Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

‘Come on, Dinu,’ she ordered in a sharp, peremptory voice. ‘Don’t be a child.’

‘Yes, do come,’ Alison said brightly. ‘I think you’ll enjoy it.’

‘Can I bring my camera?’

‘Of course.’

They went down the sweeping, mahogany staircase, out into the gravelled driveway where a small, cherry-red roadster stood parked under the porch. The car was a 6-litre Paige Daytona, a three-seater, with a single rear seat that pulled out like a drawer, resting on the running board. Alison pulled the rear seat out for Dinu and then clicked open the passenger door for Uma.

‘Alison!’ Uma’s voice rose in surprise. ‘Does your father let you drive his cars?’

Alison grinned. ‘Only this one,’ she said. ‘He won’t hear of us driving the Duesie or the Isotta.’ She gunned the engine and the car rocketed forward, shooting a shower of pebbles back into the porch.

‘Alison!’ Uma cried, clinging to her door. ‘You’re going far too fast.’

‘This isn’t half as fast as I’d like to go.’ Alison laughed and tossed her head. The wind caught her hair and carried it out behind her, like a sail. Roaring through the gate at the bottom of the garden, they plunged abruptly into the hushed gloom of the plantation, with slender, long-leafed trees arching high above them on either side. The trees were ranged in lines that stretched as far as the eye could follow, dwindling into long, straight tunnels: the effect was giddying as they flashed past, thousands upon thousands of them. It was like staring at stripes on a fast-moving screen: Uma felt herself growing dizzy and had to lower her eyes.

Suddenly the trees ended and a small shantytown appeared, with rows of shacks lining the road — hutches of brick and mortar, sheltered under steepled sheets of tin. The shacks were exactly similar in design and yet each was defiantly distinctive in appearance: some were neat, with little curtains fluttering at their front windows, while others were hovels, with pyramids of filth piled at their doors.

‘The coolie lines,’ said Alison, slowing briefly. In a moment they were past and then the car picked up speed again. Once again, a tunnel of arched tree trunks closed around them, and they disappeared into a tube of kaleidoscopic lines.

The road ended at a stream. A ribbon of water was flowing down the face of a tilted sheet of rock, its surface braided with tiny ripples. On the far side, the mountain climbed steeply upwards, blanketed in a dense tangle of forest. Alison ran the car into a sheltered clearing and snapped her door open.

‘The estate ends here,’ she said. ‘Now we have to walk.’

Taking Uma’s hand, Alison helped her pick her way slowly over the stream. On the other side was a path that led directly into the jungle, heading up the slope of Gunung Jerai. The climb was steep and Uma soon ran out of breath.

‘Do we have a long way to go?’ she called ahead to Alison.

‘No. We’re almost there.’

‘Where?’

Suddenly Dinu came up to stand beside her. ‘Look.’

Following the direction of his pointing finger, Uma glanced up. Through a tangle of vines and bamboo, she caught a glimpse of a line of red masonry. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘it appears to be a ruin of some kind.’

Dinu went ahead, hurrying in excitement after Alison. Uma caught up with them at a spot where the slope levelled out into a flat, rocky ledge. Directly ahead of her were two cenotaph-like structures, placed on square plinths: walled chambers of simple design, each with a doorway that led into a small enclosure. Their stone walls were mossy with age and their roofs had caved in.

‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell us what they are, Auntie Uma.’

‘Why me?’

‘Well your father was an archaeologist, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes but. .’ Uma shook her head slowly. ‘I didn’t learn much from him.’

The sight was as evocative as any she’d ever seen: the crumbling red stone juxtaposed against the tangled greenery of the jungle, with the mountain rising serenely above, a halo of cloud around its peak. Dinu was absorbed in photographing the ruins, moving round the structures as fast as his foot would let him. Uma felt a sudden pang of envy: if I were his age, this would have taken hold of me too, it would have changed my life; I would have come back here again and again; I wouldn’t rest until I’d had my fill of it; I’d want to dig them up and take them with me. .

‘Auntie Uma,’ Dinu called to her, across the clearing, ‘what are they — these ruins?’

She ran the edge of her thumb over the spongy stone. ‘I think these were what my father used to call chandi s,’ she said softly. ‘Shrines.’

‘What sort of shrine?’ said Dinu. ‘Who built them?’

‘I’d say they’re either Hindu or Buddhist shrines.’ She threw up her hands, in frustration at her own ignorance. ‘I wish I could tell you more.’

‘Do you think they’re old?’ Dinu said.

‘Yes,’ said Uma. ‘I’m sure of that. Just look how weathered the stone is. I would say these chandis are very old indeed.’

‘I knew they were old,’ Alison said triumphantly. ‘I knew it. Daddy doesn’t believe me. He says nothing here can be old because there was only jungle when he first came.’

Dinu turned to Alison, in his abrupt way: ‘And how did you find this place?’

‘My father sometimes takes us shooting in the jungle,’ Alison said. ‘One day we stumbled upon this place.’ She took Dinu’s hand. ‘Let me show you something,’ she said. ‘Come.’

She led him into the larger of the two structures. Stopping at the plinth, she pointed to an image on a pedestal, a weathered Ganesh, carved in moss-covered stone.

‘We found the image lying on the floor,’ said Alison, ‘and we put it back — it seemed to belong there.’

Uma caught a glimpse of Dinu and Alison, standing framed in the ruined doorway, next to each other. They looked very young, more children than adolescents. ‘Give me your camera,’ she called out to Dinu. ‘I’ll take a picture of the two of you together.’

She took the Brownie from him and stepped back, with her eye to the viewfinder. It gave her a start to see them framed together. Suddenly she understood why people arranged marriages for their children: it was a way of shaping the future to the past, of cementing one’s ties to one’s memories and to one’s friends. Dinu and Alison — if only they were better suited to each other; how wonderful it might be, the bringing together of so many stories. Then she recollected what she was supposed to be doing and was annoyed with herself for thinking about things that were none of her business. She clicked the shutter and handed the camera back to Dinu.

The day began very early at the plantation. Every morning, well before dawn, Uma was woken by Matthew’s footsteps, going down the grand staircase and out to his car. From her window she would see his headlamps streaking down the slope, in the pre-dawn darkness, heading in the direction of the estate office.

One day she said to Matthew: ‘Where do you go, so early in the morning?’

‘To Muster.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We have an assembly ground near the estate office. The tappers come there in the morning and the contractors give them their jobs for the day.’

She was intrigued by the jargon: muster, contractors, tappers. ‘Can I come?’

‘Certainly.’

The next morning Uma drove down to the office with Matthew, along shortcuts that went corkscrewing down the slope. Scores of tappers were converging in front of the plantation’s tin-roofed offices by the light of blazing kerosene lamps: they were all Indians, mainly Tamils; the women were dressed in saris and the men in sarongs.