by Amitav Ghosh
Jaya had been standing at the door a couple of minutes without being noticed. All of a sudden every eye in the room turned in her direction. There was a silence and the place seemed to fill, almost instantaneously, with a fog of fear. The speaker put away the poster and rose slowly to his feet. He alone seemed calm, unafraid. He reached for a cane and came limping up, dragging his right foot behind him. He looked into her face and said something in Burmese. Jaya shook her head and tried to smile. He saw that she was a foreigner and she could almost hear him breathing a sigh of relief.
‘Yes?’ he said quietly in English. ‘May I help you?’
Jaya was about to ask for U Tun Pe when she changed her mind. She said: ‘I’m looking for Mr Dinanath Raha . . .’
The creases of his face seemed to shimmer, as though a gust of wind had blown suddenly across a lake. ‘How did you know that name?’ he said. ‘It’s many, many years since I last heard it used.’
‘I’m your niece,’ she said. ‘Jaya—your brother’s daughter . . .’
‘Jaya!’
Jaya realised that they had somehow switched languages and he was now speaking to her in Bengali. Letting his cane drop, he put a hand on her shoulder and looked at her closely, as though searching for a confirmation of her identity. ‘Come and sit beside me,’ he said, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘I’ll just be a few more minutes.’
Jaya helped him back to his chair and sat cross-legged on the floor while he resumed his lecture. She was facing Dinu’s audience now and she saw that it consisted of a motley mix of people, old and young, girls and boys, men and women. They were all Burmese but some looked to be of Indian origin, some Chinese. Some were smartly dressed while others were wearing cast-offs. There was a student in a black cap that said Giorgio Armani, and in one corner there sat a group of three monks in saffron robes. They were all listening to Dinu with intent attention; some were taking notes.
Rows of glass-fronted bookcases ringed the floor. On the walls there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of photographic reproductions that looked as though they had been cut out of books and magazines. Some were in wooden frames; some were pasted on cardboard. She recognised several of them; they were all reproductions of well-known photographs: there was a famous Weston image of a sea-shell; a print of Cartier-Bresson’s veiled women, standing grouped on a Kashmir hilltop; there was a Raghubir Singh picture of an old house in Calcutta.
In one corner of the room there stood a brightly decorated table. A hand-painted banner hung above: it said: ‘Happy Birthday’. On the table there were paper cups, snacks, presents wrapped in paper . . .
She wished she knew what was going on.
Dinu’s talk ended in a wild outburst of cheering and laughter. He smiled and turned to her with apologies for keeping her waiting. ‘You found me in the middle of my weekly session . . . I call it my glass palace day.’
‘It was not a long wait,’ she said. ‘What were you talking about?’
‘Pictures . . . photography . . . anything that comes to mind. I just start them off—then it’s everyone else’s turn. Listen.’ He smiled, looking round the room: it was filled with the noise of a dozen different conversations. At the back, a handful of people were blowing up balloons.
‘Is it a class?’ she asked. ‘A lecture course?’
‘No!’ He laughed. ‘They just come . . . every week . . . some are new, some have been here before. Some are students, some are artists, some have aspirations to becoming photographers . . . Of course most of them cannot afford a camera—you know how poor we are in our Myanmar’—he laughed satirically as he said the word ‘—and even if they could, they would not be able to pay for film or printing or developing . . . But some of them have money—perhaps their parents are smugglers or contractors or colonels . . . I don’t ask . . . It’s better not to know. They take pictures and bring them here . . . We pass them around and discuss them . . . Or else I show them copies of old photographs and we talk about why they are good or why they are not. The Glass Palace is the only place in Yangon where you can see things like this . . . works of contemporary art . . .’ He lifted his cane and pointed to his bookcases. ‘Books, magazines . . . these are very hard, almost impossible to find here, because of the censors. This is one of the few places where they are to be found. People know, so they come . . .’
‘How did you acquire these books?’ she asked.
‘It was hard . . .’ He laughed. ‘I made friends with ragpickers and the people who sort through refuse. I told them what I wanted and they saved them for me. The foreigners who live in Yangon—the diplomats and aid-workers and so on—they tend to read a lot . . . there’s not much else for them to do, you see . . . they’re watched all the time . . . They bring books and magazines with them and from time to time they throw them away . . . Fortunately the military does not have the imagination to control their trash . . . These things find their way to us. All these bookcases—their contents were gathered one at a time, by ragpickers. I sometimes think how astonished the original owners would be if they knew . . . It took me a long time . . . Then word got around and people began to come . . . they came, they looked and often they couldn’t understand what they saw, so they would ask me and I would give them my opinion. First it was just a few people, then there were more . . . and more. Now they come every week . . . Even when I’m away they come . . . someone else talks . . . they look at pictures . . . Those who can afford it make a contribution—for tea, sweets, snacks. Those who can’t don’t . . . no one’s ever been turned away. Today it’s someone’s birthday . . .’ He pointed across the room to a young man. ‘His friends are having the party here. That happens often . . . here they feel free to enjoy themselves . . . I encourage them to say whatever they like . . . to speak freely, even of simple things—for them this is an adventure, a discovery . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have to understand,’ he said, ‘that all their lives they’ve been trained to obey . . . their parents, their teachers, the military . . . this is what their education teaches: the habit of obedience . . .’
He laughed, his eyes twinkling. ‘When they come here . . . they find that no one will scold them for what they say . . . they can criticise even their parents if they wish . . . this is a very shocking idea for many of them . . . some of them never come back . . . but many do, again and again . . .’
‘Do they talk about politics too?’
‘Yes. All the time. It is impossible not to, in Myanmar . . .’
‘Doesn’t the military do anything? Don’t they try to stop you? Send spies?’
‘Yes, of course. They send spies . . . There are probably a few here right now—in Myanmar there are always spies, everywhere. But no one ever discusses organisational matters here; we talk only of ideas and they know, also, that I’m not directly involved in the movement any more . . . my body won’t allow me . . . They look at me and they see a tired old cripple . . . in a way my body protects me . . . You have to understand that their brutality is of a strangely medieval ilk . . . they are not so advanced as to be able to perceive a threat in what we do in this room. They would never be able to understand the attraction that brings people here, even though some of them are their own children . . . nothing that interests them is here—no booze, no drugs, no conspiracy . . . that is what protects us. And when we talk of politics it is in such ways that they cannot follow . . . we don’t say things they can pin down . . . in Myanmar nothing that is worth saying can be spoken in ordinary language . . . everyone learns other means of communication, secret languages. Today for example, I was talking about Edward Weston’s theory of pre-visualisation . . . that you must see the truth of your subject in your mind . . . after that the camera is incidental, unimportant . . . If you know the truth of what you see, the rest is mere execution. Nothing can come between you and your imagined desire . . . No camera, no lens . . .’ He shrugged, smiling. ‘To that list I could have added: No band of criminals like this regime . . . But I did not have
to tell them that in so many words . . . They understood what I was saying . . . they knew . . . you saw how they laughed and clapped . . . Here in the Glass Palace photography too is a secret language.’
At the other end of the room, the birthday party was getting under way. A clamour arose for Dinu’s presence at the table. He got to his feet and went over, leaning heavily on his stick. There were dishes of fried savouries, a cake, and a couple of large plastic bottles of Coca-Cola. A large can of Canadian beer stood at the centre of the table, untouched and immaculate, like an ornamental epergne. Dinu explained that one of the Glass Palace regulars was the son of a top general. He attended in secret, without his family’s knowledge. From time to time he brought along a few items that were otherwise available only to smugglers and the junta’s top brass. The beer can had stood on the table for more than a year.
Someone began to strum a guitar. A chorus started up and the cake was cut. Dinu presided over the celebration with benevolent good humour and there was a great deal of joking and light-heartedness. Jaya remembered one of Rajkumar’s favourite sayings: ‘Nowhere do they have such a gift for laughter as they do in Burma . . .’ Yet it was evident that the laughter here had a special edge, honed upon fears that were never quite absent. It was a greedy kind of merriment, as though everyone wanted to have their fill while they could.
In other parts of the room a number of arguments and discussions were under way. Occasionally Dinu would be appealed to by one group or another. After one such intervention he turned to Jaya, in explanation: They’re arguing about the picture that I was talking about—Weston’s nautilus . . . some of them see themselves as revolutionaries . . . they insist that aesthetic matters have no relevance to our situation . . .’
‘And what was your answer?’
‘I quoted Weston . . . Weston reflecting on Trotsky . . . that new and revolutionary art forms may awaken a people or disturb their complacency or challenge old ideals with constructive prophecies of change . . . It doesn’t matter . . . every week this comes up . . . every week I say the same thing.’
Presently a couple of young men took up a collection and went out to get biryani from a nearby shop. They were back in a few minutes, loaded down with paper packets. Dinu filled a plate and handed it to Jaya: she was surprised by how good the biryani was.
Slowly, as the evening neared its end, everyone grew quieter. A subdued resignation seemed to set in, as though darkness were knocking at the windows, providing a reminder of the constancy of its vigil.
Shortly before nine, Dinu said to Jaya: ‘Where are you staying?’
She told him: it was a small hotel, picked at random.
‘I would ask you to stay here,’ he said. ‘I live alone and you could look after yourself . . . It would be easy . . . But unfortunately the procedure takes a long time.’
‘Procedure for what?’ She was startled.
‘For guests,’ he said apologetically. ‘Don’t forget that you are in Myanmar. Nothing is simple here . . . Every household has a registered list of members . . . Nobody else can spend the night there without permission. I know a woman who after three years of marriage has to apply every week to be included in her husband’s family’s “guest list” . . .’
‘And where does this permission come from?’
‘The Chairman of the Ward Council . . . there’s one in each neighbourhood . . . they can make your life hell . . . everyone hates them . . . mine is especially bad. So, you see, I would ask you to stay, but . . . The police make regular checks, especially at night. You never know when they’re coming . . .’
Dinu gave Jaya a pat on the back: ‘You’d better go now . . . the others will walk you back to your hotel . . . you will have been seen coming here, you may be sure of that . . . Was there a man in the pharmacy next door? There you are . . . If he isn’t there by any chance, wait till he’s seen you going . . . If he doesn’t see you leaving you can be sure that there will soon be a knock on my door. Come back tomorrow . . . early . . . I’ll get some pictures ready. We’ll talk for as long as you want . . . We’ll do nothing but talk . . . Every day that you’re here . . .’
forty-four
Dinu left Malaya shortly after Alison’s death. Following the Japanese occupation, there was turmoil on the rubber estates. Many hundreds of workers left Morningside to join the Indian Independence League and the Indian National Army. Ilongo was one of them, and it was through him that Dinu came to know that Arjun had been one of the first to join Captain Mohun Singh’s INA. The movement gathered such force that Dinu was powerless against it. His own views on the war remained unchanged, however, and after the news of Alison’s death reached Morningside, he decided to cross over clandestinely into Burma.
Dinu eventually left Malaya in a fishing boat. Sailing mainly by night, hopping from island to island, he managed to make his way along the Isthmus of Kra. The boat left him on a beach, a few miles short of Mergui, the southernmost town in Burma. Dinu had hoped to make his way to Rangoon by land, but the Japanese invasion of Burma was now fully under way. The routes to the north were cut off.
Accompanying the Japanese ground forces was a small group of Burmese volunteers—the Burma Independence Army. This group was led by an acquaintance of Dinu’s from Rangoon, the student leader, Aung San. As the Japanese army advanced, there were bloody clashes between the student-led group and some of the peoples of the border area—especially the indigenous Christians, many of whom remained loyal to the British. The border region was thrown into turmoil and there was no question of travelling north. Dinu remained in Mergui for several months. By the time Dinu made his way to Rangoon, it was June 1942 and the city was under Japanese occupation. Dinu went to Kemendine and found the house gutted: the compound had suffered a direct hit. Dinu went to look for Thiha Saw, his old friend. He learnt that Thiha Saw, along with many other leftists, had escaped to India; his family had dispersed into the countryside. Only Thiha Saw’s grandmother was still in Rangoon: she was being looked after by a young relative, a girl by the name of Ma Thin Thin Aye. Thiha Saw’s relatives took Dinu in and gave him shelter; it was from them that Dinu learnt of Neel’s death and of his family’s subsequent departure for Huay Zedi.
North of Rangoon there was still fierce fighting between the Japanese forces and the retreating British army. To travel through the countryside at this time was very nearly an impossibility: all road and rail traffic was strictly controlled, through an elaborate regimen of cards and permits. The Japanese had installed a new government in Rangoon, under the leadership of a Burmese politician, Dr Ba Maw. Aung San and many others from the Burma Independence Army were members of this government—among them several former friends and acquaintances of Dinu’s from Rangoon University. One of them helped him procure a pass that allowed him to travel north.
Dinu arrived at Huay Zedi only to find his family gone and the village almost deserted. He discovered that the sympathies of the people of this region were firmly with the Allies: Raymond was one of many men from Huay Zedi who had been recruited into an Allied partisan group—Force 136.
On receiving word of Dinu’s arrival, Raymond materialised suddenly, to welcome him back. Raymond was no longer the sleepy-eyed student of Dinu’s memory: he was wearing a khaki tunic and carrying a gun. He explained that his father, Doh Say, had urged Rajkumar and Dolly to stay on and had promised to do everything he could to ensure their comfort and safety. But after Neel’s death Manju had become increasingly erratic in her behaviour and, in the end, fearing for her sanity, Rajkumar and Dolly had decided to take her back to India. They had left several months before Dinu’s arrival; he had no hope of catching up with them now. Dinu decided to remain with Doh Say and Raymond, in their camp deep inside the jungle.
In 1944, the Allies launched a counter-invasion of Burma, spearheaded by the Fourteenth Army, under the command of General Slim. Within a few months the Japanese were pushed back from the Indian frontier and by early 1945 they were in headlong retreat. They were
dealt a final blow by General Aung San who dramatically reversed his allegiances: although the Burma Independence Army had entered the country with the aid of the Japanese, they had never been more than reluctant allies for the occupiers. In 1945 General Aung San issued a secret order to his followers to join the drive to push the Japanese out of Burma. After this it was clear that the Japanese occupation was almost at an end.
But the fighting was not over yet. One day in March 1945, Doh Say sent for Dinu; he explained that he had received some worrying news. There had been a great battle at the town of Meiktila, some hundred miles to the north. The Fourteenth Army had won a decisive victory and the Japanese were in precipitate retreat. But a few last diehards from the Indian National Army were still battling on in central Burma, harassing the advancing Allied army. One of these units had strayed across the Sittang and was believed to be advancing in the direction of their camp. Doh Say was concerned that the soldiers might cause trouble for the villagers; he wanted Dinu to seek them out and intercede with them. His hope was that by virtue of his Indian connections, Dinu would be able to persuade them to stay away from their village.
Dinu set off the next morning. Raymond went with him, as a guide.
After a few days’ wait, a meeting was arranged, through the headman of a village. It was held at an abandoned teak camp, deep in the jungle. The camp was an old one, of the kind that Dinu had heard his father describe—with a teakwood tai standing at the centre of a large clearing. This camp had been abandoned for many years, since long before the war. Much of it had been reclaimed by the jungle; the clearing was covered in four-foot-high grass, and many of the oo-sis’ huts had been blown over by wind and rain.
Only the tai was still standing, though its ladder was entwined with vines and parts of its roof had fallen in.
Dinu’s instructions were to wait alone. Raymond led him to the edge of the clearing and then slipped back into the forest. Dinu stood in front of the tai, in a position where he could be observed from a distance. He was dressed in a brown longyi and a homespun, black-and-white Karen tunic. He had stopped shaving after his arrival at Huay Zedi and his beard had greatly altered his appearance. He had a red-and-white cloth tied around his neck and he was carrying a woven shoulder bag, with some food, water and tobacco.
