Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

Dinu gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Here you are, so full of indignation about the British. And yet you use the English language more often than not. .’

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ Uma shot back. ‘Many great Jewish writers write in German. Do you think that prevents them from recognising the truth?’ From the driver’s seat, Arjun gave a shout: ‘Hold on!’ He threw the car into a steep turn, taking it through the gates of Lankasuka. As they were getting out, they were met by the sound of ululations and the trumpeting of conch-shells. They went racing upstairs to find Neel and Manju walking around the fire, his dhoti joined to her sari by a knot.

From under the hood of her sari, Manju had been peering about the room, looking everywhere for Arjun. When she finally saw him walking in, dressed in his grease-blackened clothes, her head snapped up, throwing off the hood. Everyone in the room froze, astonished by the sight of an unveiled bride. Just then, a moment before Manju had pulled her sari back in place, Dinu’s flash went off. Later, everyone was to agree that this was by far the best picture of the wedding.

The night was unbearably hot. Bela’s bed was drenched with sweat, despite the whirring of the electric fan overhead. She couldn’t sleep; she kept smelling the scent of flowers — the heady fragrances of the last, hottest nights before the breaking of the rains. She thought of Manju, in her flower-strewn bed downstairs, with Neel. It was strange how heat had the effect of heightening the scent of flowers.

Her throat was dry, as parched as sand. She got out of bed and went into the hall outside. The house was dark and for the first time in weeks, there was no one about. The silence seemed almost unnatural, especially after the tumult of the last few days. She tiptoed through the hall to the veranda at the back of the house. There was a full moon, and its light lay on the floor glinting like silver foil. She glanced at the door of the room where Kishan Singh slept. It was, as always, slightly ajar. She wondered if she should shut the door. Stepping across the veranda, she went up to the door and looked in. She could see him lying on his mat, with his longyi tucked between his legs. A gust of wind blew the door a little further open. It seemed cooler inside. She slipped through and seated herself in a corner, with her chin on her knees.

Suddenly he stirred and sat up. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me — Bela.’

‘Bela?’

She heard a note of apprehension in his voice and she understood that it had more to do with Arjun than with herself; that he was afraid of what might happen if she was found in his room — an officer’s sister, a girl who’d just turned fifteen and was still unmarried. She didn’t want him to be afraid. She pushed herself across the floor and touched his hand. ‘It’s all right, Kishan Singh.’

‘And what if. .?’

‘Everyone’s asleep.’

‘But still. .’

She saw that he was still afraid, so she stretched out her legs and lay down beside him. ‘Tell me Kishan Singh,’ she said, ‘when you were married — what was it like, your first night with your wife?’

He laughed softly. ‘It was strange,’ he said. ‘I knew that my friends and relatives were at the door listening and laughing.’

‘And your wife? Was she scared?’

‘Yes, but I was too — even more than her in some ways. Later, when we talked of it with others, we learnt that that is how it always is. .’

He could have made love to her then and she would have let him, but she understood that he wouldn’t, not because he was afraid, but because of some kind of innate decency, and she was glad of this because it meant that it was all right to be there. She was happy just to be lying beside him, aware of his body, knowing that he was aware of hers. ‘And when your son was born,’ she said, ‘were you there?’

‘No. She was in the village and I was at the base.’

‘What did you do when you heard the news?’

‘I bought sweets from a halwai and I went to your brother and said: Sah’b, here is some mithai. He looked at me and asked: Why? So I said, Sah’b, I have a son.’

She tried to think of Arjun, in his uniform, talking to Kishan Singh. The picture wouldn’t come to life. ‘My brother— what is he like? As a soldier, I mean?’

‘He’s a good officer. The men, we like him.’

‘Is he hard on you?’

‘Sometimes. Of all the Indians in our battalion, he’s the one who’s the most English. We call him the “Angrez”.’

She laughed: ‘I must tell him.’

Suddenly he clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Shh.’ There was a sound, of someone stirring downstairs. He sat up in alarm. ‘They’re flying to Rangoon today,’ he said. ‘They’ll all be up early. You must go.’

‘Just a little longer,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s still night.’

‘No.’

He pulled her to her feet and led her to the door. Just as she was about to slip out, he stopped her. ‘Wait.’ With a hand under her chin, he kissed her, very briefly, but full on the lips.

When Neel shook her awake, Manju could not believe that it was already time.

‘Just a little longer,’ she pleaded. ‘Just a few more minutes.’

He put his chin against her cheek and tickled her with his beard. ‘Manju, the plane leaves at 4 a.m.,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got time. .’

It was still dark when the chaos of departure got fully under way. Keyrings were found and forgotten; suitcases were sat upon and strapped with buckled belts; doors and windows were locked and checked and locked once again. A final round of tea was served and then, with the neighbourhood fast asleep, their luggage was loaded into a car. The family stood around the courtyard, waving: Uma, Bela, Arjun, their parents. Kishan Singh looked on from upstairs. Manju cried a little but there was no time for long goodbyes. Neel hurried her into the car and shut the door.

‘We’ll be back next year. .’

It was so early that the roads were empty and it took just half an hour to drive to the Willingdon Air Base, on the banks of the Hooghly river. A few minutes later, Dolly, Rajkumar and Dinu arrived. At exactly 4 a.m. they were led to a jetty, where a sleek, grey motor-launch was waiting. The launch’s engine started with a roar and they went shooting upriver, with the decks tilted backwards at a rakish angle. It was very dark, and all Manju could see of her surroundings was the muddy circle of water that was illuminated by the launch’s powerful spotlight.

The launch slowed and the roar of its engine dwindled to a gentle whine. Its bows dropped back into the water and its spotlight roamed the waters ahead. Suddenly two immense white pontoons loomed out of the water and then the light climbed higher, illuminating the aircraft that was to take them to Rangoon. The plane was enormous, an eighteen-and-a-half-ton flying boat. The logo of the airline was painted on the plane’s tail and a name was written in large letters across its nose— Centaurus.

‘It’s a Martin C-130 seaplane,’ Neel whispered into Manju’s ear. ‘It’s the kind that does the Pacific run for PanAm.’

‘Like Humphrey Bogart’s plane, in China Clipper ?’

‘Yes.’ He laughed. ‘And there was one in Flying Down to Rio too, remember, with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers?’

It was when she stepped through the hatch that the full extent of the plane’s size became evident to Manju. The interior was as spacious as a ship’s lounge, with deep, well-padded seats and glowing brass light fixtures. Manju pressed her nose to the window and saw the propellers starting to spin. Flecks of white froth appeared on the churning brown water below and then the shuddering fuselage began to advance, and the wake of its bow wave fanned out towards the invisible shore, rocking the little islands of water hyacinth that were floating downriver. A gurgling, sucking sound issued from the pontoons as the plane fought the water’s grip, gathering speed. Suddenly the Centaurus shot forward, as though catapulted by the beat of wind upon water. Manju saw the wind-drummed waters of the Hooghly falling away as the aircraft rose slowly above the river’s steep embankments. Soon the lights of the city were gone and there was only darkness below: they were now flying over the mangrove swamps of the Sunderbans, heading towards the Bay of Bengal.