by Amitav Ghosh
One day, on a visit to Sungei Pattani, Dinu had a glimpse of this exodus. The evacuees seemed to consist mainly of the families of planters and mining engineers. Their cars and trucks were filled with household objects—furniture, trunks, suitcases. He came across a truck that was loaded with a refrigerator, a dog and an upright piano. He spoke to the man who was driving the truck: he was a Dutchman, the manager of a rubber plantation near Jitra. His family were sitting crowded in the truck’s cab: his wife, a newborn baby and two girls. The Dutchman said he’d managed to get out just ahead of the Japanese. His advice to Dinu was to leave as soon as possible— not to make the mistake of waiting until the last minute.
That night, at Morningside, Dinu told Alison exactly what the Dutchman had said. They looked at each other in silence: they had been over the subject several times before. They knew they had very few choices. If they went by road one of them would have to stay behind—the estate’s truck was in no shape to make the long journey to Singapore and the Daytona would not be able to carry more than two passengers over that kind of distance. The only alternative was to go by train—but rail services had been temporarily suspended.
‘What are we going to do, Alison?’ Dinu said.
‘Let’s wait and see,’ Alison said hopefully. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we won’t have to leave after all.’
Late that night they were woken by the crunch of bicycle wheels, rolling up the gravelled drive of Morningside House. A voice called out from below: ‘Miss Martins . . .’
Alison got up and went to the window. It was still dark. Parting the curtains, she leaned out, peering down into the drive. Dinu glanced at a bedside clock and saw that it was four in the morning. He sat up: ‘Alison? Who is it?’
‘It’s Ilongo,’ Alison said. ‘He has Ah Fatt with him—from the restaurant, in town.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘I think they want to tell me something.’ Alison let the curtain drop. ‘I’m going downstairs.’ She pulled on a dressing gown and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, Dinu followed. He found Alison sitting in a huddle with the visitors. Ah Fatt was talking urgently, in rapid Malay, stabbing a finger in the air. Alison was biting her lip, nodding: Dinu could see a deepening anxiety in the crimped lines of her face.
In a while Dinu jogged her elbow. ‘What are you talking about? Tell me.’
Alison stood up and took him aside.
‘Ah Fatt says that Grandfather and I have to leave—for Singapore. He says it’s going badly on the front. The Japanese may be able to push through in a day or two. He thinks the Kempeitai—their secret police—have information about us . . .’
Dinu nodded. ‘He’s right. It won’t do to wait any longer. You’ve got to go.’ Tears started into Alison’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to go, Dinu. Not without you. I really don’t.’
‘You have to, Alison. Think of your grandfather . . .’
‘Miss Martins,’ Ah Fatt interrupted, to let them know that he’d heard that a special evacuation train would be leaving from Butterworth that morning. He wasn’t sure that they’d be able to get on it—but it was worth trying.
Dinu and Alison exchanged smiles. ‘We’ll never get another chance like this,’ Alison said.
‘Let’s wake your grandfather,’ Dinu said. ‘Let’s not waste any time.’
They left early the next day in one of the estate’s trucks. Ilongo drove and Dinu rode in the back with the luggage. Alison sat in front, with Saya John. There was little traffic, because of the time of day, and they arrived in Sungei Pattani in half the usual time. The town was silent: many of the shops and houses were locked or boarded up. Some had notices hanging outside.
A short way from town they picked up the main highway. The road’s embankment was dotted with parked vehicles. Families could be seen to be sleeping in their cars, snatching a little rest before daylight. At intervals one-and-a-half-ton military trucks came barrelling down the highway, heading south. They would bear down very suddenly, pushing other traffic off the road, headlights blazing, sounding their horns. Dinu caught occasional glimpses of soldiers, squatting in the trucks’ tarpaulin-covered beds.
Approaching Butterworth, the road was jammed with cars and trucks. The railway station was right next to the ferry terminus that connected the mainland to the island of Penang. This area had taken several hits during the recent bombing raids and there was a great deal of confusion in the rubble-strewn streets. People could be seen heading towards the station on foot, carrying bags and suitcases.
Ilongo parked in a side street and left Alison, Dinu and Saya John in the truck while he went ahead to make inquiries. He came back an hour later to report that they had a long wait ahead. There were rumours that the train would not leave until after midnight. Penang was being evacuated too and a fleet of ferries was to be dispatched under cover of darkness. The train would not depart until the ferries had returned to Butterworth with the Penang evacuees.
Alison took a room in a hotel so that Saya John could rest. They spent the day taking it in turns to go out to make inquiries. Night fell and at ten o’clock there was still no news. Then, a little after midnight, Ilongo came running into the hotel with the information that the ferries had been sighted, returning from Penang. Shortly afterwards a train was shunted into the platform of the railway station.
Alison woke Saya John and Dinu paid for the hotel room. They stepped out into the darkened street and joined the crowd that was hurrying toward the station. The entrance had been cordoned off and could only be approached through a defile that was packed with people and luggage.
A few yards from the entrance Ilongo decided to turn back. He put an arm around Saya John and gave him a big hug. ‘Goodbye, Saya.’
Saya John gave him a blankly affectionate smile. ‘Be careful how you drive, Ilongo.’
‘Yes, Saya.’ Ilongo laughed. He turned to Alison and Dinu but before he could say goodbye they were pushed ahead by the press of bodies. He shouted after them: ‘I’m going to spend the night in the truck. You can find me there—just in case. Good luck.’
Dinu answered with a wave. ‘And to you too . . . good luck.’
The entrance to the platform was manned by two guards, both Indian. They were dressed in green uniforms and had rifles slung over their shoulders. There were no tickets to be checked: the guards were looking the evacuees over and ushering them through.
They got to the gate with Saya John leaning heavily on Alison. Dinu was directly behind them, carrying their suitcases. Just as they were about to go through the entrance, a guard stopped Alison with an outstretched arm. There followed a hurried consultation between the two guards. Then the guards gestured to Dinu, Alison and Saya John to step aside. ‘Please . . . Move away from the gate.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Alison said to Dinu. ‘What’s happening?’
Dinu stepped up to face the guards. ‘Kya hua?’ he said, addressing them in Hindustani. ‘Why’ve you stopped us?’
‘You can’t go through.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t you have eyes?’ a guard said to him brusquely. ‘Can’t you see that this train’s only for Europeans?’
‘What?’
‘You heard—it’s only for Europeans.’
Dinu swallowed, trying to keep his composure. ‘Listen,’ he said carefully, ‘that can’t be true . . . This is wartime. We were told that this was an evacuation train. How can it be only for Europeans? There must be some mistake.’
The guard looked him in the eye, and gestured at the train with his thumb. ‘You’ve got eyes of your own,’ he said. ‘Dekh lo—take a look.’
Craning over the guard’s shoulder, he looked up and down the platform, at the train’s windows: he could not see a single face that looked Malay or Chinese or Indian.
‘This is impossible . . . it’s madness.’
‘What? What’s impossible?’ Alison tugged at his arm. ‘Dinu, tell me, what’s going on?’
‘The guard
s say this train is only for whites . . .’
Alison nodded. ‘Yes. I had a feeling that it would be— that’s how things are . . .’
‘How can you say that, Alison?’ Dinu was frantic now and sweat was pouring down his face. ‘You can’t put up with this stuff . . . Not now. Not when there’s a war . . .’
Dinu spotted a uniformed Englishman, walking along the platform, checking a roster. Dinu began to plead with the guards: ‘Listen—let me through—just for a minute . . . just to have a word with that officer over there . . . I’ll explain to him; I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘Not possible.’
Dinu lost his temper. He shouted into the guard’s face. ‘How can you stop me? Who’s given you the right?’
Suddenly a third man appeared. He was dressed in a railway uniform and he too appeared to be Indian. He herded them away from the entrance, towards a flight of stairs that led back to the street. ‘Yes please?’ he said to Dinu. ‘I am the station master—please tell me: what is the problem?’
‘Sir . . .’ Dinu made an effort to keep his voice even. ‘They are not letting us through . . . They say the train is only for Europeans.’
The station master smiled apologetically. ‘Yes—that is what we have been given to understand.’
‘But how can that be? . . . This is wartime . . . This is an evacuation train.’
‘What can I say? Why, in Penang, Mr Lim, the magistrate, was turned back even though he had an official evacuation letter. The Europeans would not let him board the ferries because of his being Chinese.’
‘You don’t understand . . .’ Dinu began to plead. ‘It’s not just Europeans who are in danger . . . You can’t do this . . . It’s wrong.’
The station master pulled a face, shrugging dismissively. ‘I do not see what is so wrong with it. After all it is common sense. They are the rulers; they are the ones who stand to lose.’
Dinu’s voice rose. ‘That’s nonsense,’ he shouted. ‘If that’s the way you look at it, then the war’s already lost. Don’t you see? You’ve conceded everything worth fighting for . . .’
‘Sir,’ the station master glared at him, ‘there is no reason to shout. I am just doing my job.’
Dinu raised his hands and grabbed hold of the station master’s collar. ‘You bastard,’ he said, shaking him. ‘You bastard . . . it’s you who’re the enemy. People like you—just doing their jobs . . . you’re the enemy.’
‘Dinu,’ Alison screamed. ‘Look out!’
Dinu felt a hand closing on the back of his neck, wrenching him away from the station master. A fist slammed into his face, knocking him to the floor. His nostrils filled with the metallic smell of blood. He looked up to see the two guards glaring angrily down at him. Alison and Saya John were holding them off. ‘Let him be. Let him be!’
Alison reached down and helped Dinu to his feet. ‘Come on, Dinu—let’s go.’ She picked up their luggage and ushered Dinu and Saya John down the stairs. When they were back on the street, Dinu steadied himself against a lamp-post and put his hands on Alison’s shoulders. ‘Alison,’ he said, ‘Alison— maybe they’ll let you on, by yourself. You’re half-white. You have to try, Alison.’
‘Shh.’ She put a hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t say that, Dinu. I wouldn’t think of it.’
Dinu wiped the blood from his nose. ‘But you have to leave, Alison . . . With your grandfather—you heard what Ah Fatt said. One way or another you have to go . . . You can’t stay at Morningside any more . . .’
From inside the station there was a piercing whistle. All around them, people began to run, crowding into the station’s entrance, pushing at the gates. Dinu, Alison and Saya John held on to each other’s arms, anchoring themselves to the lamp-post.
At last they heard the train pulling away. ‘It’s gone,’ said Saya John.
‘Yes, Baba,’ Alison said quietly. ‘It’s gone.’
Dinu stepped back and picked up a suitcase. ‘Let’s go and find Ilongo,’ he said.
‘Tomorrow morning we’ll go back to Morningside.’
‘To stay?’
Dinu shook his head. ‘I’ll stay there, Alison,’ he said. ‘They won’t harm me—I don’t have anything particular to be afraid of. But you and your grandfather—with your connections— American and Chinese . . . There’s just no telling what they would do to you. You have to go . . .’
‘But how, Dinu?’
At last Dinu said the words they’d both been dreading:
‘The Daytona . . . It’s the only way, Alison.’
‘No.’ She threw herself on him. ‘Not without you.’
‘It’ll be all right, Alison.’ He was careful to speak quietly, feigning a confidence that he was far from feeling. ‘I’ll join you soon . . . in Singapore, you’ll see. We won’t be long apart.’
It was dark when Arjun returned to consciousness. The sensation in his leg had subsided to a raw, throbbing pain. As his mind cleared Arjun realised that a stream of water was flowing past him and the culvert was resounding to a dull, drumming noise. It took him several minutes to understand that it was raining.
Just as he was beginning to stir, Arjun felt Kishan Singh’s hand tightening on his shoulder, in warning. ‘They’re still around, sah’b,’ Kishan Singh whispered. ‘They’ve posted pickets in the plantation. They’re waiting.’
‘How close are they? Within earshot?’
‘No. They can’t hear us in the rain.’
‘How long was I out?’
‘More than an hour, sah’b. I bandaged your wound. The bullet passed cleanly through your hamstring. It’ll be all right.’
Arjun touched his thigh gingerly. Kishan Singh had unwrapped his puttees, rolled up his trousers and applied a field dressing. He’d also made a kind of cradle to keep his leg out of the water, by propping two sticks against the sides of the culvert.
‘What shall we do now, sah’b?’
The question confounded Arjun. He tried to look ahead but his mind was still clouded by pain and he could think of no clear plan. ‘We’ll have to wait them out, Kishan Singh. Tomorrow morning we’ll see.’
‘Han, sah’b.’ Kishan Singh seemed relieved.
Lying motionless in the inches-deep water, Arjun became acutely aware of his surroundings: of the wet folds of cloth that were carving furrows into his skin, of the pressure of Kishan Singh’s body, stretched out beside him. The culvert was filled with the smell of their bodies: the mildewed, rain-soaked, sweat-stained odour of their uniforms, the metallic smell of his own blood.
His mind strayed, disordered by the pain in his leg. He remembered suddenly the look that Kishan Singh had given him on the beach that day, when he came back from the island with Alison. Was it scorn that he’d seen in his eyes— a judgement of some kind?
Would Kishan Singh have done what he had? Allowed himself to make love to Alison; to prey upon her; to betray Dinu, who was both a friend and something more? He didn’t know himself why he’d been driven to do it; why he’d wanted her so much. He’d heard some of the chaps saying that these things came on you in wartime—on the front. But Kishan Singh was on the front too—and it was hard to think of him doing anything like that. Was that part of the difference between being an officer and a jawan—having to impose yourself, enforce your will?
It occurred to him that he would have liked to talk about this. He remembered that Kishan Singh had once told him that he’d been married off at the age of sixteen. He would have liked to ask Kishan Singh: what was it like when you were married? Had you known your wife before? On the night of your wedding how did you touch her? Did she look you in the face?
He tried to form the sentences in his head and found that he did not know the right words in Hindustani; did not even know the tone of voice in which such questions could be asked. These were things he did not know how to say. There was so much that he did not know how to say, in any language. There was something awkward, unmanly even, about wanting to know what was inside one’s head.
What was it that Hardy had said the night before? Something about connecting his hand and his heart. He’d been taken aback when he said that; it wasn’t on for a chap to say that kind of thing. But at the same time, it was interesting to think that Hardy—or anyone for that matter, even he himself—might want something without knowing it. How was that possible? Was it because no one had taught them the words? The right language? Perhaps because it might be too dangerous? Or because they weren’t old enough to know? It was strangely crippling to think that he did not possess the simplest tools of self-consciousness— had no window through which to know that he possessed a within. Was this what Alison had meant, about being a weapon in someone else’s hands? Odd that Hardy had said the same thing too.
Waiting for the minutes to pass he could feel his mind fixing on his wounded leg. The pain grew steadily, mounting in intensity until it saturated his consciousness, erasing all other sensation. He began to breathe in gasps, through gritted teeth. Then, through the fog of pain in his head, he became aware of Kishan Singh’s hand, gripping his forearm, shaking his shoulder, in encouragement.
‘Sabar karo, sah’b; it’ll pass.’
He heard himself say: ‘I don’t know how long I can last,
Kishan Singh.’
‘You can last, sah’b. Just hold on. Be patient.’
Arjun had a sudden premonition of blacking out again, sinking face first into the rainwater, drowning where he lay. In panic he clutched at Kishan Singh, holding on to his arm as though it were a life raft.
‘Kishan Singh, say something. Talk. Don’t let me pass out again.’
