by Meira Chand
As Renu began to read, Amita sighed and sat back in her chair, and although she could not close her eyes, prepared to quietly disassociate herself. She had only to listen and later to guide the discussion. Renu was not a good reader, her voice droned on in an unchanging tone, and Amita struggled to stay alert. Her head was thumping now in a sickening way. As she bent down to her bag to pull out the bottle of water she always carried, her head reeled. She was probably dehydrated, and had not drunk enough water, Amita thought. The bottle was still a third full, while usually it was empty by the end of the day. With an effort she straightened up and fumbled with the cap, lifting the bottle to her lips, but was suddenly aware that the water was spilling over her shirt. Her body had stiffened, her back and neck arched rigidly, and she found she could not move. When she tried to cry out, her voice was weighed down under a stone at the base of her throat, and it was difficult to breathe. Her hand began shaking and the bottle fell, more water spilling over her lap and onto the floor. Beneath the table her feet seemed to be jerking about uncontrollably.
‘Prof…Prof…’
The girls clustered around her, she heard their voices calling to her as if from a great distance.
‘Prof…Prof…’
‘I’m all right. I’m all right.’
She struggled to sit upright as the girls fussed about her. Her feet were firmly on the floor again and the spasm in her back was gone. Whatever had happened to her, it was over. Her head was still thumping as if a rock inside it was bouncing around, but she had control of herself once again. About her the girls were trying to mop her wet clothes with tissues. Someone thrust a paper cup of water into her hands, and she sipped slowly. Although all she wanted to do was lie down on the floor and go to sleep, she forced herself to speak.
‘Let’s continue.’ She insisted; she was weak and shaky, but she was all right.
When at last she arrived home her mother was pottering about the kitchen, taking out pans to warm the food she had cooked earlier in the day with the help of Joyce. The familiar aroma of spices drifted on the air, and Amita put down her bag and immediately took over the warming of the food. Settling her mother at the table, she placed the dishes of food before her.
‘You shouldn’t wait for me for dinner, especially on my late days. Tonight I’m not hungry, I had something to eat in the canteen earlier,’ she lied, spooning food onto her mother’s plate. She could not say that the smell of spices nauseated her, and pregnancy left her exhausted.
‘The hospital called. You did not keep your appointment. They have given you another on Monday afternoon. Joyce wrote it all down.’ Her mother pushed a scrap of paper across the table with the new appointment time and a phone number to ring.
Amita lay down on her bed, and stared up at the stain on the ceiling. The dark bruise of dampness could be imagined in many different ways, the fleshy profile of a face, a meandering map of China, anything one wanted, yet she could see nothing but an incubus hovering above her. If Dr. Tay had given her a new appointment for Monday afternoon, it seemed her message to cancel the termination had not got through to him. She would have to phone the appointments line again first thing on Monday morning.
At 9.30 am on Monday, as Amita settled at her desk with a mug of coffee made with her new electric kettle and glass cafetiere, and prepared to chart the day ahead, Dr. Tay’s nurse called, to question the cancelled appointment.
‘I left a message that I had changed my mind; I no longer want a termination.’ Amita sounded as annoyed as she felt.
‘Dr. Tay would still like to see you to discuss things with you, so please come in,’ the nurse replied.
Monday was always a busy day with back-to-back classes until mid-afternoon, but she reluctantly agreed to the last afternoon appointment before the clinic closed. When the time came, she made her way to the hospital by shuttle bus and marched down the long corridor to the clinic, her feet swelling again in her shoes, thinking of ways to politely rebuke Dr. Tay for making her return for the formality of registering her decision with him.
Dr. Tay looked up from his desk as Amita entered his consulting room, and she noted he was not as young as she had first thought. Grey hair already flecked his temples, deep lines ran from his nose to his mouth, and even his affability, Amita decided, was no more than a professional ploy.
‘I left a message that I had changed my mind. I have decided I want to have the baby.’ She spoke firmly, in an effort to convey how inconvenient she found this visit.
Dr. Tay nodded absently and looked down at his notes, as if what she said was of little importance.
‘It’s not about your decision, it’s about the result of your urine test. We found high levels of protein.’ He looked up, settling his eyes upon her, leaning back to rest his elbows on the arms of his chair.
‘What does that mean?’ Amita frowned; she had had enough unpalatable surprises recently in this hospital.
‘You have something called Preeclampsia. Any headaches, swollen feet or ankles?’ Dr. Tay’s eyes remained upon her.
‘Isn’t that usual when you are pregnant? What is this about?’ Amita leaned forward in her chair. She disliked not knowing what Dr Tay was talking about, and the balance of knowledge being all on his side.
‘It’s also called Toxemia; the placenta doesn’t function properly. We see it most often in first time pregnancies, and in women who have children later in life.’ Dr. Tay spoke without emotion, conveying facts.
‘What is the treatment?’ Amita demanded.
‘Any dizziness, muscle spasms, those sort of things; seizures?’ Dr. Tay countered.
‘Seizures? There was some dizziness and a muscle spasm the other day. What’s the treatment?’ she repeated impatiently; everything nowadays was treatable.
‘As a temporary measure we can control the high blood pressure and hope to prevent another seizure, but this is a life threatening condition.’ Dr. Tay spoke slowly, his eyes still upon her.
‘I told you I have changed my mind. I will do whatever I have to do, to have the baby.’
She felt suddenly vulnerable, without any defence before whatever it was she sensed was now coming towards her. Dr. Tay rested his arms on the desk and began to speak again in a deliberate manner.
‘I don’t think you understand, this is a life threatening condition. All your levels are very high. Preeclampsia is fatal to the foetus; this may already have happened. And your own life is now in danger. Already you appear to have had a mild seizure.’
‘Can’t it be cured, or treated?’ She heard the bleating plea in her voice.
‘The only cure is to deliver the foetus.’ Dr. Tay spoke without emotion.
Amita had the feeling she was unravelling, like a ball of string unrolling across a floor. Dr. Tay sat before her across the desk, giving her time to digest the things he was saying before he spoke again.
‘In the beginning you wanted a termination, that was your first option; we even set the date. Now it is your only option. Stroke, liver damage, kidney failure, respiratory distress; this is what will begin to happen, and you could lose your life if you delay. I suggest you come in tomorrow for the procedure.’
She struggled to understand, staring blankly at him, meeting his detached gaze.
27
SINGAPORE, 1947
The gates to the McCarthy Rubber Estate stood open upon a narrow track leading to the gatehouse a short distance away. Sita made her way to the building, where a turbaned Sikh directed her to a Tamil supervisor working at a desk.
‘No casual visitor is allowed into the estate,’ the man told her, looking up with a frown from his papers.
‘I have come from so far,’ Sita replied.
‘What is your friend’s name?’ The man asked impatiently.
‘Muni…Muniamma…’ She had no other name with which to identify Muni.
‘Here all women are called Muniamma.’ The supervisor lowered his head to his work again.
‘We were in the INA t
ogether, in the Rani of Jhansi Regiment,’ Sita added, seeking a way to identify Muni. The supervisor raised his head immediately, and his expression changed.
‘You were with Netaji, you fought for India?’ With a loud deferential scraping of his chair, he stood up.
‘Do you know my friend?’ Sita asked again.
‘She is Muniamma Ramaiah, the wife of the kangani rubber tapper, Ramaiah.’
‘How can I find her?’ Sita asked, ignoring the man’s now curious gaze.
‘I will take you to her. I am Gopal,’ he informed her.
Sita followed the man to an old jeep parked outside the guardhouse, and climbed into the vehicle beside him. With a grate of gears Gopal started the engine and they bumped forward over the rutted track. Turning to Sita as he drove, he offered advice in a confidential voice.
‘I am a great admirer of Netaji, but do not tell anyone here you were with him in the war; it is safer nowadays to remain quiet. The British are back in charge of this estate, and they’re not happy with the people who fought against them, or sided with the Japanese.’
Sita stared out of the window at the green and orderly world of the plantation. Rubber trees were planted so closely together that in places the dark tangle of branches deterred the sun, the ground dappled with fingers of light.
‘I do not believe Netaji is dead. Soon he will return to lead us again,’ Gopal speculated, as the jeep bounced over the uneven track deeper into the estate.
The constant sound of crickets and cicadas whirred in Sita’s ears. Between the trees, crouching rows of women and children could be seen, clearing the ground of weeds, moving forward in unison on their haunches. On each tree a large cup was attached to the trunk, to collect the white sap bleeding from incisions in its bark. An unpleasant stench pervaded the place, and grew stronger the deeper they drove into the estate.
‘It’s the latex,’ Gopal explained as Sita wrinkled up her nose in distaste.
‘Muniamma Ramaiah should be in this area,’ he said at last, slowing the jeep. Sita leaned forward expectantly, scanning the rows of weeding women, but could not see Muni. Finally, Gopal stopped the vehicle and jumped down.
‘Muniamma Ramaiah. Muniamma Ramaiah,’ He cupped his hand to his mouth and called loudly.
As Sita climbed out of the vehicle the labouring women and children looked up, sitting back on their heels, leaving their weeding to follow events. Slowly, a figure emerged, walking towards them through the trees, stepping carefully and carrying a metal pail. Muni wore a white blouse and a deep pink sari tied high above her ankles in a workman like way, and as she drew near, Sita saw she was pregnant. Soon she stood silently before Sita, hanging her head in the same dejected manner Sita remembered from that first day in the Bras Basah camp. Nothing about her indicated she was pleased to see Sita.
‘I will come for you later at Ramaiah’s house. The last bus passes by in the late afternoon, and if you miss it, there is nothing until tomorrow,’ Gopal told Sita as he climbed back into the jeep and drove off.
The sound of the vehicle grew distant and the sawing of crickets and the whirr of cicadas filled Sita’s ears again. The women and children continued to observe her with interest, the task of weeding forgotten.
‘I have work to finish,’ Muni announced in a low voice, picking up her bucket and turning away abruptly.
Sita stared after her, unsure if this was an invitation to follow or an outright rejection. In the end she hurried after Muni, who walked ahead, pausing before a tree to lift off the collecting cup and pour the thick sticky latex into the metal bucket. Without turning, her back still to Sita, she suddenly began to speak.
‘The sun is high. I must collect the latex. The trees give sap only until noon; they are cut early in the morning, for that is when they will bleed. Only men do that cutting work; we women collect latex and do weeding.’
‘You’re having a baby,’ Sita interrupted, unable to stay silent any longer.
‘After I get the latex from all my trees, I have to take it to the factory. There they roll it out through a big mangle, and then they smoke and dry it. That is the smell you are smelling everywhere.’
Muni continued with her work, walking off towards the next tree, making no attempt to respond to Sita’s observation. Sita followed at a distance, staring at the bony nodules of Muni’s spine beneath the white blouse, her delicate neck and slight, sloping shoulders. Everything that was familiar about her was made unfamiliar now by the swell of her body and the child she carried. The pregnancy was quite advanced, and the child must already be kicking inside her, Sita thought, as she hurried after her. They entered an area of deeper gloom, where the trees seemed larger and more mature, their branches forming a tangled ceiling. The gang of weeding women and children had been left behind and, looking furtively around to check that no one was near, Muni walked towards Sita and began to speak in a low tense voice.
‘Just like I told you they would, my family forced me to marry. He is one of the kangani on the estate. They are the ones who recruit and control all the labour. Men come here from India to work, to make money and go home, but they become slaves to the kangani, because they are never free of debt to them; they never go home. For women it is worse,’ Muni whispered.
Her hair had grown and was plaited in two stubby braids pulled forward over her shoulders. Sita stepped forward in concern, but Muni moved away.
‘I am his third wife.’ She spat out the words bitterly.
‘Where do you live?’ Sita asked.
Muni pointed through the trees to a line of dilapidated attap huts raised upon stilts, and a slightly larger but no less dilapidated dwelling set slightly apart from the others. Chickens roamed around at the base of the huts, a rusty bicycle was propped up against some steps, old buckets stacked up beside it. A clump of banana trees grew to one side and Sita remembered Muni’s fear on the route march of the evil pontianak that supposedly lived in banana trees.
‘Soon we break for lunch. I will take you there. He will not return until later when he is full of toddy, and before he returns you must go,’ Muni insisted, turning back to her work, falling silent again.
Finally, when her bucket was full of the sticky white latex, Muni lugged the heavy pail to the factory. Sita gripped one side of the handle, walking silently beside Muni through the avenues of trees towards the low factory building. Muni’s breath came in quick gasps and Sita’s eyes kept slipping to the gentle swell of her pregnancy. She remembered her mother’s swollen body silhouetted against the sun-filled doorway of the house in the village.
At last they reached the factory. The stench from the ‘smoke house’ coated the air with a reek that made Sita choke. They joined a queue of Tamil women, all carrying similar buckets of latex, all of whom turned to observe Sita curiously. Some of the women called out a greeting and Sita acknowledged them with a smile, while Muni frowned sourly. Finally, they reached the factory door and handed in the pail.
‘Are those women your friends?’ Sita asked as they walked towards the wooden huts where Muni lived. At Sita’s question Muni turned on her angrily.
‘I do not have friends here; those women laugh at me. They say, “You ran away to join the army! Thought a woman could be like a man! Went to bring us independence, but instead the British came back!” The other girls from this estate who joined the army have all gone away for one reason or another. I am the only one left here.’
‘Gopal admires Netaji,’ Sita replied in a low voice, remembering the man’s advice not to mention the Rani of Jhansi Regiment.
‘The women are jealous of what I did, and the men do not like that I can shoot and fight. If we had won the war and got independence for India, it would be different. The British manager sahibs are rude to me. They say if I were a man I would have been shot. My husband makes fun of me too. “You are no longer a soldier, now you are a wife.” He laughs at me.’ Muni’s expression was fierce with the injustices piled upon her.
They reached the line of w
ooden huts and climbed the ladder to the door of the largest dwelling. A smell of old wood impregnated with the odours of stale food and creosol filled the dark hot house. At first Sita was blinded after the brightness outside, it took a moment to adjust to the dim interior. Muni wedged open the door and threw the window shutters wide, and light flooded in, illuminating a scuffed plank floor.
‘Too many mosquitoes in this place! The manager sahibs give us quinine, but often the supply runs out and they don’t bother to give us more. My husband’s first wife died of malaria, the second in childbirth, and his children also died; they were both girls,’ Muni looked down apprehensively at the swell of her body.
‘If he controls the workers, he must be an important man,’ Sita replied, trying to make conversation. The easy companionship she remembered with Muni had vanished, formality encased all that had been familiar between them.
‘He was also once a worker on this estate. He is not an important kangani; he controls only a small number of men. He drinks and makes everyone terrified of him.’ Muni’s voice was bitter.
She walked over to an earthenware water jar, filled a glass and gave it to Sita to drink, while she heated the simple food she had cooked early in the morning on a small spirit stove. Sita waited, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a corner, sipping the tepid water. The room was depressing, the cheap wooden planks of the floor and walls were full of cracks, through which insects crawled and light edged in. A dirty mosquito net hung over a string bed, and two battered chairs and a table occupied a corner. The place could not throw off its threadbare melancholy, and as she stared out of the window at the broad leaves of the banana trees outside, Sita sensed the fear and despair Muni must feel.
After they ate, Muni sat down beside Sita and, reaching for a cloth bag, pulled out a ball of thread and a crochet needle, and began knitting in a concentrated manner, head bent to her work to avoid Sita’s gaze.