The Golden Land (3 page)

‘I heard that your magazine articles were very well received in London along with your excellent photographs.'

‘Yes. That work really interested me. Can't say the same about being a London newspaper hack though. But what about you? How have you been all these years?'

‘Still happily married to Moe,' said Mr Watt, referring to his Burmese wife. ‘I don't think we'll ever get back to the old country. Both of us would find the cold unbearable.'

Andrew concurred, knowing that it was probably the frosty reception that Mrs Watt would receive in Scotland, rather than the weather, that kept the bookshop owner anchored in Rangoon. As Vinay returned to the room with the tea, Andrew asked, ‘And your business is doing well?'

‘Well enough. What are your plans?'

‘I'm planning to be a wanderer again, trusting in the goodness and generosity of others, specifically several London magazines. But instead of an alms bowl, I will carry a camera and a notebook,' Andrew said smiling. ‘But I'm not just looking for travellers' tales to send to these publications. I'm trying to get beneath the surface of this country. In Britain there's a lot of ignorance about Burma and its people.'

The bookshop owner nodded gravely. ‘Yes, the British really have very little idea what is happening to their empire in the east. Changes are afoot. There are anti-British rumblings, even here in Burma. The Burmese are patient people. But for how long? The young ones are becoming restless. There has been a rebellion at the university.'

‘I can't help feeling that our country exploits Burma,' said Andrew, gently.

‘I may be from Scotland, but I have thrown my lot in with the Burmese. I have begun to despise the arrogance of our soldiers and civil servants who consider themselves so superior to the people they are ruling, and about whom they know very little. They like to play lord and master in Burma, when the same people would have very little social standing at home. Sometimes I am ashamed to say that I'm British,' Mr Watt burst out.

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. His attention was then caught by several beautiful photographs hanging on one of the walls. One was of Burma's most famous pagoda, the Shwedagon. The beautiful monument with its golden dome and jewelled spires was Rangoon's pre-eminent landmark – as spectacular as any edifice in India or Istanbul. Not only the people of Burma but also foreigners came to pay their respects there. Another photograph was of George V. Next to it was a formal portrait of the late King Thibaw and Queen Supayalat taken in a lavish throne room. The final photograph was of a distant monastery, somewhere near a lake, whose golden bell-shaped stupa was surrounded by misty mountains.

‘This one is very fine,' said Andrew, taking the picture down from the wall to look at it more closely.

‘Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it? I'm not surprised that you noticed it. It was taken by Philip Klier,' said Mr Watt. ‘He also took the one of the old royal family.'

‘Ah, yes.' Andrew studied the stoic faces of the royal family, their frozen expressions waiting for the time exposure on the camera to be completed. ‘He was an excellent photographer. Tell me, Mr Watt, do you know what happened to the royal family after they were banished to India? I remember hearing some stories but maybe they were all rumours.'

‘Poor Thibaw. Rather an ignominious end being sent into exile so far away. I hear they led a lonely existence. You know that the queen came back to Burma a few years ago, after the king died, although she was never allowed to return to Mandalay.' Mr Watt took the photograph from Andrew and put it back on the wall. ‘She died last year. At least she was given a suitable funeral in Rangoon. She's buried at the Shwedagon pagoda.'

‘And his daughters? What happened to them?' asked Andrew.

‘One of them married a commoner, which upset the king and queen. They live in the hills – Darjeeling, I think. The other princesses also had to make their own way, especially after the family money and jewels ran out.'

‘Did you ever meet the king and queen?' Andrew nodded at the photograph.

Mr Watt peered at Andrew over the top of his spectacles. ‘I'm not that old. The king was deposed more than forty years ago. Though I have been in Burma a long time.'

‘Which is why you know so much about Burmese life and culture and history,' said Andrew.

‘I know because I want to find out about it, unlike so many of our countrymen who are closed to all ideas except their own,' Mr Watt said. ‘When I first came to Burma I was part of the Indian civil service but when I was working in Mandalay I fell in love with a Burmese girl. The choice came down to my beautiful Moe or the ICS. And here I am, still in Burma and still learning about this country and about Buddhism, and still in love with my wife. My life is simple and I like it that way.'

Mr Watt gestured at the photo of the royal family. ‘For them it was difficult to change their ways. They really didn't adjust, which I suppose was understandable. The king always hoped to return, however that was not to be. One of his half sisters lives near here although her life is far from what it used to be.'

‘I didn't realise that. Do you know her?' Andrew asked.

The bookshop owner picked up several books and placed them back on a shelf. ‘Yes, I know Princess Tipi Si. She came back to Burma with the old queen. Now she comes in here occasionally to borrow books. She lives very simply. Being Buddhist, she accepts her different circumstances, perhaps not with grace, but with fortitude.'

‘Did she never marry?'

‘Oh, yes, when she lived in India. She's had a colourful life! I haven't seen her in person for a while; she sends her retainer in for books. I rather miss our conversations, although she's challenging company,' he added with a raised eyebrow and small smile.

‘I'd very much like to meet her. Do you think she'd see me?' asked Andrew. ‘It would make a great story for one of my magazines, especially if she would let me take her photograph. Do you think she would agree? I would pay her a sitting fee, of course.'

‘Why are you interested in her? That is the old Burma. Burma has changed. The monarchy is gone. No-one misses the excesses of the royal dynasties.'

‘I believe people always like to read about interesting lives. Lives of people who were once powerful, but are now very different.' Andrew was going to add that perhaps people felt better about their own circumstances when they could read about another's misfortune, but instead he said, ‘I'd like to know about the last years in exile and the old queen's final years in Rangoon. It seems very few people know about her and I'm sure my English readers would enjoy reading about her.'

‘I'll ask next time I see Tipi Si, but she may not agree,' said Mr Watt. ‘Where are you putting up while you're here?'

‘The Strand Hotel,' said Andrew. ‘A bit of an indulgence until I decide where I'm going next. Or you can leave a message for me at Bourne and Shepherd here in Rangoon.'

‘The photographic studio. I know them.'

‘I will be doing occasional work for them while I'm here.'

Mr Watt nodded. ‘You mean photographing those whites-only functions? I'm pleased that you're planning to get out of Rangoon. For those who wish to see beneath the golden stupas, there are hidden treasures in Burma.'

Andrew wasn't sure exactly what was meant by this oblique comment, but he was excited by the adventures that might lie ahead. He thanked Mr Watt, promising to call by again, and bought a well-thumbed novel by Somerset Maugham before he left the shop.

Andrew walked around Fytche Square where Queen Victoria's statue gazed severely at the passersby, and then strolled down towards the busy waterfront. He decided that he needed a pot of English tea and turned under the portico of the Strand Hotel.

He sat at a small rattan table and glanced through the novel he'd bought but he was really thinking about what Mr Watt had said about the exiled princess. He tried to imagine what her life had been like and what it must be like now. She sounded as exotic as a character in one of Maugham's novels. Andrew was sure that if he had the chance to interview her, he'd have no difficulty in selling his pictures along with a brief story to a London magazine.

So he was pleased and delighted when, a few days later, a note was handed to him by the tall and burly Sikh hotel doorman.

Tipi Si has agreed to see you. Here's the address
, wrote Mr Watt.
She is a surprising lady. Quite a character. She might expect something in return
.

Andrew settled himself into a trishaw, steadying his camera box beside him on the seat as a wiry driver pedalled past crowded markets, busy tea shops, noodle stalls and a jumble of leaning shophouses. They made their way through narrow lanes interspersed by grander colonial streets, which were filled with business houses. The trishaw rattled over cobblestone squares, and Andrew caught glimpses of some of the city's pagodas and temples, all of which were overshadowed by the magnificence of the Shwedagon Pagoda.

The driver turned down University Avenue and then into a street lined with mature trees and large residences that had been built for the British years earlier. The street also contained the homes of wealthy Indian, Chinese, Burmese and European businessmen. The houses of former ambassadors and employees of the deposed royal family sat among rambling gardens overlooking Inya Lake.

Andrew was taken aback by all these grand houses and for a moment he thought Mr Watt must have been mistaken in describing the reduced circumstances of the princess. But then the driver stopped outside one of the mansions and pointed to a small house beside it, no more than a couple of rooms, set amid an overgrown garden.

Carrying his camera equipment, Andrew opened the gate and walked beneath dank, overgrown trees and across the decaying lawn covered by swarms of mosquitoes. In the distance he glimpsed the white portico of the big house. A second look at the huge home gave him the impression that it was unoccupied. Shutters, their paint peeling, leaned crookedly at some of the upstairs windows. There were moss and leaves on the steps, and birds had nested under the guttering, in which luxuriant grass had sprouted. The small house, which had presumably belonged to the gatekeeper, looked equally dishevelled.

Andrew knocked on the door of the small house and it seemed an interminable length of time before he finally heard shuffling footsteps. The door was opened by a tall young man, dressed in a longyi and a formal white shirt. Andrew guessed from his light skin that he was a Shan from the northern hill country. The boy's dark eyes were friendly but he looked surprised to see Andrew.

In halting Burmese, Andrew said, ‘Good afternoon. I am Andrew Hancock. I am here to see Princess Tipi Si. Mr Watt arranged it.'

The young man nodded and replied in careful English, ‘Yes. The princess is expecting you to visit. Please come in.' He held the door open as Andrew removed his shoes, slung his camera box over his shoulder and entered the shadowy house. Andrew assumed that the man he was following was not just a house boy, for he was obviously educated and had a poised air about him rather than the acquiescent shyness customary of servants.

The house was small, though it had high ceilings and, being bereft of furniture, seemed bigger than it was. It smelled musty, looked dusty and felt forlorn. When they stepped into the reception room, Andrew took in the bare tiled floor and a slowly turning ceiling fan. The room contained little furniture, just two chairs, a low table, a carved mirror and a wooden screen that sectioned off a corner. Through the rear door Andrew could see a lean-to, which was clearly the cooking area, next to the bath house. In the reception room, sitting on some large embroidered cushions, sat an elderly Burmese woman.

She sat straight backed, her hands folded in her lap, her chin lifted, her gaze directed at Andrew although she made no effort to greet him by nod or gesture. She was dressed in a silk longyi and a tightly fitted, long-sleeved lavender silk blouse. Her only adornment was an elaborate hair comb that glittered in her smoothly coiled but faded black hair.

Andrew bowed his head slightly but before he could speak the princess finally acknowledged his presence.

‘Good afternoon. Mr Watt informed me that you would like to meet me. As he is an old acquaintance, I agreed.' Her English was accented and formal.

‘Thank you. I am honoured.'

‘There is no need to be. I am no longer a royal princess. Please, sit down.'

She waved towards the other chair and when Andrew sat down, she adjusted her position slightly so she could face him squarely. Now that Andrew could see the princess more clearly, he was impressed by how regal she looked with her cool, imperious expression. Her skin had the soft creases of overripe fruit, but her dark eyes glittered keenly as she looked at the man before her. She did not seem embarrassed or worried about her impoverished circumstances.

‘What do you wish to speak to me about?'

‘Your story intrigues me. Mr Watt may have explained that I write stories and take photographs of interesting places and people in the east, which I sell to English magazines. When Mr Watt told me about you, I wondered if you would allow me to write a magazine article about your life.'

‘I am no longer interesting, Mr Hancock.'

Andrew smiled politely. ‘I don't think that is true. May I ask in what way were you related to the late king?'

‘I am, or rather was, his half sister. We had the same father, but we had different mothers.'

‘Is that why you went with him to India?'

‘Yes, when all the royal family were forced into exile.'

‘That must have been difficult for you.'

‘For the king and his chief queen, yes. I was more bored than anything. Ratnagiri was a backwater. The king quickly became involved in the construction of his new palace, which did not interest me, so I disguised myself as a servant and wandered the city. There I discovered there were Indians who liked the British no more than I did. I went to meetings to hear them speak. I became very involved with their plans to rid India of British rule, for I could not respect the British after their treatment of my family.' She paused and added accusingly, ‘And my feelings against them have multiplied.'