The Glass Palace (21 page)

Rajkumar went back to the same district that he had visited with Baburao. He hired an ox-cart at the same market and employed the same lathiyals. He succeeded in indenturing fifty-five men and three women. On the way back to Calcutta,
mindful of what had happened the last time, he sat up all night in his hired country boat, keeping watch over his recruits. Sure enough, one night, he spotted a man trying to slip silently overboard. Rajkumar was bigger and more alert than Baburao and had no need to jump in. He pulled the man out of the water by his hair and held him dangling in front of the others. He succeeded in bringing the whole group intact to Yenangyaung, and there he sold their indenture contracts to a local boss. The money was enough to pay off Saya John's loan.

Three years passed before Doh Say found a promising timberyard. By that time Rajkumar had made eight more trips to India. His accumulated savings now amounted to almost two-thirds of the asking price of the yard. Saya John lent him the rest.

The yard was in Rangoon, off Lower Kemendine Road. There were many sawmills in the area, and the air was always filled with the fragrance of sawdust. There was a Hindu cremation ground nearby, in Sanchaung, and sometimes, when the wind turned, clouds of ash would rise in circles above the funeral pyres. A brick wall ran most of the way round the compound, and at the back there was a narrow jetty, sticking like a tongue into the Rangoon river. At low tide the riverbank expanded into a vast shelf of cottony mud. In the front of the yard there were two small cabins, built of cast-off lumber and bamboo thatch. Rajkumar moved into the smaller of the two; the other went to Doh Say, Naw Da and their children, of whom there were now four.

On his first visit to the yard, Saya John ate a meal in the cabin where Doh Say and Naw Da lived. Saya John had not known that Doh Say was to be a partner in Rajkumar's business, but he was not particularly surprised to find that this was so. Rajkumar had always possessed a dogged kind of consistency—this was a quality quite different from loyalty,
but no less enduring. The same shadows seemed to recur over and over again in his life, just as they did on puppet screens.

The following year Saya John went into semi-retirement and moved from Mandalay to Rangoon. The sale of his firm had made him a wealthy man. He set up a small office in Merchant Street, and bought a flat on Blackburn Lane. He bought a lot of furniture for his flat, hoping that his son, Matthew, would soon come home. But the boy was farther away than ever—a relative had taken him to San Francisco and he had written to say that he was studying in a Catholic seminary. There was no telling when he'd come back.

With time on his hands, Saya John began to take long walks, to air his pet birds. Rajkumar's timberyard was just a half-hour's stroll from his home and it became a ritual with him to stop by every morning, with a birdcage in his hand and a newspaper under his arm.

One morning he arrived to find Rajkumar waiting at the gate, hopping with impatience. ‘You're late today, Saya.'

‘Late? For what?'

‘Late with your paper, Saya.' Rajkumar snatched the
Rangoon Gazette
out of Saya John's hands. ‘Doh Say heard on the docks that an Indian railway company was going to put out a notice, asking for tenders for the supply of sleepers.'

‘Tenders for the supply of sleepers!' The mynah inside Saya John's birdcage chirruped in imitation of its owner's chortling laugh. ‘And what of it, Rajkumar? A contract with a railway company would mean the shipping of thousands of tons of teak. To supply timber on that scale you would need teams of oo-sis, pe-sis, raftsmen, agents, Assistants. All you have is Doh Say and one elephant. How do you think you would fulfil this contract?'

‘This railway company is small and new, Saya, and it needs cheap supplies. I don't have to start by acquiring the timber: I'll start with the contract. Once I have it, the timber will follow automatically. You will see. There are dozens of yards here that are overstocked. Once they see that I'm offering down payments they'll all come to me.'

‘And where will you get the money to make these down payments?'

‘Why, Saya,' Rajkumar smiled, a little sheepishly, ‘from you, of course. Why would I offer such an opportunity to anyone else?'

‘But consider the risk, Rajkumar. The big English companies could destroy you, make you a laughing stock in Rangoon. You could be driven out of business.'

‘But, Saya, look at what I have here now.' Rajkumar gestured at his rickety cabin and his half-empty yard. ‘Saya, this is no better than a roadside teashop—I might as well still be working for Ma Cho. If I'm ever going to make this business grow, I'll have to take a few risks.'

‘Think, Rajkumar, think. You're just starting out. You have no idea of how these deals are struck in Rangoon. All the big people here know each other. They go to the same clubs, eat at the same restaurants, put money on each other's horses . . .'

‘It's not just the big people who always know everything, Saya,' Rajkumar said. ‘If I could find out exactly how much the other companies are going to quote, then I might be able to put in a winning bid.'

‘And how would you find out?'

‘I don't know, Saya. But I think I have a way. We'll see.'

‘But, Rajkumar, you can't even read English: how do you think you're going to make this bid?'

Rajkumar grinned. ‘It's true that I can't read English, Saya, but I've learnt to speak it. And why do I need to read when you can do it for me? Saya?'

And so it fell to Saya John to deal with the paperwork for the bid. It was to him that Rajkumar went with the letter the company sent back.

Breaking open the florid seal, Saya John gave voice to an incredulous shout. ‘Rajkumar! You've been asked to meet with the directors of the Chota-Nagpur Railway Company next week. They are coming to Burma to scrutinise the bids. You are to go to the offices of the Chartered Bank on the Strand at ten o'clock on Thursday.'

Saya John clicked his tongue incredulously as he looked up from the crackling sheet of paper in his hands. ‘Rajkumar, I really never thought you would get this far.'

‘I told you, Saya.' Rajkumar smiled. ‘I found out what the other companies were offering and I made a better bid.'

‘And how did you find out?'

Rajkumar smiled. ‘That will be my secret, Saya.'

‘Your secret isn't going to be of any help to you now. It's the meeting that will decide everything. That's what you've got to think about.' Saya John ran his eyes critically over Rajkumar's green longyi and scuffed pinni vest. ‘For example: what are you going to wear? The Chartered Bank won't even let you past its doors if you're dressed like that.'

The next day Saya John came to the timberyard with a dapper young man. ‘This is U Ba Kyaw,' he said to Rajkumar. ‘He was a valet to an English planter in Maymyo. He can teach you many things, like how to eat at a European table with a knife and fork. Buy exactly what he says and do exactly as he tells you.'

On the morning of the meeting Saya John arrived at the timberyard in a hired coach, dressed in his best black suit and equipped with a fine malacca cane and a new hat. He stepped into Rajkumar's cabin to find him already clothed in his new trousers and shirt, standing rigidly still while U Ba Kyaw worked on his tie.

When Rajkumar's costuming had been completed, Saya John looked him over and decided that there was nothing to fault in his appearance: his suit was appropriately plain and black, and his tie neatly tied, the collar turned to just the right angle. It was true that his clothes were not quite as well tailored as they would have been in Singapore or Hong Kong, but for Rangoon they were more than adequate. In any event, no matter how costly Rajkumar's clothes or how well-fitting, it was a certainty that he would never be mistaken for a man who'd been born to wealth or office. There was a roughness to his face that was a surety against that.

‘I'm coming with you, Rajkumar,' Saya John said. ‘Just to bring you luck.'

At the Chartered Bank Saya John and Rajkumar were shown into an anteroom by a cashier, an Indian. Saya John saw to his surprise that Rajkumar was already acquainted with this man—D.P. Roy was his name. ‘Everything is arranged,' Mr Roy said, in an undertone. ‘The directors are in the boardroom now. They will call for you soon.'

The cashier left and they were on their own. The room was dark and cavernous, and its deep leather chairs smelt of cigar smoke. After a long wait a turbaned bearer came in to summon Rajkumar. Saya John rose to his feet too, with the intention of uttering a few words of encouragement and reassurance. But just as he was about to speak he stopped, his eyes resting on Rajkumar. It struck him that his one-time luga-lei was now so sure of himself, so confident, that there was nothing he could say that would not be superfluous. Saya John moved back a little, withdrawing a pace or two to observe him better. Suddenly, from that altered angle of vision he had the impression that he was looking at someone he had never seen before, a reinvented being, formidably imposing and of commanding presence. In that instant there flashed before Saya John's eyes a clear vision of that Mandalay morning when he had gone racing down an alley to rescue Rajkumar— he saw him again as a boy, an abandoned kalaa, a rags-clad Indian who had strayed too far from home. Already then, the boy had lived a lifetime, and from the look of him now it was clear that he was embarking on several more.

Then Rajkumar did something he had never done before. Just as he was about to walk through the door, he stooped to touch Saya John's feet, in the Indian way.

‘Give me your blessings, Saya.'

Saya John turned his head to hide the tears that had welled into his eyes. ‘That which a man takes for himself no one can deny him. The contract will be yours, Rajkumar. I was wrong to doubt it.'

eleven

T
he post came twice a week and was delivered directly to the Collector's office in the Cutchery. Uma's letters were usually picked out by the Collector and sent up to the Residency with a peon. Her mail was mostly from her parents but once or twice each month there was also a book or a magazine, posted by a Calcutta bookshop.

On maildays Uma spent hours daydreaming by the peepul tree. If she happened to have one of her official appointments she would be snappish and impatient, eager to get back to her letters. She'd think of her mother, at home in Calcutta, writing in bed, worrying about her inkwell and spills on the sheets.

One mailday morning the Collector's peon delivered a letter with an unusual postmark. The Collector had scrawled a note on the envelope: ‘From Rangoon.' Uma turned the envelope over and saw her uncle's name on the back, D.P. Roy. She was surprised: it was years since she'd last heard from him. But after her marriage she'd grown accustomed to receiving letters from long-unseen relatives: the Collector wielded a lot of influence; he was a man who could get things done. She surmised that her uncle needed something.

She took the letter down to the peepul tree. Just as she'd expected, her uncle had written to ask a favour, on behalf of a friend—a Rajkumar Raha who was on his way to Bombay on business. The man had expressed a desire to come down to
Ratnagiri for a quick visit. He was keen to pay his respects to the former King and Queen.

‘I would be very grateful, Uma, if your husband could arrange for Rajkumar-babu to call on the former King. Having somehow learnt of my connection with the Collector, he expressly sought me out to request my help in this matter. I might add that I am indebted to Rajkumar-babu for several good turns—indeed many members of our Bengali community in Rangoon have benefited from his assistance in one way or another.'

Rajkumar-babu, the letter continued, had lived in Rangoon many years but for much of that time he had had no contact with the other Bengalis of the city. Then suddenly one morning, he had dropped down like a hailstone from the sky, right into the Durga temple on Spark Street, the gathering-place of the city's Hindu Bengalis. He had come perfectly costumed for the occasion, in a starched white dhoti and a gold-buttoned
punjabi.
To ease his entry he had taken the precaution of bringing along a substantial donation for the
purohit.