The long drive, change in climate and recent days of intense emotion have sapped me. I decide to stay holed up for the rest of the day, chilling and reading Ghosh’s The Glass Palace. It’s a joy to shower and then relax into a well-written novel which deals with the last half-century of the Raj. I’m surprised by what I read. Like me, Ghosh came here to Ratnagiri to do research. Perhaps he stayed at this very hotel, given its proximity to King Thibaw’s palace. As Briha intimated, the early parts of the text reconstruct the fate of the exiled Burmese royal family in Ratnagiri at the turn of the twentieth century. Exile seems to have been the Raj’s favourite punishment for royal opponents. But Thibaw’s story is darker even than those of Pratapsinh of Satara or Chimasaheb of Kolhapur.
At his accession, Burma was the richest country in Asia; as his reign wore on, Western merchants cast increasingly covetous eyes on its resources, notably teak and mahogany. The king granted a concession to a British company to log 30,000 trees a year. When he discovered it was extracting more than twice that number, he levied a fine. The company officials complained to the Indian authorities, which launched a military expedition. Thibaw was punished not only by the annexation of his kingdom but with removal thousands of miles away, to this far side of the Indian land mass. Even when the royal couple died, the British wouldn’t allow repatriation of their bodies, in case they became a focus of unrest. Apparently the tombs stand forlorn somewhere in town. It’s a sad, cruel story, Imperialism in the raw again, vividly realised in this semi-fictional form.
After a good night’s sleep, I head for the local police station. It’s quite different to the one in Satara, a low, cream rectangular building in bungalow style. In the centre of the moth-eaten lawn is an old cannon, painted blue, and along its borders are crimson bougainvillea bushes and dwarf fan palms. In the soupy coastal air, the atmosphere’s altogether sleepier, too. Although it’s already nine o’clock, neither the DSP nor his deputy has arrived for work. I wander outside for half an hour, trying to get a feel for this part of town. Opposite the station is a deserted murram parade ground, much like those I’ve seen before. But it’s too hot and humid to probe further away than the nearby dual carriageway which thrusts down into the heart of Ratnagiri. However, not even its fumes can entirely subdue the sickly, fishy smell which, a helpful passer-by explains, emanates from the town’s canneries, its main industry. Below, modern Ratnagiri spreads along the shore, an occasional minaret slicing through the humid haze. My chance companion tells me that nearly half the population’s Muslim, very unusual in southern Maharashtra.
By the time I get back to the station, my quarry’s been sighted and I’m shown in to Deputy Superintendent Athanaker’s office. Like his colleagues in Satara, he’s fascinated by my photos of Bill in India and delighted to learn that I’m the son of the last British IP officer in charge here. Bill’s tenure isn’t recorded on the name boards, however. Unlike in Satara, here they go back only to Independence. Why the difference? Through the window, I see people rise suddenly from seats on the veranda and salute. The DSP’s arrived, followed by several men in white and blue uniforms. Athanakar leaves the office for a moment.
‘Mr Indore will be pleased to see you,’ he announces on his return.
It feels like a council of war is taking place in Bill’s old office, painted a satin cream which looks slimy under the neon strip lighting. An ugly air-con unit hisses in one corner. Athanakar introduces me, hands over my card and tells Indore why I’m here. The DSP’s about fifty, dark jowly complexion, flashing gold tooth and dark stains under the arms of his uniform shirt. I shake everyone’s hand and am asked to wait at the back of the room, where tea’s brought to me. The visitors speak animatedly, often interrupting each other. The conversation switches between English and Marathi, or perhaps Hindi, and I gather the visitors are from Customs and Excise and the Coastguard.
‘We’re discussing maritime defence in the light of the Mumbai terror,’ Indore explains when the meeting breaks up. ‘Explosives used in previous attacks during the 1990s came through Ratnagiri, and we’re investigating whether the same may have happened this time.’
It’s hard to imagine such a sleepy-seeming place being a nerve centre of terrorist planning. I mention the wartime arrangements for coastal defence against the Japanese which I came across in the SIB archives.
‘I should like to see those files,’ Indore responds thoughtfully. ‘We’re in the process of reorganising our arrangements now. Perhaps we can learn something from the British,’ he adds sincerely. He asks about Bill’s time in Ratnagiri and I explain my mission.
‘I wondered if I could consult copies of his weekly confidential reports and the station Part IVs?’
After some consideration, Indore shakes his head. ‘Part IVs, OK. But not the others, even if we can find them. Confidential, as the name says.’
‘I saw them at Satara,’ I plead disingenuously.
He looks shocked. ‘At Satara? But that is most irregular.’
I flash my most winning smile. ‘I’ve come all the way from London.’
He reflects a moment. ‘Very well,’ he nods, ‘please come back the day after tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Most kind,’ I respond as I get up. ‘Also, any chance you could find some constables from that time?’
He agrees to make inquiries, though he doesn’t hold out great hopes. ‘What are your immediate plans in Ratnagiri?’
‘First I thought I’d try to find out where my father lived.’
Indore grins amiably. ‘That’s easy. It’s my house now. Further along this road. Please to look around the grounds. But you can’t go in. My wife and daughter are at home. Shall I send someone with you?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
Indore barks into an intercom.
‘You know the history of Ratnagiri? About Thibaw?’
I nod. ‘I thought I might visit his palace this afternoon. It’s round the corner from my hotel.’
‘The DSP’s house was where the king stayed when he first came here.’
I’m delighted by the coincidence. A constable knocks and enters, saluting smartly.
‘He will take you.’
It’s not quite what Satara laid on, but I’m grateful nonetheless. The officer takes me into the yard and summons me onto the back of a large motorbike. He doesn’t bother with a helmet, or think to offer me one, and soon we’re racing along the narrow road away from the police station. I cling anxiously to his waist, trying to remember whether I’m supposed to lean into, or away from, bends. I swear his knee brushes the tarmac as we tear round a last sharp curve and into a long drive shaded by mangoes and palms. At last a speed bump forces my escort to slow and we skid to a stop as a sentry walks out of his hut. So this is where Bill spent his final months in India. It’s calm and quiet behind the stone perimeter wall, the last stretch of drive to the house lined with tubs of generously flowering oleander and hibiscus. What a relief this must have been after the aggravations of Satara and Ahmedabad. We dismount and I wander off to look around.
If not exactly fit for a king, it seems more than adequate for a DSP: another large, red-tiled bungalow built into the shallow fall of the hillside. The sloping grounds are bare now, except for a few enormous tamarinds and peepuls, with glossy heart-shaped leaves. Through them I glimpse downtown Ratnagiri and patches of sapphire sea. Easy to imagine Bill taking tiffin and lime-juice soda on the terrace, where passion-fruit smothers a rickety pergola. Perhaps in those traffic-free days he could even hear the waves at night, as he tried to decide whether to stay on in India after Independence.
I’m hoping the DSP’s wife will open a window and invite me in for a cool drink. But the windows stare back blankly. Since I can’t see indoors, I don’t linger, and ask to be dropped back at the hotel. At a loss what to do until Thibaw’s palace opens, I settle on tackling the postcards I’ve accumulated. If I don’t hurry up, I’ll beat them back home. The post office isn’t far, a lovely c
olonial building in the same style as the police station and Bill’s quarters, with deep projecting eaves. When I’m done, I notice the large modern building opposite. Someone tells me it’s the Tilak Memorial Library, partly endowed by his family; and that it has one of the best reference sections outside Mumbai and Pune. Remembering the formative influence of Tilak on Lad and Nayakwadi, I wander over.
It’s high-ceilinged and cool, with elegant furniture and few readers. The librarian registers me, tells me a little about the history of the institution and strongly recommends a visit to Tilak’s house in the centre of town. Happily, he suggests I consult the Bombay Gazette to get a feel for the situation in Ratnagiri when Bill was there. More luck. British bureaucracy was nothing if not self-reflexive. There are hundreds of tomes in gold-brown bindings, six or seven massive volumes for each year. Every administrative directive is recorded, it seems, from bannings of major political organisations to regulation of tonga fares. Everything’s so clearly tabulated, I can navigate easily. I see orders for the arrest of members of the Parallel Government, including Naganath Nayakwadi. I also find the proclamation of the award of Bill’s Indian Police Medal. The date, 16 June 1945, suggests it must indeed have been for ‘meritorious service’ in Satara, which he left weeks earlier. Every posting and transfer in the entire civil administration seems to be recorded here. But I can find no mention of Bill’s secondment to Sindh. Where on earth did Professor Bhosle get his information?
A couple of things strike me as I flick through the pages. First, the British authorities seem to have consistently identified Muslims as neutral in their struggles with mainstream Indian nationalism, at least in Bombay Province. The collective fines imposed on villages sheltering dissidents consistently exempt them, as well as Christians and members of ‘the backward classes’. I suddenly realise that I’ve met no Muslims amongst all the police officers encountered on my trip. Do the roots of contemporary discrimination against them in Indian public life go back to their perceived role as favourites of the British? I also wonder whether it was here, in religiously mixed Ratnagiri, that Bill developed his penchant for Muslim employees in Africa: Hamisi Sekana, his chief game scout, Daoudi and Salim Salendwa who accompanied us on the Ugalla River safari and, above all, my beloved childhood minder, Kimwaga Hamisi Farahani.
Second is how imperturbably the juggernaut of the Raj continued, up to the very end. In early August 1947, for example, one district magistrate is ‘pleased to lift the current prohibitions on processions and the firing of fireworks’ for 14–15 August, as if after Independence Day everything will simply revert to the status quo. The order could come straight out of a Kipling satire of imperial bureaucracy. Ratnagiri seems to have been largely calm during the six months of Bill’s jurisdiction. There are occasional outbursts of communalist feeling, leading to bans on gatherings over a certain size. But most administrative directives relate to mundane matters such as cloth rationing, prices of essential foodstuffs and traffic control. I get the sense that Bill might even have felt bored here. After the turbulence of Satara and Kolhapur, I wonder if I won’t soon feel becalmed myself in this dozy place. Still, it’s only for a couple of days, and perhaps there’ll be the chance of some swimming.
After a late lunch I get ready to visit Thibaw’s palace, where the king moved from Bill’s cottage. As I leave the hotel, I’m hailed by a young man leaning against a bright red scooter. He has a sallow moon-face, wide-set eyes and, almost unprecedented amongst the men I’ve seen so far, no moustache.
‘Excuse me, sir, two minutes?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am studying Hospitality BA and need to practise my English. Where are you going just now, sir?’
‘To Thibaw’s palace.’
‘I will take you, sir. Perhaps we can talk together? My name’s Keitan. But also Ronny, yo.’
I’m confused, but it seems more than a fair exchange. To my relief, Keitan – as I settle on calling him – has two helmets, and we’re soon chuntering along a road with magnificent views across Ratnagiri Bay. Over his shoulder, my new acquaintance tells me a little about himself. He’s the only son of Brahmin parents and his dearest wish is to get work overseas. Can I possibly help? When I tell him I’m only an academic, so my capacities in that regard are minimal, he gives a resigned shrug.
‘Then you can helpfully correct my accent?’
As I tell him why I’m in Ratnagiri, he repeats some of the words to practise his pronunciation. We’ll have to work on his v’s and w’s.
Thibaw’s ‘palace’ is an enormous brick pile set on a bluff overlooking the estuary. It’s seemingly inspired by the stodgiest kind of northern British municipal architecture, and was completed shortly before World War One. It looks like it’s been coated in a treacly anti-rust paint, perhaps to protect against the monsoons and coastal damp. The couple of acres of grounds are being refurbished, though the old water features are clogged with sand and broken bricks, a few baby palms struggling to survive in drums.
The mysterious house in Ratnagiri
The interior’s largely empty, except for one room filled with lovely eighth-century stone sculptures excavated nearby. The only vestiges of the royal tenancy are two red velvet divans, a dark-varnished portrait of the king, his desk and bath, carved from a single block of caramel marble. After Thibaw’s death, our guide says, the building was used as a local government facility, but has since been vacant for several years. There’s a miniature durbar room, echoing with doves lodged in the wonderful carved teak beams. Imported from Burma, no doubt. We’re told that Thibaw’s daughter was so distraught at being confined under virtual house arrest that she eventually eloped with the carriage driver who delivered supplies from Ratnagiri. Her descendants live somewhere in town today.
The guide then takes us out onto the first-floor balcony, which has a jaw-dropping vista onto a wide brown river which quickly broadens out further into the estuary. It’s studded with fishing boats and outriggers, some sliding towards the ocean beneath a modern road bridge set on soaring pillars. In the distance are magnificent headlands, one crowned with what looks like another of Shivaji’s forts, the same style as Ajinkya Tara. I wonder what Thibaw felt as he paced this balcony, year after year, decade after decade, his once-vast domains now brutally truncated to the acre or so of grounds below. How he must have been drawn to the unbounded sea in front, tantalisingly out of reach, the forbidden highway home.
‘This dirty country,’ Keitan complains, wiping off some dog shit he’s stepped in as we prepare to get back on the scooter. He seems very upset. ‘It would be better if you British came back to rule us.’
It seems rather a large jump, especially after the stories we’ve just heard. ‘British politicians are hardly squeaky-clean.’ I describe some of the recent scandals.
Keitan looks startled. ‘But here, 24 per cent of federal parliamentarians have criminal charges outstanding. They just pay the judges to postpone their cases year after year. Some are accused of murder, extortion, drugs.’
He launches into a bitter denunciation of Ratnagiri, the lack of job opportunities, the social conservatism. He’s not as articulate as Nayakwadi, but equally impassioned. I’m painfully struck by Keitan’s rose-tinted ideas about life in the West. More than anything, he seems lonely, his eyes swimming with vulnerability. I imagine he spends a lot of time hanging about outside hotels frequented by foreigners.
‘Come on, let’s go and get some tea.’
Keitan’s very particular about his diet. No black tea, no coffee, no alcohol. Only certain kinds of fruit, and those only on specific days. I infer that his parents are strictly orthodox and that’s really what he’s chafing against. We sit in the little playground across the road from Thibaw’s palace, where he tells me more about his course and his pen pals in New Zealand and Uzbekistan. I’ve got one eye on the shoreline far below us which extends in a shallow curve to the colossal bridge, after which it’s caster-sugar sand. I get out the photos of Bill in India, one of
which has always puzzled me. It’s of an attractive thatched bungalow, surrounded by palms, the veranda screened with rattan punkah fans, a beach falling away in the foreground. In Aunt Pat’s album, there was no caption.
‘Do you think you could help me find this house?’ I point past the bridge. ‘I think that might be the beach it’s on. It’s the old part of Ratnagiri, yes?’ I don’t hold out any great hopes, but at worst it’s a chance to do something vaguely touristy. Perhaps, I add, I’ll find a nice spot for a swim.
To my surprise, Keitan looks uncomfortable. ‘We cannot go down into Bangladesh.’
‘Bangladesh? What are you talking about?’
‘That’s what we call the Muslim area. Down below. All the way up from the bridge, to Ratnagiri jetty.’
It floats like a pencil in the far distance.
‘You can’t be serious, Keitan. Come on, I’ll be with you.’ I have all the confidence born of three weeks in India without the remotest hint of concern about my personal safety.
He looks uncertainly at the low sun above the sea, before nodding. ‘But we must be off the beach by dark. And I won’t take my scooter down there.’
I wonder whether I’m being pushy. But I want to explore contemporary Muslim India, if only for the fag-end of one afternoon. Keitan reaches for his helmet.
‘Let’s go, then. I will park on the bridge and we can walk down.’
I linger a moment once Keitan’s chained his scooter to the railings. From this height, the panorama’s awesome. Early indications are that the sunset will be spectacular, the water already taking on an opal sheen, the hazy sky turning oyster. Far below, the river meets the incoming tide in a turbulent series of brown flourishes. An incoming fishing smack labours against the current, buffeted by the frothing confluence.
The Setting Sun Page 25