by Meira Chand
Once the soldiers had gone, a shocked populace emerged again into the road, looking up at the empty lattice of scaffolding and down at the half mixed pile of cement. Vishwanathan stepped forward to gaze along the empty road, while Savitri pulled Sita to her feet, shaking her head in distress. The supervisor reappeared to assess the remnants of his remaining workforce, who were now creeping forward, bruised or bleeding.
‘They have taken all your young men,’ Vishwanathan called across to him, glancing at the elderly crew now gathering together, visibly shaken by their experience. The supervisor nodded grimly, dabbing his cuts and bruises with the end of his dhoti.
‘These men are good only for mixing cement. They are taking labourers from everywhere they can, to work on a great railway they are building from Burma to Siam.’
The supervisor turned to the trembling men who still remained, ordering them to climb the scaffolding and take over the work of the younger men, who were now marching along Serangoon Road towards an unknown destiny.
13
SINGAPORE, 1943–1944
There had been no rain for days. Dust thickened the air, heat pressed down upon the town, stewing noxious odours in open drains. Sita’s head ached. On the wall the old clock continued to tick, measuring out each day that Shiva was gone. He had not come home since his recruitment, and without him Sita’s life was adrift and anchorless. Poring over his books, choosing random volumes from the stacks along the walls, she continued with her own learning of both Hindi and English, looking up new words in Shiva’s many dictionaries.
Smoothing out the cloth on her lap, she returned to her sewing. A Japanese woman, a teacher at the Japanese language school that had taken over the Ramakrishna Mission, had come knocking on doors, requesting women to volunteer to make shirts for orphaned children. Cloth, needles, thread and a pattern were supplied by a women’s charitable organisation. Sita readily agreed to help, remembering the five urchins who were now in a distant orphanage at the other end of the island, and might be the recipients of just such a shirt. The woman gave her a small amount of money for the labour. It felt good to earn a wage, and the notes in her hand filled Sita with pride.
As the old clock began its usual hoarse breathing before gathering the energy to strike, there was the sound of steps on the spiral stair. Shiva threw open the door, filling the room, a stranger she did not recognise. Sita’s heart thudded in shock. He had left her wearing a worn checked lungi and singlet vest, old leather sandals on his feet. Now, he stood before her in a smart khaki uniform, brass buttons agleam on his belted jacket, a narrow cap settled upon his head. Good food filled out his cheeks, a sense of purpose smoothed away anxiety, and his eyes were bright.
‘These were given to me by a Japanese officer,’ Shiva thrust an armful of fruit and several packets of biscuits into her hands, speaking as if he had returned from a day’s work and not after days of absence.
The room was suddenly full of the unfamiliar, of the man her husband had become and the unknown world he now inhabited. The smell of a medicinal soap drifted from him, and his long thick hair was shorn so short his ears stuck out from his head in a way she had never noticed before. Turning silently towards the kitchen, seeking a moment to absorb the shock, she went to make tea, knowing this was what was expected of her.
‘I have come here only to get you,’ he called after her. She turned back towards him, struck again by the excitement pulsing through him.
‘Soon Netaji will speak at the Padang. I want you to hear him.’
There was no way to refuse, and she quickly gathered up her hair, twisting it into the usual tight knot, while he waited impatiently. At last she was ready and he pulled her after him down the spiral stair, across the courtyard and out of the gate. Soon they reached Serangoon Road and then came into Beach Road, walking quickly towards the green expanse of the Padang, where Bose was to speak. The briny scent of the sea, filled with the stench of drying sardines on the beach in front of the fish market, carried over to them. Sita trailed behind her husband, surprised by the number of Indian men and women walking in the same direction. People streamed into Beach Road from Selegie Road, Dhoby Ghaut, Bencoolen Street, Middle Road and Bras Basah. Above her the sky was heavy with rain, but the crowd converging on the Padang appeared undeterred.
‘Netaji.’
His name was on everyone’s lips, tossed from one person to another. Sita hurried to keep up with Shiva’s determined stride. The attap-roofed hutments and peeling shophouses were left behind as they reached the colonial heart of the town, with its churches and municipal buildings, the parliament, the cricket club and the clock tower of Victoria Hall. This area was strange to Sita, and she looked around in awe.
Bordering the Padang along St. Andrew’s Road stood the imposing neo-classical edifices of the Supreme Court and City Hall. On the steps of the City Hall a raised platform decorated with red and white bunting had been erected. Huge Indian and Japanese flags were draped over the walls of the building behind. Sita gazed at the soaring Corinthian colonnade, and at the mass of people collected on the huge field of the Padang. Shiva crossed the road and plunged into the waiting crowd, pulling Sita after him, pushing his way forward like a swimmer through choppy water. Dev was waiting for them a short distance from the red and white platform from which Subhas Chandra Bose would speak. Seeing Shiva in his INA uniform, people respectfully made room for them, and Sita sat down beside Dev.
‘I must join my regiment. We will march before Netaji, he will take the salute,’ Shiva explained, and hurried off.
In the distance the INA regiments could be seen assembled at the other end of the Padang, awaiting the arrival of their new commander, but it was impossible to pick Shiva out from amongst the mass of khaki-clad soldiers. Sita turned back to Dev, who was explaining to her how Subhas Chandra Bose had reached Singapore.
‘From Germany, at the request of the Japanese, Hitler sent Netaji to Tokyo by submarine. The journey took many months. All that time he was buried deep beneath the surface of the sea. Halfway to Japan, in the middle of the ocean, the vessel surfaced and Netaji left the German submarine and transferred to a Japanese submarine. Then, once again, he lived deep under the water for many days until he reached Tokyo. There the Japanese requested him to take over the Indian National Army, and sent him here to Singapore.’
Sita gazed at her brother wide-eyed, imagining the long journey beneath the ocean, seeing the impossible feat, the man walking on water like an immortal from one dripping vessel to another. She imagined the storm-tossed darkness through which he journeyed deep within a briny universe. In her mind, she saw him surface again into the world, rising from the ocean like the god Varuna on the back of a sea monster, water rolling from his gold armour, the sun forming a halo behind him.
A stir rippled across the packed field as an open-topped car approached the Padang, passing the parliament and the Cricket Club to enter St. Andrew’s Road, moving slowly.
‘The Japanese Prime Minister, General Tojo, has also come to Singapore with Netaji,’ Dev explained.
A pennant with the red and white rising sun of Japan flew from one side of the car, and on the other, stamped with the image of a pouncing tiger, flew the orange, white and green pennant of Azad Hind, the country that soon hoped to be called Free India. The flags flew like coloured fins on the head of the vehicle, which drew to a halt before City Hall. From one side of the car General Tojo, a small and insignificant looking man with a short moustache, climbed out, and then the powerfully built Bengali emerged. At the sight of Bose wild cheering erupted from the waiting mass of people.
A tall thickset man of military bearing, balding and bespectacled, Bose exuded authority and energy as he turned to acknowledge the crowd, striding up the steps of City Hall behind the Japanese prime minister. People roared and surged towards him, but the police and Japanese soldiers armed with rifles advanced, pushing everyone back again onto the field. Waiting Indian dignitaries now stepped forward to garland Netaji,
and soon his head was half buried in flowers. A young Indian woman dressed like a man, in army uniform, was amongst the people garlanding Bose. Netaji was guided to a seat and, as Sita watched, the uniformed woman sat down beside him. A narrow military cap was set stylishly upon her dark shoulder length hair, and she gazed out at the crowd from behind dark glasses, straight-backed and assured.
‘Who is that?’ Sita asked.
Dev did not know, but a man beside them overheard the question and leaned towards her.
‘That is Captain Lakshmi. She is the only woman in Netaji’s cabinet, and she is also a doctor living in Singapore,’ he informed her.
The sun broke free of the clouds to shine upon the Padang, turning the brass buttons on Bose’s uniform to points of fire, gleaming on his high polished boots. A confetti of petals from the garlands still clung to his uniform. With the appearance of the sun, new energy throbbed through the crowd.
‘Netaji! Netaji!’
Around Sita everyone was shouting now. Dev and the men beside him were waving their arms as they roared out Netaji’s name. Women were also shouting unashamedly. A great wave of sound rolled about the field, sweeping everyone up, growing louder and louder, filling Sita’s ears and beating in her chest.
‘Netaji! Netaji!’
She too was now shouting his name, hearing it reverberate through her again and again.
‘Netaji! Netaji!’
Her pulse quickened as she gazed up at the man on the platform. Bose held up his hand and the crowd quietened as he began to speak, his powerful well-modulated voice rising and falling rhythmically, projecting across the Padang. Reaching out to adjust the microphone, he paused, and in that moment a bolt of hot energy rushed through her. Then his deep, smooth voice curled over her again, shutting out all else.
‘Comrades! Let the battle cry be Dilli Chalo! Onwards to Delhi! How many of us individually will survive this war of freedom, I do not know. But we shall ultimately win…I will be with you in darkness and sunshine, in sorrow and in joy, in suffering and in victory…
‘This must be a truly revolutionary army…I am appealing also to women…women must also be prepared to fight for their freedom, to fight for independence… Along with independence they will get their own emancipation… Give me your blood and I will give you freedom.’
As he finished speaking there was a brief silence, no one moved. Then all at once women began rushing forward, pushing past Sita, breaking through barriers, some with babies in their arms, all shouting, we will fight, we will fight for the freedom of India.
Sita found she too was on her feet, following the crowd of women. Dev pulled on her hand, trying to hold her back, but it seemed her heart would burst with all she was feeling. Breaking free of her brother she ran towards where Netaji stood high on the dais above her, his face exultant, head thrown back.
We will fight; we will fight…
She screamed out the words. She would fight for India; she would fight for him. Then there was the cold touch of steel on her arm, and rough hands grabbed her as Japanese soldiers with rifles confronted the women, forcing them back. Above her Netaji continued to smile, his gaze focussed distantly upon the crowd, his hand raised as if in blessing. She was near enough to see the soft crease of the boot about his ankle, the stout metal buckle around his waist, the gleam of sweat upon his broad cheeks, his full and sensuous lips. Then, Japanese soldiers fenced her in, driving her back, step by step.
A bugle sounded and on the dais Netaji turned, drawing himself up to salute his new army. The sun was gone and clouds darkened the sky once again. In St. Andrew’s Road the massed regiments of the INA began to move forward, marching smartly past their new leader as he took the salute. As the march-past ended a flash of lightning was seen and the whip of thunder was heard. It started to rain, and people hurried to disperse.
Leaving Shiva on the field with his regiment, Sita and Dev walked home, heads down against the rain, each lost in thought. The excitement of the afternoon still burned through Sita. She could not recall Netaji’s features clearly or even the things he had said, much of which she had not understood, but the power of him remained within her and would not let her free. He was a golden man, a leaping tiger, who had entered her at a thrust.
Give me your blood and I will give you freedom. The words spun through her and were part of her now, as was the fierce rightness of the Indian struggle. She would fight as they all would fight, until freedom was won.
In the following days energy throbbed within her in a way she had never experienced. Tossing and turning through the night, she woke well before dawn to watch the first grey light spread through the thin curtain. Suddenly, she dared to do things she had never done before.
Ignoring Shiva’s explicit orders not to touch his precious books, she set about dismantling the towers of paper stacked against each wall, dusting each volume, even disposing of those so badly devoured by silverfish that only pages of lace remained. She sprayed insecticide in every corner of the house. All the while she thought of Netaji, hearing his voice, seeing the shape of his balding head, the gleaming boots, his tall and upright form. Her body ached with the thought of him.
Within days of the rally on the Padang, it was announced that a women’s regiment had been set up at Bose’s instigation and would be part of the Indian National Army. Captain Lakshmi would command this new regiment, named after the legendary Rani of Jhansi, a spirited princess who had fought against the British in 1858.
‘Who is joining the regiment?’ Sita asked Dev, trying not to reveal her interest.
‘Only some young girls without family responsibilities,’ Dev replied.
‘Should I join?’ Sita asked, watching his expression for a sign she might explore such an action.
‘You are a married woman. How can you join?’ Dev frowned in disapproval.
Within a few days the opportunity Sita waited for arrived. Two girls going from house to house, hoping to find recruits for the Rani of Jhansi Regiment, knocked on her door. As soon as Sita knew the purpose of their visit, the words rushed from her, as if someone else was speaking.
‘I will join, I will fight.’
Elation filled her as she spoke, as did apprehension. It was the first time she had made a decision about her own life, and the raw power of such daring amazed her. The girls told her about a meeting at which Netaji was to speak about the newly formed regiment.
‘You must come,’ the girls entreated and Sita nodded, knowing the decision was already made within her, even as she wondered how she would find the place.
In spite of her apprehension, it was not difficult to find Waterloo Street, and the venue was easy to identify by the number of people gathered before the entrance. No one stopped her as she slipped inside.
The room was crowded with mostly women, and Netaji had already arrived. Sita found a place near the door at the back of the room. Netaji stood on a raised dais, an unmistakable presence, tall and uniformed, his face dominated by heavy framed spectacles. A shaft of light fell upon him, polishing his balding head. He began to speak, his voice commanding yet intimate, as if he spoke to each one of them individually.
‘You all know the part our women have played in the freedom movement in India…sharing the burden with men in our national struggle…facing imprisonment and persecution, insult and humiliation…’
In the silent room Netaji’s voice flowed through her. As always, some of what he said she did not understand, but the words came from a place deep within him and, closing her eyes, she felt their touch.
‘If there is anyone who thinks it is an unwomanly act to shoulder a rifle, I ask them to turn to our history and the brave women of our past.’
Some words stayed with her, others were lost. She was conscious only of the force of the man before her.
‘I know what our women are capable of, and therefore I say without exaggeration that there is no suffering which our brave sisters are not capable of enduring.’
As the mee
ting ended, Sita slipped out from the hall, wanting to get away as fast as she could, to be alone. As before, her body throbbed with unfamiliar energy, strange thoughts and emotions surged through her. Netaji’s face was before her as she walked home, his voice echoing within her. His words filled her and would not be silenced.
14
SINGAPORE, 1944
It started to rain as they set off from the house for the walk to the Bras Basah camp. A sudden downpour emptied down upon them. Water sluiced off the protective canopy of the umbrella Shiva held over them. Sita leaned nearer her husband as the rain splashed about them, the hem of her sari dragging wetly around her ankles. Her few belongings, tied up in a bundle and carried by Shiva, were already soaked. She was supposed to report to the camp in the morning, but it was now afternoon. She was late because Shiva had insisted she wait for him to take her to Bras Basah. Even now, as they walked towards the place, Shiva’s resentment at her decision to enlist soured all exchange between them. She had expected him to support her; she had expected him to be pleased. Instead, there was only his disapproval.
‘You did not discuss this with me. I am your husband.’ Shiva chided.
‘You were in your camp. You did not come home, so how could I speak to you?’ she replied.
The enormity of her decision and her husband’s displeasure was heavy upon her as they walked together under the dripping umbrella. Shiva was seldom openly angry, assuming instead an expression of sad disappointment, withdrawing into silence. She would have preferred some naked aggression, of the kind she had witnessed as a child and to which she knew how to respond. Yet, even as she gazed at Shiva’s stony face, something unyielding pushed her on.