In the Shadow of the Banyan

by Vaddey Ratner

  “Let’s go!” Big Uncle said, grabbing a checkered kroma and a shirt and throwing them over his muscular shoulders. “We have work to do—get ourselves clean and bring water back for Tata!” He strode through the doorway, the twins scrambling after him.

  Leave it to Big Uncle to turn the smallest task into a game and simultaneously imbue it with a sense of purpose and importance. Papa and I grabbed a change of clothes and dashed to catch up with them. From the doorway Auntie India called out in her singsong voice for us to bring back some more lotus blossoms. “As an offering to the Buddha! And be careful with the boys, Arun; don’t let them swim out too far!” Big Uncle turned and reassured his wife with an exaggerated bow of servitude, mouthing, “Oui, ma princesse.” But to me—as I skipped up to him—he chortled, “We’ll use them as bait for the crocodiles!” The twins exclaimed in unison, “Oh Papa, you don’t mean that!” Big Uncle snorted, a stallion provoking his colts to action, nuzzling them forward with his nose. They bounced toward the water.

  • • •

  If one looked from the temple, it appeared the pond spilled into the marsh, but a long stretch of dike separated the two, then wound its way about the verdant landscape and diverged into innumerable branches among the rice paddies. As was his habit when we arrived at someplace new, Papa oriented me to the four directions. The sun would rise and set in a slightly different place, he said as we walked, depending on the time of year. In the east, past the marsh, the sun had risen above the forests and was now arcing westward at an almost imperceptible speed. We made our way along the northern edge of the pond toward the dike, Big Uncle leading with long, carefree strides; followed by the twins, one behind the other, shouldering a bamboo yoke and a pair of buckets between them; then me, a plastic bowl in one hand and a stick I’d found along the way in the other; and Papa in the back, arms around another bucket, thumbing it gently like a drum. To the south, the town of Rolork Meas lay in a blaze of morning light, golden and serene—a lovely patchwork of traditional wooden houses and fruit orchards. Papa promised we would go exploring later, maybe take some city items like a lighter and a bar of soap to trade with the townsfolk for rice and eggs. The Revolutionary soldiers had said we could, provided that we not try to run away but return to the temple as expected. Now that we’d settled in I didn’t see any reason to run away and seek shelter elsewhere. We were comfortable here. We couldn’t have hoped, I was certain, for a safer haven.

  We’d reached a part of the dike that separated the marsh and the pond. Big Uncle stopped and took the bamboo yoke and the two buckets from the twins. Families gathered along the grassy embankment to wash and chat, hemmed on one side by water hyacinth and on the other by lotuses. Nearby two women were washing their children. “How long do you think we’ll be here?” one asked, scrubbing the back of her child’s ear with the edge of her sarong, and another answered, “My husband went into town last night and the locals told him they’d been ordered to prepare their houses for the ‘new people.’” The first woman seemed puzzled: “Who did they mean?” The second replied, “Us, no doubt. They’re going to settle us here. For a while, it seems.” The first admitted, “The town’s nice, I suppose. We could end up someplace much worse.”

  Papa and Big Uncle looked at each other but said nothing. Big Uncle, the checkered kroma around his waist for modesty, slipped his pants off and placed them atop the buckets and bamboo yoke. He stepped into the water, pulling a naked twin on either side of him, like a tugboat with a pair of buoys. Also in a kroma, Papa followed them, taking the bucket he’d brought along, pushing away stringy plants as he went. When he got to a depth where the water was clear, he dipped the bucket in and carried it back for me.

  “Sure you don’t want to come in?” he asked, setting the bucket down on the dike. “I could carry you.”

  I shook my head, slipping off my shirt and leaving only my elastic-waist sarong on for washing. I didn’t know how to swim, and the twins would laugh if they saw me being carried like a baby.

  Papa went back in, submerging himself like a crocodile. Big Uncle swam over to him. The two men stood talking, splashing water on their torsos, while the twins doggy-paddled around them. All the while Big Uncle’s expression grew more troubled, and once or twice his gaze shot in the direction of the monks’ sleeping quarters. I couldn’t hear them from this distance, but I guessed that Papa was recounting what the sweeper had told us, what we’d seen at the back of the temple. With the plastic bowl, I scooped water from the bucket and poured it over my head, pausing now and then to study the two men. The contrast between Papa’s calm solemnity and Big Uncle’s agitated reaction began to disturb me. They went on talking for a while in this manner. Then Papa patted Big Uncle on the shoulder, as if to comfort him. Big Uncle nodded, his gaze now turned to some figures in black pacing the distant rice fields. I couldn’t tell whether they were Revolutionary soldiers or farmers, if what they had slung across their shoulders were bamboo yokes or guns.

  “Look!” suddenly Sotanavong yelled out. “A turtle, a turtle!” Satiyavong screeched, “Where, where? Oh, I see it! There!” They pointed to the spot directly in front of them. Slick as an eel, Big Uncle dove for it, and at the very same moment Papa slapped the surface of the water with his hand. In the blink of an eye, he snatched the creature by its shell, held it up above his head like a prize he’d just won, and spun it around for all to see. People around us clapped and cheered, and one man piped from among the water lilies, “We can have turtle soup!” Papa laughed, sank heavily into the water, like a drowned man, and then reappeared a few seconds later, the turtle gone from his grasp. Everyone groaned with disappointment. Big Uncle roared, and the twins chorused, “Do it again, do it again!” as if it was some sort of magic trick my father could repeat on demand. I shook my head, smiling. Papa shrugged, palms open in innocence, as if to say the turtle had simply escaped on its own from his grip. But, of course, he’d let it go. There would be no turtle soup.

  We finished bathing and changed into clean clothes. Big Uncle hooked the full buckets to the bamboo yoke, one at each end, and hoisted the yoke onto his shoulders. The twins protested, speaking in turns. “But Papa, you promised! You said you’d use us!” Big Uncle plopped a wet kroma on their heads. “Here, you little tadpoles, you can carry—”

  Before he could finish, a loud rumble came from the road. We whipped around to look. Amidst a blooming cloud of dust emerged the silhouette of a camion similar to the one that had brought us here the day before. It roared past the stupa, then reversed clumsily back to where the entrance was. Oh no, I thought with dread, we’ll have to leave again. Everyone rushed back to the temple.

  • • •

  As it turned out, the camion had brought another load of passengers. Two more followed in immediate succession. More than a hundred people, it seemed, tumbled out from under the blue tarpaulin covers into the morning light, looking more bedraggled and rattled than we had when we arrived. As they gathered on the temple grounds, it was clear from their conversations that they had come straight from Phnom Penh and, having been driven through the night, were sleep deprived and disoriented and had no idea how far they’d traveled. One elderly man fell prostrate, forehead touching the bare ground, weeping loudly to the Walking Buddha statue. I couldn’t tell if he was overjoyed to have at last arrived somewhere or burdened by sorrow for having traveled such a long distance to nowhere. A young woman quickly helped him up, murmuring, “Come, Father, come,” as if she were the parent trying to comfort a child. “We’re here now.” She looked numbed by fatigue and shock. She turned toward the group of Revolutionary soldiers accompanying them. One met her gaze and quickly looked the other way, pretending he hadn’t witnessed her distress or her father’s. The rest of the soldiers—about eight or nine of them—were busy collecting their guns and ammunition. They seemed to be more stern than the ones who had traveled with us. Two or three soldiers appeared to have just joined this new group, and it was clear they had come from the town beca
use they seemed rested and their clothes were clean and neat. They gestured to the school buildings and ordered us to help the newcomers. “Show them the way,” one shouted, hands cupped around his mouth in place of a bullhorn. He appeared to be the leader of the pack and spoke with confidence. “More will join you! You must make room! The sooner you settle in the better!”

  More people are coming? I didn’t know whether to feel excited or worried. Another camion snorted into view. It was smaller than its predecessors but was packed so full that some of the passengers were hanging off the sides. Seeing this, the lead soldier tried to disperse the throng lingering at the entrance. “GO!” His voice grew louder above the rising murmur of the crowds. “THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY! THE ORGANIZATION WILL DECIDE LATER!”

  A frightful feeling came over me. What if these trucks were also here to take us away—out with the old and in with the new?

  I had to find Papa and alert him. I found him by the front steps of the prayer hall talking with a young couple. I hurried over, and he, noticing me beside him, said excitedly, “Raami, this is a former student of mine and his family.” He gestured to the couple, the husband balancing a heavy valise on either side of him, the wife cradling a small baby in her arms, a kroma draped over her head and shoulders to protect the little one from the elements. Papa noticed my nervousness, took my hand and squeezed it, and in that instant I felt my anxiety begin to ebb. “Mr. Virak took several poetry classes with me when he was a university student,” Papa explained happily—to me as much as to the young wife—as if this was just another serendipitous meeting. “He was the only engineering student interested in literature.”

  His unworried manner further quelled my apprehension, and I found myself staring at the baby. The wife smiled and parted the kroma to reveal more of the tiny infant. She nodded at me as if to say I could come closer and touch it, but I stayed where I was. It looked too small, too precious for hands as dirty as mine. My eyes went to the tiny earlobe. No earring there. I guessed it was a boy. He was deep in sleep, his hands wrapped in thin white cotton mittens that resembled tiny boxing gloves. When he felt the air brushing against his skin, his arms jerked in reflex, a boxer taking punches at the air.

  “And now you’re a civil engineer.” Papa turned to Mr. Virak, beaming proudly. “Working for a foreign firm, you said.”

  “Was, Your Highness.” Mr. Virak sighed. “I was working in Malaysia, but I came back at the beginning of the year. Now, I’m . . . well . . .”

  Just then the new arrivals began heading in our direction. Among them was the old man who had thrown himself to the ground weeping, and as he shuffled past, moving along with the throng toward the school buildings, I noticed a bamboo flute tucked in the kroma around his waist. When he caught sight of the stupa and the surrounding cheddays, he let out another despairing sob.

  “Poor man,” Mr. Virak said, shaking his head. “His wife suffered an asthma attack and died on the journey. We had to leave her on the side of the road. Imagine you’re a funerary musician and you’ve played your music at all these funerals, but when your own wife died, you couldn’t bury her, couldn’t even play a single note to mourn her death. It is a nightmare, Your Highness. A nightmare. I feel as though we are journeying through thaanaruak—an underworld.”

  Papa looked at me, and turning back to Mr. Virak, said, “Well, you are here now. This is a sanctuary.”

  Mr. Virak looked around. He seemed skeptical. I could see why. It wasn’t the same place now with the soldiers everywhere shouting, the camions churning up dust and debris, people milling about in a confused mob, uncertain where to go except to follow those in front of them.

  As another throng pushed past us, Papa suggested we ought to hurry. With so many families, the classrooms would fill up quickly. He told Mr. Virak and his wife about the room adjoining ours, which was a bit small, but they ought to take it, as they would have more privacy than they would sharing a bigger room with another family. He then took the two valises from Mr. Virak, who stammered in protest: “Your Highness, I cannot let you . . .” Papa told him, “You are among friends now. There is no need for formality or status. Here we are the same. Address me as you would a friend.” Mr. Virak’s eyes flashed with understanding. “Yes, of course, of course.”

  We headed toward the school buildings. I rushed ahead to alert the rest of our family, thrilled now to have the couple and their baby joining us, comforted by the sheer number of people, a larger presence around me. Soon it would be just like home, I thought happily. This place would be filled with people we knew, with friends and family. More would join us, the soldier had said. Hope flitted through my heart.

  • • •

  We moved our pots and pans and whatever else we’d scattered on the floor and gave our friends the small adjoining room. It took them no time at all to settle in as they had only the two valises, one full of clothes, and the other food. In the fright of being ordered to leave at gunpoint, Mr. Virak explained, they had neglected to pack any kitchenware. “Not even a spoon,” his young wife admitted, shaking her head, blushing with embarrassment. Not to worry, everyone assured them. They could use ours. “Do join us for some porridge!” Auntie India sang. “It’s ready!”

  It was almost noon, but with all that was happening, we had yet to eat our morning meal. Radana and the twins were delirious with hunger. They banged their spoons and bowls, making a head-splitting ruckus as they waited to be fed. Auntie India, with characteristic cheerfulness, spooned some porridge into a large bowl and led the three to the doorway, where she sat down to feed them, giving each a turn from the same spoon and bowl. A mother bird feeding her chicks, I thought. The three chirped and clucked, swallowing the porridge with insatiable relish.

  The rest of us gathered in a circle on the eating mat like one big family. Mr. Virak’s wife had brought out a container of sweetened ground pork and a can of pickled turnip to add to our usual but dwindling portion of dried fish. Everyone joked at how the meager spread looked like a feast, how everything seemed to taste so good. Maybe it was because of the fresh country air, Papa pointed out. Yes, Big Uncle agreed, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing after all to be brought here. “Maybe they’re right, city life was corrupting our appetites—our taste buds!”

  At the mention of “city,” everyone turned serious, and soon we were all listening quietly to Mr. Virak’s descriptions of Phnom Penh and the ordeal that had carried them here.

  Like us, on New Year’s Day, he and his wife were told to leave their home, but as it was already evening, they decided to wait. The next day when they opened their gate they found a flood of humanity as impassable as the Mekong during a thunderstorm. Again, they thought it wise to stay put and wait it out. They would wait and see what happened in the next few days, if the seething mass would let up, and maybe then they wouldn’t have to leave at all. They locked the doors, pretending they weren’t home, hiding most of the time in a small storage closet under the stairway of their house, holding their breath whenever a Revolutionary soldier banged on their gate, fearful the cry of their two-month-old infant would be heard through the layers of doors. Meanwhile, without their realizing it, the world outside their home plunged into darkness, and by the time they emerged—forced out at gunpoint by a soldier who had blasted open their padlock with a single shot from his pistol—it was not the same place they had known. Destruction was all around them—buildings reduced to rubble, vehicles abandoned and burnt, corpses of people and animals alike rotting in the heat, an overwhelming stench everywhere.

  “Phnom Penh is no longer,” Mr. Virak murmured quietly, stirring the porridge in his bowl. “We can never go back. Never. It’s the end.” He kept stirring, unable to take his first bite, the porridge starting to congeal. Then he looked up and added, hesitantly, “When . . . when they drove us through the city, one of the Revolutionary soldiers—their commander, I believe—pointed in the direction of the Cercle Sportif and said they’d executed the prime minister and other important leaders. T
raitors, the commander called them. We’ve no need for such men in the new regime. Those were his exact words. You must be careful.”

  Papa and Big Uncle exchanged looks but said nothing. A deathly silence settled upon the room. Mama nodded at me, and I realized I’d been holding my spoon in my mouth, riveted by the whole account. I had listened to Mr. Virak’s every word, hoping for glimpses of a familiar street or corner of the city—for home. Instead he’d painted a picture of an unrecognizable place, an “underworld” where gods and tevodas were not revered but captured and shot like caged animals.

  Mr. Virak continued, “In a matter of a few weeks, they’ve done what they said they would—take us all the way back to nothing. It’s clear that not just Phnom Penh, but the whole country is being rearranged. It seems those living in provincial cities and towns are now being evacuated also, under stricter and harsher rules. People can’t choose which way to go—if they’re directed to go south, they go south, even if their hometown is to the north. In countless instances, we’ve seen family members being separated, some pushed in one direction and some in another. It’s an elaborate evacuation scheme, and it’s only starting. I sense they’ll keep moving us around—”

  “But why?” Tata interrupted impatiently. “What good would that do?”

  “It’s how they will hold on to power,” Mr. Virak said.

  “Yes,” Big Uncle echoed, nodding, as if seeing it all clearly, “they keep us fearful and helpless by destroying our most basic sense of security—separating us from family and preventing any connections from being formed. All the more reason to stick together.”

  We finished eating. The air felt heavy, bloated with foreboding. The grown-ups neither looked at one another nor said anything now, but moved about in their separate spheres of silence as they cleared away the dishes, rolled up the mat, and swept the floor. Mr. Virak and his wife excused themselves and went to their room. They shut the slatted door and walked about the tight space with hushed steps as they set up their home.