Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

Arjun nodded. ‘Yes.’

Hardy handed Arjun his crutch and they went together to the communal shed, walking slowly down the gravel track. The shed was full: the soldiers were at the front, squatting in orderly rows. Behind them were the inhabitants of the coolie lines: the men were in sarongs, the women in saris. Many of the tappers had children in their arms. At one end of the shed there stood a table and a couple of chairs. Hardy took his place behind the table while Arjun and Giani Amreek Singh seated themselves on the chairs. There was a lot of noise: people were whispering, talking, some of the children were giggling at the novelty of the occasion. Hardy had to shout to make himself heard.

Once Hardy began, Arjun realised, with some surprise, that he was a talented speaker, almost a practised orator. His voice filled the shed, his words echoing off the tin roof— duty, country, freedom. Arjun was listening intently when he became aware that a film of sweat was running down his face. He looked down and realised that he was dripping — sweat was pouring off his elbows and off his legs. He felt himself growing feverish as he had the night before.

Suddenly the shed rang to the sound of massed voices. The noise was deafening. Arjun heard Hardy bellowing into the crowd: ‘Are you with me?’

There was another eruption; a huge burst of sound welled up to the roof and came echoing back. The soldiers were on their feet. A couple of them linked arms and began to dance the bhangra , shaking their shoulders and stamping their feet.

Behind them the workers were shouting too — men, women, children — throwing things in the air, clapping, waving. Arjun looked at Kishan Singh and saw that his face was flushed, joyful, his eyes alight.

Arjun noted, in a detached and almost disinterested way, that since the time he’d entered the shed, everything seemed to have altered. It was as though the whole world had suddenly changed colour, assumed a different guise. The realities of a few minutes before now seemed like an incomprehensible dream: had he really been surprised to look over the bluff and see an Indian flag in the coolie lines? But where else would such a flag be? Was it really true that Kishan Singh’s grandfather had won a decoration at Flanders? Was it true that Kishan Singh was the same man that he had always taken him to be — the most loyal of soldiers, descended from generations of loyal soldiers? He looked at the dancing men: how was it possible that he had served with those men for so long and never had an inkling that their acquiescence was not what it seemed to be? And how was it possible that he had never known this even of himself?

Was this how a mutiny was sparked? In a moment of heedlessness, so that one became a stranger to the person one had been a moment before? Or was it the other way round? That this was when one recognised the stranger that one had always been to oneself; that all one’s loyalties and beliefs had been misplaced?

But where would his loyalties go now that they were unmoored? He was a military man and he knew that nothing— nothing important — was possible without loyalty, without faith. But who would claim his loyalty now? The old loyalties of India, the ancient ones — they’d been destroyed long ago; the British had built their Empire by effacing them. But the Empire was dead now — he knew this because he had felt it die within himself, where it had held its strongest dominion — and with whom was he now to keep faith? Loyalty, commonalty, faith — these things were as essential and as fragile as the muscles of the human heart; easy to destroy, impossible to rebuild. How would one begin the work of re-creating the tissues that bound people to each other? This was beyond the abilities of someone such as himself; someone trained to destroy. It was a labour that would last not one year, not ten, not fifty — it was the work of centuries.

‘So, Arjun?’ Suddenly Hardy was kneeling in front of him, looking into his face. He was beaming, glowing with triumph.

‘Arjun? What are you going to do then? Are you with us or against us?’

Arjun reached for his crutch and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Listen, Hardy. Before we think of anything else — there’s something we have to do.’

‘What?’

‘Bucky, the CO — we have to let him go.’

Hardy stared at him, without uttering a sound.

‘We have to do it,’ Arjun continued. ‘We can’t be responsible for his being taken prisoner by the Japs. He’s a very fair man, Hardy, and he’s been good to serve under — you know that. We have to let him go. We owe him that.’

Hardy scratched his chin. ‘I can’t allow it, Arjun. He’d give away our position, our movements. .’

Arjun interrupted him. ‘It’s not a question of what you’ll allow, Hardy,’ he said tiredly. ‘You’re not my senior, and I’m not yours. I’m not asking you. I’m letting you know that I’m going to give the CO some food and some water and then I’m going to let him find his way back across the lines. If you want to stop me you’ll have a fight on your hands. I think some of the men would take my side. You decide.’

A thin smile crossed Hardy’s face. ‘Look at you, yaar.’ His voice was acid with sarcasm. ‘Even at a time like this you’re a chaploos —still thinking of sucking up. What are you hoping for? That he’ll speak up for you if things don’t turn out right? Take out a little insurance against the future?’

‘You bastard.’ Arjun lurched towards Hardy, reaching for his collar, swinging his crutch.

Hardy stepped away easily. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Theek hai. Do what you want. I’ll send someone along to show you where Bucky is. Just be quick — that’s all I ask.’

Alison and Dinu spent an hour clearing out the dark room. There was no electricity and they had to work by candlelight. They took down his enlarger, stacked his trays, packed away his prints and his negatives, wrapping them in old cloth and laying them in boxes. When they were done, Dinu snuffed out the candle. They stood still in the airless warmth of the cupboard-like room, listening to the night-time buzz of cicadas and the croaking of wet-weather frogs. Intermittently they could hear a distant, staccato sound, a kind of barking, as though a pack of dogs had been disturbed in a sleeping village.

‘Guns,’ she whispered.

Dinu reached for her in the darkness, pulling her towards him.

‘They’re very far away.’

He held her, his arms tightening round her body. He opened the palms of his hands and ran them over her hair, her shoulders, along the concave curve of her back. His fingers snagged in the strap of her dress and he peeled the fabric slowly away, picking it off her shoulders, tugging it back. Sinking to his knees, he ran his face down the length of her body, touching her with his cheek, his nose, his tongue.

They lay on the cramped floor, pushed up close, legs intertwined, thigh on thigh, arms extended, the flatness of their bellies imprinted on each other. Membranes of sweat hung cobwebbed between their bodies, joining them, pulling them together.

‘Alison. . what am I going to do? Without you?’

‘And me, Dinu? What about me? What will I do?’

Afterwards, they lay still, pillowing each other’s heads on their arms. He lit a cigarette and held it to her lips.

‘One day,’ he said, ‘one day, when we’re back here together, I’ll show you the true magic of a dark room. .’

‘And what’s that?’

‘When you print by contact. . when you lay the negative on the paper and watch them come to life. . the darkness of the one becomes the light of the other. The first time I saw it happen I thought, what must it be like to touch like this?. . with such utter absorption?. . For one thing to become irradiated with the shadows of another?’