by Amitav Ghosh
This year the customary bright lights had been forbidden by the air-raid wardens. But otherwise the war had not greatly affected the spirits of the neighbourhood; on the contrary, the news from abroad had had the effect of heightening the usual Christmastime excitement. Among many of the city’s British residents, the war had occasioned a renewed determination to carry on as usual. As a result the big shops and restaurants were just as brightly decorated as ever before. Rowe and Co.— the big department store—had put up its usual Christmas tree, a real pine, sent down, as always, from the Maymyo hills. The tree’s base was surrounded by drifts of cottonwool and its branches were whitened with a frosting of Cuticura talcum powder. At Whiteway, Laidlaw—another large department store—the tree was even larger, with trimmings imported from England.
They stopped at the Scott Market and went to the Sun Cafe, to sample the famous chocolate-covered Yule logs. On the way they passed a Muslim butcher who was tending a flock of live turkeys and geese. Many of the birds bore little wire tags—they had been reserved months in advance, by European families. The butcher was fattening them for Christmas.
Judson College was customarily one of the centres of Rangoon’s Christmas festivities. The college was run by American Baptists and it was one of the best-known educational institutions in Burma.
Raymond was in the college’s red-brick chapel. He was rehearsing Handel’s Messiah with the choir. They sat down to wait, at the back of the chapel, and listened to the massed voices, surging through the arched rafters. The music was glorious and even the baby was lulled into silence.
At the end of the rehearsal Neel intercepted Raymond and brought him over. Raymond was a good-looking, sturdily built young man with sleepy eyes and a doleful smile. He had been studying in Rangoon for three years, and was thinking of a legal career.
Raymond was delighted to see them and immediately undertook to send word to his father. He was confident that he would be able to get word to Huay Zedi within a few days, by means of a complicated network of telegrams and forwarders.
Rajkumar did not doubt for a moment that Doh Say would come immediately to Rangoon to help him out.
Next morning, Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland sent Arjun ahead with Kishan Singh and two other men. The men were armed with their usual Lee Enfield .303 rifles, while Arjun was issued their only Tommy gun.
Shortly before noon, Arjun came upon the plantation manager’s house. It was a squat, two-storeyed bungalow with a tiled roof. It stood in the centre of a clearing that was almost perfectly square. The clearing was surrounded on all sides, by straight, orderly stands of rubber trees. A gravelled driveway snaked across a well-mowed lawn, leading to the front door. The garden was dotted with bursts of colour: the flowers were mostly English varieties—hollyhocks, snapdragons, hydrangeas. At the back there was a tall jacaranda tree with a wooden swing suspended from a branch. Beside it stood an elevated water storage tank. There were beds planted with vegetables—tomatoes, carrots, cauliflowers. A paved path led through the vegetable patch, to the back door. A cat was clawing at the door, crying to be let in.
Arjun circled around the clearing, keeping well within the shelter of the rubber trees. He followed the driveway a little distance down the slope: it could be seen winding through the plantation to join a tarred road, a half-mile or so away. No one was in sight.
Arjun put one of his men on watch and sent another to report back to Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland. Then, with Kishan Singh following close behind, he skirted round the house until he was facing the back door. He crossed the back garden at a run, taking care to keep his head down. The door was latched but gave way easily when he and Kishan Singh put their shoulders to it. The cat that was waiting outside went streaking into the house, through Arjun’s feet.
Arjun stepped across the threshold and found himself standing in a large kitchen of European design. There was a wood-burning oven, made of iron, and windows that were draped with white lace curtains. Porcelain plates and bowls stood in rows in the wooden cabinets that lined the walls; the ceramic sink was scrubbed clean and the tin drainer beside it was stacked with glass tumblers and a row of freshly cleaned baby bottles. On the floor, there was a dog’s feeding bowl. Where a refrigerator had once stood there was a rectangular discolouration, outlined against the whitewashed wall. On the kitchen table there lay heaps of eggs and bread, and a couple of half-used tins of Australian butter and processed cheese. It was evident that the refrigerator had been emptied in great haste before being carried away.
Although Arjun was now certain that there was no one in the house, he was careful to have Kishan Singh back him up as he went through the other rooms. The bungalow was littered with signs of a hasty departure. In the bedroom, drawers lay upturned, and brassieres and women’s underclothing were strewn across the floor. In the living room, a piano stool stood forlornly by the wall. Half-hidden behind a door Arjun found a stack of framed photographs. He glanced at the pictures— a church wedding; children, a car and a dog—the photographs had been piled into a box, as though ready to be transported. Arjun had a sudden vision of the woman of the house making a last frantic run through the bungalow, looking for the box while her husband and family sat outside in a lorry that was piled high with strapped-down luggage; he imagined her rummaging in the cupboards while her husband gunned the engine and the dog barked and the children cried. He was glad that they’d got away when they had; annoyed, on their behalf, with whoever it was that had argued them out of leaving earlier.
He went back to the kitchen and switched on the overhead fan. To his astonishment it worked. On the table there stood a couple of bottles of water, still awash in the puddles of sweat that had formed around them when they were emptied from the refrigerator. He handed one to Kishan Singh and drained the other himself, almost at a gulp. The water had a dull, metallic taste as it coursed down his throat: it was only now that he remembered that it was a long time since he had last eaten.
Minutes later the others arrived.
‘Plenty of food here, sir,’ Arjun said. Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland nodded. ‘Good. Heaven knows, we need it. And I imagine we can clean up a bit as well.’
Upstairs there were two bathrooms, with fresh towels waiting in the racks. Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland used one bathroom while Arjun and Hardy took turns with the other. The water came from the shaded tank outdoors and was pleasantly cool. Before undressing Arjun stood his Tommy gun against the door. Then he filled a bucket and poured the cool water over his head. On the sink there lay a curled tube of toothpaste: he couldn’t resist squeezing some on to his forefinger. With his mouth foaming he glanced out of the bathroom window. Kishan Singh and a couple of the other men were standing under the water tank, bare-bodied, sluicing water over their heads. Another man was keeping watch, smoking a cigarette, his hand resting loosely on his rifle.
They went back to the dining room and found it neatly laid, with plates and silverware. A meal had been prepared by a lance-naik who had some experience of the officers’ mess. There was a salad of tomatoes and carrots; eggs scrambled in butter and hot toast. Canned goods of many kinds had been found in the kitchen cupboards: there was duck-liver pate, a plate of pickled herrings, thick slices of Dutch ham—all laid out nicely on porcelain plates.
In the sideboard that stood beside the dining table Arjun discovered a few bottles of beer. ‘Do you think they would mind, sir?’
‘Don’t see why they should.’ Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland smiled. ‘I’m sure if we’d met them at the club they’d have told us to help ourselves.’
There was an interjection from Hardy. ‘If you had met them at the club, sir,’ he said quietly, offering a politely worded correction. ‘The two of us wouldn’t have been allowed in.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland paused, with a tilted beer bottle in his grasp. Then he raised his glass and gave Hardy an ironic smile. ‘To the clubs that won’t have us, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘May they be for ever legion.’
Arjun raised
a half-hearted cheer. ‘Hear, hear.’ He put his glass down and reached for the plate of ham.
Just as they were helping themselves, new cooking smells came wafting out of the kitchen: the fragrance of freshly rolled parathas and chapatis, of frying onions and chopped tomatoes. Hardy glanced down at his plate and its piles of ham and herring. Suddenly he stood up.
‘Sir, may I be excused for a minute?’
‘By all means, Lieutenant.’
He went into the kitchen and returned with a tray of chapatis and ande-ka-bhujia—eggs fried with tomatoes and onions. Glancing at his plate, Arjun found himself growing hungry all over again: to look away was an effort.
‘It’s all right, yaar.’ Hardy was watching him with a smile. ‘You can have some too. A chapati won’t turn you into a savage, you know.’
Arjun sank back in his seat as Hardy shovelled chapatis and bhujia on to his plate: he lowered his gaze, in the sullen way of a child who is caught between warring parents. The weariness of the night before came on him again and he could barely bring himself to touch his food.
When they were done with eating Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland told Hardy to go outside, to check on the men who were guarding the bungalow’s approach road.
Hardy saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’
Arjun would have risen from the table too, but Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland stopped him. ‘No hurry, Roy.’ He reached for a beer bottle. ‘Some more?’
‘I don’t see why not, sir.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland poured beer into Arjun’s glass and then filled his own.
‘Tell me, Lieutenant,’ he said presently, lighting a cigarette. ‘How would you rate our morale at this moment?’
‘After a lunch like this one, sir,’ Arjun said brightly, ‘I would say it couldn’t be better.’
‘It was a different story last night, eh, Lieutenant?’ Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland smiled through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
‘I don’t know if I would say that, sir.’
‘Well, you know I have ears of my own, Lieutenant. And while my Hindustani may not be as good as yours, I can assure you it’s perfectly adequate.’
Arjun shot him a startled glance. ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at, sir.’
‘Well, none of us could sleep much last night, could we, Lieutenant? And whispers can carry a long way.’
‘I don’t quite take your meaning, sir.’ Arjun felt his face growing hot. ‘Are you referring to something I said?’
‘It doesn’t really matter, Lieutenant. Let’s just say that there was a certain similarity of tone in all the voices around me.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘Lieutenant—I think you probably know that I—we—are not unaware of some of the tensions in our Indianised battalions. It’s quite plain that many of our Indian officers feel strongly about public issues—particularly the question of independence.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t know what your own feelings are, Roy, but you should know that as far as the thrust of British public opinion goes, independence for India is just a matter of time. Everyone knows that the days of Empire are over—we’re not fools, you know. The last thing an ambitious young Englishman wants to do today is to go out to a backwater. The Americans have been telling us for years that we’re going about this the wrong way. One doesn’t have to keep up an Empire with all the paraphernalia of an administration and an army. There are easier and more efficient ways to keep a grip on things—it can be done at less expense, and with much less bother. We’ve all come to accept this now—even chaps like me who’ve spent our lives out east. The truth is that there’s only one reason why England holds on any more—and that is out of a sense of obligation. I know this may be hard for you to believe but it’s true. There’s a feeling that we can’t go under duress and we can’t leave a mess behind. And you know as well as I do that if we were to pack our bags now, then you chaps would be at each other’s throats in no time—even you and your friend Hardy, what with him being a Sikh and you a Hindu, a Punjabi and a Bengali . . .’
‘I see, sir.’
‘I’m telling you this, Lieutenant, only to alert you to some of the dangers of the situation in which we now find ourselves. I think we both know that our morale is not what it might be. But this is, of all times, the last in which anybody should waver in their loyalties. The reverses we’ve suffered are temporary—in a way they are a blessing in disguise. America’s entry into the war makes it absolutely certain that we shall prevail, in time. In the meanwhile perhaps we should remind ourselves that the army has a very long memory when it comes to questions of allegiance and loyalty.’
The Lieutenant-Colonel paused to extinguish his cigarette. Arjun sat staring silently into his glass.
‘You know, Roy,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland said quietly, ‘my grandfather lived through the Mutiny of 1857. I remember that he bore very little rancour towards the civilians who’d got mixed up in the troubles. But as for the soldiers—the sepoys who’d led the Mutiny—that was another matter altogether. Those men had broken an oath: they were traitors, not rebels, and there is no traitor so contemptible as a soldier who reverses his allegiances. And if such a thing were to happen at a dodgy time, I think you would agree with me, wouldn’t you, Roy, that it would be hard to conceive of anything quite so unspeakable?’
Arjun was about to answer when he was interrupted by the sound of racing footsteps. He turned to a window to see Hardy running across the front lawn.
‘Sir,’ Hardy came panting to the windowsill. ‘Got to move, sir . . . Jap convoy heading up the road.’
‘How many? Could we take them on?’
‘No, sir . . . There’re at least two platoons—maybe a company.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland pushed his chair calmly back, dabbing his lips with a napkin. ‘The main thing, gentlemen,’ he said quietly, ‘is not to panic. Take a moment to listen to me: this is what I want you to do . . .’
They left the house by the rear entrance with Arjun in the lead and Hardy and Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland bringing up the rear. On reaching the shelter of the first row of trees Arjun fell into a defensive position. With him was a detail composed of Kishan Singh and two other men. Their orders were to cover the others until everyone was clear of the grounds.
The first Japanese truck pulled into the compound just as Hardy and Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland were running across the back garden. For a moment Arjun allowed himself to believe that they had managed to escape unseen. Then a volley of gunfire erupted out of the back of the truck and Arjun heard a chorus of whistles shooting past, well over his head.
Lieutenant-Colonel Buckland and Hardy were almost abreast of him now. Arjun waited till they were clear before giving the order to return fire. ‘Chalao goli.’ They fired indiscriminately, in the general direction of the bungalow. The only result was the immediate shattering of the kitchen’s windows. In the meantime, the Japanese truck had swung round to take shelter on the far side of the house.
‘Piche. Chalo.’
Arjun gave the order to fall back while staying in position himself, firing randomly, hoping to give Kishan Singh and the others time to regroup. He saw that the newly arrived Japanese soldiers were slipping into the trees one by one. He rose to his feet and began to run, holding his Tommy gun under his arm. Glancing over his shoulder, he encountered the now familiar sight of dozens of long files of trees, telescoping towards him— but with the difference that now, each tunnel offered a glimpse of a tiny grey-uniformed figure, somewhere in the far distance, running in pursuit.
Arjun began to run faster, breathing hard, watching out for the branches that lay hidden underneath the fallen leaves. A hundred feet or so ahead, the land fell away steeply. If he could get as far as that he might be able to lose the pursuing soldiers. He sprinted, shortening his steps as he neared the lip of the declivity. Just as he was going over the top he felt his right leg shooting out from beneath him. He fell, tumbling face first dow
n the slope. The shock of the fall was compounded by confusion: he could not understand why he had fallen. He hadn’t tripped and he hadn’t lost his footing—he was sure of that. Grasping at the undergrowth he managed to bring himself to a halt. He tried to get back on his feet and found that he couldn’t. He looked down and saw that his trouser leg was covered in blood. He could feel the wetness of the cloth against his skin yet he was not conscious of any pain. His pursuers’ footsteps were closer now, and he glanced around himself quickly, looking at the carpet of dead leaves that stretched away in every direction.
Just then he heard a sound, a familiar whisper. ‘Sah’b.’
He rolled over to find himself looking at Kishan Singh: his batman was lying prone, hidden inside a dark opening—a culvert or drainage pipe of some kind. The opening was blanketed by leaves and undergrowth. It was very well-hidden, almost invisible. The only reason that Arjun could see it at all was because he was lying flat on the ground.
Kishan Singh extended a hand and dragged him into the culvert. Then he crawled out to scatter leaves over the traces of Arjun’s blood. Minutes later they heard the sound of footsteps racing past overhead.
The culvert was just wide enough for the two of them to lie side by side. Now, suddenly, Arjun’s wound began to make itself felt, the pain welling out of his leg in waves. He tried to stifle a groan, not quite successfully. Kishan Singh threw a hand over his mouth and wrestled him into silence. Arjun realised that he was about to black out and he was glad: at that moment there was nothing he wanted more than oblivion.
thirty-six
Even though he was following the news closely on the radio, Dinu had trouble understanding exactly what was under way in northern Malaya. The bulletins mentioned a major engagement in the region of Jitra but the reports were inconclusive and confusing. In the meantime, there were other indications of the way the war was going, all of them ominous. One of these was an official newspaper announcement, listing the closing of certain post offices in the north. Another was the increasing volume of southbound traffic: a stream of evacuees was pouring down the north–south highway in the direction of Singapore.
