over the region. Some of these workers were from Burma (or Myanmar as it was now called). It was not very difficult to cross clandestinely from Myanmar to Malaysia: the borders of the two countries were separated only by a few hundred miles of coastline. Among the Myanmarese migrants, there were some who’d been active in the democracy movement. They’d been driven underground after the crackdown of 1988 and had later decided to flee across the border. Quite by chance, Ilongo had met an activist of Indian origin—a young student who’d known Dinu well. He’d said that when he’d last heard of him, Dinu was living alone in Rangoon—Yangon as it was now called.
For over thirty years, Ilongo learnt, Dinu had been married to a well-known Burmese writer. His wife, Daw Thin Thin Aye, had been closely involved with the democracy movement. After the crackdown, both she and Dinu had been gaoled. They’d been let out after serving three years. But Daw Thin Thin Aye had contracted tuberculosis in prison and had died within a year of her release. That was four years ago, in 1992.
‘I asked if there was any way I could contact him,’ Ilongo said. ‘The boy told me it wouldn’t be easy—the junta has barred Dinu from having a phone or a fax. Even letters aren’t safe, but that was the only way, he said. So I wrote, but I never heard back. I suppose someone kept the letter.’
‘But you have an address for him then?’ Jaya said.
‘Yes.’ Ilongo reached into his pocket and took out a sheet of paper. ‘He has a small photo studio. Does portraits, wedding pictures, group photographs. That sort of thing. The address is for his studio: he lives right above it.’
He held the paper out to her and she took it. The sheet was smudged and crumpled. She peered at it closely, deciphering the letters. The first words that met her eyes were: ‘The Glass Palace: Photo Studio.’
forty-three
Afew months later, Jaya found herself walking down a quiet and relatively uncrowded street in one of the older parts of Yangon. The flagstones on the footpaths were buckled and broken and weeds were growing out of the cracks. The houses along the road had plaster walls, most of them patched and discoloured. She caught glimpses of courtyards with trees growing over the doors. It was mid-December, a clear, cool day. There was very little traffic; children were back from school, playing football on the road. Barred windows looked down on the street from either side: it occurred to Jaya that she was the only person in sight who was dressed in anything other than a longyi; women in saris were few, and trousers seemed to be worn almost exclusively by policemen, soldiers and men in uniform. She had the feeling that she was being observed by a great many eyes.
Jaya’s visa allowed her just one week in Myanmar. This seemed a very short time in which to find someone. What if Dinu were away, visiting friends, travelling? She had nightmare visions of waiting in a dingy hotel, in a place where she knew no one.
Earlier, at the airport in Calcutta, she had found herself exchanging glances with her fellow-passengers. They’d all been trying to sum each other up: why was he or she going to Yangon? What sort of business would take a person to Myanmar? All the passengers were Indians, people like herself; she could tell at a glance that they were going for exactly the same reason that she was: to look for relatives and to explore old family connections.
Jaya had gone to some trouble to get a window seat on the plane. She had been looking forward to comparing her experiences of the journey to Yangon with all the accounts she had heard over the years. But once she was seated, a sense of panic set in. If she were to find Dinu, what was the surety that he would be willing to talk to her? The more she thought of it the more the imponderables seemed to mount.
Now here she was, on a street that bore the same name as the one on the address. The numbering of the houses was very confusing. There were numerals and fractions and complicated alphabetical demarcations. Small doorways led into courtyards that proved to be alleys. She stopped to ask directions at a pharmacy. The man behind the counter looked at her piece of paper and pointed her to the adjoining house. She stepped out to find herself looking at a pair of street-level doors that led to the outer room of a large old-style house. Then she noticed a small, hand-painted sign, hanging above the doorway. Most of the lettering was in Burmese, but at the bottom, almost as an afterthought, there were a few words in English: The Glass Palace: Photo Studio.
Clearly she was in the right place, but the door was locked and it was evident that the place was closed. She was about to turn away, in disappointment, when she saw that the man in the pharmacy was gesturing in the direction of an alley, right next to the Glass Palace. She looked round the corner and saw a door that seemed to be fastened from the inside. Beyond lay a courtyard and the threshold of an old warren of a house. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the pharmacist was signalling vigorously, apparently urging her to step through. She knocked and when there was no answer, she banged hard, thumping the wood with the heel of her palm. Suddenly the doors flew apart. She stepped through and found herself in a walled courtyard. A couple of women were squatting in a corner, tending a cooking fire. She went up to them and asked: ‘U Tun Pe?’ They nodded, smiling, and pointed to a spiral staircase that led to the second floor: evidently Dinu lived in an apartment that was situated directly above his studio.
Climbing the stairs, Jaya became aware of a voice speaking in Burmese. It was the voice of an old man, quavering and feeble: the speaker appeared to be delivering some kind of discourse—a lecture or a speech. He was speaking in staccato bursts, the sentences punctuated by coughs and pauses. She came to the landing that led to the apartment: dozens of pairs of slippers and rubber sandals lay on the floor. The doors of the apartment stood open, but the entrance was angled in such a way that she could not see in. It was clear, however, that large numbers of people were gathered inside and it occurred to her that she might have stumbled upon a political meeting, even a clandestine one; she began to wonder whether her presence would constitute an unwelcome intrusion. Then she had a surprise: she heard the speaker uttering some words that were not Burmese; they were names that were familiar to her from the history of photography—Edward Weston, Eugene Atget, Brassai. At this point, curiosity triumphed over discretion.
She kicked off her slippers and stepped up to the door.
Beyond lay a large room with a high ceiling: it was crammed full of people. A few were sitting on chairs but most were seated on mats, on the floor. The crowd was larger than the room could comfortably hold and despite the presence of several whirring table fans, the air was hot and close. At the far end of the room there were two tall windows with white shutters. The walls were a dank, patchy blue and parts of the ceiling were blackened with soot.
The speaker was sitting in a rattan armchair that was draped with a green antimacassar. His chair was so positioned that he was facing most of his listeners: she found herself looking at him directly, from across the room. His hair was neatly cropped and parted, grey only at the temples. He was wearing a dark purple longyi and a blue knit T-shirt, with some kind of logo embroidered on the chest. He was rail-thin and his forehead and cheeks were deeply scored, with creases and fissures that seemed to move with the fluidity of ripples on water. It was a very fine face, suffused with the enrichment of age: the mobility of its lines created the impression of a range of perception and feeling that exceeded the ordinary by several extra registers.
It struck Jaya for the first time that she had never seen a picture of her uncle Dinu: he’d always been behind the camera, never in front of it. Could this be he? Jaya saw no resemblance to Rajkumar: to her he looked completely Burmese—but then this was true of many people of Indian, or part-Indian parentage. Either way, she could not be sure.
Jaya noticed now that the speaker was holding something in his hands—a large poster. He appeared to be using it to illustrate his lecture. She saw that the picture was of a shell, closely photographed. Its voluptuously rounded tail curled into a trunk that seemed almost to rise out of the print’s surface. She recognised it as a reproduction of a monumental Weston nautilus.