by Lees, Julian
Sum Sum touched his shoulder and offered him more tsampa. After which he told her that his battalion had been transferred out of Rangoon and onto a fighter carrier. ‘‘Possible recapture of Malaya is the talk.’’
Sum Sum nodded her head and said no more.
An aircraft flew overhead. The locals called it an iron bird. Sum Sum knew it to be an American C-87 transport on its way from India. Hesha told her that ever since the Japanese blocked the Burma Road, the allies airlifted materials over the Himalayas to supply Chiang Kai-shek’s forces in China.
Another two days passed before she pressed an envelope into his hands. ‘‘If you find yourself in Penang and the war is over. You will do this for me.’’ He looked at the name on the cover and dipped his chin with reverence.
‘‘It is the one letter I will not mind delivering.’’ He saw the sadness in his sister’s eyes. ‘‘How long has it been since you last saw her?’’
She stiffened. ‘‘I ran away from England in 1937. I abandoned my best friend eight years ago.’’ Even now, after all this time, the fact made her equilibrium shift; it was as if she was stepping off a moving carousel.
‘‘And no contact since?’’
She shook her head at the question and felt her face go hot. ‘‘No contact since.’’
For a second she tried to smile, to make light of it, but she soon faltered. The guilt fell on her as the rain falls on the grass.
She’d fled England for Malaya, using Uncle Big Jowl’s boat ticket and the money left in the red ang pow packet. She’d given Lu See no warning. There’d been no mention of returning to Lhasa. Early one morning, she fed her baby, packed her things and left. The ship from Felixstowe took her to Penang. And as soon as she stepped onto dry land she felt like a traitor.
Back on Malay soil, she did not have enough money to journey on to Tibet. So she slept rough. She got a job helping a hawker, crushing sugar cane to make into juice. Not once did she contact anyone from the Teoh clan for help. Eventually, she saved enough to continue on to Chittagong, taking a slow boat from the Straits of Malacca though to the Bay of Bengal. A fortnight later she was in Lhasa.
The guilt had burned inside her ever since, yet she knew in her heart that what she’d done was right. Her sacrifice had been necessary.
Five days following her mother’s sky burial, Sum Sum walked to the village of Cloudy Treetops, removed her tribal toe rings and enrolled with the Ani Trangkhung Nunnery. She joined not because she had become truly religious; it was because she did not have anywhere else to go. At 28 she was by far and away the oldest of the initiates.
Urged to memorise the thirty-six novice vows, she set down the square rug which only novices were sanctioned to use and sank slowly to one knee. All around her young women murmured into their singing bowls, rubbing the rims to produce a melodic resonance.
Kneeling, palms joined below the chin, with her eyes locked on a guttering red candle, Sum Sum heard the temple caretaker’s voice trail through the incense smoke. ‘‘Are you prepared to take refuge under the guidance and protection of Buddha, Dharma and Sangha?’’ enquired the elderly lady.
‘‘I am,’’ replied Sum Sum softly.
‘‘Are you ready to renounce all worldly relations and possessions?’’
In the background the vajra tapped the bell lightly and Sum Sum, eyes closed, emptied her mind, visualizing the parasol of white light embracing the compound.
‘‘Yes.’’
The caretaker of the temple placed her thumb on the top of Sum Sum’s skull and applied gentle pressure. Sum Sum heard a snip. Then, feeling her head tilt to one side, her thick mane was tugged straight and a masticating noise sounded in Sum Sum’s ear as the long bevel blades pared thick handfuls of hair from her scalp.
The hair tickled the skin of her arms as it fell to the floor. Sum Sum wanted to reach up and run her fingers over her head to feel what was happening, but her palms remained joined below her chin.
The metal jaws clipped and pruned, lopping off one clump after another.
‘‘What do you do with all this hair afterwards, lah?’’ whispered Sum Sum.
‘‘Sshhh!’’
‘‘In England they buy long hair like mine to make into wigs. You should do that too, no? Sweep up floor and send to wig makers. Maybe can use money to buy sharper scissors.’’
‘‘Keep still and be silent, please.’’
She watched the guttering candle for several moments. Her eyes widened a fraction when she saw the cut-throat razor.
‘‘What’s that for, lah?’’
‘‘What do you think? Stupid question! Like teaching fish about water! Look at how the other girls keeping so quiet as they wait their turn. Do like them, will you please?’’
Someone in the shadows cleared her throat, a protest, thought Sum Sum, at the noise they were making perhaps.
The razor rasped against Sum Sum’s skin. ‘‘Ow!’’
‘‘Ow, my foot. Keep still.’’
The blade ploughed a pale pathway through the fine black stubble.
Eventually, the temple caretaker flicked Sum Sum’s earlobe with a finger and told her to go over to the next building to meet with the prayer hall manager to collect her robes.
Prayer hall manager Jampa’s office was across the courtyard. It had distant views of the snow-mountains and the Potala Palace with its profusion of ‘wind horse’ flags that resembled multicoloured Kleenex.
Sum Sum lifted the dragon doorknocker and let it drop.
‘‘Yar Pep! Come!’’
The small room was Spartan, equipped with nothing more than a desk, three wooden chairs, a hurricane lamp with an oiled wick and a woven wall hanging depicting White Tara. Sum Sum glanced at the image of the Mother of all Buddhas, noting her seven eyes, searching out the ones in the middle of her forehead and on her hands and feet. A solitary latticework window, sealed with translucent paper, offered a hazy view of the stream and the hills beyond.
Prayer hall manager Jampa, a portly septuagenarian with the face of a little piglet, squeezed her cheeks into a smile and made a click-clack sound with her tongue. ‘‘You have had your head shaved. Yakpo ndug, good.’’
Sum Sum ran a hand over her bald pate. ‘‘Ayo Sami! I must look like a freshly laid egg. Am I allowed to wear an egg cosy when it gets colder?’’ She felt like giggling but decided against it.
‘‘You will be expected to keep your head smooth. Caretaker of the temple will provide razors. Ay-yi, but what is this? Your garments are loose. Come closer, I want to look at your robes.’’
Prayer hall manager Jampa adjusted Sum Sum’s maroon shawl and lower robe, tightening the cloth at the waist. ‘‘These simple clothes may symbolize renunciation but we must still maintain an orderly appearance. Now, please, take a seat.’’
Sum Sum sat down, placing her hands respectfully on her lap. She eyed the desk. It was lined with paper scrolls, ox horn writing brushes with rabbit hair nibs, an ink stick, a purple-hued ink slab and a stone brushwash.
Prayer hall manager Jampa leaned across her desk and offered Sum Sum natag snuff, which she kept finely ground in a yak horn container. A breeze slithered through the cracks in the latticework window.
‘‘Just a little on your thumbnail will do,’’ said prayer hall manager Jampa.
The scrolls of paper twitched in the light breeze. Sum Sum took a quick snort and then held her head back as if anticipating a sneeze. After a few seconds she gagged.
‘‘Is it too flavoursome for you?’’ Prayer hall manager Jampa grinned, her eyes flaring theatrically.
Sum Sum let out her breath, which appeared like a smoky dust through her open mouth. ‘‘By Dharmakaya heaven! What do you put in this? Chilli powder, no?’’
‘‘Ground cloves, cardamom and juniper tree ash.’’ Both women’s eyes were watery with tears. ‘‘Ndug’re. Good. Works wonders before 5 a.m. prayers. Wakes me up every time. I offer it to all the novices on their first day here; it helps settle the nerves
I think. Better not let the abbess hear about it otherwise she’ll have my insides for breakfast.’’
Both made contented click-clack sounds with their tongues.
When Sum Sum settled down, prayer hall manager Jampa extracted something from her desk folder and handed it to her. ‘‘Ndug’re. Time for administrative business. We have decided that this will be your Dharma name.’’
Sum Sum received the square bit of paper. It was beige with red Tibetan letters scrawled on it.
‘‘Sengemo? Lioness?’’
‘‘It is a good name. It is in accordance with your lineage – your father was a great soldier, was he not? Lioness suits you. I also want you to wear these mala beads over your wrist. Each bead is made of bone. Use it to help with your prayers.’’
Sum Sum thanked her.
‘‘When you enter this nunnery you leave your history behind,’’ the old lady continued. ‘‘You leave your memories behind. You must allow those memories to rust. What is past is past. Out in that world people create their own sadness. It is not the case here.’’
The prayer hall manager peered at her folder. ‘‘Ndug’re. Now it is time to discuss what your tasks will be. As you are aware, unlike monks we do not receive payment of any kind for performing ritual services, therefore we cannot afford to feed everyone here the same way the monastery can. Here you will gain knowledge and the teachings of the Buddha but you will be asked to work to help sustain the community. Yes?’’
Sum Sum nodded. ‘‘Tuteche.’’
‘‘What are you skilled in? What can you do? You know how to use the Tibetan spindle?’’
‘‘Sorry, prayer hall manager.’’
‘‘Humphh. You know how to work the fields?’’
Sum Sum flashed her neem-nurtured white teeth. ‘‘I spent time in the rice paddies when I was a child.’’
‘‘But nothing since?’’
‘‘Some vegetable growing when the earth is not too hard.’’
Prayer hall manager Jampa pinched her chin and let out another hmphh of amused dismay.
‘‘So what can you do, Sengemo?’’
Impulsively, Sum Sum went to twist a strand of hair on her head that was no longer there. ‘‘Cook. I am a tip-top cook, lah!’’
‘‘By the scorching sun, you’ll be so lucky. Kitchen duties are for more established members. We can’t have you poisoning us with undercooked food, now can we? No, you’ll do laundry duty. Ndug’re! You will start as a washing hand, scrubbing clothes by the riverbank. Is that agreed?’’
Sum Sum nodded. ‘‘Tuteche.’’
‘‘Now that is settled, let me remind you that chastity is essential and that contact with others outside of the Ani Trangkhung Nunnery is discouraged in your first five years. After that you may attend the annual horse festival on the grasslands. If you wish to send word to people you are advised to seek advice from an elder first. Is there anyone you wish to make contact with before final acceptance?’’
Sum Sum felt pleased that she had managed to see her brother Hesha, but now she thought of Lu See. She so wanted to tell her where she was, what she was doing, longed to know if she and the child were safe. Eight years now, eight years without contact. She now left it in the hands of fate. If she was meant to see her friend once more then Hesha would let her know.
‘‘No.’’ She dropped her gaze. ‘‘There is no one.’’
‘‘Ndug’re.’’
Prayer hall manager Jampa reached for her yak-horn container. ‘‘Spurn all worldly goods; you have nothing now besides a gown and sandals. Study your scriptures well, work hard and become a learned and kind nun.’’ She made a click-clack sound with her tongue. ‘‘Inner peace and strength to you.’’
Sum Sum rose from her chair, fingered her mala beads and dipped her head. ‘‘Inner peace and strength to you.’’
4
By the middle of August 1945 everyone knew that the Japanese had lost the war. News of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings were greeted with a mixture of wonderment and awe – how, people asked, could an entire city be obliterated in a matter of seconds?
In Po On Village, the change in the air was almost tangible. People on the streets were smiling again. Moreover, old American jazz songs could be heard on gramophones instead of the Aikoku Koushinkyoku, and the store owners began to erect English signboards once more, replacing those written in Katakana.
Colonel Tozawa was a changed man too. For a while he pretended all was well but he couldn’t keep it up. He grew quiet. He stopped eating.
‘‘Please, o-colonel-sama,’’ urged Lu See, bowing with her hands on her thighs, ‘‘you have not touched any food for days. You must eat.’’
His face looked gaunt. He had not slept for ages. And he kept polishing his sword.
Lu See suspected he was planning to kill himself.
She did not want to see that happen. He had kept her and her family safe from the other Japanese all this time, and she respected him for it. So you think he is our guardian angel, now? she heard her mother say. And, as always, she felt a need to defend him. But why? You care for him? You love him? No. But she cared what happened to him. At times, especially when he was drunk, he had frightened her, but he had been courteous towards her too. He never treated her like his property. Yet, she also knew she must not mistake his lack of abuse as an act of kindness.
‘‘Would you like me to prepare a shepherd’s pie?’’ she asked him now. ‘‘Or your favourite bread-and-butter pudding?
He gazed at the Katana sword mounted on the wall and then studied his hands, looking inward like a grieving father. ‘‘Soba noodles,’’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘‘I have grown tired of British food. Make me something from home. Soba noodles with tofu and pickles.’’
Yes, of course, o-colonel-sama.’’ She turned on her heels.
‘‘And Teoh-san …’’ His voice sounded as soft as the rain. Their eyes met. They stood under the slowly revolving fan for several seconds. ‘‘Thank you.’’
Prior to the outbreak of war, Tamarind Hill was a fine sprawling residence that sat on the outskirts of a vast rubber plantation.
It was perched on a rise with views of the Juru River and embraced both Eastern and Western architectural influences. The grand Entrance Hall had floors made from Italian marble, the Chinese-style doors and staircases were constructed with Rain Tree wood and the elaborate cast iron bathtubs were shipped over from Shropshire.
There was an ample verandah at the rear that overlooked a coconut grove, a library stocked with English and Chinese literature, a billiard room, a mahjong studio and a gallery that housed a rare collection of blackwood chairs inlaid with mother-of-pearl. What’s more, when the patriarch, Lu See’s father, was in residence the major-domo raised the flag of St. George at dawn to alert the Woos of his presence.
But all that was gone now. Now there were nothing but hollow, cobwebbed rooms full of flies dozing on windowsills and mildew curdling in the heat.
On September 13th, the commander of the Japanese 29th Army, Lt. Gen. Ishiguro, surrendered to Lt. Gen. Ouvry Roberts, Commander of XXXIV Indian Corps at the Victoria Institiution in Kuala Lumpur. Chaos followed.
‘‘All requisitioned homes to be returned to their owners,’’ read Lu See. ‘‘By decree of the Imperial War Office.’’ She stood in the village square and turned from the poster to her fellow onlookers. ‘‘Finally a sense of order!’’ they cried. But there was no sense of order to it; vigilante gangs roamed the streets, black marketeers were set upon and villagers clashed over food. Violence erupted with pepper-shaker randomness. The police had lost control; some of them even threw away their uniforms.
Colonel Tozawa left the big house soon after. A civilian car waited for him in the drive, parked under the shade of a tamarind tree. The car flew a white flag and was marked with ‘surrender crosses’.
He bowed and offered his hand to Lu See. ‘‘It is not safe for you here, Teoh-san. I recommend that you do not return to
Tamarind Hill for some time.’’
As soon as Colonel Tozawa withdrew from the house looters stripped the house clean. The marble floors were dug up and the metal gates torn from the earth, even the giant cast iron bathtubs were taken, leaving only the dust-shadows of their clawed feet.
When the looters left, Lu See paused at the entrance to her old home with her daughter Mabel and Uncle Big Jowl. Despite the hardships of occupation Lu See’s uncle appeared only slightly diminished. ‘‘Me?’’ he said when asked about his continued corpulence, pressing a set of podgy fingers to his breast. ‘‘I’m turning hollow-chested in my thinness, no?’’ He would beam: ‘‘No, lah, truth is I eat coconut meat. Five coconuts each morning. And I don’t have to pay a banana dollah. Comes free from the tree, aahh!’ Dressed in long shorts, an open neck shirt and white plimsolls, he resembled a pygmy hippopotamus in tennis attire. He was little changed except that he’d grown prone to offering advice in the middle of conversations that seemed completely out of context.
‘‘How long do you think we will have to wait before the British return in force?’’ Lu See asked him.
‘‘May take two-tree weeks, lah. There is a small British presence here already to ensure capitulation terms are observed. In the meantime expect more of this sort of thing. There are armed gangs in Kedah and Pahang ransacking, taking what they can.’’ They stepped over the charred remains of a Rising Sun flag. Lu See picked through the splintered glass, with a sick feeling lodged in her throat, as if she’d been forced to swallow a tar ball. Uncle Big Jowl swayed from side to side as he walked. ‘‘You think maybe they haven’t seen enough bloodshed, hnnn?’’