Sacred Waters

by Meira Chand

  For a moment she lay looking up at the sky, at the drift of clouds above her, the noise of battle a distant sound. For a moment she wondered if she were dead, but soon found she was unhurt. Retrieving her rifle, she scrambled to her feet and stood gazing down at the man before her. Had she killed him before the shell landed? Blood coloured his left shoulder from the wound of her bullet. Then, to her horror, she saw that although the upper half of his body was intact, his legs had been blown off from the knees. As she stared down at the protruding white bones of his thighs, he opened his eyes. His gaze locked upon her, a great shuddering breath passing through him. In that moment she knew he died. Whether her bullet would have eventually killed him or not, she did not know, but she was now part of his death. His open eyes stared at her still, and would not let her free. She wanted to drop to her knees beside him, to tell him to forgive her, but more shots rang out and she remembered it was his life or hers.

  As she began to run again, Muni sprinted past her. A deep boom sounded and then the high-pitched whirr of another approaching shell. Earth spurted up all around her again and she saw Muni fall, rolling down the slope, blood pouring from her. Sita cried out but could not stop, the steep slope pulling her on. The whirr of shells and bullets hummed about her, fountains of wet earth spewing up on every side. Then, unexpectedly, the slope was rising up toward her, dragging her down into blackness.

  When she opened her eyes, the evening sky ran red above. The awkward jolt and sway of movement jarred her head. She tried to sit up.

  ‘Lie back,’ a voice ordered.

  The familiar face of Colonel Bahadur peered down at her as she lay on a makeshift stretcher, carried by the two jawans.

  ‘Muni?’ Sita tried to sit up, images flooding through her.

  ‘She’s already safe in camp. Everyone is safe. You are the last one. We could not find you. You had rolled into shrub at the side of the hill,’ Colonel Bahadur informed her.

  ‘What happened?’ Sita asked. Her head throbbed and blood soaked her shirt.

  ‘We killed some Chin irregulars in hand combat, but then the British started shelling. Shells go a long way, the enemy doesn’t have to move in close to fire, and we have only rifles with which to respond. We had to retreat, they’ve taken the hill and we’ve been pushed further back,’ Colonel Bahadur told her.

  ‘They were coming up the slope towards us,’ Sita remembered.

  ‘You girls never hesitated. You fought bravely.’ Bahadur spoke with grudging respect.

  When they reached the camp Valli, Shivani and Ambika clustered around her.

  ‘A bullet grazed Muni’s shoulder, but she is all right,’ Valli informed her.

  ‘Many INA men are dead,’ Shivani added, walking beside Sita as she was carried into the camp.

  Her head throbbed; voices and faces swirled around her. Colonel Bahudur appeared, and examined the wound on Sita’s temple.

  ‘A cut from a fragment of shell shrapnel, it seems superficial. You’re lucky,’ he told her, ordering Shivani, who stood nearby, to bandage Sita’s head.

  Beyond the open flap of the tent, Sita could see a number of jawans already digging graves, burying the dead. Muni lay on a blanket nearby, her shoulder swathed in a heavy dressing. In spite of her throbbing head, Sita moved to sit near her just as Captain Govind Singh entered the tent, striding up to Colonel Bahadur in a determined manner.

  ‘As you know, we are being pushed back on all fronts. Conditions are chaotic. Food and medical supplies are low. Wounds that appear superficial can quickly turn septic and we have nothing to treat them with. Hundreds are dying needlessly like this. You must take these girls back to Maymyo.’ He was unable to hide his wish to be rid of them, and Colonel Bahadur nodded.

  ‘If our truck is repaired, we will leave tomorrow, and we will take any wounded men from this camp with us.’

  ‘The way behind is clear now, so you will be safe, the Chin have all moved forward,’ Captain Singh assured, visibly relieved that he would soon be rid of them.

  In the night Muni developed a high temperature and, as they began the journey back to Maymyo the following day, tossed and turned in the back of the truck. Three wounded INA men also travelled with them. The weather was still bad, rain lashing the canvas roof of the truck.

  Eventually they reached Maymyo, and found rain blanketed everything there too. Water sluiced off trees and roofs, cascading noisily along the open drains either side of the streets. They drove straight to the hospital.

  It was some days before Muni was well enough to sit up and take some soup and light nourishment. Through the day Sita worked in the hospital, but looked in frequently on Muni. As the only woman patient in the hospital, a separate space was found for Muni, a cupboard of a room where files were kept and into which a bed was fitted.

  Netaji was not in Maymyo to welcome them; he had left for Rangoon, but he sent an affectionate message congratulating them on their bravery, saying how relieved he was that they had returned safely to Maymyo.

  ‘I hope you will now understand my fears for you in the harsh atmosphere of war.’ Captain Lakshmi read out Netaji’s words from the letter he had dictated to her only hours before, over a field telephone.

  The bombing of Maymyo increased, air raids seemed almost continuous, but they took little notice, working on through the bombing. Casualties were now coming into Maymyo from the front at an accelerated rate. The wounds Sita dressed were distressing, gashes filled with maggots or shrapnel, limbs sliced off by flying shells, or emergency amputations because of gangrene. Medicines, anaesthetics and antiseptic dressings were low by now in Maymyo. Every man who arrived in the hospital was invariably suffering from malnutrition, dysentery, malaria or beriberi. With good food and nursing they improved, but as soon as they were well enough, they were immediately returned to the front. Men were no more than fodder for battle, Sita thought, trying to keep this thought from her mind as she remembered Shiva, wondering if he was dead or alive.

  More weeks went by, shrouded by the interminable dampness of the monsoon. Pillows and cushions stank, mould grew on shoes and walls and the grouting of bathroom tiles. Insects, scorpions, rats and poisonous centipedes sought shelter in droves in houses and cupboards. Monkeys and snakes attempted to follow. The worst monsoon in decades, everyone said. In the hospital men told stories of the front, of the untenable conditions, the lack of food and supplies, the bodies that could not be cremated or buried, that were left to rot in a bog of mud.

  Eventually, an order came from Netaji, who was now in Mandalay to discuss the war situation with Japanese generals. Captain Lakshmi had been at the meeting and when she returned to Maymyo, she faced the girls with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Netaji has ordered me to evacuate the hospital here along with the patients, nurses and staff, and transfer everyone to the safety of the hospital at Jiyawadi. What was an offensive is now a defensive battle. The Japanese are retreating, and we are forced to retreat with them. Without Japanese support it is not possible for us to push forward alone. You will be leaving Maymyo for Rangoon, and will wait there for further orders. Maymyo is now too near the front and it is dangerous to remain here. It will be a temporary retreat. Netaji is working to regroup the troops and push forward again at a later date.’

  They left Maymyo in a convoy of trucks, but when at last they reached Rangoon, the Japanese were already withdrawing from the place, and preparing to surrender the city to the advancing British army. Everywhere there was panic. In the centre of town columns of smoke rose from the compounds of government buildings as papers were burned and essentials packed up before the retreat. On Netaji’s instructions the Rani of Jhansi Regiment was to be temporarily disbanded. Those girls who had joined the regiment from Burma and Thailand were now to be sent back home under escort. With great difficulty the Japanese were persuaded to supply vehicles for this purpose.

  Of the remaining Ranis, only the girls from Malaya were now left in Rangoon and they were to depart on their homeward jo
urney in the company of Netaji and the INA troops, as part of a general retreat. Anxiety mounted by the hour. There was also the fear that if Netaji were found in Rangoon when the British entered the city, he would be taken prisoner.

  22

  BURMA, 1945

  The monsoon rain lashed down upon them as they prepared to leave Rangoon, retreating to Bangkok in a convoy of cars and trucks. Those women of the Rani of Jhansi Regiment who had joined the force from Burma and Thailand had already been sent back to their homes, and the regiment was greatly depleted. The girls who still remained, from Malaya and Singapore, filled the first trucks of the convoy behind the vehicles that accommodated Netaji’s personal entourage, members of his cabinet and an assortment of military personnel. Everyone was leaving Rangoon. Retreating INA troops from the battlefronts of Kohima and Imphal had already arrived in the town, and were following the convoy on foot.

  Sita and Muni clambered into a truck, along with Prema and the remaining members of their squad. The vehicle was crowded, the usual downpour thrumming down on the tarpaulin roof, splashing into the gutter. Through the curtain of rain Netaji could be seen, hurrying up and down the convoy under an umbrella, two aides-de-camp by his side, intent on personally checking all details for the journey ahead.

  As the shallow back flap of the truck was slammed into place Netaji suddenly appeared, peering into the vehicle, his bespectacled face anxiously assessing the women from under his umbrella.

  ‘It will be a long ride. I know you are cramped in there, but the Japanese will not give us more trucks. Do you have enough water?’ Behind his rain streaked spectacles Netaji’s eyes were bloodshot with fatigue, but he exuded the usual energy, immediately hastening off to meet a Japanese military official who had just arrived at the scene.

  In the unrelenting rain water buffaloes sheltered beneath the trees, old people and small children observed the convoy from attap-roofed shacks. As they were about to occupy the city, the British had ceased air attacks, the sound of enemy bombers had lessened over the town. Sita turned her head, staring through the curtain of rain at the view of tiled roofs, wooden houses and lush green vegetation. In the distance elephants worked through the deluge, pulling timber from the river, the golden spires of pagodas pushed up from the jumble of roofs, the majestic Shwedagon pagoda rising high above the town.

  Then, suddenly, the convoy lurched unsteadily into action like a great creature lumbering to its feet, with a revving up of engines and a grinding of gears. At the jolt of movement Sita looked back and saw through the rain the thick body of men and vehicles, horses, pack mules, baggage carts and guncarriages swaying behind them, everything moving as one entity. At the rear of the convoy marched the sodden ranks of infantry, rain streaming off their waterproof capes and metal helmets, the hundreds of starved and weary Indian National Army men who had come down from the Chin Hills into Rangoon. Although these men were not from Shiva’s regiment, Sita knew that their physical condition could be no different from other INA units, all of which were retreating by alternative routes to Bangkok. If he were still alive, Shiva would eventually get to Bangkok, and she told herself to wait until she reached that city.

  For a while they tried to doze but the rhythm of the truck, swaying and bumping over the rough road, the constant lashing of rain through the open sides of the vehicle, made this impossible. At times, there was the sound of aircraft high above. Eventually, they neared Pegu, where they were scheduled to stop, but the town had been bombed. Clouds of black smoke filled the sky, and fires were everywhere. The convoy drew to a halt, and Netaji sent an aide-de-camp, Captain Ahmed, a short man with a broad chest and long neck, to check on the women.

  ‘We will have to go on to Waw, where the Japanese are gathering. It’s the narrowest point at which to ford the river, and there are also ferries there. Now that we are clear of the city, it is dangerous to travel further by day; enemy aircraft will be looking for us. Although Pegu is bombed, we will rest here until dark and travel on through the night,’ he told them.

  The rain had stopped and the sun shone hotly again as they made camp under tall trees in a clearing of secondary jungle. Newly flooded rice paddies spread out beside the camp, a jigsaw of mirrors reflecting the sky. After the cool air of Maymyo, the lowlands were hot and steamy.

  Soon the camp bustled with activity. A fire was lit and cauldrons of rice started cooking, into which would be added whatever scraps of dried meat, vegetables or edible jungle leaves they could find. The fire, made with difficulty from damp branches, gave off clouds of smoke and the smell drifting up from the pots of weevil-ridden rice was thin and unappetising. The INA men were camped together in a large area of their own, and the women settled themselves a distance away, near where Netaji sat beneath a tall tree with his aides-de-camp, Captains Ahmed and Sharma.

  Soon a jawan approached with Netaji’s shaving things, setting them out before him on a small folding table beneath a tree. Netaji stood up and turned to hang his shaving mirror on a protruding notch of trunk, and prepared to begin his shave. He took off his jacket, revealing a khaki shirt and green braces attached to his familiar roomy jodhpurs. The mirror hung low and Netaji was forced to stoop to view his chin while lathering up a beard of soap, carefully drawing a clean swathe through the foam with his razor. Before he had finished his shave bombers were heard again.

  Sita jumped to her feet and with the other girls, prepared to run for cover as the planes droned low above the clearing. Under the tree Netaji did not move, continuing with his shave, peering unconcernedly into the mirror.

  ‘Netaji.’

  They called to him, hesitating to run when he stood as if deaf to the aircraft above him.

  ‘Netaji.’

  Captain Ahmed and Captain Sharma stepped forward, looking from the sky to their commander, disconcerted by his apparent indifference to danger, unable to determine if the planes were a threat or merely reconnaissance aircraft. Netaji turned to them impatiently, his face a strange sight with its soapy white beard.

  ‘Please, all of you take cover, immediately. I shall finish my shave, nothing will happen. I am like a cat with nine lives.’ He turned back to the mirror, picking up his razor again.

  His aides at last retreated a short distance, to stand nervously at the edge of the clearing, refusing to seek full cover, and ready to dart forward if their commander appeared in danger. Netaji ignored them, fixing his eyes upon the mirror, drawing the blade through the foam on his cheek, clearing yet another furrow. Alone in his green braces beneath the tall tree, he absorbed himself in his task, taking no notice of the war.

  Once the planes departed and the danger was over and his shave completed, Netaji relaxed with a cigarette, poring over a map his aides spread out on a table before him. A small and bloodied cut on his newly shaved cheeks remained as the only proof of any tension he might have felt during his shave.

  At dusk the order to move came again, and they climbed back into their vehicles. When at last the convoy reached the main road they found it filled with retreating Japanese regiments from Rangoon, vehicles crammed with soldiers and weaponry. In the darkness a stream of lowered headlights rolled towards the town of Waw and the great Sittang River beyond. The growl of engines and the heavy tread of wheels filled the darkness. Although no bombers flew at night, Sita worried that the moving snake of lights must make them instantly visible to any enemy. Little could be seen in the blackness, and in the truck the women sat in silence. Muni coughed, weak with a chesty cold. Prema, who had earlier gone to speak to Captain Ahmed, now returned to run beside the slowly moving truck, and they pulled her aboard again.

  ‘Captain Ahmed says enemy tanks are breaking through behind us. We must get across the river at Waw and then again across the Sittang River before they can catch up with us. The bridge at Waw has been bombed, but we have been allotted a ferryboat by the Japanese,’ Prema informed them as they bumped forward over the muddy, potholed road.

  ‘What about crocodiles? They say the
rivers here are full of them,’ Muni began to cough again.

  ‘We will be on a ferryboat,’ Prema assured her.

  At last, at 2 am, they reached the first river and camped to wait for morning light. In the darkness it was not possible to cross the water, and once the sun was up enemy bombers would begin their sorties again. There was only a slim slice of time to ford the river during the first light of the breaking day. As the ground was wet the women remained in the truck, sleeping as best they could, propped up against each other. From the riverbank they listened to the noise of movement, to voices, the revving of an engine and the whinnying of a horse. Captain Ahmed soon appeared again with instructions from Netaji.

  ‘We will cross the river at first light. There are some ferries, they are just bamboo rafts, but you girls will be taken safely over. Most of the men will swim.’

  At last dawn lifted the edge of night, revealing a riverbank alive with activity. In the darkness it had been impossible to see the number of men waiting to cross the river. Thousands of sick and starving Japanese troops, retreating ahead of the INA men who had defended their flanks, had trekked down from the Chin Hills with tanks and jeeps, weaponry and horses, to reach the river before them. Everyone must cross the water in the brief span of dawn, or wait again for the same time the following day. As the sky lightened, Sita stretched and stood up in the truck and saw with relief that the river was narrow enough for the opposite bank to be clearly seen. The thick odour of the water moved through her, and it seemed to her that every river was but the same river.

  Soldiers were already plunging into the water and swimming alongside horses and pack mules, men and animals forming one great splashing mass of bodies. Everyone was now awake, and the women jumped down from the truck, to await their ferryboat. A short distance away Netaji emerged from his tent, which was already being collapsed and packed up by his jawans.