Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

‘I see, sir.’

‘Lieutenant — I think you probably know that I — we — are not unaware of some of the tensions in our Indianised battalions. It’s quite plain that many of our Indian officers feel strongly about public issues — particularly the question of independence.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t know what your own feelings are, Roy, but you should know that as far as the thrust of British public opinion goes, independence for India is just a matter of time. Everyone knows that the days of Empire are over — we’re not fools, you know. The last thing an ambitious young Englishman wants to do today is to go out to a backwater. The Americans have been telling us for years that we’re going about this the wrong way. One doesn’t have to keep up an Empire with all the paraphernalia of an administration and an army. There are easier and more efficient ways to keep a grip on things — it can be done at less expense, and with much less bother. We’ve all come to accept this now — even chaps like me who’ve spent our lives out east. The truth is that there’s only one reason why England holds on any more — and that is out of a sense of obligation. I know this may be hard for you to believe but it’s true. There’s a feeling that we can’t go under duress and we can’t leave a mess behind. And you know as well as I do that if we were to pack our bags now, then you chaps would be at each other’s throats in no time — even you and your friend Hardy, what with him being a Sikh and you a Hindu, a Punjabi and a Bengali. .’

‘I see, sir.’

‘I’m telling you this, Lieutenant, only to alert you to some of the dangers of the situation in which we now find ourselves. I think we both know that our morale is not what it might be. But this is, of all times, the last in which anybody should waver in their loyalties. The reverses we’ve suffered are temporary — in a way they are a blessing in disguise. America’s entry into the war makes it absolutely certain that we shall prevail, in time. In the meanwhile perhaps we should remind ourselves that the army has a very long memory when it comes to questions of allegiance and loyalty.’

The Lieutenant-Colonel paused to extinguish his cigarette. Arjun sat staring silently into his glass.

‘You know, Roy,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland said quietly, ‘my grandfather lived through the Mutiny of 1857. I remember that he bore very little rancour towards the civilians who’d got mixed up in the troubles. But as for the soldiers — the sepoys who’d led the Mutiny — that was another matter altogether. Those men had broken an oath: they were traitors, not rebels, and there is no traitor so contemptible as a soldier who reverses his allegiances. And if such a thing were to happen at a dodgy time, I think you would agree with me, wouldn’t you, Roy, that it would be hard to conceive of anything quite so unspeakable?’

Arjun was about to answer when he was interrupted by the sound of racing footsteps. He turned to a window to see Hardy running across the front lawn.

‘Sir,’ Hardy came panting to the windowsill. ‘Got to move, sir. . Jap convoy heading up the road.’

‘How many? Could we take them on?’

‘No, sir. . There’re at least two platoons — maybe a company.’

Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland pushed his chair calmly back, dabbing his lips with a napkin. ‘The main thing, gentlemen,’ he said quietly, ‘is not to panic. Take a moment to listen to me: this is what I want you to do. .’

They left the house by the rear entrance with Arjun in the lead and Hardy and Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland bringing up the rear. On reaching the shelter of the first row of trees Arjun fell into a defensive position. With him was a detail composed of Kishan Singh and two other men. Their orders were to cover the others until everyone was clear of the grounds.

The first Japanese truck pulled into the compound just as Hardy and Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland were running across the back garden. For a moment Arjun allowed himself to believe that they had managed to escape unseen. Then a volley of gunfire erupted out of the back of the truck and Arjun heard a chorus of whistles shooting past, well over his head.

Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland and Hardy were almost abreast of him now. Arjun waited till they were clear before giving the order to return fire. ‘ Chalao goli .’ They fired indiscriminately, in the general direction of the bungalow. The only result was the immediate shattering of the kitchen’s windows. In the meantime, the Japanese truck had swung round to take shelter on the far side of the house.

‘ Piche. Chalo .’

Arjun gave the order to fall back while staying in position himself, firing randomly, hoping to give Kishan Singh and the others time to regroup. He saw that the newly arrived Japanese soldiers were slipping into the trees one by one. He rose to his feet and began to run, holding his Tommy gun under his arm. Glancing over his shoulder, he encountered the now familiar sight of dozens of long files of trees, telescoping towards him— but with the difference that now, each tunnel offered a glimpse of a tiny grey-uniformed figure, somewhere in the far distance, running in pursuit.

Arjun began to run faster, breathing hard, watching out for the branches that lay hidden underneath the fallen leaves. A hundred feet or so ahead, the land fell away steeply. If he could get as far as that he might be able to lose the pursuing soldiers. He sprinted, shortening his steps as he neared the lip of the declivity. Just as he was going over the top he felt his right leg shooting out from beneath him. He fell, tumbling face first down the slope. The shock of the fall was compounded by confusion: he could not understand why he had fallen. He hadn’t tripped and he hadn’t lost his footing — he was sure of that. Grasping at the undergrowth he managed to bring himself to a halt. He tried to get back on his feet and found that he couldn’t. He looked down and saw that his trouser leg was covered in blood. He could feel the wetness of the cloth against his skin yet he was not conscious of any pain. His pursuers’ footsteps were closer now, and he glanced around himself quickly, looking at the carpet of dead leaves that stretched away in every direction.

Just then he heard a sound, a familiar whisper. ‘Sah’b.’

He rolled over to find himself looking at Kishan Singh: his batman was lying prone, hidden inside a dark opening — a culvert or drainage pipe of some kind. The opening was blanketed by leaves and undergrowth. It was very well-hidden, almost invisible. The only reason that Arjun could see it at all was because he was lying flat on the ground.

Kishan Singh extended a hand and dragged him into the culvert. Then he crawled out to scatter leaves over the traces of Arjun’s blood. Minutes later they heard the sound of footsteps racing past overhead.

The culvert was just wide enough for the two of them to lie side by side. Now, suddenly, Arjun’s wound began to make itself felt, the pain welling out of his leg in waves. He tried to stifle a groan, not quite successfully. Kishan Singh threw a hand over his mouth and wrestled him into silence. Arjun realised that he was about to black out and he was glad: at that moment there was nothing he wanted more than oblivion.

Even though he was following the news closely on the radio, Dinu had trouble understanding exactly what was under way in northern Malaya. The bulletins mentioned a major engagement in the region of Jitra but the reports were inconclusive and confusing. In the meantime, there were other indications of the way the war was going, all of them ominous. One of these was an official newspaper announcement, listing the closing of certain post offices in the north. Another was the increasing volume of southbound traffic: a stream of evacuees was pouring down the north — south highway in the direction of Singapore.