The Golden Land

by Di Morrissey

  Andrew walked around Fytche Square where Queen Victoria’s statue gazed severely at the passersby, and then strolled down towards the busy waterfront. He decided that he needed a pot of English tea and turned under the portico of the Strand Hotel.

  He sat at a small rattan table and glanced through the novel he’d bought but he was really thinking about what Mr Watt had said about the exiled princess. He tried to imagine what her life had been like and what it must be like now. She sounded as exotic as a character in one of Maugham’s novels. Andrew was sure that if he had the chance to interview her, he’d have no difficulty in selling his pictures along with a brief story to a London magazine.

  So he was pleased and delighted when, a few days later, a note was handed to him by the tall and burly Sikh hotel doorman.

  Tipi Si has agreed to see you. Here’s the address, wrote Mr Watt. She is a surprising lady. Quite a character. She might expect something in return.

  Andrew settled himself into a trishaw, steadying his camera box beside him on the seat as a wiry driver pedalled past crowded markets, busy tea shops, noodle stalls and a jumble of leaning shophouses. They made their way through narrow lanes interspersed by grander colonial streets, which were filled with business houses. The trishaw rattled over cobblestone squares, and Andrew caught glimpses of some of the city’s pagodas and temples, all of which were overshadowed by the magnificence of the Shwedagon Pagoda.

  The driver turned down University Avenue and then into a street lined with mature trees and large residences that had been built for the British years earlier. The street also contained the homes of wealthy Indian, Chinese, Burmese and European businessmen. The houses of former ambassadors and employees of the deposed royal family sat among rambling gardens overlooking Inya Lake.

  Andrew was taken aback by all these grand houses and for a moment he thought Mr Watt must have been mistaken in describing the reduced circumstances of the princess. But then the driver stopped outside one of the mansions and pointed to a small house beside it, no more than a couple of rooms, set amid an overgrown garden.

  Carrying his camera equipment, Andrew opened the gate and walked beneath dank, overgrown trees and across the decaying lawn covered by swarms of mosquitoes. In the distance he glimpsed the white portico of the big house. A second look at the huge home gave him the impression that it was unoccupied. Shutters, their paint peeling, leaned crookedly at some of the upstairs windows. There were moss and leaves on the steps, and birds had nested under the guttering, in which luxuriant grass had sprouted. The small house, which had presumably belonged to the gatekeeper, looked equally dishevelled.

  Andrew knocked on the door of the small house and it seemed an interminable length of time before he finally heard shuffling footsteps. The door was opened by a tall young man, dressed in a longyi and a formal white shirt. Andrew guessed from his light skin that he was a Shan from the northern hill country. The boy’s dark eyes were friendly but he looked surprised to see Andrew.

  In halting Burmese, Andrew said, ‘Good afternoon. I am Andrew Hancock. I am here to see Princess Tipi Si. Mr Watt arranged it.’

  The young man nodded and replied in careful English, ‘Yes. The princess is expecting you to visit. Please come in.’ He held the door open as Andrew removed his shoes, slung his camera box over his shoulder and entered the shadowy house. Andrew assumed that the man he was following was not just a house boy, for he was obviously educated and had a poised air about him rather than the acquiescent shyness customary of servants.

  The house was small, though it had high ceilings and, being bereft of furniture, seemed bigger than it was. It smelled musty, looked dusty and felt forlorn. When they stepped into the reception room, Andrew took in the bare tiled floor and a slowly turning ceiling fan. The room contained little furniture, just two chairs, a low table, a carved mirror and a wooden screen that sectioned off a corner. Through the rear door Andrew could see a lean-to, which was clearly the cooking area, next to the bath house. In the reception room, sitting on some large embroidered cushions, sat an elderly Burmese woman.

  She sat straight backed, her hands folded in her lap, her chin lifted, her gaze directed at Andrew although she made no effort to greet him by nod or gesture. She was dressed in a silk longyi and a tightly fitted, long-sleeved lavender silk blouse. Her only adornment was an elaborate hair comb that glittered in her smoothly coiled but faded black hair.

  Andrew bowed his head slightly but before he could speak the princess finally acknowledged his presence.

  ‘Good afternoon. Mr Watt informed me that you would like to meet me. As he is an old acquaintance, I agreed.’ Her English was accented and formal.

  ‘Thank you. I am honoured.’

  ‘There is no need to be. I am no longer a royal princess. Please, sit down.’

  She waved towards the other chair and when Andrew sat down, she adjusted her position slightly so she could face him squarely. Now that Andrew could see the princess more clearly, he was impressed by how regal she looked with her cool, imperious expression. Her skin had the soft creases of overripe fruit, but her dark eyes glittered keenly as she looked at the man before her. She did not seem embarrassed or worried about her impoverished circumstances.

  ‘What do you wish to speak to me about?’

  ‘Your story intrigues me. Mr Watt may have explained that I write stories and take photographs of interesting places and people in the east, which I sell to English magazines. When Mr Watt told me about you, I wondered if you would allow me to write a magazine article about your life.’

  ‘I am no longer interesting, Mr Hancock.’

  Andrew smiled politely. ‘I don’t think that is true. May I ask in what way were you related to the late king?’

  ‘I am, or rather was, his half sister. We had the same father, but we had different mothers.’

  ‘Is that why you went with him to India?’

  ‘Yes, when all the royal family were forced into exile.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for you.’

  ‘For the king and his chief queen, yes. I was more bored than anything. Ratnagiri was a backwater. The king quickly became involved in the construction of his new palace, which did not interest me, so I disguised myself as a servant and wandered the city. There I discovered there were Indians who liked the British no more than I did. I went to meetings to hear them speak. I became very involved with their plans to rid India of British rule, for I could not respect the British after their treatment of my family.’ She paused and added accusingly, ‘And my feelings against them have multiplied.’

  Andrew felt embarrassed by her vehemence and tried to keep her to her personal story. ‘I believe that you went to England at one point?’

  ‘I wanted to learn more about my enemy, so I sold what little jewellery and possessions I had and I went to England with a charismatic Indian who was a poet, a philosopher and a fighter for India’s independence. He made me realise just how much we in Burma had been exploited by the British. But I did not stay long. Two years later I married a saopha from the Shan hill tribes.’

  ‘A Shan prince. That seems appropriate,’ said Andrew.

  The princess shrugged. ‘We were minor royalty, but we were invited to attend the durbar in Delhi in 1903, which was held to celebrate the accession of Edward VII as emperor of India. King Thibaw wished to attend but the British refused his request. But I rode at the head of the Shan chiefs in a golden howdah on a white elephant decorated with jewels and peacock feathers.’

  ‘That sounds very impressive,’ said Andrew politely.

  ‘It might have been if I’d had more money, but my husband was mean and, as you know, my family had nothing.’

  ‘What did you do? How were you able to live?’

  ‘I went into trade. First with elephants and then I expanded into other business opportunities. I enjoyed it and I was quite successful but my husband did not approve and said that what I did was not worthy of a Burmese princess. So I divorced him.
’

  ‘When did you come back to Burma?’ Andrew tried not to show impatience with her bald summary of what seemed to be quite major events. He longed for all the details.

  ‘As you may know, when the king finally died in India, the queen and other members of his family were allowed to return to Burma. Although the queen was not permitted into Mandalay, I was allowed to take up residence there. I knew it well and had friends who could help me. I went into the logging business. I also traded ivory with the Chinese. Opium, too. But I found it was better for me to be in Rangoon. I could make more money here. I bought property. I managed to acquire some lucrative contracts, building roads and supplying teak logs to the British. The British did not like me because I drove a very hard bargain with them.’ The princess smiled for the first time and paused, then she reached across to the little table and struck a small gong sitting on it.

  The young man swiftly and silently appeared and the princess spoke to him in a dialect that Andrew didn’t understand.

  ‘I have ordered tea,’ she explained.

  ‘May I ask you, the young man, is he a Shan?’

  ‘Yes. The Shan are a very proud people. They have always been independent, never under the rule of the Burmese kings. His father was a friend of mine but he was murdered. Now I care for his son who helps me. So, while he is not of my blood, he is all the family I need.’

  The young man returned with a pot of smoky Burmese tea, poured a cup for each of them and then silently left the room. Andrew gazed around as he sipped his tea and wondered to himself how it was that a successful businesswoman could end up in such reduced circumstances.

  The princess watched him and then said bitterly, ‘You are wondering how I came to live here. I must tell you that it is the doing of the British. They saw how my business grew and they thought that since I was of the royal line and increasingly wealthy, I would become a focus of rebellion and a threat to their rule, so they conspired to take my wealth from me.’

  ‘But surely the British knew that you wouldn’t be a threat.’

  The princess pointed at Andrew. ‘You know nothing! British intelligence is full of liars and inept idiots plotting to feather their own nests. But they know that there are rebels trying to get rid of the British. Even some of the monks are prepared to act! Many Burmese are tired of seeing the riches of the country stolen from our shrines and pagodas and, more than that, the Burmese just don’t want to be ruled by another nation. We want to run things our way. The British knew that I had been involved in the nationalist movement in India, so they were not going to take any chances.’

  ‘The British have brought a lot of prosperity to Burma. Opened up business opportunities, built roads and ports. They have brought benefits to this country,’ said Andrew stiffly, feeling that as an Englishman he should defend the empire builders.

  ‘They help themselves for the benefit of Britain, not for the benefit of the Burmese,’ she answered.

  ‘How did the British rob you of your wealth?’ asked Andrew, not believing that something so underhanded could have occurred.

  ‘They denied me contracts and gave them to my competitors who did not deserve them. My goods were held up in the ports. Shipping manifests were mislaid. Customs officers took their time. Banks called in loans. It’s easy to organise these things when you have the power. Gradually, bit by bit, all my things had to be sold off, just to keep this miserable roof over my head.’

  ‘But surely you don’t mean that every Britisher has wronged you? There must be some who have not been so greedy.’

  ‘If you are referring to that nice Mr Watt you are right. He is a good man, but he is married to a Burmese woman so he has a better understanding of things. But he is the only one. They take and they take. Just recently I had to give up something I treasured to a pompous little Scot, with his silly pince-nez. It would have been less galling if I’d been robbed by a local looking for a means to buy food.’

  ‘What did you give up?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘Perhaps “give up” is not quite correct.’ The princess lifted her shoulders. ‘He was very persuasive. And I needed money. Now I am deeply regretful and sad. I had promised myself that no matter what happened I would not sell the last thing I owned that I had from my brother. I feel that I was pressured and intimidated. And I am not even sure that I sold it for its true value.’

  ‘What was it?’ asked Andrew quietly.

  ‘I parted with a kammavaca. Do you know what this is? It is a Buddhist text usually written on palm leaves, except this was not on a palm leaf. It was made especially for my brother by monks and there is a great story attached to it.’ She sighed. ‘It should be treated with respect.’ She lifted her hand in a small sad gesture. ‘Now I have sold it just to survive. Maybe you would say that I was willingly robbed, but once again I know that I was bullied by the British who always expect to get their way.’

  Andrew shifted uncomfortably. He had an idea of who might have bought the princess’s kammavaca. He remembered Ferguson, the self-important art dealer he had met when he first came to Burma. Andrew hadn’t crossed paths with the Scot since he’d been back, but he recalled that Ferguson liked to tell everyone that he was an expert on eastern art. It sounded as though the man was in Burma and still in the business of acquiring antiquities and cultural artefacts.

  ‘That is very unfortunate. I’m sorry that you felt forced to sell something from your brother. What is the story behind the kammavaca?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘It had been made with such reverence and patience by the monks. And it was my last link with my family. My brother gave it to me just before he died and told me that the kammavaca held the secret to my family’s return to power. Now it is gone and my family remains powerless so my hatred of the British is greater than ever,’ she said calmly.

  ‘I can understand you feeling like that. Perhaps you will be able to get it back one day,’ said Andrew in the face of her justifiable bitterness. Suddenly he found himself adding, ‘What if I could get it back for you?’

  She glared at his little smile. ‘Don’t serve me platitudes,’ she snapped.

  Andrew, seeing the princess’s steely expression and burning eyes, knew she was angry, not just at the British administration and the likes of Ferguson, but also at herself, for having sold something so precious. ‘If you tell me more of your story, it may help my readers in England know Burma and its people a little better, and why you feel the way you do. I understand your anger, I really do. I am often ashamed by the conduct of some of my compatriots,’ he finished.

  ‘I’d like to believe you. I’d like to believe my kammavaca could be retrieved. The king placed such importance in it. But why should I trust you?’ The princess stopped. ‘Enough. I have said enough already.’ With that she hit the little gong again and when the young Shan entered the room she told him that Andrew was leaving and directed him to escort the photographer to the front gate.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for the introduction to the princess,’ said Andrew as he walked back into Mr Watt’s bookshop after his abrupt dismissal by the princess.

  Mr Watt chuckled. ‘I had wondered how you survived the interview. Did she give you the rounds of the kitchen about us colonials?’

  ‘Indeed she did. I can understand why she feels that way. But I held my tongue,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Ah, wise move. Did she reveal any details about her extraordinary life?’

  ‘Not as many as I would have liked. I caught her at a bad time. And I have to say I felt uncomfortable, in fact somewhat guilty, as she’d just been taken advantage of by a rather obnoxious Scot who’d pressured her into selling him the last remaining possession that had been her brother’s. I think that it not only had sentimental value but was of some great cultural significance.’

  ‘That is a shame. You can’t be responsible for the behaviour of others whether they are British or Bolivian,’ said Mr Watt. ‘But I must agree with you, the British rulers are a rapacious lot out here. Take everyt
hing that’s not nailed down and even then they take the nails. Difficult for the Burmese to stop it and such behaviour creates a lot of ill will.’

  ‘The princess seems such a formidable character, but she is a forgotten woman. She lives in utter poverty!’ exclaimed Andrew. ‘It amazes me that she has nothing, after being so rich. I really felt that she had been cheated, so I offered to get her kammavaca back for her. I think that the person who bought it could be a man called Ferguson. I met him once when I was here before the war.’

  ‘I know Ferguson. Greedy little man. No respect for Burmese artefacts. Well, that’s not entirely true, he knows their cash value to him on the open market. I believe he has made a lot of money selling artworks and statuary in Europe and America.’

  ‘I doubt what he’s bought from her is that valuable,’ said Andrew.

  ‘But if this one was made for the king, it gives it more cachet. A certain unique provenance,’ said Mr Watt. ‘If you can get it back, I’m sure the princess will be grateful. Maybe she’ll tell you more about her life – then you’ll have a great story, believe me.’

  ‘You’ve fired my enthusiasm even more. I can redeem some honour for my country by returning the kammavaca that means so much to her and find a great story as well,’ said Andrew. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to track Ferguson down, and on the way there will be some great tales to sell to the magazines back home.’

  Mr Watt shook Andrew’s hand. ‘Good luck, and be careful. Away from the cities Burma can be a dangerous place these days. I will be keen to hear of your progress.’

  ‘I’ll see you when I get back, and with any luck I’ll have a good reason to see the princess, too.’

  Andrew walked into the British Pegu Club, a modest club by some colonial standards, and, hearing the thwack of tennis balls, wondered at the madness of some members choosing to play an energetic game in the heat of the day. He ordered a gin, eschewing the club’s Pegu cocktail, and wandered out to the verandah to admire the profusion of English flowers being tended by the Indian gardener. Andrew was an infrequent visitor to the Rangoon club as he quickly tired of the all-white male members’ gossip. He thought their banter about the inadequacies of the Burmese and their complaints about the laziness of the Indian and Chinese coolies and servants were demeaning.