Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  The remaining woman, clasping a baby strapped to her breast and with a fat bundle of belongings tied to her back, now attempted to scale the rickety ladder. Her husband, already safely aboard the ship, looked down from above, shouting encouragement. The woman gasped and moaned as the ladder swung this way and that, hanging on as best she could. Sometimes, daring for a moment to lift the arm encircling her baby, she used both hands to pull herself up a further step but, in spite of angry urging from her husband, she soon came to a halt. Sita saw the straps securing the infant to her body had loosened and, paralysed with fear, she leaned against the rope suspended between life and death, her husband shouting frantically from above.

  For some moments the woman refused to move, sobbing and calling for help. Eventually, her husband climbed over the side of the ship and descended again down the rope. Reaching a point a few feet above her, he bent and extended a hand. At last the woman took her arm from around the baby and reached out to her husband. In that moment the tying cloth slipped, releasing the baby, who plunged down into the sea. With a scream the woman jumped after it, hitting the water with a splash, floundering about, the bundle of belongings tied to her back bobbing about like a great white egg. Screaming and thrashing, the woman sank quickly, the weight of the sodden bundle pulling her down. Then her head broke the surface of the water again as she flailed about, unable to reach her baby, who tossed upon the waves a distance away. In that last moment she raised her head to appeal to her husband high above her on the ladder, but he was already scrambling up the rope to the safety of the deck. Soon the water drew them under, the faint shape of the child was seen drifting lower and lower in the water, until at last its small body was lost in the depths. There was nothing now to be seen of the woman. The oily membrane of the sea had closed over them both, like a curtain dividing one dimension from another. In the sudden silence the sea could be heard once more, slapping against the bow of the ship.

  Soon, Sita remembered, she had felt the deck vibrate beneath her feet as the engines started and the ship prepared to move forward. A distance away on the deck the new widower sat in stunned silence, a crowd of fellow passengers about him.

  ‘It is God’s will,’ a passing deckhand commented.

  ‘There are many young girls on those rubber estates; in no time he will get another wife and child,’ a man near Sita shrugged.

  As the ship moved into new waters Sita stared into the churning wake opening behind the vessel like a trail of crumbled quartz, and drew a breath. In her mind she saw the woman again, her loosened hair spread out upon the surface of the water like a mass of dark weeds. In that last moment she had looked up at her husband, but he had already turned his back upon her, leaving her to her fate.

  Now, as she stared at the silent Shiva and listened to the industrious scratch of his pen, Sita felt a rush of unbearable grief for that unknown woman and infant, and for her own lost and unformed child.

  The Japanese were now just across the narrow strip of water separating mainland Malaya from Singapore, and the new and terrifying noise of shelling was heard, like the whirring of a giant cicada. All Sita’s aching grief reverberated to the sound. Shiva was out all day, working now as a volunteer with the Indian Passive Defence Corps. The wounded and homeless of all races crowded a hospital tent set up on the Farrer Park field. Shiva left early in the morning and returned exhausted late at night. With a truck and a couple of other volunteers he drove to distant parts of the city, tracking down food supplies, bringing in the aged and wounded of all races to the Farrer Park tent. The empty classrooms of the Ramakrishna Mission School were also turned into emergency accommodation for the growing numbers of homeless people in the city. As the air raids intensified, casualties mounted, and Shiva was forced to speak to Sita again.

  ‘We need volunteers at the field hospital. You can assist the nurses as a dresser, we need everyone to help.’ Shiva spoke stiffly, but the plea in his voice was clear.

  New energy throbbed through her the following day as she walked up Norris Road beside Shiva. As they reached Farrer Park, Sita was surprised to see a huge tent of the kind usually erected for marriages in the middle of the green. Shiva ducked beneath the open flap and Sita followed. So great was her relief at the resumption of communication with Shiva, that she had given no thought to what work in the hospital might involve, and was unprepared for the crowds of wounded lying on makeshift pallets or blankets, men, women and children, Indian, Chinese and Malay, all massed together in misery. Cries, groans and the screams of babies filled the place. People, who she presumed were doctors or nurses, hurried about, shouting orders. She was unprepared also for the compressed heat of the place, the fetid human stench of blood and bodies, the chaos of distress.

  They made their way to a small wiry woman who was dressing the wounds of a line of waiting patients.

  ‘Do you know any first-aid?’ The woman asked Sita, when Shiva introduced her.

  ‘I will look and learn.’ Sita replied, surprising herself at the confidence she heard in her voice.

  Beside her, Shiva nodded approvingly before turning away, making his way to the men waiting by the truck beyond the tent, and the day’s work ahead.

  Soon Sita was working long hours, leaving with Shiva early each morning, and returning home late at night. Every day she faced an endless variety of wounds, and learned to recognise when infection had set in, and how to deal with the maggots that quickly colonised suppurating injuries. She supported the elderly who stumbled wearily about, and managed the small children running wild through the tents. Commandeering her five small pupils from the Ramakrishna Mission School, she set them to organise activities for refugee children in the nearby school premises, suggesting they teach the script and numerals they had learned from her to those younger than themselves. The urchins took to the task with zeal, distributing slates and chalk, rapping on blackboards, shouting out commands.

  People milled about Sita, confused and frightened. Absorbed by the appeals for help from those in need, she was stretched in new ways, and forced to assert herself. Soon, to her surprise, she found herself taking control of situations, giving directions, feeling her own fear ebb away, her voice projecting from her with new strength. At times she felt she could no longer recognise herself.

  Many of the people she met each day, Chinese and Malays, she had had little contact with earlier, and had no language of communication. Yet whatever their race, everyone, even the Indians spoke to each other in bazaar Malay, and she began to pick up words, soon learning enough to give routine orders or make basic enquiries in this strange language. English was also heard, and she made an effort to store the strange new phrases away in her head, glad she had persevered with the alphabet primer Shiva had given her, and could already read and write some simple words.

  Eventually the bombs and the shelling stopped abruptly, as Singapore’s colonial government surrendered to the Japanese. The unexpected silence was unsettling and menacing.

  ‘We must stay inside,’ Shiva said, repeating the advice he had heard on the radio and been given at the field hospital.

  He listened for the daily news bulletins on the radio, but all he heard now were heavily accented Japanese voices telling him Singapore was liberated from the tyranny of British rule.

  The Japanese victory had an immediate effect upon Azad Hind broadcasts from Germany. On the day of Singapore’s surrender, Subhas Chandra Bose threw off his disguise and announced what everyone had suspected, that it was he who had been speaking to the world incognito from Germany under the name of Orlando Mazzotta. Shiva was ecstatic as Bose’s deep voice filled the room, for once miraculously clear of static.

  ‘…I have waited in silence and patience for the march of events and now that hour has struck, and I come forward to speak. The fall of Singapore means the collapse of the British Empire, and the end of the iniquitous regime which it has symbolized, and the dawn of a new era in Indian history…’

  Sita listened to the powerful
and melodic voice, and it did not matter that she understood little of the English he spoke. The hypnotic tempo of his voice was enough. Shiva leaned in close to the radio and once the broadcast was finished, sat back in a daze.

  ‘In Germany people now call Subhas Babu Netaji, great leader. In Germany they have their Fuehrer, we have our Netaji.’

  Later they ate some parathas made from tapioca flour, the dough hard and chewy. Outside, the roads were deserted and silent. Occasionally the sound of marching soldiers or an unnerving burst of gunfire was heard. They ate the parathas slowly, savouring each mouthful, not knowing how many days they must wait in their home, or where food would come from tomorrow. As they finished their meal, Dev, who had now moved in with them, offered the advice that was being circulated throughout Little India.

  ‘If Japanese soldiers stop us, we should say we are Indo. This is the Japanese word for Indian. On the mainland, Japanese soldiers have not mistreated Indians in the towns they have captured. They only mistreat the Chinese, who are fighting against them in China. We Indians are of less interest to them and they usually leave us alone.’

  ‘All Japanese know the name of Mahatma Gandhi because, like the Japanese, he is fighting against the British. They hold him in high regard,’ Shiva added, putting the last morsel of paratha carefully into his mouth.

  Through the night they dozed, alert to every sound, disturbed by shouts and the tramp of marching feet. As morning broke, Shiva could stand the tension no more. Looking out of the window, he found nothing untoward. When he turned on the radio only Japanese music and propaganda slogans was heard.

  ‘Let’s see what is happening. Perhaps we can find some food, or a tea stall,’ he said to Dev.

  ‘Don’t show yourself at the window. We will not be long.’ Shiva ordered Sita.

  She watched the door shut behind them and retreated to a corner, crouching down between the wall and the metal cage of the Morrison shelter that, until the day before, had appeared to offer some security from death. Now, overnight, the dangers they faced had changed. The stories of Japanese soldiers came back to her, of their cruelty and disregard for life, the rape of women and the callous beheadings. Outside, the silence was broken by the call of a koel, and she was suddenly conscious of how hungry she was, and that she needed to use the latrine downstairs in the yard. Finally, she could bear it no longer, and against Shiva’s orders, stood up and made her way to the window. The road was deserted and, looking over the courtyard wall and up the lane, she glimpsed the familiar dome-shaped chhatris on the roof of the Ramakrishna Mission.

  The sound of shouts was suddenly heard. Stepping back out of sight, she watched a group of Japanese soldiers turn from Norris Road into the alley. They ambled forward, stopping before each firmly locked door, shouting in frustration when they could not enter. Soon they arrived at the gate of the courtyard below. Shiva had left it unlocked and Sita stared in horror as the soldiers kicked it open, and peered curiously inside. Crouched below the window, she listened to the rough incomprehensible voices as they entered the yard and paced about, her heart beating painfully. Crawling behind the iron table shelter, she crouched down in a narrow space against the wall, wedging herself in between stacks of books, making herself as small as possible. Downstairs, the voices grew louder, the men shouted across the courtyard to each other, opening doors, entering other homes in the building. Sita heard the screams and shouts of her neighbours. Then, there was the metallic echo of footsteps on the spiral stair, coming up towards her. She closed her eyes and covered her head with her arms.

  Bursting into the room, they surrounded her, grabbing her roughly, pulling her up. Their guttural voices bounced about, loud and incomprehensible. They had been on the march for days, through jungle and swamp, and their filthy uniforms hung in tatters upon them, their faces were unshaven, and their rank odour pressed upon her. One of them pinioned her against the wall with the end of a bayonet, moving the tip of the blade up to her breast, pricking her flesh through the thin cloth of her blouse. All the while they laughed, lips drawn back upon wide square teeth, and she remembered the fangs of a cornered rat she had once seen in her aunt’s house, imprisoned in a trap. She remembered then what Dev and Shiva had said.

  ‘Indo.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  ‘Indo.’ She took a breath and yelled out the word as loud as she could.

  For a moment they glanced at each other and she saw the surprise in their faces, the sudden uncertainty.

  ‘Indo. Gandhi. Gandhi. Gandhi.’ She repeated the name like a prayer, at the same time raising her eyes to the picture of the devi on the shelf across the room.

  ‘Gundi?’ The man with the weapon bent towards her, repeating the word, but whether his tone was cautionary or encouraging she could not tell. After another quick exchange of glances the bayonet was withdrawn.

  ‘Indo? Gundi?’ Tossed about in their thick rough voices, the words were almost unrecognisable. The man with the bayonet now stepped back, staring at her with a thunderous frown. Then, with grunts of angry frustration, the men turned away, pushing out through the door. Their voices grew distant as the metallic echo of their footsteps retreated down the spiral stairs. With a groan of relief Sita sank to the floor, too chilled by fear to cry.

  11

  SINGAPORE, 2000

  Amita and Rishi travelled separately to Holland on different flights on different days, and met as the conference started. Since they were the only two delegates from Singapore, they formed a natural bond, hailing each other from afar, discussing their papers together and gravitating to the same table at meals. Rishi knew many more of the international delegates at the conference than Amita did. His ability to make people laugh, his exaggerated gestures and endless stock of anecdotes made him popular with everyone. Free of the presence of his wife, his personality expanded. Amita saw how attentive and openly flirtatious he was with women, and how they responded. Women she respected for their academic prowess and self-determined lives dissolved before him in an indefinable way, engaging with him, smiling into his face with uncharacteristic coyness. With Amita, Rishi adopted a companionable stance, even confiding once or twice about the uneven tempo of his marriage, embarrassing her with such confidences. He was also a shrewd and perceptive academic with many publications to his name, and his work was widely recognised and respected. The seminar room was crowded for the reading of his paper, Complex Adaptive Systems: The Known, the Unknown and the Unknowable in Asian Societies.

  Amita also had a good audience for her own paper, Complicity and Resistance: Gender in the Politics of Migration. She had a special interest in the subject of female Indian migrant workers, especially those who in colonial times had come as indentured labourers from India to work on the rubber estates of Malaya. Many of those women had joined the Indian National Army at the time her own mother had joined, sharing the same experiences, fighting for the same cause.

  The weather was so bad that a sightseeing trip was cancelled and Amita and Rishi spent the afternoon in the Rijksmuseum instead, looking at paintings by old Masters. Most of the conference delegates had gone to a new blockbuster exhibition at the Van Gogh Museum. The towered and turreted Rijksmuseum was presenting a small but treasured exhibition of van Eyck masterpieces, lent by several international museums. Rishi was more interested in the Rembrandts and Vermeers on show, but Amita was determined to see the van Eycks. She had never forgotten the portrait of a man and his wife seen in the National Gallery in London on a visit there long ago.

  It was the last day of the show in Amsterdam. With pamphlets and audio guides they entered the exhibition rooms, keeping close together. There were no more than twelve pictures in two rooms, works of marvellous detail, density and stillness. Amita stood before the portrait, Man in a Red Turban, thought to be a self-portrait of van Eyck, the audio told her. Beside it was a portrait of the artist’s wife, Margaret, a handsome woman in a copious white headdress agleam against a dark background and her red dress. She stared
out of the canvas, frozen in time, her face filled with stoic resignation-patient and benign. Then, across the room Amita noticed the picture she had come to see, a fifteenth-century portrait of an Italian merchant and his wife in the Flemish city of Bruges. When she last saw the picture Amita was a student and on her way to America from Singapore. Just as she had so many years ago, Amita stood transfixed before the painting, feeling she had transcended time, stepping into another dimension.

  The merchant Arnolfini and his wife, standing hand in hand beneath a brass chandelier, inhabited a rich and secluded world. The man in his wide black hat, and the woman in her voluminous green gown, an excess of material held up over her stomach to hide a possible pregnancy, were surrounded by symbols of fertility-oranges on the window sill, a wooden statue of the patron saint of childbirth, Saint Margaret, on the bedpost finial. On the wall in the centre of the picture was a concave mirror that, the audio informed Amita, might represent the eye of God.

  Now, she stood before the painting at a different time in her life, and saw different things. The pregnant woman was positioned beside a bed while the man stood next to a window, a threshold beyond which the outside world was glimpsed, and where the merchant Arnolfini would have lived his life. From his expression he appeared a passionless, self-contained man, aware of his wealth and position. Beside him his pale wife, eyes dutifully downcast, meek and hesitant, seemed the prisoner of an interior world. Her hand lay lightly upon her husband’s palm, accepting of her fate with him, whatever it may be.

  Given as she was to critical analysis, Amita did not understand why this ancient portrait affected her so deeply. The couple stood frozen forever on a day in their lives, a moment that must have seemed to them both fleeting and eternal, just as the moment Amita now inhabited, standing before them so many centuries later, felt to her equally transitory and yet unending. Where could you live your life, Amita wondered, but in the container of each day? The space between her and the long-ago couple, living their fourteenth-century day seemed suddenly to fuse into the same unending universal day. The same cyclical occurrences boxed the couple in, just as they now encased Amita so many centuries later. Who were these people, unknowable, yet no different from her? What were they thinking, the meek woman and the self-contained man? It was doubtful the woman had a lover waiting for her, but the man possibly had a mistress. They fulfilled their prescribed fourteenth-century roles, just as Amita fulfilled her role as a single fifty-two-year-old woman of her time, set on defining herself in opposition to the world.