Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

Arjun circled around the clearing, keeping well within the shelter of the rubber trees. He followed the driveway a little distance down the slope: it could be seen winding through the plantation to join a tarred road, a half-mile or so away. No one was in sight.

Arjun put one of his men on watch and sent another to report back to Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland. Then, with Kishan Singh following close behind, he skirted round the house until he was facing the back door. He crossed the back garden at a run, taking care to keep his head down. The door was latched but gave way easily when he and Kishan Singh put their shoulders to it. The cat that was waiting outside went streaking into the house, through Arjun’s feet.

Arjun stepped across the threshold and found himself standing in a large kitchen of European design. There was a wood-burning oven, made of iron, and windows that were draped with white lace curtains. Porcelain plates and bowls stood in rows in the wooden cabinets that lined the walls; the ceramic sink was scrubbed clean and the tin drainer beside it was stacked with glass tumblers and a row of freshly cleaned baby bottles. On the floor, there was a dog’s feeding bowl. Where a refrigerator had once stood there was a rectangular discolouration, outlined against the whitewashed wall. On the kitchen table there lay heaps of eggs and bread, and a couple of half-used tins of Australian butter and processed cheese. It was evident that the refrigerator had been emptied in great haste before being carried away.

Although Arjun was now certain that there was no one in the house, he was careful to have Kishan Singh back him up as he went through the other rooms. The bungalow was littered with signs of a hasty departure. In the bedroom, drawers lay upturned, and brassieres and women’s underclothing were strewn across the floor. In the living room, a piano stool stood forlornly by the wall. Half-hidden behind a door Arjun found a stack of framed photographs. He glanced at the pictures— a church wedding; children, a car and a dog — the photographs had been piled into a box, as though ready to be transported. Arjun had a sudden vision of the woman of the house making a last frantic run through the bungalow, looking for the box while her husband and family sat outside in a lorry that was piled high with strapped-down luggage; he imagined her rummaging in the cupboards while her husband gunned the engine and the dog barked and the children cried. He was glad that they’d got away when they had; annoyed, on their behalf, with whoever it was that had argued them out of leaving earlier.

He went back to the kitchen and switched on the overhead fan. To his astonishment it worked. On the table there stood a couple of bottles of water, still awash in the puddles of sweat that had formed around them when they were emptied from the refrigerator. He handed one to Kishan Singh and drained the other himself, almost at a gulp. The water had a dull, metallic taste as it coursed down his throat: it was only now that he remembered that it was a long time since he had last eaten.

Minutes later the others arrived.

‘Plenty of food here, sir,’ Arjun said. Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland nodded. ‘Good. Heaven knows, we need it. And I imagine we can clean up a bit as well.’

Upstairs there were two bathrooms, with fresh towels waiting in the racks. Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland used one bathroom while Arjun and Hardy took turns with the other. The water came from the shaded tank outdoors and was pleasantly cool. Before undressing Arjun stood his Tommy gun against the door. Then he filled a bucket and poured the cool water over his head. On the sink there lay a curled tube of toothpaste: he couldn’t resist squeezing some on to his forefinger. With his mouth foaming he glanced out of the bathroom window. Kishan Singh and a couple of the other men were standing under the water tank, bare-bodied, sluicing water over their heads. Another man was keeping watch, smoking a cigarette, his hand resting loosely on his rifle.

They went back to the dining room and found it neatly laid, with plates and silverware. A meal had been prepared by a lance- naik who had some experience of the officers’ mess. There was a salad of tomatoes and carrots; eggs scrambled in butter and hot toast. Canned goods of many kinds had been found in the kitchen cupboards: there was duck-liver pate, a plate of pickled herrings, thick slices of Dutch ham — all laid out nicely on porcelain plates.

In the sideboard that stood beside the dining table Arjun discovered a few bottles of beer. ‘Do you think they would mind, sir?’

‘Don’t see why they should.’ Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland smiled. ‘I’m sure if we’d met them at the club they’d have told us to help ourselves.’

There was an interjection from Hardy. ‘If you had met them at the club, sir,’ he said quietly, offering a politely worded correction. ‘The two of us wouldn’t have been allowed in.’

Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland paused, with a tilted beer bottle in his grasp. Then he raised his glass and gave Hardy an ironic smile. ‘To the clubs that won’t have us, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘May they be for ever legion.’

Arjun raised a half-hearted cheer. ‘Hear, hear.’ He put his glass down and reached for the plate of ham.

Just as they were helping themselves, new cooking smells came wafting out of the kitchen: the fragrance of freshly rolled parathas and chapatis, of frying onions and chopped tomatoes. Hardy glanced down at his plate and its piles of ham and herring. Suddenly he stood up.

‘Sir, may I be excused for a minute?’

‘By all means, Lieutenant.’

He went into the kitchen and returned with a tray of chapatis and ande-ka-bhujia— eggs fried with tomatoes and onions. Glancing at his plate, Arjun found himself growing hungry all over again: to look away was an effort.

‘It’s all right, yaar.’ Hardy was watching him with a smile. ‘You can have some too. A chapati won’t turn you into a savage, you know.’

Arjun sank back in his seat as Hardy shovelled chapatis and bhujia on to his plate: he lowered his gaze, in the sullen way of a child who is caught between warring parents. The weariness of the night before came on him again and he could barely bring himself to touch his food.

When they were done with eating Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland told Hardy to go outside, to check on the men who were guarding the bungalow’s approach road.

Hardy saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

Arjun would have risen from the table too, but Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland stopped him. ‘No hurry, Roy.’ He reached for a beer bottle. ‘Some more?’

‘I don’t see why not, sir.’

Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland poured beer into Arjun’s glass and then filled his own.

‘Tell me, Lieutenant,’ he said presently, lighting a cigarette. ‘How would you rate our morale at this moment?’

‘After a lunch like this one, sir,’ Arjun said brightly, ‘I would say it couldn’t be better.’

‘It was a different story last night, eh, Lieutenant?’ Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland smiled through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

‘I don’t know if I would say that, sir.’

‘Well, you know I have ears of my own, Lieutenant. And while my Hindustani may not be as good as yours, I can assure you it’s perfectly adequate.’

Arjun shot him a startled glance. ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at, sir.’

‘Well, none of us could sleep much last night, could we, Lieutenant? And whispers can carry a long way.’

‘I don’t quite take your meaning, sir.’ Arjun felt his face growing hot. ‘Are you referring to something I said?’

‘It doesn’t really matter, Lieutenant. Let’s just say that there was a certain similarity of tone in all the voices around me.’