Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  ‘The men are dying, there are no food or supplies, a man in the hospital told me.’ Sita took a step forward, standing directly before Netaji’s desk, apart from the girls behind her. The thought of Shiva filled her mind and gave her the courage to protest.

  ‘War is about the shedding of blood; blood for blood. How many times have I said this? India cannot be free without the shedding of blood,’ Netaji replied in a sad voice.

  On the pink blotting paper, his design grew ever more complicated. Standing before him, Sita felt increasingly awkward with each passing moment as, deep in thought, Netaji concentrated on enlarging his architectural design. She was aware of the girls behind her shifting uncomfortably, even as she spoke for them all. At last Netaji looked up, his face heavy with the wretchedness of the decision they had placed upon him.

  ‘Be aware of what you are asking of me. Yes, as you say, there is a scarcity of food, of clothes, of medicine and ammunition. Also be aware that at the front you must live like the men, under those same conditions, without any concession to your sex.’

  They stood in silence as Netaji continued speaking in an increasingly sorrowful voice.

  ‘Your families have sent you to me, and they have faith that I will return you to them safely. And that is what I will do. I cannot grant your wish to go to the front.’

  He resumed his doodling, not raising his eyes, his gaze focused on the pink paper and his pencil. As he drew, Sita stared down at the growing conundrum of linked squares beneath his hand, a dense maze from which there was no escape.

  ‘You are treating us like women, when you have trained us like men.’ Muni stepped forward to stand beside Sita.

  Netaji looked up in surprise, and after some moments of silence, sighed deeply once more.

  ‘It is true. I have trained you like men and now deny you that equality. But if you go, no one else in the regiment must know where you have gone. Above all, I want you to know that if you die you will die, but if the enemy captures you, then I fear you will not be treated as men, but as women. I do not have to tell you what you might face in those circumstances.’ Picking up his pencil, he continued in silence with his elaborate design.

  21

  BURMA, 1944–1945

  The truck slipped quietly out of the Maymyo camp at 4am in the cool darkness before dawn, beginning the long journey to the front line. Sita did not look back as the town fell away behind them. The rasp of crickets filled the silence as the vehicle bumped over the rutted road, the harsh breathing of the engine filling the air with petrol fumes. Sita wondered if death already sat beside them in the truck, observing their wilful journey. Nobody spoke, and in the blackness little could be seen except what was illuminated in the sphere of the headlights, a hole in the night through which they moved. Beyond the boundary of this narrow tunnel, everything was unknown.

  Netaji had ordered an officer from his own command to accompany them. Colonel Bahadur, a loud voiced man whose face was pitted by childhood smallpox, was accompanied by two jawans, Tamil men who had once worked on the rubber plantations of Malaya. The truck swung along precipitous mountain roads as it descended towards Mandalay. In the darkness the girls clung to each other as the vehicle careered around hairpin bends. Eventually, as dawn broke, the darkness eased and the sky turned a deep indigo, then ultramarine cut by pink and gold. At last, at first light they saw the forested slopes about them, plunging to the river far below, and the majesty of the view silenced them. They stopped for breakfast at a small village clinging to the side of a hill terraced by narrow rice fields, and climbed back into the truck, refreshed.

  Soon, the mountainous terrain was left behind and they reached the flat land around Mandalay, keeping close to the great Irrawaddy River, driving beside it as the sun gathered strength. In places the opposite bank of the river, if they were able to see it, appeared as distant as a far country. Sita stared at the water, its fusty odour filling her head, and remembered the other river that had run so powerfully through her life. Fishing boats were returning to shore with their catch, and the sun, rising higher now, spread a mercurial light over the water. In the truck, Muni reached out to clasp Sita’s hand as they held their faces to the cool breeze, blowing upon them as they sped along.

  Soon they reached the town of Mandalay with its golden pagodas, and a palace constructed entirely of teak. Still following the huge river, they drove on until it met the wide tributary of the Chindwin. Here they left the truck to cross the Irrawaddy, ferried over on flat bamboo rafts by local fishermen. Their truck was also ferried across, lashed down tightly onto a raft. Once the river was forded they turned north along the Chindwin, driving up into the rough terrain of the Chin Hills. Here sporadic shelling had damaged parts of the road, slowing their progress. In places they left the truck as the driver negotiated the rutted ground, helping to clear any debris from their path. At last the truck drew to a sudden halt and the driver announced that water was leaking from the tank, and the engine had heated up.

  ‘Cannot go further. Our soldiers are camped in this area, over that hill,’ he told them.

  They climbed out of the truck and prepared to walk. In spite of the cloudy monsoon sky the sun, when it broke free, spilled hotly upon them. Now at last they realised the value of the tough route marches and the tactics of guerrilla warfare practised so arduously in Maymyo.

  ‘We are not yet near the front line, but Chin guerrillas are everywhere in these hills. We must be very quiet as we do not want to alert them to our presence,’ Colonel Bahadur warned.

  They looked about warily, keeping where possible to the cover of trees or bushes, searching to gauge how recently Chin soldiers may have passed the same way.

  ‘Our own men have also used this road. The Chin don’t move around with vehicles.’ Colonel Bahadur pointed to the muddy tracks of boot and tyre marks that had dried in the sun, and stood out like plaster reliefs.

  Within a short distance, the green vegetation ended abruptly. They found themselves in a basin of scorched devastation, the undergrowth burned to a mass of dark ash and the charred remains of trees, in stark contrast to the lush foliage in the distance. Colonel Bahadur bent to examine the ground, breaking off fragments of burned bark from the trees, poking the dried mud reliefs with a stick, inspecting the fired casings of bullets that littered the ground, along with the shrapnel of exploded shells and grenades.

  ‘There’s been a recent skirmish here. Our men must indeed be nearby in this area, but the Chin will also be around,’ Bahadur cautioned.

  ‘We must proceed carefully; there’s always the danger of ambush. These Chin guerrillas are determined fighters; they know the hills well, and they’ve have been trained by British commandos.’

  ‘Why are our forces fighting here and not at the front?’ Sita asked, as they prepared to march on.

  ‘The British forces have found new strength, and are pushing the Japanese back, along with our INA men. Skirmishes like this create diversions from the main thrust at Kohima and Imphal. It forces the Japanese and the INA to keep precious units of men in this area, away from where they are needed at the front. War is a complicated manoeuvre.’

  As they walked higher into the hills magnificent views opened up, the silver ribbon of the river caught far below in the neck of green valleys. The stillness was only broken by the movement of their feet through the low scrub, the call of a bird, the buzzing of an insect, and the hard panting of their breath. They kept close together, Colonel Bahadur leading the way, the two jawans behind them at the rear of the column.

  The image of Shiva was constantly in Sita’s mind as she strode forward, the straps of the kitbag cutting into her shoulders, perspiration running freely off her. Was he somewhere in these same hills, lying in wait for the guerrillas? Had he been in the skirmish at that charred and bullet-strewn piece of ground?

  They continued uphill through grassland, but as they approached the top of a slope Bahadur slowed his pace, gesturing suddenly for them to crouch down. At once
they froze, pressing themselves against the ground, loaded guns thrust before them. Ahead, there was movement, and the sound of voices.

  ‘They are our own men.’ Bahadur stood up with a shout of relief.

  As they appeared through the trees they were recognised, and welcomed into the camp. It was a small company of men, part of an INA guerrilla unit, commanded by a tall Sikh with a khaki turban.

  ‘There are a hundred or more of us but we are split up into small groups in these hills. We have been camped out here for two days since we were ambushed in a skirmish, and lost two men,’ Captain Govind Singh explained.

  In the camp they were given hot millet gruel, and later sat around a fire. The day’s march had been exhausting and they were grateful to relax and listen to the men’s conversation. Muni leaned her head on Sita’s shoulder, already half asleep. Valli stretched out, watching Shivani and Ambika playing a game of five-stones with some pebbles. The flames crackled in a blaze of hot light, sparks blowing up into the darkness as Govind Singh explained the situation.

  ‘The Chin guerrillas are down there, at the base of this hill. The British are behind them and supplying reinforcements. Up here we are now cut off, but we plan another attack tomorrow and will try and push them back. We have these hills staked out.’

  ‘We will continue our journey tomorrow,’ Colonel Bahadur said, but the Sikh shook his head.

  ‘You cannot go forward until we have cleared the way, and you can no longer go back because they will be in that area. You will have to stay here with our unit.’

  ‘If you have to fight, then we will fight with you,’ Valli burst out, interrupting the men’s conversation.

  Colonel Bahadur turned towards her as if about to say something, but fell silent. Shivani and Ambika dropped their five-stones and moved nearer the fire.

  ‘That is why we are here, to fight along with our brothers,’ Ambika insisted.

  ‘You are women,’ Captain Singh glanced in query at Colonel Bahadur, who averted his eyes and remained silent.

  ‘Our training is no different from that of the INA men. We are soldiers.’ Valli informed him.

  ‘We are here with Netaji’s blessing,’ Vasanthi added.

  ‘What they say is true,’ Colonel Bahadur confirmed reluctantly when Govind Singh turned to him.

  ‘Get some sleep while you can,’ the captain said at last, still shaking his head in disapproval.

  They slept in the open alongside the men, a guard keeping the fire smouldering to deter wild animals. Sita lay on her back, feeling the hard uneven ground beneath her, gazing up into the star-filled sky. She was sure Shiva was in these hills, camped out like her, staring up at the same great expanse of sky. She wrapped her blanket closer about her in the damp chill. A night bird shrieked and was answered by shrill calls across the forest, smoke from the fire mixed with the sweet scent of night flowers. Sita knew by the sounds of tossing and turning that none of the girls slept, their minds filled with the same thought that she was thinking, that this night might be their last.

  Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep, and when she opened her eyes the sky was already streaked by pink and her limbs were stiff and cramped. One by one they went to wash in a nearby stream and ready themselves for the day. A roll call was taken and a pledge to the Azad Hind flag repeated, the usual millet biscuits and tea were consumed. Captain Govind Singh stood before them, still clearly apprehensive of the idea of women going to war.

  ‘It is my hope you will not be called upon to fight. You will take up positions at the top of the hill. Our men will be lower down the hill, nearer the enemy, and that is where I expect any fighting to be. Stay hidden. I expect our men to throw off the enemy, but fix your bayonets just in case of a charge. Over there, the British are waiting. They have shells and will fire them if necessary,’ Captain Singh warned, gesturing into the distance.

  The steep slopes about them were forested by broad-leafed trees, and draped richly with lianas. Large epiphytes clung to branches, and tall clumps of flowering rhododendron splashed the area with colour. Wild orchids were everywhere, nuthatch and laughing-thrush sang in the trees. It was too beautiful to be a battle site, Sita thought, touched by the peace of the place. The ground sloped up a short distance to a rocky outcrop of huge boulders, as if the earth spewed up its insides. The boulders provided better cover than the trees, with several shallow cave-like areas at their base, where it was possible to wedge a body. Sita beckoned to Muni, Shivani and Valli, and together they climbed up to the boulders, slipping into the narrow spaces between the stones, separate but not hidden from each other, able to signal and communicate. From this vantage point they had a good view of the slope beneath them, and also the surrounding hills where further INA men were camped. Tucked in amongst the boulders they waited.

  This was the moment they had trained for, and in spite of the tension taut within her Sita did not feel afraid; everything was concentrated into the sharp point of waiting. The heavy boulder rose up in a smooth pillar above her, the trill of the white-headed laughing-thrush repeated from a nearby tree. All around her men waited silently to kill each other.

  Taking out from her knapsack the small picture of the devi she always carried with her, she said the prayer she repeated each morning. From where she sat, a view down the steeper side of the hill opened up, and beyond it the green and blue folds of the mountain range, hazy already with the rising heat. From the small frame in Sita’s hand the goddess smiled up benignly. In the picture, the landscape behind the devi resembled these very hills, Sita thought. The goddess too had waited upon a mountain peak, as Sita did now, ready for battle. As always, Sita took comfort from the amber-eyed tiger. It was a female tiger, inseparable from the goddess, and seemed to Sita to hold all the devi’s inner strength, her shakti. The goddess had not given in to fear before that great mythical battle at the beginning of time, and in the same way she too must be firm of resolve, Sita thought.

  Under her hand the smooth cool stone, survivor of thousands of years, bore witness to the cycle of death and rebirth in these green hills. What would Shiva do if she died? What would she do if he were killed? She thought also of her brother, Dev. Many weeks ago a short note from him had reached her through the INA’s postal network. Dev wrote that he was working again at Krishnaswami and Sons, which had reopened under a Japanese licence, and was now a senior manager there. He also told her he had married the daughter of one of the other managers in the shop. It has all happened quickly, he wrote, as things were inclined to do in war. His wife brought with her a small dowry that had enabled him to rent a room for them in a superior tenement. Sita tried to visualise Dev as a married man, but was unable to do so. As fast as she tried to pin down her thoughts they floated away, and seemed of no consequence. Within an hour she could lie dead upon the slope below. Everything, and nothing, was of importance now.

  They waited, but no order came to fire, and a sense of anticlimax, then boredom, filled them. Nothing stirred but the birds in the trees and the whirring wings of passing insects, lean brown squirrels chased each other, leaping from branch to branch. The sun rose in the sky and was soon covered by clouds. A light shower of rain blew down upon them and they huddled wetly against the side of the rocks, damp and uncomfortable.

  ‘Fire.’ At last the order they had waited for came.

  As they watched, INA men lower down the slope left their wooded cover and ran forward at the command. Guerrillas were seen suddenly at the base of the hill. Men knotted together in hand to hand fighting, parted and knotted together again. Gunfire fractured the air. More Chin guerrillas appeared, running up the hill now towards them.

  ‘Charge.’

  The order floated to them from a distance, and for a moment they hesitated. Then, everything they had been trained for took over.

  ‘Charge.’ Sita heard her own voice echoing the cry.

  Suddenly they were all shouting and running. They fired, reloaded and fired again. Everything was automatic; they did not
think, they did not feel. The slope was steep and Sita raced wildly, rifle in hand, unable to stop if she wished. The breeze rushed in her face, her cap flew from her head.

  ‘Jai Hind!’ she screamed.

  ‘Jai Hind!’ Muni’s voice was behind her.

  They were all running. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed Valli, Shivani, Vasanthi and Ambika, their expressions fierce and warrior-like, eyes bulging, rifles thrust before them. They ran towards the INA men locked in hand-to-hand combat lower down the hill. Some fallen bodies were seen across the hill. There was the flash of bayonets, and the constant crackle of gunfire.

  One moment there was nothing but the precipitous incline rushing towards her, and the next the man was before her, small and fierce, dressed in army fatigues, bayonet agleam at the end of his rifle. From his broad tribal features and weathered skin, Sita knew he was a Chin guerrilla. He moved up the slope towards her, uttering a fierce cry, lips drawn back upon his broad teeth.

  She raised her gun and knew she must fire, that the moment to kill had come. In that split second her eyes met his and she saw his shock, saw the battle cry dry on his tongue as his eyes dropped to her breasts, checking the impossible, that he saw before him a woman. Although he had levelled his bayonet as if he would charge, he slowed to a stop before her, in disbelief. Sita stepped forward, knowing she had only this one moment her womanhood had brought her, and pulled the trigger, feeling the familiar recoil of the rifle against her shoulder as the bullet flew down the barrel of the gun.

  Blood spread across the man’s chest, and he stared at her in astonishment, his small eyes widening beneath his overhanging brow. Yet, even as the bullet left her gun, a shell landed behind him, and blew him up towards the sky in a fountain of dirt. She saw him twist and turn against the clouds, saw the grimace on his face as he descended, landing beside her, his body making the sound a sack of lentils had made when thrown onto the floor of her father’s shop. Sita too was blown backwards by the force of the blast, a shower of earth cascading down upon her.