Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

‘What is it?’ said Arjun, looking over her shoulder. His khaki trousers were wet almost to the waist.

‘It’s a nautilus,’ she said.

The shell had an elliptical opening at one end, like a horn: the colour inside was a rich mother of pearl, tinged with silver highlights. Its body was coiled into an almost perfectly circular mound. A spiral line ran along the mound, ending in a tiny protrusion, not unlike a nipple.

‘How do you know what it’s called?’ Arjun asked. She could sense his presence behind her. He was looking over her at the shell, his chin resting lightly on her head.

‘Dinu showed me a photograph of a shell like this one,’ she said. ‘He thinks it’s one of the greatest pictures ever made.’

His arms reached round her shoulders, encircling her body. His hands closed on the shell, his fingers dwarfing hers, his palms wet against the back of her hands. He ran his thumb along the edge of the mother of pearl mouth, over the line that encircled the swelling body, to the tiny nipple-like point that topped the mound.

‘We should. .’ She felt the touch of his breath blowing through her hair. ‘We should take this back for Dinu,’ he said. His voice had gone hoarse.

He let his arms drop and stepped away from her. ‘Let’s go and explore,’ he said, pointing in the direction of the island that lay at the mouth of the cove. ‘I bet we could walk over. The water’s very low.’

‘I don’t want to get my dress wet.’ She laughed.

‘You won’t,’ he promised. ‘If the water gets too high I’ll carry you on my back.’

He took hold of her hand and pulled her deeper into the water. The ground dipped until the water was at waist-level. Then the sandy floor began to rise again, sloping up towards the island. Arjun began to move faster, pulling her with him. They were running when they reached the shore. They raced across the sun-baked fringe of sand, into the shaded interior of the island. Alison fell on her back, on the soft, sandy earth, and looked up at the sky. They were encircled by bushy screwpines, screened from the shore.

Arjun threw himself down beside her, on his stomach. She was still holding the shell and he prised it free of her grip. He laid it on her chest, and ran his finger along the shell’s spiral edge, cupping its body with his palm.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ he said.

She saw how badly he wanted her; there was something irresistible about the insistency of his desire. When his hand slipped off the shell, on to her body, she made no effort to stop him. From that moment on, when it was already too late, everything changed.

It was as though he wasn’t really there and nor was she; as though their bodies had been impelled more by a sense of inevitability than by conscious volition; by an inebriation of images and suggestion — memories of pictures and songs and dances; it was as though they were both absent, two strangers, whose bodies were discharging a function. She thought of what it was like with Dinu; the intensity of his focus on the moment; the sense of time holding still. It was only against the contrast of this cohabiting of absences that she could apprehend the meaning of what it meant to be fully present— eye, mind and touch united in absolute oneness, each beheld by the other, each beholding.

When Arjun rolled off her she began to cry, pulling her dress down over her body, clasping her knees. He sat up, in consternation. ‘Alison — what’s the matter? Why’re you crying?’

She shook her head, her face buried between her knees. He persisted. ‘Alison, I didn’t mean. . I thought you wanted. .’

‘It’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you. Only myself.’ ‘For what, Alison?’

‘For what?’ She looked at him in disbelief. ‘How can you look at me after this and ask me a question like that? What about Dinu?’

‘Alison.’ He laughed, reaching for her arm. ‘Dinu doesn’t need to know. Why tell him about this?’

She pushed his hand away. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please. Don’t touch me.’

Then they heard a voice, calling in the distance, just loud enough to carry over the lapping of the water.

‘Sah’b.’

Arjun pulled on his wet uniform and stood up. He saw Kishan Singh standing on the beach; behind him was a helmeted motorcyclist, on a Harley-Davidson just like the one Arjun had driven up from the base.

Kishan Singh was waving a piece of paper, snapping it urgently through the air.

‘Sah’b.’

‘Alison,’ Arjun said, ‘something’s up. They’ve sent a messenger from the base.’

‘You go ahead,’ Alison said. All she could think of at that moment was of throwing herself into the water, to wash off the feel of his touch. ‘I’ll follow in a minute.’

Arjun walked into the water and waded over to the beach. Kishan Singh was waiting at the water’s edge; his eyes held Arjun’s for an instant. There was something in them that made Arjun check his pace and look again. But now Kishan Singh had snapped to attention, his hand raised in a salute, his eyes fixed in an unseeing gaze.

‘What is it, Kishan Singh?’

Kishan Singh handed him an envelope. ‘Hardy-sah’b sent this.’

Arjun tore the envelope open and unfolded Hardy’s note. He was still frowning at it when Alison stepped out of the water and walked up to him.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘I have to get back,’ Arjun said. ‘Right now. It looks as if something big is under way. We’re leaving Sungei Pattani — my battalion, that is.’

‘You’re going away?’ Alison stared at him, as though she couldn’t believe what she’d heard.

‘Yes.’ He glanced at her. ‘And you’re glad — aren’t you?’

She walked off without answering and he followed her. When they were over the crest of the dune, out of Kishan Singh’s sight, he turned her around with a sudden violence.

‘Alison,’ he said sharply, ‘you didn’t answer me.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, Arjun. I’m not your batman.’

‘I asked you a question.’

‘What was it?’

‘Are you glad that I’m leaving?’

‘If you really want to know,’ she said flatly, ‘the answer is yes.’

‘Why?’ His voice was halting and confused. ‘You came here because you wanted to. I don’t understand this: why are you so angry with me?’

‘I’m not.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not angry at all — you’re wrong about that. It wouldn’t make sense to be angry with you, Arjun.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Arjun — you’re not in charge of what you do; you’re a toy, a manufactured thing, a weapon in someone else’s hands. Your mind doesn’t inhabit your body.’

‘That’s crap. .’ He cut himself short. ‘The only reason you can get away with that,’ he said, ‘is because you’re a woman. .’

She saw that he was a hair’s-breadth away from hitting her and this had the odd effect of making her suddenly sorry for him. And then she realised that she had always felt sorry for him, a little, and that was why she had come with him that morning to the beach. She saw that despite the largeness and authority of his presence, he was a man without resources, a man whose awareness of himself was very slight and very fragile; she saw that Dinu was much stronger and more resourceful, and she understood that that was why she’d been tempted to be cruel to him; that that was why she had had to take the risk of losing him. The thought of this made her suddenly apprehensive.

She walked quickly to the Harley-Davidson. ‘Come on,’ she said to Arjun. ‘Take me back to Morningside.’