The Setting Sun (34 page)

The long drive, change in climate and recent days of intense emotion have sapped me. I decide to stay holed up for the rest of the day, chilling and reading Ghosh’s
The Glass Palace
. It’s a joy to shower and then relax into a well-written novel which deals with the last half-century of the Raj. I’m surprised by what I read. Like me, Ghosh came here to Ratnagiri to do research. Perhaps he stayed at this very hotel, given its proximity to King Thibaw’s palace. As Briha intimated, the early parts of the text reconstruct the fate of the exiled Burmese royal family in Ratnagiri at the turn of the twentieth century. Exile seems to have been the Raj’s favourite punishment for royal opponents. But Thibaw’s story is darker even than those of Pratapsinh of Satara or Chimasaheb of Kolhapur.

At his accession, Burma was the richest country in Asia; as his reign wore on, Western merchants cast increasingly covetous eyes on its resources, notably teak and mahogany. The
king granted a concession to a British company to log 30,000 trees a year. When he discovered it was extracting more than twice that number, he levied a fine. The company officials complained to the Indian authorities, which launched a military expedition. Thibaw was punished not only by the annexation of his kingdom but with removal thousands of miles away, to this far side of the Indian land mass. Even when the royal couple died, the British wouldn’t allow repatriation of their bodies, in case they became a focus of unrest. Apparently the tombs stand forlorn somewhere in town. It’s a sad, cruel story, Imperialism in the raw again, vividly realised in this semi-fictional form.

After a good night’s sleep, I head for the local police station. It’s quite different to the one in Satara, a low, cream rectangular building in bungalow style. In the centre of the moth-eaten lawn is an old cannon, painted blue, and along its borders are crimson bougainvillea bushes and dwarf fan palms. In the soupy coastal air, the atmosphere’s altogether sleepier, too. Although it’s already nine o’clock, neither the DSP nor his deputy has arrived for work. I wander outside for half an hour, trying to get a feel for this part of town. Opposite the station is a deserted murram parade ground, much like those I’ve seen before. But it’s too hot and humid to probe further away than the nearby dual carriageway which thrusts down into the heart of Ratnagiri. However, not even its fumes can entirely subdue the sickly, fishy smell which, a helpful passer-by explains, emanates from the town’s canneries, its main industry. Below, modern Ratnagiri spreads along the shore, an occasional minaret slicing through the humid haze. My chance companion tells me that nearly half the population’s Muslim, very unusual in southern Maharashtra.

By the time I get back to the station, my quarry’s been sighted and I’m shown in to Deputy Superintendent Athanaker’s
office. Like his colleagues in Satara, he’s fascinated by my photos of Bill in India and delighted to learn that I’m the son of the last British IP officer in charge here. Bill’s tenure isn’t recorded on the name boards, however. Unlike in Satara, here they go back only to Independence. Why the difference? Through the window, I see people rise suddenly from seats on the veranda and salute. The DSP’s arrived, followed by several men in white and blue uniforms. Athanakar leaves the office for a moment.

‘Mr Indore will be pleased to see you,’ he announces on his return.

It feels like a council of war is taking place in Bill’s old office, painted a satin cream which looks slimy under the neon strip lighting. An ugly air-con unit hisses in one corner. Athanakar introduces me, hands over my card and tells Indore why I’m here. The DSP’s about fifty, dark jowly complexion, flashing gold tooth and dark stains under the arms of his uniform shirt. I shake everyone’s hand and am asked to wait at the back of the room, where tea’s brought to me. The visitors speak animatedly, often interrupting each other. The conversation switches between English and Marathi, or perhaps Hindi, and I gather the visitors are from Customs and Excise and the Coastguard.

‘We’re discussing maritime defence in the light of the Mumbai terror,’ Indore explains when the meeting breaks up. ‘Explosives used in previous attacks during the 1990s came through Ratnagiri, and we’re investigating whether the same may have happened this time.’

It’s hard to imagine such a sleepy-seeming place being a nerve centre of terrorist planning. I mention the wartime arrangements for coastal defence against the Japanese which I came across in the SIB archives.

‘I should like to see those files,’ Indore responds thoughtfully. ‘We’re in the process of reorganising our arrangements now. Perhaps we can learn something from the British,’ he
adds sincerely. He asks about Bill’s time in Ratnagiri and I explain my mission.

‘I wondered if I could consult copies of his weekly confidential reports and the station Part IVs?’

After some consideration, Indore shakes his head. ‘Part IVs, OK. But not the others, even if we can find them. Confidential, as the name says.’

‘I saw them at Satara,’ I plead disingenuously.

He looks shocked. ‘At Satara? But that is most irregular.’

I flash my most winning smile. ‘I’ve come all the way from London.’

He reflects a moment. ‘Very well,’ he nods, ‘please come back the day after tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Most kind,’ I respond as I get up. ‘Also, any chance you could find some constables from that time?’

He agrees to make inquiries, though he doesn’t hold out great hopes. ‘What are your immediate plans in Ratnagiri?’

‘First I thought I’d try to find out where my father lived.’

Indore grins amiably. ‘That’s easy. It’s my house now. Further along this road. Please to look around the grounds. But you can’t go in. My wife and daughter are at home. Shall I send someone with you?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

Indore barks into an intercom.

‘You know the history of Ratnagiri? About Thibaw?’

I nod. ‘I thought I might visit his palace this afternoon. It’s round the corner from my hotel.’

‘The DSP’s house was where the king stayed when he first came here.’

I’m delighted by the coincidence. A constable knocks and enters, saluting smartly.

‘He will take you.’

It’s not quite what Satara laid on, but I’m grateful nonetheless. The officer takes me into the yard and summons me onto the back of a large motorbike. He doesn’t bother with a
helmet, or think to offer me one, and soon we’re racing along the narrow road away from the police station. I cling anxiously to his waist, trying to remember whether I’m supposed to lean into, or away from, bends. I swear his knee brushes the tarmac as we tear round a last sharp curve and into a long drive shaded by mangoes and palms. At last a speed bump forces my escort to slow and we skid to a stop as a sentry walks out of his hut. So this is where Bill spent his final months in India. It’s calm and quiet behind the stone perimeter wall, the last stretch of drive to the house lined with tubs of generously flowering oleander and hibiscus. What a relief this must have been after the aggravations of Satara and Ahmedabad. We dismount and I wander off to look around.

If not exactly fit for a king, it seems more than adequate for a DSP: another large, red-tiled bungalow built into the shallow fall of the hillside. The sloping grounds are bare now, except for a few enormous tamarinds and peepuls, with glossy heart-shaped leaves. Through them I glimpse downtown Ratnagiri and patches of sapphire sea. Easy to imagine Bill taking tiffin and lime-juice soda on the terrace, where passion-fruit smothers a rickety pergola. Perhaps in those traffic-free days he could even hear the waves at night, as he tried to decide whether to stay on in India after Independence.

I’m hoping the DSP’s wife will open a window and invite me in for a cool drink. But the windows stare back blankly. Since I can’t see indoors, I don’t linger, and ask to be dropped back at the hotel. At a loss what to do until Thibaw’s palace opens, I settle on tackling the postcards I’ve accumulated. If I don’t hurry up, I’ll beat them back home. The post office isn’t far, a lovely colonial building in the same style as the police station and Bill’s quarters, with deep projecting eaves. When I’m done, I notice the large modern building opposite. Someone tells me it’s the Tilak Memorial Library, partly endowed by his family; and that it has one of the best reference sections outside Mumbai and Pune. Remembering the
formative influence of Tilak on Lad and Nayakwadi, I wander over.

It’s high-ceilinged and cool, with elegant furniture and few readers. The librarian registers me, tells me a little about the history of the institution and strongly recommends a visit to Tilak’s house in the centre of town. Happily, he suggests I consult the
Bombay Gazette
to get a feel for the situation in Ratnagiri when Bill was there. More luck. British bureaucracy was nothing if not self-reflexive. There are hundreds of tomes in gold-brown bindings, six or seven massive volumes for each year. Every administrative directive is recorded, it seems, from bannings of major political organisations to regulation of
tonga
fares. Everything’s so clearly tabulated, I can navigate easily. I see orders for the arrest of members of the Parallel Government, including Naganath Nayakwadi. I also find the proclamation of the award of Bill’s Indian Police Medal. The date, 16 June 1945, suggests it must indeed have been for ‘meritorious service’ in Satara, which he left weeks earlier. Every posting and transfer in the entire civil administration seems to be recorded here. But I can find no mention of Bill’s secondment to Sindh. Where on earth did Professor Bhosle get his information?

A couple of things strike me as I flick through the pages. First, the British authorities seem to have consistently identified Muslims as neutral in their struggles with mainstream Indian nationalism, at least in Bombay Province. The collective fines imposed on villages sheltering dissidents consistently exempt them, as well as Christians and members of ‘the backward classes’. I suddenly realise that I’ve met no Muslims amongst all the police officers encountered on my trip. Do the roots of contemporary discrimination against them in Indian public life go back to their perceived role as favourites of the British? I also wonder whether it was here, in religiously mixed Ratnagiri, that Bill developed his penchant for Muslim employees in Africa: Hamisi Sekana, his chief game
scout, Daoudi and Salim Salendwa who accompanied us on the Ugalla River safari and, above all, my beloved childhood minder, Kimwaga Hamisi Farahani.

Second is how imperturbably the juggernaut of the Raj continued, up to the very end. In early August 1947, for example, one district magistrate is ‘pleased to lift the current prohibitions on processions and the firing of fireworks’ for 14–15 August, as if after Independence Day everything will simply revert to the status quo. The order could come straight out of a Kipling satire of imperial bureaucracy. Ratnagiri seems to have been largely calm during the six months of Bill’s jurisdiction. There are occasional outbursts of communalist feeling, leading to bans on gatherings over a certain size. But most administrative directives relate to mundane matters such as cloth rationing, prices of essential foodstuffs and traffic control. I get the sense that Bill might even have felt bored here. After the turbulence of Satara and Kolhapur, I wonder if I won’t soon feel becalmed myself in this dozy place. Still, it’s only for a couple of days, and perhaps there’ll be the chance of some swimming.

After a late lunch I get ready to visit Thibaw’s palace, where the king moved from Bill’s cottage. As I leave the hotel, I’m hailed by a young man leaning against a bright red scooter. He has a sallow moon-face, wide-set eyes and, almost unprecedented amongst the men I’ve seen so far, no moustache.

‘Excuse me, sir, two minutes?’

‘Yes?’

‘I am studying Hospitality BA and need to practise my English. Where are you going just now, sir?’

‘To Thibaw’s palace.’

‘I will take you, sir. Perhaps we can talk together? My name’s Keitan. But also Ronny, yo.’

I’m confused, but it seems more than a fair exchange. To my relief, Keitan – as I settle on calling him – has two helmets, and
we’re soon chuntering along a road with magnificent views across Ratnagiri Bay. Over his shoulder, my new acquaintance tells me a little about himself. He’s the only son of Brahmin parents and his dearest wish is to get work overseas. Can I possibly help? When I tell him I’m only an academic, so my capacities in that regard are minimal, he gives a resigned shrug.