Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  ‘Most girls joining this regiment are unmarried and not having family obligations,’ Shiva insisted.

  ‘I want to fight like you to free India,’ she whispered.

  ‘Soon, I will be forced to salute my own wife,’ Shiva glared down at her.

  As abruptly as it started, the rain eased and then stopped. They reached the domed edifice of St. Joseph’s Institution and turned off Bras Basah into Waterloo Street. Shiva collapsed the umbrella as they passed the school and the camp came into view. The young female guard behind the gate looked up as they approached. Sita hung back, suddenly nervous, now that the reality of her decision was before her.

  ‘He can’t come any further with you,’ the girl told Sita as she unlatched the gate.

  ‘I am an INA officer,’ Shiva announced in a loud voice.

  ‘This is not your camp,’ the girl replied, ignoring him and beckoning Sita forward.

  Shiva stepped away tight-lipped, and walked off with no more than a curt nod of farewell. Sita stared after him, expecting him to glance back at her, but he strode resolutely towards the main road and was gone.

  ‘Hurry up.’ The guard held the gate open impatiently.

  The girl wore shorts that ended just above the knee, and Sita stared at her bare legs in growing uneasiness. She was aware, as the gate thudded shut behind her and she took her first step into the camp, that she had waited for this moment, yet a sudden agony of indecision now filled her. Perhaps she was wrong, perhaps she should have discussed her decision with Shiva; perhaps she should still be at home. She turned back to the gate, but the girl had already thrust the lock firmly into place.

  Sita’s damp hair, coiled loosely on her neck, now began to uncurl, hairpins falling over the bundle of belongings she clutched tightly. The girl in shorts, her waist neatly belted, observed Sita silently, not bothering to hide her distaste. Then another uniformed girl, holding a clipboard of papers and with the stripes of rank on her sleeve, hurried across the open ground towards them.

  ‘All the other girls in your group of new recruits reported here this morning, you are very late!’ She ticked Sita’s name off her list, after an assessing glance.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Bhatia, and I’m your platoon commander. Follow me, all new recruits must first see Captain Mehra.’ In spite of the initial complaint, she now smiled at Sita in a friendly way.

  Like the guard, Lieutenant Bhatia wore shorts, her bare legs ending in thick socks and stout shoes, a soft brimless cap upon her cropped hair. As she turned to follow the girl, Sita was filled with growing trepidation; she too would now have to wear these same clothes; she too would soon look like a man.

  The great space of the parade ground stretched before her, sodden with rain. In the distance, newly built barracks stood next to an older brick building. Sita hurried after the officer who walked smartly ahead, trying to avoid the many muddy puddles, the sodden hem of her sari dragging along the wet ground, hair trailing down her back, the damp bundle of belongings bumping against her thigh. Sita’s eyes kept returning to the officer’s bare legs as she marched smartly ahead of her.

  Captain Mehra looked up from her desk as Lieutenant Bhatia entered and saluted. The captain was dressed in the same khaki jodhpurs Captain Lakshmi had worn at the Padang rally, jacket neatly belted, brass buttons and buckle agleam. Sita was acutely aware of the picture of dampness and dejection she must project as she stood before the officer.

  ‘You are a soldier now in the Rani of Jhansi Regiment. Stand up straight; don’t bow your head like that. Get her out of that sari and into uniform quickly,’ she ordered, and then turned back to Sita.

  ‘This time next week I don’t expect to recognise you,’ she predicted briskly as she dismissed them.

  Lieutenant Bhatia led Sita down a corridor and turned into a storeroom with shelves of khaki uniforms. She began pulling out items, measuring things up against Sita for size. The heat in the room was stifling, sweat pooled in the small of Sita’s back.

  ‘You can call me Prema when we are not on duty. We wear shorts and shirts for everyday, Jodhpur breeches and bush jackets for marches. Netaji designed our uniforms on his submarine journey from Germany.’

  Short hair curled from under her cap around a broad-boned face. Everything about her was bright, her manner direct and warm, her cheeks dimpled as she smiled.

  ‘Three platoons form a company; one platoon has up to twenty recruits. Your platoon is made up of two squads housed in adjacent barracks. Each squad has fifteen girls. Your squad has a lot of Tamil girls from the rubber estates in upcountry Malaya. Most of them are malnourished, but we’ll soon fatten them up here,’ Prema threw out information in a casual manner, speaking quickly as she piled the uniform into Sita’s arms, deep lines creasing about her eyes when she smiled.

  Sita tried to grasp the military information Prema tossed to her; she knew nothing of the rubber estates in Malaya, or the people who worked there. Through a small dusty window high above the shelves, a shaft of strong afternoon sun streamed in, falling on Sita and the clothes in her arms. Its warmth moved through her, the smell of starch drifting up from the crisply folded uniforms.

  Prema strode out of the building and onto the wet parade ground again, making her way towards the newly built barracks, and Sita followed. Stopping before one of the wooden huts, she threw open the door upon a long narrow room of mosquito netted bunk beds and wooden lockers. The astringent odour of newly sawn wood and fresh paint filled Sita’s nose. Prema reached to turn on the ceiling fans, and the air was stirred.

  ‘The others arrived early and chose their bunks, but this one’s not yet taken,’ Prema said, pointing to a lower vacant bed.

  ‘And that is your locker. Get changed quickly and join them outside. Major Pandey does not like latecomers.’ Prema pointed through a window to a line of girls being drilled on the parade ground.

  Alone in the hut, Sita looked about. The makeshift feel of the place seemed to confirm she would be there only temporarily, that her life was not changing in any permanent way. Placing the pile of uniform on the bunk, she fingered the thick cotton garments. A wave of panic passed through her, how would she wear clothes that revealed her body so extensively? She had never shown anyone her legs before, not even her husband had seen so much of her naked. Whatever she did with him was in the dark, and even then she kept as much of herself as she could decorously covered; her husband may be familiar with the feel of her naked body, but not the sight of it.

  Holding up the stiffand ugly shorts, she considered how such a garment was to be entered and secured. It seemed best to pull the shorts up first beneath her petticoat, and then unwind the sari after the garment was in place. This way she would be covered if anyone glanced through the window. At last it was done and she unhooked her sari blouse, pulled on the khaki shirt, tucking it into the waist of the shorts, and buckling the leather belt about herself. There was no mirror in which to see her refection, but looking down, her eyes went first to the bony protuberance of her bare knees, and embarrassment curled through her; although she was dressed she felt naked. Finally, she pushed her feet into the thick rough socks and heavy walking shoes and, plaiting her hair into two braids, settled the narrow cap on her head. Unsure of what to do with the wet sari, she placed it on top of the lockers.

  Through the window the group of marching girls could be seen; an untidy phalanx of thrashing limbs, obeying the loud boom of Major Pandey’s voice. Sita walked towards the door, knowing that when she stepped out of the hut nothing would ever be the same again. Used only to light leather sandals, the heavy shoes weighed her feet down, her heels knocked against her toes, and she feared she might trip over. It was bad enough that her breasts had no veiling, but the shame of her bare legs sticking out of the wide-legged shorts was worse than anything else.

  ‘Late!’ Major Pandey yelled as Sita approached, indicating that she should fall into line behind the others.

  ‘Chin up. Shoulders back. How will you hold a rifle? How
will you face the enemy? I have just two months to make soldiers of you. Two months!’ Major Pandey’s throaty voice pressed upon them, interspersed with sharp blasts blown repeatedly from the whistle around her neck.

  ‘March! One two. One two. Chin up. Legs straight.’

  As they marched around the parade ground it was impossible to avoid the puddles. Cold muddy water splashed up Sita’s calves, wetting her socks and heavy shoes.

  ‘Chin up! March.’

  Sita threw out her legs one after the other. The breath quickened in her chest, her arms thrashed through the air, her limbs moving with a momentum of their own. They were about thirty girls and all, like Sita, appeared equally awkward and self-conscious. Many were of Tamil origin, but they did not appear like the more prosperous Tamils seen on Serangoon Road. They were from the labouring community, the daughters of men such as those she had seen on the scaffolding at the Ramakrishna Mission, who had been rounded up by the Japanese. The girl marching in front of Sita was so thin her uniform hung voluminously upon her, and her legs appeared no more than dark wiry sticks emerging from her shorts. The plaits of hair, swinging about her shoulders as she marched, seemed thicker than her limbs.

  ‘Right leg. Left leg. One two. One two,’ Major Pandey strutted smartly before them. Whatever leg Major Pandey called for, the thin girl in front of Sita always lifted the wrong one. Many other girls, Sita observed, did not seem to know right from left. As a result, the platoon was disorganised, however determinedly they marched. It began to rain lightly again and the girls slowed down, looking up at the sky and then at Major Pandey, expecting to seek cover.

  ‘Will the enemy wait for the rain to stop? March. About turn. Shoulders back.’ Major Pandey blew savagely on her whistle.

  At last it was over, but when they returned to their barracks Major Pandey ordered them all into Sita’s hut and followed them inside. The girls lined up before the bunks and Major Pandey strode up and down, rapping at the metal frames of the beds with the end of her baton. The thin girl with thick plaits of hair stood beside Sita and hung her head, staring down at the floor. Major Pandey came to a halt before her.

  ‘Is this my right hand or my left hand?’ The Major raised a hand and prodded the girl with her baton. The girl did not answer.

  ‘What is your name?’ Major Pandey demanded.

  ‘Muniamma,’ the girl whispered, continuing to stare at her feet.

  ‘Look at me. Answer the question.’

  ‘What is right? What is left?’ The girl whispered.

  ‘Ah! You do not know. Those of you who are illiterate will get an education here, on Netaji’s orders. All Ranis of the Jhansi Regiment should be able to read and write.’

  ‘Which side is right?’ Major Pandey pointed her baton at another girl, who also stared mutely at her feet.

  ‘What is your name?’ Major Pandey demanded again.

  ‘Muniamma,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Another Muniamma?’

  Prema, who had followed them into the barracks, hurried forward.

  ‘These girls are from the rubber estates up country. Plantation managers are European and cannot remember Indian names. To them they are all just women, just workers; they see no need to name them. Muniamma means, girl. Only at home in their family do they have names, Muniamma this or Muniamma that,’ Prema explained. Major Pandey’s frown turned to an expression of perplexity.

  ‘We cannot have such things here. How will we know who they are?’ The Major’s voice softened as she continued.

  ‘Here we will call you by the name they gave you at birth in your family. Understand, here each one of you is a person and important to us. You are not cattle.’

  Major Pandey beckoned Prema forward and instructed her to write each girl’s name on her clipboard list. Shivani, Valli, Ambika, Rashmi, Vasanthi, Aarthi, Hemavani, the girls called out their names. At last only the thin girl who had marched in front of Sita was left.

  ‘Muniamma,’ she replied in a low voice when Prema pressed her.

  ‘Do you not have another name?’ Major Pandey frowned and raised her baton, tucking it beneath her arm.

  The girl shrank back against the bunk, forced to explain why she had no other name, and Major Pandey bent forward to catch her whispered words.

  ‘I have no mother or father. The family I live with on the estate did not give me a name. To them I am always just Muniamma, although their own daughter has a name.”

  ‘Then I suppose you will have to remain Muniamma,’ Major Pandey shook her head sadly.

  ‘You. Latecomer.’ Major Pandey resumed her fierce stance and waved her baton at Sita.

  ‘Right hand, left hand.’

  Sita raised each hand correctly as Major Pandey demanded, thankful that through her husband’s help she now had some education and knew about such things. Major Pandey nodded approval, then glared again as she looked at the girls, all of whom had hair of some length, plaited or bunched or coiled into a bun.

  ‘These hairstyles will not fit under a military cap. No time in the regiment for combing and oiling long hair. No time for vanity when you get to the front and the enemy is waiting. It must be cut.’

  A soft ripple of consternation was heard. Major Pandey stepped forward to poke her baton beneath Sita’s chin, forcing it up. The skin beneath the Major’s eyes was more darkly pigmented than the rest of her fleshy face, and gave her an owlish look.

  ‘Cut.’ Major Pandey withdrew her baton from Sita’s chin and waved it at the other longhaired recruits.

  ‘Follow me,’ she ordered.

  They trailed out of the barracks behind her, crossing the damp parade ground into the main building. The Major walked with a swagger, her broad buttocks beneath the pull of khaki drill trousers moving up and down like pistons. She led them to a large bare room stacked with chairs and ordered them to seat themselves in two facing rows.

  ‘Scissors. Newspapers,’ she demanded, turning to Prema.

  Prema disappeared from the room and soon returned with several uniformed recruits holding long-bladed scissors, brooms and an armful of old newspapers for the conscripts to tuck about their necks and shoulders. As they waited for their haircuts, exchanging apprehensive glances, Major Pandey stepped forward to address them.

  ‘Netaji gives us all a choice; he does not insist you cut your hair, but it is better that you do so. We are given the same training as the INA men and also wear similar uniforms. We cannot think of ourselves as women now. We are, first and foremost, soldiers. Everything we do now, we do for the freedom of India. Jai Hind,’ she added, before turning from the room, leaving Prema in charge.

  As the girls with the scissors stepped forward to begin their work, Sita was conscious of a disturbance at the end of the row. Leaning forward, she saw the thin girl, Muniamma, give a cry of protest, pull off the newspapers draped about her, and run from the room.

  ‘There’s always someone who won’t cut her hair,’ Prema sighed, stepping up to stand behind Sita, brandishing her scissors.

  Prema began to unravel Sita’s plait. The hair she had taken so long to grow and that hid a life she was at pains to forget, was now spread about her shoulders. Sita gave an involuntary shudder and Prema paused in surprise, raising her eyebrows in query.

  ‘It will be over quickly,’ she reassured.

  Sita nodded, unable to explain the sudden grip of the past upon her, the white sari thrown at her feet, the dismembered braid of hair in the metal bowl. Her whole life seemed to swing before her as the scissors flashed and clicked. Prema pushed her head forward, and Sita felt the cool touch of steel on her neck.

  ‘Don’t move. I don’t want to cut you,’ Prema warned.

  Closing her eyes, Sita listened to the clip of metal as strand after strand of hair slithered down over her body, brushing against her bare knees. The breeze from a standing fan in a corner of the room swept over her, blowing wisps of hair about the floor. Looking down at the pile of soft curls at her feet, she remembered that other time
, the resistance she had exerted as her head was shaved. The realisation came to her that this time was different from that previous cruel tonsure. The thick hair now being sheared away held her to a life she was voluntarily discarding. This time the severing of her hair was not a death or a neutering, but a rebirth.

  ‘There! Now you can look.’ Prema reached for a mirror that was being passed around, handing it to Sita.

  For a moment Sita did not recognise herself. A stylish cap of hair swirled about her head, just covering her ears. A dart of excitement ran through her as she touched the bare nape of her neck, not now in shame but in exhilaration. Leaning back in the chair, she stretched out her legs and gazed at her shamelessly naked knees, her heart beating at the thought of all that now lay ahead.

  It was dusk. Through the window of the barracks Sita could see lamps lighting up behind the trees around the parade ground. Bats flew up from beneath the roof of the main building. She remembered the bats in the village, their comings and goings from the trees each night, and how they hung by day like black seed pods under the eaves of the house. Now, the heat of the barracks pressed upon her, filled by the sound of buffing brushes as they all concentrated on cleaning their boots. Sita’s fingers were covered with brown shoe polish, an ugly dark line of it ingrained under her nails. Each night, Prema instructed, they would be required to clean their boots. Crouched down on the floor before their bunk beds, this task now absorbed them all. They had each been given a wooden box containing brushes and cloths and polish to be kept in their lockers.

  The girl called Muniamma sat beside Sita, and it appeared she was also the occupant of the upper bunk under which Sita would be sleeping. Head bent low over her work, scrubbing at her shoe in a concentrated manner, the girl did not lift her gaze like everyone else, to exchange a word or a smile, constructing the first links of friendship. She made no effort to acknowledge Sita, who worked beside her. The boot in her hand was spread so thickly with polish that the whirls of the brush were clearly seen.

  ‘Too much polish, you must take some off, then it will shine,’ Sita advised in a low voice.