Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  A leaden inability to think seemed to fill her. That she was already taking the necessary steps to recalibrate her life to its normal balance filled her with such profound relief that she closed her eyes in exhaustion. At last she lay back obediently on an examination couch as a young Filipina woman moved the transducer over the bare flesh of her stomach.

  ‘Do you want to see?’ the woman asked brightly, turning the computer screen toward Amita, continuing to slide the transducer over Amita’s naked belly.

  I don’t want to see, she wanted to say, but instead felt compelled to turn her head towards the screen and its grainy fan-shaped image. Within that void a tide of black water swayed and swelled and gently moved, and at its heart she saw a dark grotto, sealed and silent, safe and dark. At its centre lay the manikin, the bulbous head, the upturned nose, an arm, a leg, the beating heart, the curvature of a spine; all were visible.

  ‘It is still a bit early to be quite sure, but I would say it’s a girl,’ the woman announced with a smile.

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ Amita shouted, sitting up in anger.

  The woman drew back in shock, hurriedly returning her attention to the computer screen.

  ‘Listen. Heartbeat.’ A soft thudding filled the room.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. I’m having a termination,’ Amita shouted again, pushing the woman’s hand and the transducer away.

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t told that, but we are finished now,’ the woman apologised, giving Amita some paper towels to wipe the ultrasound gel from her body.

  20

  BURMA, 1944–1945

  In the dormitory, Sita struggled up through layers of sleep into consciousness and the wail of the air raid siren. Muni was already throwing off her blanket in the next bed and scrambling to her feet. Loud blasts shook the wooden building; flares of light from distant explosions illuminated the dark. Sita reached for her kitbag and her torch and heard an order shouted.

  ‘Run.’

  Jostling against each other in the narrow stairwell, they ran out into the night. The faint perfume of night flowers rose from the bushes in front of the building. The beams of their torches moved before them like an army of luminous eyes as they ran to the newly dug trenches. Sita glimpsed Muni a short distance ahead, then the banked earth of the trench was before her and everyone was stumbling and jumping down into the wet pit. Someone pushed against Sita and she fell awkwardly into the dark open grave, hurting her arm. Other girls dropped down beside her, falling on top of her, everyone squeezing into the crowded trench.

  Almost immediately, an aircraft swooped low above them, spitting machine gun fire and dropping incendiaries. The detonations vibrated through the trench, each explosion throwing up fountains of soil that fell back upon them, burying them all beneath a layer of damp earth.

  At last it was over, the bomber disappeared, and soon the all clear sounded, and as it ended, the noise of crickets was heard again. They began to clamber out of the trench.

  ‘Muni,’ Sita called, straining her eyes in the darkness.

  Prema stood at the edge of the trench, flashing her torch over the girls, assessing the damage, taking a head count.

  ‘Is everyone here, is anyone hurt?’

  ‘I cannot find Muni,’ Sita shouted.

  As Prema’s torch swept over the trench, Sita saw Muni struggling to free herself from beneath a mound of soil and debris to one side of the trench.

  ‘The explosion came before I could get into the trench, everything came down on me,’ Muni gasped, spitting out a mouthful of dirt, shaking earth off her body.

  ‘Everyone is here, and no one seems to be hurt,’ Prema announced with relief.

  ‘The school is destroyed,’ someone shouted and they turned to look at the building.

  By the light of their torches they made out the flattened building, the piles of wood, plaster and smoke, and the fire spurting up within the collapsed shell where they had slept only minutes before.

  New accommodation was found, another school, much smaller and not in such good repair, yet surrounded by tall trees that gave the building better camouflage. Sita was grateful that she had had the presence of mind to take her kitbag with her during the air raid. Along with her few possessions, the picture of the devi was still safely with her. Those who had left their rucksacks behind had lost everything, including their spare uniform, and had only the clothes they stood up in.

  There was a great shortage of cloth in Maymyo and new uniforms could not be made, but the men’s uniforms in the INA store were quickly altered to fit them. The stylish jodhpurs were gone, and instead they were dressed in the men’s straight drill trousers or shorts, and shirts. Each girl was now ordered to keep a backpack with extra clothes and personal possessions beside her at all times. Air raid sirens blared all day and night as the bombing accelerated.

  Finally, Netaji reached Maymyo from the front line. He would soon leave again for Singapore, to mobilise additional manpower, but the knowledge that he was in town energised everyone.

  He came to visit them in the late afternoon. Captain Lakshmi arrived first with Prema, to alert them to Netaji’s arrival.

  ‘It was a spontaneous decision, he heard of the air raid and said, “Let me go and meet my girls, my Ranis, in their new accommodation.” He was worried for you all after what you have been through.’

  It began to rain just before he arrived, and Netaji climbed out of an armoured car into a puddle, splashing mud onto his high polished boots. Rain cascaded off the umbrella an attending officer held over him. The man’s shorter height forced Netaji to hunch his shoulders and bend low beneath its shelter. Captain Lakshmi and Prema were at the entrance to welcome him, and behind them the Ranis formed two long lines, standing to attention, saluting smartly as he stepped inside the building.

  Netaji’s cap had been knocked from his head as he ducked beneath the umbrella, and he held it in his hand, revealing his receding hairline above the deep arc of his brow. Stepping briskly towards the waiting girls, his face creased in a smile, his eyes alert behind heavy-framed spectacles. As he gestured for them to break ranks and come forward, he looked about him intently, taking in every detail of the scene around him.

  ‘I wanted to see your new home. You are safer here than in the last place, with a good camouflage of trees,’ Netaji remarked.

  They clustered about him, silenced by his presence and nearness. His voice was detached yet gentle, as if he spoke to each one of them individually, as a father might speak to a daughter, in a low and intimate tone. The moment seemed unreal, and Sita fought the desire to reach out and touch him.

  ‘You faced the ordeal of the bombing boldly, and I am proud of you. India is proud of you.’ Netaji’s smile embraced them all.

  ‘Dilli Chalo,’ they shouted.

  ‘Jai Hind.’ They pumped their fists in the air.

  ‘The Rani of Jhansi’s spirit is in you all.’ Netaji chuckled, his full lips parting upon square teeth.

  A smell of damp uniform, along with the perfume of boot polish and pomade surrounded him. Rain splashed his spectacles and he took them off to wipe them dry, lowering his head to blow upon the lens, before polishing them with a crumpled white handkerchief pulled from his pocket. Sita watched the glass cloud up as he breathed upon it. Devoid of spectacles his face appeared unknown, his round cheeks boyish and vulnerable. Then he placed the glasses on his nose again, and the familiar Netaji was before them once more.

  Outside the open door rain fell in a curtain from the eaves, drumming on the roof, sliding off sodden trees. Netaji looked over his shoulder at the downpour and sighed.

  ‘So much rain, and the monsoon is not yet properly here. This will be hard for our men. I had wanted the campaign fought and won before the rains began.’

  “Jai Hind,” they shouted at the mention of the campaign, but Netaji appeared distracted.

  ‘You have heard of our setback at Imphal, that we were pushed back again into Burma? Rest assured this delay is
temporary. Soon we will walk again on Indian soil.’ He raised his hand for their attention, surveying them critically.

  ‘As the battle heats up, so do our casualties increase. Your wounded brothers need your help. Some hours of your day must be given to nursing duties. Your military training will continue, but your work in the hospital is now of equal importance.’ His voice was soft but firm.

  About him the girls were silent, a low murmur of consternation was heard, but nobody spoke until Muni stepped forward suddenly.

  ‘We want to fight.’ An approving ripple of agreement was heard behind her. Netaji nodded patiently.

  ‘Beti, as you know, I was under house arrest in Calcutta, but I slipped out of India in disguise and went to Germany, where I could fight better for India’s freedom. I did not do this easily. It took me three months to decide if I had the strength to sacrifice myself for a bigger cause, to face death if necessary. If I could do this, and if so many of your brothers have sacrificed themselves for our Motherland, then, difficult as it is, this is the sacrifice I now ask of you. Remember, your military training will also continue. Your wounded brothers are only asking for a short part of your day.’Netaji threw his arms out wide in appeal.

  ‘We want to fight,’ Muni repeated, her voice falling to a whisper.

  That night Sita dreamed of the bhajanashram. At the door Roop and the black dwarf, Motilal, waited for her with the palanquin, ready to ferry her to an unknown destiny. Then Billi appeared, pushing her aside, stepping into the litter instead of Sita.

  ‘Go quickly to Old Maneka, she will help you escape,’ Billi called as the palanquin moved away.

  Sita ran and eventually found the old woman sitting by the riverbank.

  ‘Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Radhe, Radhe.’ Old Maneka’s cracked voice rose as she swayed, eyes closed, lips bunched loosely over toothless gums in a gentle smile of devotion.

  ‘Lord Krishna is there.’ Maneka opened her eyes, and pointed across the river.

  In the distance on the opposite bank Sita saw the handsome god, tall, muscular and blue skinned, playing his pipe, surrounded by a crowd of beautiful gopis. The cowgirls had left their cattle, to dance with the god. They swirled around him, bodies bending gracefully, eyes fixed upon him, full of longing. Then, suddenly, it was not the god Sita saw but Netaji, brass buttons and high polished boots agleam, broad belt buckled over his uniform, inclining his head with a bespectacled smile towards the yearning women.

  Sita woke with a start to the dark narrow room, sweat pooling in the hollow of her neck, her heart pounding in her ears. In the next bed Muni breathed calmly.

  From then on the day was divided, the larger part spent at the hospital. As the town was a military centre, there was always hope that news of Shiva would surface. The weeks went by and all the time in the hospital wounded men arrived. Each day Sita scoured the lists of new casualties, but Shiva’s 3rd division never appeared. She asked about his regiment, but no one knew where it was or had heard of Shiva.

  ‘We are fighting. We have no time to see who is there or who is not there beyond our squad, our own regiment,’ one man told her, speaking grimly through his pain.

  ‘Sister, we are dying there like flies,’ another said.

  ‘Dying in rain and mud, everywhere there is mud. Bodies cannot be cremated or buried, and swell up and turn blue. Crows peck out their eyes, and animals eat their flesh. The monsoon has washed away roads. Supply routes are cut; vehicles and guns are stuck in the mud. There’s no transport, no food, no medicines. We are lucky to reach this hospital alive.’ The man who offered this information had taken a bullet to the head and was swaddled in bandages, and he stared at Sita through his one good eye.

  ‘Not even animals should die as we are dying at the front,’ yet another man with no legs told her.

  The sheet on his bed caved into nothingness over the stumps of his knees, and each time Sita sat with him she stared at the emptiness where his legs should have been, unable to control her horror. He reached out and grasped her arm.

  ‘There is nothing to eat. Ants, lizards, jungle grasses, dead pack mules, we eat what we can. Tell them to send supplies or we will all die. We had only 38 mountain howitzers and 48 field guns; how can we hold a line with that?’

  ‘Then, you do not know my husband?’ Sita whispered.

  ‘We do not know him, sister,’ the man with the bandaged head confirmed, his voice full of sympathy.

  The suffering they saw affected them all, and each night when they returned to the dormitory, they discussed the situation. Although the nights were cool in Maymyo, mosquitoes continued to plague them, and the room smelled of the citronella oil with which they now smothered themselves.

  ‘We should be fighting with the men. That is what we are trained to do,’ Sita said, thinking of Shiva, thinking of the legless man in the hospital.

  She sat with Muni, Valli and Ambika, and soon Vasanthi and Shivani joined them. They crouched on the floor in the narrow space before their beds, and as they could not put on the electric light and did not want to waste torch batteries, they lit a couple of candles that cast long shadows on the dark walls. The flickering flame drew moths that blundered into their faces before flirting with the fire, dying with a sizzle and a singed smell.

  ‘All the men have malaria or dysentery. The wards smell of diarrhoea,’ Valli said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  ‘Most die before reaching Maymyo,’ Ambika added.

  ‘We should be fighting with the men,’ Vasanthi complained.

  ‘Netaji is treating us like women when he has trained us like men.’ Valli remarked.

  ‘We must tell him he has to let us go to the front. We must write him a letter.’ Sita sat forward, the thought leaping through her. If she reached the front line she felt sure she would find Shiva there.

  ‘It must be a proper and serious letter,’ Valli cautioned.

  ‘We can sign it in our own blood.’ Muni clapped her hands in excitement.

  ‘Let’s write before we change our minds,’ Sita encouraged.

  She lowered her eyes to hide her guilt. The girls beside her were prepared to die at the front for India and she was pushing them to do so, not for India but for Shiva, for her own private need.

  They crouched together in the light of the candle. Paper, pen and ink were found, as was a razor and a teacup. It was judged that Sita was the most educated, and should write the letter. When she took up the pen and dipped it in the bottle of ink, she found her hand was trembling. With an effort she steadied the pen and began to write, the girls around her deliberating over each phrase.

  Our training is complete, yet we are now denied access to the front line. We are reduced to being nurses. You gave us the name of the brave Rani of Jhansi. We beg you to send us to the front. We have signed this petition in our blood, in order to prove to you our determination to give our lives in the cause of freedom for our Motherland.

  ‘Now the blood for signing,’ Sita pushed forward the teacup, and Muni reached for the razor.

  One by one they extended their hands, and Muni gave each a quick prick on the soft pad of a finger. Sita closed her eyes and held her breath as the razor sliced into her finger. The blood, jewelled in the candlelight, dripped into the bowl as she watched. With each drop she felt some part of her past trickled from her, but what lay ahead was impossible to know. Finally, they washed the black ink from the pen and dipped it in the crimson liquid. Then, one by one, they signed the letter in their blood and stared down in silence at the marks on the page.

  Days passed and they heard nothing, but at last Netaji summoned them. He had set up his headquarters in what was once the home of a wealthy British official, at the end of a leafy lane. The house was at the top of an incline, approached by a path of flowering hedges, its heavy roof crowned by turrets, its walls shrouded by thick creepers. Six of them had signed the letter to Netaji, and it seemed appropriate they should meet him as a group.

  The door was opened by
a male servant who ushered them into a dark square entrance hall where they huddled together, waiting uneasily. The odour of furniture wax and incense hung in the air, along with the spicy residue of Netaji’s lunch. Finally, the door to Netaji’s study opened and a Japanese general strode out, turning his head to glare unpleasantly at the uniformed women. One of Netaji’s aides-de-camp hurried after the general, and once he had departed, beckoned them to come forward.

  Netaji sat behind a large desk piled untidily with files and loose papers. A fan revolved in a corner, ruffling the documents momentarily as it swung about. The room was wood-panelled and sombre in spite of a large window with a view of the surrounding hills. As they entered, Netaji put down the file he was reading and clasped his hands together before him on the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he observed them silently with a sad expression, as if they were disobedient children. Through the open windows the scent of the creeper that smothered the house filled the room with an earthy potpourri. Netaji removed his spectacles and began polishing them with a handkerchief, concentrating silently on this task. They drew together, waiting nervously for him to speak. At last he put away his handkerchief, replaced his spectacles on his nose, and sighed deeply.

  ‘You are all true daughters of India. The same feeling runs in your blood that ran through our Rani of Jhansi. What shall I do with you?’

  ‘Please send us to the front,’ Sita stepped forward, determined not to let this opportunity disappear, and feeling it her place to speak, as it was her resolve that had brought them here before Netaji.

  Netaji was silent, doodling with a pencil on the leather bound blotter of soft pink paper. He drew a square and then another and another, linking them together in a geometrical tangle. Looking up at last, he spoke slowly, dropping each word into the silence.

  ‘It is not my intention to send you to the front unless the war effort calls for the ultimate sacrifice of India’s women. Only then would I consider it. At the moment the men are holding up, although the situation is difficult. There is no need for me to think of sending you to that hell.’