Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

There was nothing more to say. With a few mumbled words of regret the Collector excused himself from the Queen’s presence. On his way out, he spotted Sawant coming out of the gatehouse. He could hear a woman’s voice, calling out from within. Walking past the door, eyes discreetly averted, he caught a whiff of the hot, damp air inside. He quickened his pace. Was this where they cohabited then, the coachman and the First Princess, in that tiny hutch of a room? A profusion of images welled up before his eyes: Sawant, leaning on the doorpost, stroking his oiled moustache, beckoning to the girl with a smile; the Princess, stealing in through an unlatched door while the rest of the household lay asleep; the rank little room, reeking of sweat and echoing to their muffled cries; the creaking of a charpai.

He hurried into his gaari, calling impatiently to Kanhoji, ‘ Chalo! Jaldi chalo, jaldi, to the Residency, quickly.’ He leant out of the gaari’s window, breathing hard, but even the cool night air could not clear his nostrils of the smell of that room. Was this love then: this coupling in the darkness, a princess of Burma and a Marathi coachman; this heedless mingling of sweat?

And the Queen, with her snapping black eyes? He had heard it said once that she had always really loved Thebaw. But what could they possibly know of love, of any of the finer sentiments, these bloodthirsty aristocrats, these semi-illiterates who had never read a book in all their lives, never looked with pleasure upon a painting? What could love mean to this woman, this murderer, responsible for the slaughter of scores of her own relatives? And yet it was a fact that she had chosen captivity over freedom for the sake of her husband, condemned her own daughters to twenty years of exile. Would Uma do the same for him? Would anyone? He shivered, stretching out his arms to steady himself against the sides of the carriage.

At the Residency, Uma was waiting up. She came running to the door to let him in, waving the servants away. ‘What happened? What did she say? Tell me.’

‘Where’s Dolly?’ the Collector asked.

‘She was tired. She went straight to bed.’

‘Come.’

The Collector led her to their bedroom and shut the door. ‘You knew. Didn’t you?’

‘About what?’

‘Uma, whatever I am, I’m not a fool. I’m talking about the Princess’s pregnancy.’

Uma sat down on the edge of their mosquito-netted bed, averting her gaze.

‘So you knew, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dolly told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it never occurred to you to tell me? That this might be a matter of some importance? That it would have consequences for me?’

‘How could I tell you? I promised not to.’

He came to stand beside her, looking down at her lowered head.

‘And your promise to Dolly meant more than the bond between us, you and me?’ He reached for her hands and took them gently into his own. ‘Look at me, Uma. Why could you not trust me? Have I ever betrayed you, in any way? Did you think I would not be discreet?’

‘I promised.’

He stared at her in bemusement. ‘You’ve known of this for days, perhaps months. We were together all that time. Did you never once feel the desire to talk of this with me? Not as the Collector of Ratnagiri, not even as your husband, but just as a companion, someone in whose company you spend your days?’

She pulled her hands free of his grip. What did he want of her? She did his bidding in all things: she went to the Club when he told her to; she went to all her appointments. What more was there to give?

She began to sob, covering her face with her hands. The wifely virtues she could offer him he had no use for: Cambridge had taught him to want more; to make sure that nothing was held in abeyance, to bargain for a woman’s soul with the coin of kindness and patience. The thought of this terrified her. This was a subjection beyond decency, beyond her imagining. She could not bring herself to think of it. Anything would be better than to submit.

It seemed to Uma that she had only just drifted off, after many long hours of sleeplessness, when she heard a voice at her bedside: ‘Memsahib! Memsahib!’

She stirred drowsily, pushing her pillows back against the polished headboard. ‘Memsahib!’ It was an ayah, her face veiled by the cloudy gauze of the mosquito net. ‘Get up, memsahib! Get up!’ The windows were open and the ceiling was bathed in reflected sunlight. There was a smell of freshly mown grass in the air. She heard scythes hissing in the garden and remembered that she’d told the mali s to mow the lawn.

‘Memsahib, wake up. A gentleman is waiting in the baithak-khana .’

‘A gentleman? Who?’

‘The one who was here for dinner yesterday — the bahaarka gentleman.’

‘Mr Raha?’ Uma sat up with a start. ‘What is he doing here?’

‘He asked to see you. And Dolly memsahib.’

‘Have you told her this?’

‘Dolly memsahib isn’t here. She left early this morning.’

‘When?’

‘Very early. Kanhoji took her back to Outram House.’

The mosquito net had somehow worked its coils around Uma: she couldn’t get the webbing off her face.

‘Why wasn’t I told?’

‘Collector-sahib said not to wake you.’

She scratched impatiently at the net with clawed fingers. There was a tearing sound and a gap opened suddenly in front of her. She climbed through the rent, swinging her legs off the bed.

It wasn’t like Dolly to leave in such a hurry, without a word.

‘Send some tea to the baithak-khana,’ she said to the ayah. ‘And tell the gentleman I’ll be out soon.’

She dressed quickly and went hurrying down the corridor. She took the ayah with her into the drawing room, and left her squatting by the door for propriety.

‘Mr Raha?’

He was on the far side of the room, blowing smoke through an open window. At the sound of her voice, he spun round, flicking away his cheroot. He was wearing ‘English’ clothes— a white linen suit.

‘Madame Collector, I am sorry to have disturbed you. .’

‘No. Not at all.’ She began to cough. The room was foggy with acrid tobacco smoke.

‘I’m sorry.’ He dispelled a cloud of smoke with an apologetic wave. ‘I came to thank you. . for last night.’ There was a pause in which she heard him swallow as though he were trying to collect himself to say something. ‘And I wanted to thank Miss Sein too, if I could.’

‘Dolly? But she isn’t here. She’s gone back to Outram House.’

‘Oh.’ He fell into a chair, his lips working silently, as though he were saying something to himself. She noticed that his hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary from lack of sleep.

‘May I ask if she is likely to return here today?’

‘Mr Raha,’ said Uma quietly, ‘I have to say that I am a little surprised that you should concern yourself so much with someone you hardly know.’

He looked up at her. ‘Madame Collector. .’

‘Yes?’

‘There is something I should tell you.’

‘Go on.’

‘I have not been entirely frank with you. Or your uncle.’

‘How so?’

‘This was not my first meeting with Miss Sein. The truth is that it is because of her that I am here. I came in search of her.’

‘What?’ Uma tried to laugh. ‘There must be some mistake, Mr Raha. You are surely thinking of someone else. You could not have met Dolly before this. Dolly has lived here all her life. I can assure you of that. She hasn’t left Ratnagiri since she was ten years old.’