Daughters of India

by Jill McGivering

  Two police-wallahs stood at the entrance to the camp with long switches in their hands, ready to give someone a beating. The boy hung his head as they passed and kept close to Asha’s side.

  A small girl, perhaps six years of age, stood close to the path, her arms wrapped round her body. Her cotton salwar kameez showed red along the seam. The rest of its colour was bleached white by repeated washing. Fragments of a broken pattern of sequins hung around the lower part of the sleeves. They glinted in the sunlight as the fabric rippled.

  The girl turned to face Asha as they walked by. Her head was covered with a dark dupatta that swamped her shoulders. She had the grave, still look of a widow. Her eyes, as they met Asha’s, were deadened, the sockets too large for her small face. Her lips were thin and pocked with scabs.

  Asha raised her dupatta to cover her head. The boy trotted along beside her. Off to one side, in a broad expanse of dirt, men cooked in iron pots. A wall of heat swam sideways from the cooking fires. They stirred in the rising steam with ladles as long as paddles. The air carried the smell of thin rice porridge. Beside them, other men sat cross-legged on the ground surrounded by pyramids of chilli, cauliflower, bhindi and potatoes, which they peeled and chopped into metal basins. Three police jawans sat on stools alongside, tapping their open palms with lathis.

  The boy’s attention was all on the food. She stopped, pulled at his arm.

  ‘Where are they, these men?’

  He stepped down from the raised path into the field, off to the right, and they started to thread their way between the shelters. Families huddled together, inert. Young women held babies too sick to suckle, small bundles of bones wrapped in rags. Half-starved children pressed against their mothers’ sides. Men lowered their faces in shame. Here and there an elderly woman with rheumy eyes lay against a bedding roll or bucket, staring out without interest, her hope already exhausted. These ghost-people wore clothes that revealed bone-thin limbs. Joints protruded in painful swellings at ankles, knees, shoulders and wrists.

  The boy stopped at a shelter, a piece of sacking stretched over wood to make a crawl space, and pointed. She shook her head. This old man was no relative of hers. He tilted back his head and seemed to struggle to focus on her.

  ‘Asha?’

  ‘Ramesh?’ She crouched. Ramesh was always a strong man, a hard worker who liked to drink and afterwards use his fists. This man’s body was wasted. She tried to hide her shock.

  ‘What happened?’

  He beckoned her closer. His breath was sour with hunger and his voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Japanese,’ he said. ‘We fled. Walked. Week on week. No food. Berries and roots and whatsoever we could steal. No water. Just streams, puddles.’ The effort of speaking seemed to exhaust him.

  She looked behind him into the dark shelter. Two men lay there, as thin and listless as he was himself.

  ‘Kumar and Sunil are here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And the others?’

  His eyes became rheumy. ‘Dead. Left there, wheresoever they fell. May the gods forgive us.’

  He started to shake. He has lost his senses, she thought.

  ‘Your families are waiting. Come. We’ll hire a cart, get you home.’

  ‘No.’ He managed to shake his head. ‘Food is here. Water also. Not another step.’

  She sat beside him and pulled him sideways to rest against her shoulder. As a girl, she was afraid of Ramesh Uncle. He bellowed at her baba. He beat his wife. She remembered it all. Now she wrapped her arms around his bony shoulders and rocked him, crooned to him in a low, rhythm as if he were again a baby.

  Baba Satya’s devotees fluttered around him, passing him a cup of water, a snack, placing a pillow behind his back. As more men arrived, they dipped low to touch Baba’s feet in respect and felt themselves blessed by his hand on their heads.

  Asha, come early, sat with her back against the wall, her legs crossed, and watched. Her stomach was hollow with nerves. Her eyes flickered to the door each time it opened, seeking out Anil. He had failed to attend their last meeting, leaving her to creep home, flat with disappointment. Something had happened to him, she thought. Some fight. Some accident. Or perhaps he was bored by them all, these ordinary men, and left them.

  Again the door opened. She looked up. Only that dull old man with the withered arm who kept a chai stall. His solid wife waddled in behind him. They bowed low to Baba Satya and found their places in the circle. Faces shone pale in the low light from the oil lamp on the floor. Faces hollowed out by tiredness and lack of food.

  Baba Satya raised his hand in greeting. ‘Brothers and sisters.’ His voice filled the small room. ‘Have faith. Our leaders send word to us to be patient, to be calm.’

  Asha found her eyes falling to her hands, pleated in her lap. She thought again of the way Anil had sprung from the shadows and seized the man he called a traitor, his hand sure and firm round the knife as he plunged it into the man’s chest. She looked quickly round the room, afraid her thoughts were in her face. But all eyes were on Baba Satya as his voice ran on. No one paid her any heed.

  She hadn’t seen Anil since then. Twice, she thought he was following her as she picked her way through the slum to and from the school. Once she hid herself in a doorway, trembling as she pressed against the wood, expecting him to burst out and surprise her. Nothing.

  At night, she decided he had abandoned her. Was it even possible to feel forsaken when they had barely spoken? Was he angry with her? She blinked. Afterwards, when the man lay dead on the ground, he raised his eyebrows to her, a complicit gesture. What had she done wrong? She had proved herself.

  The door opened. Her eyes darted to it at once. Blood quickened in her ears. Him. Anil. Finally. Tall and strong in the half-light, his short black hair smooth against his forehead. He glanced unhurriedly round the room as if judging whether the meeting were worth joining. Heat flared in her cheeks and she pulled her eyes away from him, focused hastily on Baba Satya who paused, turned, nodded a greeting to Anil.

  He came in and stood against the wall. He was the only one of them who didn’t stoop to touch Baba’s feet, to offer him allegiance.

  Baba Satya carried on. ‘Our leaders know we are loyal. That Britisher, Cripps, he brought nothing, nah? We sent him home to Mr Churchill in disgrace. A meaningless offer. But they heard our voices.

  ‘Now more talks are coming. In the meantime, the Britishers watch us. You, brother, and you. Every last one of us. They want an excuse to move against us. Do you see? We must be patient a little longer.’

  ‘Patient? You make me laugh.’ Anil’s voice, cutting through the room. He lolled against the brickwork like a prince. ‘What do you take us for?’

  Faces turned. Silence. Anil stared directly at Baba Satya. His body was tense with muscle. The room held its breath to see what Baba Satya might say.

  ‘Brother, you are passionate.’ Baba Satya had the air of a father checking an unruly son. ‘When it is time to fight, you will lead us into battle. I know that. But that time is not yet come.’

  Anil tossed his head. ‘Have you seen, Baba, the skeletons who crept home from Burma? Tens of thousands of our brothers and sisters. So many died along the way. Have you not seen them?’

  Baba Satya lifted his hand but Anil, ignoring him, carried on.

  ‘The Britishers left them to die. Masters had their servants rush to pack their trunks and travelled back safely by train, leaving their servants to fight for their lives alone, to struggle back on foot. To walk how many hundreds of miles? Walk! Even as the Japanese advanced. Are you deaf? So many stories are there! And you tell us to be patient?’

  The air shook with his anger. Asha clasped her fingers so tightly together that they turned white. No one stirred.

  Baba Satya sat without expression, his eyes thoughtful on Anil’s face. He knows, Asha thought. He knows Anil’s raw power and how to harness it. Finally he smiled. ‘Anil, I salute you. I say again, when—’
/>   A bang on the metal roof. Men, startled, jumped to their feet.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Another bang. And another. Hard. Stones, she thought. Some boys are there, throwing stones at us. A man dashed to the door, pulled it open. People were chattering, nervy and afraid. She looked across to Anil. He stood, unmoved, his back against the wall, the only point of stillness in the general dither and panic. She watched, fascinated. He turned and looked directly at her across the bustling room as if he had known all along that she was gazing at him, as if he expected nothing less. She was about to pull her eyes away, embarrassed to be caught, when he tipped back his head, opened his mouth in silent laughter. His teeth gleamed, sharp and long. Over their heads, the bangs drummed on, fast and insistent.

  A man darted back in. ‘The rains are come!’

  The room was all movement as some rushed out to greet the rains and others ran back inside to spread the news.

  ‘The gods be praised!’

  Finally, after so many weeks of parched, dusty waiting, the monsoon had broken.

  ‘Come. Leave these old men.’ Anil at her side, his voice close in her ear. He turned and she followed without hesitation. He cut a path out through the jostling, shoving people, out of the shack and into the narrow street. Men danced there, arms splayed, faces upturned to the falling rain. In the houses around, people stirred, roused from sleep, and voices called from house to house, sharing the news: ‘The rains are come!’

  He led her down a side street. Raindrops pitted the surface of the dusty path. He paused in a corner where two blank walls met. For a moment, she was afraid of him, of the quiet corner. He bent and pulled a large stone up against the wall, searched for another and stacked it on top, then a third. He took her hand and steadied her as she climbed his stone stairs, then boosted her with his shoulder to climb up onto the top of the wall.

  He scaled it too, then led her along the wall, then higher across a roof, finding his footing with confidence as they clambered along the tops of walls and across a rising ladder of metal-sheeted roofs, slick now with falling water. He commands these places, she thought. These high, hidden spaces. He uses them as the rest of us use paths. Her breath became short as she rushed to keep pace with him, her face lowered to watch her step. Water broke over the back of her head, ran down her forehead, cheeks, her nose, wet her lips and splashed at last down her neck to soak through her kameez.

  He climbed a ledge and stopped, turned to take her hand, to help her. She tried to read his expression but his face was impassive. He settled on a narrow stone ledge, overhanging a three-storey building, the tallest in the slum. He sat there, his legs dangling, as if he might step out at any moment into endless air beneath his feet. She hesitated, peered forwards to crane over the lip. The soft pull of the ground so far below made her dizzy.

  ‘Here.’ He patted the stone beside him.

  She paused. It would be too easy to fall.

  He frowned. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  She sucked in her breath and held it tight in her lungs. She crawled forward, stooping low towards the roof, and forced herself to sit beside him. The ledge fell away to nothingness in front of her. Coldness fluttered in her chest and she tried to ease her weight backwards as if she could anchor herself there.

  He was so close, his leg damp and warm against hers. He smelt of cigarette smoke. Rainwater streamed down his head, his face, his shirt, sticking the cotton to his chest. He smiled and leant close to her, placed his hand in the small of her back. She shivered, held herself rigid, tense, waiting.

  A sudden shove. She let out a cry, grabbed at him in terror. She twisted and her mouth fell open in panic. For an instant, she seemed to feel herself already pitching forward, falling from the rooftop, helpless, clutching at the wet air as she plunged. Her stomach turned.

  ‘No!’

  How could he? He was laughing now, holding her against his solid chest, tightening his arms around her.

  She struck him with a fist. ‘How could you?’

  He shrugged, still smiling. ‘But I didn’t, did I?’

  He pulled away again, leaving her with a sense of the lack of him. Steady fingers of cool rain ran in where the warmth of his body had been.

  They sat for some time in silence, listening to the pattern of distant noises across the slum: the shouts of men, barks of dogs.

  ‘Look!’ He craned forward, pointed.

  She held herself away from the edge as she peered over. A group of men had run into the alley. Their contours were softened by distance, by the falling rain, but there was menace in their movements. They dragged something. A sack, she thought at first. She narrowed her eyes and strained to see. It fell to the ground amongst them. A man lay twisting on his side. They made a circle round him, kicked at his stomach, his back, his head. He writhed like a worm.

  ‘Who are they?’ She was shaking.

  He shrugged, indifferent. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘We should do something.’

  His eyes, when he turned to her, were amused. ‘You could jump.’

  She pulled back. She couldn’t look. It might be anyone. Someone she knew. What if he died down there and she’d watched and done nothing?

  ‘He’s probably dead,’ he went on. ‘What’s the point?’

  She stared at him. He lifted his hand and ran a finger down the curve of her cheek.

  ‘They’re not like us. They kill for sport only.’ He spoke quietly as if he were sharing an important truth. ‘We’re different, Asha. You and I. We are made of the same stuff. Don’t you see?’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Isabel

  ‘I hate the monsoon.’

  Sarah gazed out over her garden. The lawn was sodden with falling rain and the verandah echoed to the steady cascade of water from the overhang to the wooden floor.

  ‘Every year, the same. The flower beds flood.’ She shook her head, reached for her teacup. ‘Mud gets simply everywhere.’

  Isabel smiled. ‘I like the drama.’

  ‘And the beasties. They come crawling out of all the nooks and crannies. This morning, the floors were positively alive.’

  ‘But finally it’s cool enough to sleep.’

  Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘Honestly, Izzy. You’re the only memsahib I know who refuses to complain about the climate. It isn’t natural.’

  Sarah’s manservant brought in a fresh pot of boiling water and poured it into the teapot. Sarah reached for the long-handled teaspoon and stretched forward to stir the leaves. The teaspoon made rhythmical clinks against the side of the pot. Rising steam softened the contours of her face.

  ‘I’ve hired two new chowkidars, did you notice?’ Sarah straightened again and offered a plate of cakes. ‘One’s a cousin of the old chap who’s been here for years and almost as old, frankly. If anything did happen, I think they’d have heart attacks. The other’s a young fellow. He’s strong but I don’t know if I really trust him. I mean, if the Japanese come.’

  Isabel took a vanilla fancy. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

  ‘At least your father’s here. I’m just a solitary memsahib.’

  They hadn’t heard from Tom and Edward since those hurried letters at the end of February, just before the fall of Rangoon. That was more than two months ago. Sarah rarely spoke about her husband. At times, though, the strain showed in the lines around her eyes, the tightness in her jaw, even now as she frowned to herself and replaced the lid of the teapot.

  Sarah leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘I’ve bought a handgun.’

  ‘Do you know how to use it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Sarah cut a cake in half, scattering crumbs. ‘I had to ask John Hargreaves to show me. I don’t think he approves.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he would.’

  ‘I’m a terrible shot. But it might frighten them off.’

  Isabel sat quietly for a moment, taking this in.

  ‘I lock it in the safe during the day and get i
t out at night. I’ve been sleeping with it under my pillow.’ Sarah frowned. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’

  Isabel hesitated. ‘Well, it doesn’t sound terribly comfortable.’

  ‘It isn’t.’ Sarah laughed. ‘It’s like the princess and the pea, only worse.’

  The downpour was easing. The cascade of rain down the edge of the verandah slowed to a trickle. Isabel looked out across the bushes and trees. They shone with water in the strengthening sunlight.

  ‘I always wondered why you stayed, Isabel, after that awful business in the Andamans. I’d have left on the first ship.’

  ‘Really?’ Isabel considered. Sarah seldom referred to Jonathan’s murder and her trial. No one did, at least not in her hearing. Was that what people asked each other: I wonder why she stayed?

  ‘Was it because of him?’ Sarah’s voice was soft. ‘Because of Edward Johnston?’

  Isabel hesitated. ‘Perhaps a little,’ she said. ‘But I might have stayed anyway. My life is here. Isn’t yours?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Maybe not any more.’

  Isabel turned her eyes to her plate. She cut her cake into two and bit into half, savouring the sweetness. She chewed slowly. It was odd to think back to the Andamans. Jonathan’s death seemed old history to her now. If she grieved, it was for Edward, not for him.

  Sarah said: ‘Do you know, I was secretly pleased when I heard we’d lost Burma. I mean not pleased, exactly, but I thought: now Tom will come home. Stupid of me, wasn’t it?’

  The wicker creaked as Sarah lifted the teapot and refreshed their cups. The rain finally came to a halt. The verandah resounded with a low drip-drip-drip as the final drops rounded and fell. A black cat, a mangy stray, slunk out from its shelter in the depth of the bushes and crept across the lawn. Light spray rose from its lifting paws.