Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  This memory returned to Amita in a sudden jolt of recollection. As a child, listening to her uncle speak, the images his words produced had haunted her for years; mad dogs attacking babies, the drowning of new-borns, the fingerless leper, the poisons brewed to kill a child. The images faded as Amita grew, buried beneath the expanding texture of her life. Now, she realised in a rush of surprise, her grandmother had found the courage to resist a cruel and ancient practice, enduring abuse and shame and threatened abandonment for the sake of her girl child, her own mother, Sita.

  Turning away from her mother and Parvati, Amita made her way to the kitchen. The light aroma of Indian spices floated on the air, a smell that permeated the flat nowadays. Her mother liked her Indian food and cooked it every day, whereas Amita lived on pre-cooked snacks or meals quickly thrown together, and used few spices. She was always careful to switch on the exhaust fan over the stove, which her mother constantly forgot to do. Already, there had been several complaints from her Chinese neighbours about the smell of Indian cooking. Her mother dealt with this by sending them plates of delicacies, and for the time being the protests had ceased. Joyce, the part-time Filipina help Amita now employed since her mother came to live with her, chopped up the vegetables, onions, garlic and ginger for Sita, and cleared up after the cooking was done; the kitchen was clean and a meal was always waiting for Amita when she came home each night. She was grateful for this, but a piquant scent of food was now permanently in the air, and Amita did not like it. It was yet another reminder that her space was no longer her own. As she picked up the kettle, filling it with water and lighting the gas, the sound of Parvati’s voice drifted to her from the living room.

  ‘The women recruits in the army were from so many different places and communities, how did you all communicate?’

  ‘Netaji wanted to see unity in India, not everyone divided by religion and language and food and caste. We had Hindi lessons, and that is how we communicated, in Hindi. Those who could not speak it learned fast. Hindu and Muslim ate together; there was no segregation. We were one community, we were all sisters,’ Sita explained.

  On a counter in the kitchen Amita had piled up old newspapers to give the karanguni man who came each week, ringing his bell and calling for recyclable things. There were also a few disintegrating books her mother insisted on bringing with her when she moved, that had once belonged to Amita’s father. Amita had disposed of everything she could in her mother’s cramped home before moving her to Clementi, but the trauma of relocation had finally demolished these few frail books. Tattered pages slid from shrivelled spines, and Amita had quietly tied them up for disposal. Her mother would never notice, but although she was now beyond the need of her father’s books, she stared at the desiccated bundle nostalgically as she waited for the kettle to boil. There had been a time when her father’s books had meant everything to her.

  As a child, the only way she felt she could know her father was through his books, stacked up in tall piles against the walls of their home. The titles were varied and included scholarly volumes on Indian history and culture, health, science, astronomy, mathematics, literature and military history: History of the Indian Mutiny; Handbook of Chemistry and Physics; Advanced Mathematics; Decisive Battles of the World; Great Expectations; Napoleon’s Military Strategies; The Bhagavad-Gita and Modern Life; the list went on and on.

  They had all been bought from second hand bookshops, her mother told her, already well thumbed when Shiva purchased them. Over the years they had yellowed further, the smell of age and mould lifting off them as Amita turned the pages, the paper brittle, devoured by silverfish, bindings cracking. Amita did not see these things, nothing had mattered to her then but that these books had belonged to her father, a legacy he passed to her. It had been her ambition then to read all the volumes in the room, to share the journey of knowledge her father had made through his reading, to know him through his books.

  They had only one photograph of her father, that sat in a frame on a shelf in the room. He stood with his pupils in the schoolyard behind the Ramakrishna Mission, a tall thin man with a high, intelligent brow, deep-set eyes and a shock of thick hair. As a child, she felt closest to him when she untied the loose bundles of writing that lay in his small desk, beneath a lid of inlaid brass. She took the thin sheets of paper in her hand and stared at the dark patterns of dried ink, at the words that came directly from her father’s mind to spill upon the page. In the same way as her mother now held old photographs to her nose, as if to draw in the ether of the past, so she too as a child had held those desiccated pages to her nose, breathing in her father’s spirit, the smell of dried ink, metallic as blood, filling her head. There were notes in English, and others in Hindi, all written with a fine nibbed pen. Some pages were splashed with ink, on another the round stain of a cup base was seen, and one precious sheet was stamped with the inky print of her father’s thumb. Unknown to her mother she had taken this ghostly keepsake for herself, folding it small, hiding it in her biscuit box of trinkets and knickknacks, opening the box to touch it each night before she went to sleep.

  Her mother was not a loquacious woman, she was not given to gossip, nor did she have many friends. Their neighbours were always helpful, conscious of the needy status of a widow with a child. Sugar, flour, a cup of milk were easily borrowed, and if the electricity tripped or a pipe was blocked, help was quickly forthcoming, but people rarely dropped in just to chat, and her mother did not linger in the common courtyard exchanging pleasantries with the other women in the building. Mother and daughter led a solitary life, focussed upon the necessities of each hour, as if such focus were a means of survival, and in a way it was, Amita thought now. One moment grew out of another, one hour bled into the next, time passed, things were achieved.

  Amita had had a good education. The Ramakrishna Mission helped generously, recognising her brightness and aptitude for study. It was these abilities that got her into an elite Christian mission school, one of the best in Singapore. Yet at school she felt her difference, and never invited anyone home. The privileged Chinese girls who lived in spacious houses, or even those lower down the economic scale, who resided in government subsidised housing blocks all lived more lavishly than Amita and her mother in their one small room. Only Amita’s brain kept her above water, top of the class in everything.

  Later, she won a scholarship to a university in Perth. The Ramakrishna Mission found a charitable sponsor to pay her airfare and support, and she worked as a waitress and tutored other students to make ends meet. For postgraduate studies she transferred to New York, to Columbia University, on another scholarship. Once again the Ramakrishna Mission found her financial support, and again she worked at tutoring and odd jobs to pay her way. She would have been happy to stay on in America after she gained her PhD, but anxiety over her aging mother drew her back to Singapore. She owed everything to her mother. In those study-filled nights of childhood, her mother had silently carved out the way ahead, seeing a future for her daughter that Amita appreciated only now.

  At her desk in her cramped student accommodation in New York, Amita would think of her old home, seeing again the silhouette of her mother against the light of a standing lamp with a rusted metal shade. She saw her mother’s upright back as she sat rooted on the other side of the table, marking school books, embroidering, mending, always there as Amita studied. The mute force of her determination pinioned Amita to that table. No man ever intruded into their solitary companionship and, presided over by the devi in her tin frame on a shelf above them, their world appeared adequate. In far away New York, Amita had only to visualise this long ago scene to apply herself anew to her study.

  The kettle was boiling, but Amita always waited for a full whistle to sound before lifting it off the gas ring. A shaft of afternoon sun flooded into the small kitchen, illuminating a swirling cloud of dust motes. Her life was like one of those spinning specks, Amita thought, no more than a grain of dust amongst millions of others, yet, compar
ed to her mother’s life, her own life appeared ordinary. As these thoughts ran through her, Amita was filled with a rush of empathy for her mother. Trapped by life’s contortions, her mother always turned to her gods, to the devi who, although an immortal, was also a woman like themselves, single and put upon, but without a man to command her, one-in-herself and strong of purpose. For Amita no such comfort existed, no god waited for her, she could not pray with conviction. The void before her seemed too great, too dark, and words fell heedlessly into it. She was forced to rely upon herself.

  Opening a cupboard, Amita took out three mugs and a teapot, setting them on a tray. She opened a new packet of her mother’s favourite jam centred biscuits and piled some on a plate. She wished she did not have to hear Parvati’s voice, stirring within her a sense of her own worthlessness, and was glad when the whistling of the kettle interrupted her thoughts. Picking up the tea caddy, she heaped a spoonful of leaves into the pot and watched the boiling water splash down upon them. Her headache had returned, and the tiredness that dogged her recently persisted. The weight she had gained was no help, and she decided she must think of trying to lose a few kilos.

  Probably she had got to that age, she thought resignedly; her periods had been irregular for the past year or more, and non-existent the last few months. Researching the subject of menopause on the Internet, she learned that fatigue, mood changes, hot sweats and irritability, besides much more, were all to be expected. That her body should have the power to act in such an evasive manner, independent of her will, was frustrating.

  A visiting American professor in the department, an attractive, buoyant woman in her mid-fifties, had told her the secret to her energy was Hormone Replacement Therapy, and that the advantages of taking it far outweighed the disadvantages. Most doctors, certainly in America, regularly and easily prescribed it, she said. No need to dry up like an old prune, the woman laughed. That such a drug waited to steer her away from decrepitude heartened Amita considerably. The following week, she decided, she would go to the doctor and demand to be put on HRT. Picking up the tray she marched back into the living room, determined to take herself in hand, and put the recent past behind her.

  16

  SINGAPORE, 1944

  In those first days at the camp Sita slept soundly, and woke each morning to the powerful feminine scents of the warm hut, an odour reassuring in its familiarity, and for a moment there was a vague sense that she might still be in the bhajanashram, with the comforting presence of Billi beside her. Then the sharp note of the bugle broke upon her and in the bunk above, Muni stirred. The barracks were still in darkness but already birds in the trees outside welcomed the dawn, and Sita listened to their riotous affirmation of the new day.

  Then there was the rush to the toilets, to the washroom, to the lockers, everything happening at once but in an organised manner, for they were all now used to the military precision of the day, who went first, who went next, the speedy pace of ablutions and dressing, the making of their beds. Within a short while they assembled on the parade ground for the raising of the tricoloured flag of Azad Hind, orange, white and green, the Free India for which they were all fighting now. As it made its graceful ascent up the flagpole, the tiger at its centre stirred briefly, and Sita silently acknowledged the devi.

  Then the hour of physical exercises began; sit-ups, push-ups, squats and crunches, ten, twenty, fifty, eighty, followed by running, round and round the perimeter of the parade ground until several miles were covered. There was also an obstacle course of challenging rope constructions they must scramble up and down, and the vertical course with its swinging logs and ladders to be traversed. Then, exhausted and starving, they lined up with their metal cups and plates at the canteen for breakfast. At first the physical demands of military training seemed impossible to fulfil, but they were surprised at how quickly their bodies strengthened and their muscles hardened. Soon, they cohered as a group, drilling and marching smartly in unison, inhibitions and inadequacies dropping away as their abilities improved.

  The routine of camp life left no moment unoccupied, and was organised to train not only their bodies but also their minds. Some hours each day were given to the learning of Hindustani. On Netaji’s order, they learned the language in Romanised script; it was thought a knowledge of this script would be useful in learning other languages later, and also promoted national unity in a country with so many ethnic divides and vernaculars. As a group, they communicated mostly, if imperfectly, in the common language of bazaar Malay that most of them already knew. There were also lessons in political history and geography; they learned why they were fighting the battle for India’s freedom, how they had been colonially enslaved, and the history of the Indian National Congress. They were also taught the theoretical side of military training, battle strategy and the ways of ambush in guerrilla warfare. An officer from one of the men’s camps came to instruct them, and for a while Sita hoped that Shiva might also appear, for these were the subjects he taught at the Newton Circus camp, but the men who came were officers from the Seletar camp and did not know of Shiva.

  It pleased Sita that most of the Tamil girls from the rubber plantations, knowing that she knew Hindustani, turned to her for help as they learned the language, and she found herself once again in the role of teacher, especially to Muni.

  ‘I have never had a chance to learn anything before; everything will change when I can read and write,’ Muni leaned excitedly over the upper bunk, peering down at Sita in the bed below.

  Often, they sat side by side on the edge of Sita’s bunk after lights out, and with a torch went over the words learned that day, until they were solidly wedged in Muni’s mind and she recognised them at a glance. She was quick to absorb whatever she was taught, and Sita understood only too well her need to swallow knowledge whole. In Muni, she recognised herself before Shiva came into her life, and realised again how much he had changed her. As the weeks went by, Sita watched the amazement grow in Muni’s face as she wrested meaning from a hidden world she had never expected to access. Her expression changed, new confidence filled her, and she stepped forward when earlier she would have hung back.

  ‘It is because of you,’ Muni gripped Sita’s hand as they sat in the dark, side by side on the bunk, a circle of torchlight illuminating the open book on Muni’s lap.

  In the class on Indian history they learned the story of the legendary Rani of Jhansi, the namesake of their regiment. The widowed and headstrong princess, privileged and emancipated to an extraordinary degree in a bygone time, ran her husband’s state of Jhansi after his death. When the British tried to annex the state in 1858, she rejected the cloistered status of widow and emerged to lead her army into battle. With her infant son tied to her back, she rode at the head of her force, but was soon martyred to her cause.

  Pictures of the fearless Rani on her leaping steed, hair flying free beneath her helmet, armour-clad and with shield and sword brandished before her, stirred them all. Yet, while the other girls were full of admiration for the courageous Rani, Sita’s attention was always drawn to the child strapped to her back, forced to confront a destiny in which he had no choice. Why had she taken her son into battle? The smallness and vulnerability of the infant’s terrified face peering around the figure of its ferocious mother never failed to fill her with horror. The image floated up before her at unexpected times and would not let her free.

  Only after dinner, when their shoes and kit were polished, could they relax. Often, discussions were organised or improvised concerts took place, but usually they just sat informally together to chat in the barracks, which now had the comfort of home. They were at ease with each other, all the divisive differences of class and caste, of language, customs and community had fallen away and the multiple Muniammas had each evolved into an individual identity. Deep-voiced Valli was so badly troubled by flat feet that the camp doctor fitted her shoes with supports. Ambika’s eyebrows met above her nose and her flat hair was pinned behind ears that had
exceptionally large lobes. It was whispered that Kamla’s mother must have been raped by a White plantation manager, her skin was so fair; a custom made uniform had to be ordered for Aarthi, to fit her generous hips and breasts; the facial tick that had troubled Shivani through the first days in camp had almost vanished; Vasanthi no longer bit her nails and proudly displayed to them all the new growth. One by one each girl came into focus, as they settled in together.

  Forthright Valli’s deep voice constantly filled the barrack as she practised her newly acquired Hindustani.

  ‘Is that right, akka?’ She shouted, checking with Sita’s superior knowledge of the language.

  ‘Akka, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had,’ Muni told her, in the torchlight over their language book.

  The word akka, elder sister in the Tamil of the plantation girls, resonated deeply with Sita. Just as she had once called Billi didi, elder sister in Hindustani, she was now seen as a mentor by these plantation girls in the same way. She remembered the security she had felt with Billi beside her, and knew this was how these girls now felt with her. Although they were all about the same age, they were in awe of her because she was married, because she appeared educated, because Shiva was an officer in the INA. No one had shown her such deference before.

  At the end of each day Sita’s newly drilled muscles were sore, her mind full of all she had learned. At night she dreamed strange dreams, that she crossed great rivers, pushing against currents. She dreamed wild animals chased her, that armies chased her, that her grandmother chased her, that even the devi on her tiger chased her. In every dream she seemed to be running, and woke in her bed to the darkness of the barrack, her body damp with sweat, heart pounding. On the narrow bed she turned and gazed into the safety of the dark room, conscious of Muni’s light snores from the bunk above, and knew everything within her was shifting and growing.