Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

‘How did you acquire these books?’ she asked.

‘It was hard. .’ He laughed. ‘I made friends with ragpickers and the people who sort through refuse. I told them what I wanted and they saved them for me. The foreigners who live in Yangon — the diplomats and aid-workers and so on — they tend to read a lot. . there’s not much else for them to do, you see. . they’re watched all the time. . They bring books and magazines with them and from time to time they throw them away. . Fortunately the military does not have the imagination to control their trash. . These things find their way to us. All these bookcases — their contents were gathered one at a time, by ragpickers. I sometimes think how astonished the original owners would be if they knew. . It took me a long time. . Then word got around and people began to come. . they came, they looked and often they couldn’t understand what they saw, so they would ask me and I would give them my opinion. First it was just a few people, then there were more. . and more. Now they come every week. . Even when I’m away they come. . someone else talks. . they look at pictures. . Those who can afford it make a contribution — for tea, sweets, snacks. Those who can’t don’t. . no one’s ever been turned away. Today it’s someone’s birthday. .’ He pointed across the room to a young man. ‘His friends are having the party here. That happens often. . here they feel free to enjoy themselves. . I encourage them to say whatever they like. . to speak freely, even of simple things — for them this is an adventure, a discovery. .’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have to understand,’ he said, ‘that all their lives they’ve been trained to obey. . their parents, their teachers, the military. . this is what their education teaches: the habit of obedience. .’

He laughed, his eyes twinkling. ‘When they come here. . they find that no one will scold them for what they say. . they can criticise even their parents if they wish. . this is a very shocking idea for many of them. . some of them never come back. . but many do, again and again. .’

‘Do they talk about politics too?’

‘Yes. All the time. It is impossible not to, in Myanmar. .’

‘Doesn’t the military do anything? Don’t they try to stop you? Send spies?’

‘Yes, of course. They send spies. . There are probably a few here right now — in Myanmar there are always spies, everywhere. But no one ever discusses organisational matters here; we talk only of ideas and they know, also, that I’m not directly involved in the movement any more. . my body won’t allow me. . They look at me and they see a tired old cripple. . in a way my body protects me. . You have to understand that their brutality is of a strangely medieval ilk. . they are not so advanced as to be able to perceive a threat in what we do in this room. They would never be able to understand the attraction that brings people here, even though some of them are their own children. . nothing that interests them is here — no booze, no drugs, no conspiracy. . that is what protects us. And when we talk of politics it is in such ways that they cannot follow. . we don’t say things they can pin down. . in Myanmar nothing that is worth saying can be spoken in ordinary language. . everyone learns other means of communication, secret languages. Today for example, I was talking about Edward Weston’s theory of pre-visualisation. . that you must see the truth of your subject in your mind. . after that the camera is incidental, unimportant. . If you know the truth of what you see, the rest is mere execution. Nothing can come between you and your imagined desire. . No camera, no lens. .’ He shrugged, smiling. ‘To that list I could have added: No band of criminals like this regime. . But I did not have to tell them that in so many words. . They understood what I was saying. . they knew. . you saw how they laughed and clapped. . Here in the Glass Palace photography too is a secret language.’

At the other end of the room, the birthday party was getting under way. A clamour arose for Dinu’s presence at the table. He got to his feet and went over, leaning heavily on his stick. There were dishes of fried savouries, a cake, and a couple of large plastic bottles of Coca-Cola. A large can of Canadian beer stood at the centre of the table, untouched and immaculate, like an ornamental epergne. Dinu explained that one of the Glass Palace regulars was the son of a top general. He attended in secret, without his family’s knowledge. From time to time he brought along a few items that were otherwise available only to smugglers and the junta’s top brass. The beer can had stood on the table for more than a year.

Someone began to strum a guitar. A chorus started up and the cake was cut. Dinu presided over the celebration with benevolent good humour and there was a great deal of joking and light-heartedness. Jaya remembered one of Rajkumar’s favourite sayings: ‘Nowhere do they have such a gift for laughter as they do in Burma. .’ Yet it was evident that the laughter here had a special edge, honed upon fears that were never quite absent. It was a greedy kind of merriment, as though everyone wanted to have their fill while they could.

In other parts of the room a number of arguments and discussions were under way. Occasionally Dinu would be appealed to by one group or another. After one such intervention he turned to Jaya, in explanation: They’re arguing about the picture that I was talking about — Weston’s nautilus. . some of them see themselves as revolutionaries. . they insist that aesthetic matters have no relevance to our situation. .’

‘And what was your answer?’

‘I quoted Weston. . Weston reflecting on Trotsky. . that new and revolutionary art forms may awaken a people or disturb their complacency or challenge old ideals with constructive prophecies of change. . It doesn’t matter. . every week this comes up. . every week I say the same thing.’

Presently a couple of young men took up a collection and went out to get biryani from a nearby shop. They were back in a few minutes, loaded down with paper packets. Dinu filled a plate and handed it to Jaya: she was surprised by how good the biryani was.

Slowly, as the evening neared its end, everyone grew quieter. A subdued resignation seemed to set in, as though darkness were knocking at the windows, providing a reminder of the constancy of its vigil.

Shortly before nine, Dinu said to Jaya: ‘Where are you staying?’

She told him: it was a small hotel, picked at random.

‘I would ask you to stay here,’ he said. ‘I live alone and you could look after yourself. . It would be easy. . But unfortunately the procedure takes a long time.’

‘Procedure for what?’ She was startled.

‘For guests,’ he said apologetically. ‘Don’t forget that you are in Myanmar. Nothing is simple here. . Every household has a registered list of members. . Nobody else can spend the night there without permission. I know a woman who after three years of marriage has to apply every week to be included in her husband’s family’s “guest list”. .’

‘And where does this permission come from?’

‘The Chairman of the Ward Council. . there’s one in each neighbourhood. . they can make your life hell. . everyone hates them. . mine is especially bad. So, you see, I would ask you to stay, but. . The police make regular checks, especially at night. You never know when they’re coming. .’

Dinu gave Jaya a pat on the back: ‘You’d better go now. . the others will walk you back to your hotel. . you will have been seen coming here, you may be sure of that. . Was there a man in the pharmacy next door? There you are. . If he isn’t there by any chance, wait till he’s seen you going. . If he doesn’t see you leaving you can be sure that there will soon be a knock on my door. Come back tomorrow. . early. . I’ll get some pictures ready. We’ll talk for as long as you want. . We’ll do nothing but talk. . Every day that you’re here. .’