Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

‘You, there. .’ she called out, her voice echoing through the tunnels of foliage. ‘Who are you? Come here.’ She caught a glimpse of the whites of his eyes, flaring suddenly in the darkness. Then he disappeared.

Back at the house, Uma described the boy to Alison. ‘Do you know who he might be?’

‘Yes.’ Alison nodded. ‘His name is Ilongo. He’s from the coolie lines. Was he following you?’

‘Yes.’

‘He does that sometimes. Don’t worry; he’s completely harmless. We call him Morningside’s village idiot.’

Uma decided to befriend the boy. She set about it carefully, taking little gifts with her each morning, usually fruit, rambutans, mangoes or mangosteens. On catching sight of him she’d stop and call out, ‘Ilongo, Ilongo, come here.’ Then she’d put her offering down on the ground and walk away. Soon, he became confident enough to approach her. The first few times, she made no attempt to talk. She set down her gifts and watched him retrieve them, from a distance. He was about ten, but tall for his age, and very thin. His eyes were large and very expressive: looking into them, she could not believe that he was a simpleton.

‘Ilongo,’ she said to him one day, in English, ‘why do you follow me around?’ When he didn’t answer she switched to Hindustani, asking the same question again.

This produced an immediate effect: spitting out an orange seed, he suddenly began to speak.

‘After my mother leaves for Muster, I don’t like to stay in the house, all by myself.’

‘Are you alone at home then?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about your father?’

‘My father isn’t here.’

‘Why? Where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you never met him?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘No. But my mother has a picture of him: he’s an important man, my mother says.’

‘Can I see the picture?’

‘I’ll have to ask my mother.’ Then something startled him and he vanished into the trees.

A couple of days later, walking past a line of rubber tappers, Ilongo pointed to a woman with a strong, square face and a silver nose ring. ‘That’s my mother,’ he said. Uma made as though to approach her and the boy panicked. ‘No. She’s working now. The conductor will fine her.’

‘But I’d like to talk to her.’

‘Later. At our house. Come here at five, and I’ll take you.’

That evening, Uma walked with Ilongo to the line of shacks where he lived. Their dwelling was small but neat and bare. Ilongo’s mother had changed into a bright, peacock-green sari in anticipation of Uma’s visit. She sent the boy out to play and set a pot of water on the fire, for tea.

‘Ilongo said you had a picture of his father.’

‘Yes.’ She handed over a piece of fading newsprint.

Uma recognised the face at first glance. She realised now that she’d known all along, without wanting to acknowledge it to herself. She shut her eyes and turned the picture over so that she wouldn’t have to look at it. It was Rajkumar.

‘Do you know who this man is?’ she said at last.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know that he’s married?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it happen? Between you and him?’

‘They sent me to him. On the ship, when I was coming over. They called me out of the hold and took me up to his cabin. There was nothing I could do.’

‘That was the only time?’

‘No. For years afterwards, whenever he was here he’d send for me. He wasn’t so bad, better than some others. One time, I saw a picture of his wife and I said to him, she’s so beautiful, like a princess — what do you want with a woman like me?’

‘What did he say?’

‘He told me that his wife had turned away from the world; that she’d lost interest in her home and her family, in him. .’

‘And when was the last time you saw him?’

‘Many years ago. He stopped coming after I told him I was pregnant.’

‘Did he not want to have anything to do with the boy— with Ilongo?’

‘No. But he sends money.’

‘Why haven’t you spoken to his wife? Or to Mr or Mrs Martins? They could do something. What he’s done is very wrong: he can’t be allowed to abandon you like this.’

Ilongo’s mother glanced at her visitor and saw that her face was flushed with indignation on her behalf. Now a note of anxiety entered the matter-of-fact tone of her voice. ‘Madame, you won’t speak of this to anyone?’

‘You can be sure that I will,’ Uma retorted. ‘This is a shameful business. I’ll go to the police if I need to. .’

At this the woman panicked. She came quickly across the room and sank to her knees at Uma’s feet. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head vehemently. ‘No. No. Please understand. I know you mean to help me but you are an outsider. You do not know how things are here.’

‘What do you want then?’ Uma rose angrily to her feet. ‘Do you want that I should just let this pass? That he should get away with it?’

‘This is my business. You have no right to speak of this to anyone. .’

Uma was breathing heavily, her chest heaving in anger. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘This man should be punished for what he has done to you — to you and to his own wife and family. Why do you want to keep this matter hidden?’

‘Because it will not help me to see him punished: it will only make things worse for everyone. The money will stop; there’ll be trouble. I am not a child: it is not for you to take this decision on my behalf. .’

Tears of frustration welled up in Uma’s eyes. She’d often railed against women who allowed themselves to be trapped within labyrinths of fear — but now, confronted with this circumstance she was helpless, herself a part of the maze.

‘. . Madame, I want you to give me your word that you will not speak of this: I will not let you leave until you have.’

There was nothing Uma could do but produce a forced nod of assent.

From that point on, Uma’s journey began to acquire an involuntary, dream-like quality, with impressions and events following scattershot on each other, like hailstones battering against a netted screen.

At Morningside, on the last day of her stay, Uma had a conversation with Dinu that took her completely by surprise. She’d noticed that Dolly spent an inordinate amount of time on her own, staying in her room all morning and rarely making an appearance downstairs before noon.

Succumbing to curiosity, Uma asked Dinu: ‘Why doesn’t Dolly have breakfast with us? Why does she come down so late?’

Dinu gave her a glance of surprise: ‘Don’t you know? She does her te-ya-tai in the morning.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I don’t know how to explain. . I suppose you could say she meditates.’

‘Oh.’ Uma paused to digest this. ‘And when did this start?’

‘I don’t know. She’s been doing it ever since I can remember. . Was there a time when she didn’t?’

‘I don’t remember. .’

Uma changed the subject abruptly and didn’t touch on it again.

The next stop on Uma’s itinerary was none other than Rangoon. Her trip had been so planned as to allow her to make the journey over from Malaya in the company of Dolly, Neel and Dinu. She was to stay with Dolly and Rajkumar for one month, before sailing on to Calcutta. While planning the trip, it was this leg of the journey that Uma had most looked forward to: she had imagined herself and Dolly spending hours together during the voyage, talking as they once had. Now, the prospect filled her with dread.