Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

But once they were on board, the constraints of the last few days disappeared almost magically. Gradually, the old intimacy returned, to the point where Uma could even bring herself to comment on Dolly’s daily periods of seclusion.

One morning, when they were both out on deck, Uma said, ‘You know, Dolly, after we talked that first night, at Morningside, I thought it would be just like the old days. Do you remember, Dolly, at Ratnagiri, how we would talk through the night, and then when we woke up, we would start again, as though falling asleep were just an interruption? At Morningside, every morning, I’d say to myself, today I’ll go for a walk with Dolly and we’ll sit under a tree and look at the sea. But you were never there; you were never even down for breakfast. So one morning, I asked Dinu and he told me why you stayed so late in your room. .’

‘I see.’

‘I tried so hard to tell you about my life and you never said a word about yours; nothing about what’s on your mind or what you do with your time.’

‘What could I say, Uma? If I’d been better with words, perhaps I could have. But I didn’t know what to say. And especially to you. .’

‘Why especially me?’

‘With you I feel that I have to account for myself — provide an explanation.’

Uma saw that this was not untrue. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Dolly. Perhaps I would have found it hard to understand. It’s true that I’m not religious myself — but I would have tried to understand, simply because of you. And I’ll still try, Dolly, if you’ll let me.’

Dolly was silent for a moment. ‘It’s hard to know where to start, Uma. You’ll remember that I wrote to you about Dinu’s illness? After it was over, I found that something had changed in me. I couldn’t go back to the life I’d led before. It wasn’t that I was unhappy with Rajkumar, or that I no longer felt anything for him: it was just that the things I did no longer filled my time or occupied my mind. It was the feeling that you get when your day is empty and there’s nothing to do— except that it went on, day after day. Then I heard about an old friend — we used to call her Evelyn. I heard she was at Sagaing, near Mandalay, and that she had become the head of a thi-la-shin-kyaung— what do you call it? — a Buddhist nunnery. I went up to see her, and I knew at once that that was where I wanted to be — that this would be my life.’

‘Your life!’ Uma stared at her, in shock. ‘But what about the boys?’

‘It’s because of them — and Rajkumar — that I haven’t gone yet. I want to see them settled first — in India perhaps, somewhere away from Burma, at any rate. Once they’re safe, I’ll feel free to go to Sagaing. .’

‘Safe? But aren’t they safe where they are?’

‘Things have changed in Burma, Uma. I feel frightened now. There’s a lot of anger, a lot of resentment, and much of it is aimed at Indians.’

‘But why?’

‘Money, politics—’ Dolly paused—‘so many different things, who’s to say? Indian moneylenders have taken over all the farmland; Indians run most of the shops; people say that the rich Indians live like colonialists, lording it over the Burmese. I don’t know what the wrongs and rights of it are, but I know that I feel frightened for the boys — even for Rajkumar. Some time ago, Dinu was shouted at, on the streets: they called him Zerbadi— which is a swear word, for people who’re half-Indian, half-Burmese. And the other day in Rangoon, a crowd surrounded the car and shook their fists at me. I said to them:

“Why are you doing this? What have I done to you?” Instead of giving me an answer, they began to chant Amyotha Kwe Ko Mayukya Pa Net. .’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s a political song: the gist of it is that it’s wrong for Burmese to marry foreigners — that women like me, who’re married to Indians, are traitors to their own people.’

‘Did you say anything to them?’

‘Yes I did. I was very angry. I said: “Do you know that I spent twenty years of my life in exile, with Burma’s last king? Over here you forgot all about us. What little joy we had came from Indians.”’

‘And what did they say to that?’

‘They looked sheepish and went away. But another time— who knows what they would do?’

‘Have you told Rajkumar — that you want the family to leave Burma?’

‘Yes. But of course, he won’t listen. He tells me: “You don’t understand. The economy wouldn’t work without Indian businessmen; the country would collapse. These protests about Indians are the work of agitators and troublemakers who’re just trying to incite the public.” I’ve tried to tell him that it’s he who doesn’t understand; that the Burma of today is not the Burma he came to when he was eleven. But of course he pays no attention. .’ She broke off. ‘You’ll see what it’s like when we get there. .’

The next day, they reached Rangoon. The steamer was manoeuvring itself into position beside the floating pavilion of the Barr Street Passenger Jetty, when Uma spotted Rajkumar standing in the shade of the ornamental eaves. He gave her a broad smile and waved. His hair was greying brightly at the temples and he seemed larger and bulkier than ever, with an immense, bellows-like chest. Uma gritted her teeth and forced a smile on to her face.

They drove to Kemendine in Rajkumar’s new car, a grey 1929 Packard saloon. On the way Rajkumar pointed out the changes in their surroundings. The city seemed transformed beyond recognition to Uma. There were stately hotels, enormous banks, fashionable restaurants, arcaded department stores and even nightclubs. The one landmark that seemed to be proof against these changes was the Shwe Dagon Pagoda. It was exactly as Uma remembered, its graceful, gilded hti rising above the city like a benediction.

The Kemendine house had changed too: it still had its haphazard improvised look, but it was much larger now, with added-on floors above and sprawling wings at its side. Everywhere Uma looked there were caretakers, gardeners, chowkidars.

‘How much your house has grown!’ Uma said to Dolly. ‘You could have an army in here if you wanted.’

‘Rajkumar wants it to be large enough for the boys to live in,’ Dolly said. ‘They’re each to have a floor of their own. He sees himself ruling over one of those vast joint families, growing larger with every generation. .’

‘It doesn’t look,’ said Uma, ‘as if you’re going to have a very easy time persuading him to leave.’

‘No. It’s going to be very hard. .’

Later in the day, Dinu brought a Burmese school-friend to see her. His name was Maung Thiha Saw and he was a gawky, eager-looking boy with a great mass of shiny black hair and thick, smudged spectacles. He was as talkative as Dinu was reserved, and he peppered Uma with unexpected questions about America and the Depression.

The day was unnaturally still and airless and it was very hot inside the house. ‘Come,’ said Uma, ‘let’s talk outside — it may be a little cooler.’

They went downstairs and stepped out to walk round the compound. A tall electricity pole stood by the front gate and as they were approaching it, Uma noticed that it had begun to tilt. She came abruptly to a stop and ran a hand over her eyes. Then suddenly her feet grew unsteady. She felt as though her legs were going to pitch her forward.

‘Dinu,’ she cried, ‘what’s happening?’

‘Earthquake!’ Dinu put a hand on her shoulders and they huddled together with their arms round each other. It seemed like a very long time before the heaving in the earth came to a stop. Warily they let go of each other and looked around, taking stock. Suddenly Maung Thiha Saw shouted, his eyes fixed on the horizon.