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‘Do you not see, woman? Do you not see that if Veraswami is disgraced I shall be elected to the
Club myself?’
The effect of it was crushing. There was not another word of argument on Ma Kin’s part. The
magnificence of U Po Kyin’s project had struck her dumb.
And not without reason, for all the achievements of U Po Kyin’s life were as nothing beside this. It
is a real triumph–it would be doubly so in Kyauktada–for an official of the lower ranks to worm his
way into the European Club. The European Club, that remote, mysterious temple, that holy of holies
far harder of entry than Nirvana! Po Kyin, the naked gutter-boy of Mandalay, the thieving clerk and
obscure official, would enter that sacred place, call Europeans ‘old chap’, drink whisky and soda and
knock white balls to and fro on the green table! Ma Kin, the village woman, who had first seen the
light through the chinks of a bamboo hut thatched with palm leaves, would sit on a high chair with her
feet imprisoned in silk stockings and high-heeled shoes (yes, she would actually wear shoes in that
place!) talking to English ladies in Hindustani about baby-linen! It was a prospect that would have
dazzled anybody.
For a long time Ma Kin remained silent, her lips parted, thinking of the European Club and the
splendours that it might contain. For the first time in her life she surveyed U Po Kyin’s intrigues
without disapproval. Perhaps it was a feat greater even than the storming of the Club to have planted
a grain of ambition in Ma Kin’s gentle heart.