AMITAV GHOSH THE GLASS PALACE PDF

May 07, Praj rated it liked it During my pre-vegetarian days, I used to find solace in a warm, juicy scrumptious steak n cheese sandwich washed down by a chilled Heineken. Especially, if the gooey cheese was a blend of Munster, Monterey jack and yellow cheddar; the bread not too soggy but aptly moisten by the beef gravy. It is pure bliss. Now, why would someone mess up such a meticulous appetizing combination? Do not ruin the sandwich.

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His name was Rajkumar and he was an Indian, a boy of eleven - not an authority to be relied upon. The noise was unfamiliar and unsettling, a distant booming followed by low, stuttering growls. At times it was like the snapping of dry twigs, sudden and unexpected. And then, abruptly, it would change to a deep rumble, shaking the food-stall and rattling its steaming pot of soup. The stall had only two benches, and they were both packed with people, sitting pressed up against each other.

When the first booms reached the stall there was a silence, followed by a flurry of questions and whispered answers. People looked around in bewilderment: What is it? Ba le? What can it be? Heading in this direction. He was standing in the center of the stall, holding a pile of chipped ceramic bowls. He was grinning a little sheepishly, as though embarrassed to parade his precocious knowingness. His name meant Prince, but he was anything but princely in appearance, with his oil-splashed vest, his untidily knotted longyi and his bare feet with their thick slippers of callused skin.

When people asked how old he was he said fifteen, or sometimes eighteen or nineteen, for it gave him a sense of strength and power to be able to exaggerate so wildly, to pass himself off as grown and strong, in body and judgment, when he was, in fact, not much more than a child.

But he could have said he was twenty and people would still have believed him, for he was a big, burly boy, taller and broader in the shoulder than many men. And because he was very dark it was hard to tell that his chin was as smooth as the palms of his hands, innocent of all but the faintest trace of fuzz. His boat - the sampan on which he worked as a helper and errand-boy - had been found to need repairs after sailing up the Irrawaddy from the Bay of Bengal. The boatowner had taken fright on being told that the work might take as long as a month, possibly even longer.

Rajkumar was told to walk to the city, a couple of miles inland. At a bazaar, opposite the west wall of the fort, he was to ask for a woman called Ma Cho. She was half-Indian and she ran a small food-stall; she might have some work for him. And so it happened that at the age of eleven, walking into the city of Mandalay, Rajkumar saw, for the first time, a straight road.

By the sides of the road there were bamboo-walled shacks and palm-thatched shanties, pats of dung and piles of refuse. Its lines led the eye right through the city, past the bright red walls of the fort to the distant pagodas of Mandalay Hill, shining like a string of white bells upon the slope. For his age, Rajkumar was well travelled.

The boat he worked on was a coastal craft that generally kept to open waters, plying the long length of shore that joined Burma to Bengal. Rajkumar had been to Chittagong and Bassein and any number of towns and villages in between. But in all his travels he had never come across thoroughfares like those in Mandalay. He was accustomed to lanes and alleys that curled endlessly around themselves so that you could never see beyond the next curve.

Here was something new: a road that followed a straight, unvarying course, bringing the horizon right into the middle of habitation. The citadel was a miracle to behold, with its mile-long walls and its immense moat. The crenellated ramparts were almost three storeys high, but of a soaring lightness, red in color, and topped by ornamented gateways with seven-tiered roofs.

Long straight roads radiated outwards from the walls, forming a neat geometrical grid. So intriguing was the ordered pattern of these streets that Rajkumar wandered far afield, exploring. She was in her mid-thirties, more Burmese than Indian in appearance. She was busy frying vegetables, squinting at the smoking oil from the shelter of an upthrust arm.

She glared at Rajkumar suspiciously. She began to shout at the top of her voice, with her eyes closed: "What do you think - I have jobs under my armpits, to pluck out and hand to you?

Last week a boy ran away with two of my pots. Rajkumar understood that this outburst was not aimed directly at him: that it had more to do with the dust, the splattering oil, and the price of vegetables than with his own presence or with anything he had said. He lowered his eyes and stood there stoically, kicking the dust until she was done.

She paused, panting, and looked him over. They died.

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Amitav Ghosh

He grew up in India, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. He then won the Inlaks Foundation scholarship to complete a D. They have two children, Lila and Nayan. He has also been a visiting professor at the English department of Harvard University since

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The Glass Palace

Summary[ edit ] Part One - Mandalay[ edit ] The novel starts with an year-old boy called Rajkumar running through the city of Mandalay to find a woman called Ma Cho. He is the last surviving member of his family and comes to Burma from India with a bright entrepreneurial spirit and a hunger for success. However, the entire Royal Family and their entourage are quickly extradited by the British and forced into house arrest thousands of miles away on the West coast of India. King Thibaw is one of the few real characters in the novel. Events conspire to weave Outram House the name of the residence the British provide to house the family and what remains of their assistants more firmly into the life of Ratnagiri than had been expected.

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His name was Rajkumar and he was an Indian, a boy of eleven - not an authority to be relied upon. The noise was unfamiliar and unsettling, a distant booming followed by low, stuttering growls. At times it was like the snapping of dry twigs, sudden and unexpected. And then, abruptly, it would change to a deep rumble, shaking the food-stall and rattling its steaming pot of soup. The stall had only two benches, and they were both packed with people, sitting pressed up against each other. When the first booms reached the stall there was a silence, followed by a flurry of questions and whispered answers. People looked around in bewilderment: What is it?

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