In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  After the English have gone, there will be three races left here to share our beautiful country: the Malays, the Chinese, and the Indians. Each of these races is even now positioning itself, through its more far-sighted leaders, to take its place in the new Malaya.

  My role is not yet that of a leader, except in the most local sense. I am a warrior of Shiva, our God of conflict and change. I am ‘earning my spurs’ as the English say, in countless little affrays in the villages and on the estates.

  I am unburdening my heart to you, dear lady, because you impressed me greatly that day in Lal Mahmood’s rooms. You had your own worries but you put them aside to think of me and of my worries. You put on no airs and graces, but tried to help a fellow human being who you saw was in trouble. You and your kind are the future of Malaya.

  I have thought about you a lot in the past few months. We may one day meet again but I think perhaps not. In this Malaya of ours we are just too far apart.

  What I do can be dangerous. I may die one day in some silly accident. If I do, please know that I would have died gladly, able to look Lord Shiva in the face, warrior-to-warrior. I will have earned my spurs.

  With affection, I remain dear lady,

  Rajeev Srinivasan.

  The address at the top of the letter was in KL, and in a postscript Rajeev explained that it was his mother’s house, and that she would forward any mail on to him. It was an incredibly mature letter for a man whose formal education had ceased at the age of twelve, but when I pictured him in my mind it was without doubt Rajeev talking to me through the written words. I remembered how impressed I’d been in Penang at the clarity of his thoughts and the skill with which he used the English language.

  He had been a thoughtful, gentle, educated man. A Brahmin rather than a warrior. It made it harder to accept that he had been shot down like a rabid dog, his body photographed not to memorialise a decent young man but to help the police track down more of his kind.

  The letter was dated almost a year ago, and I wondered why he had not posted it. I think perhaps I understood. He wanted to say the things he had said, but knew that there was no point in my reading them. As he had said, in this Malaya of ours we were just too far apart.

  But I decided, as I lay in my bed with strange, angry thoughts tumbling through my mind, that I owed it to Rajeev to visit his mother and to share his letter with her.

  Chapter Eight

  I told Denis about Rajeev’s death the next morning as we sat on the terrace of the Riding Club, eating the club’s special breakfast of waffles and maple syrup. Fans circulated the already warm morning air and turbaned waiters hurried softly to and fro. Below us, beautifully proportioned thoroughbreds clip-clopped to and from the mounting yards.

  ‘I read about it, of course,’ Denis said. ‘It was a rotten business and I’ve got nothing but contempt for Jan Boetcher. He’s a pig of a man. It must have been awful for you to learn about it the way you did.’

  ‘I’d like to visit Rajeev’s mother,’ I said. ‘Would you come with me?’

  Denis didn’t answer immediately. He took out a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully on the back of his hand before lighting up. ‘There will be people there,’ he said. ‘A lot of people. The Tamils have a way of dealing with grief that is a bit different from ours. There will probably be a band too, and there will certainly be singing.’

  ‘I’d still like to drop in,’ I said, ‘even if it is only for a moment or two. I feel I owe it to Rajeev. In a way I’m obligated to him. He made me his confidant.’

  ‘Then of course we will go,’ Denis said. ‘I’ll send the syce around with a chit asking if we can call around tomorrow morning. I do think it best if we gave some notice.’

  Denis was playing cricket at the Selangor Club that afternoon, and he had arranged for us to meet some of his friends for an early lunch before the game. Mac and Fiona were already there when we arrived at about eleven, sipping iced champagne on the terrace with four people I didn’t know. ‘Bob and Babs Chrystal, and Alec and Margaret Dean,’ Denis introduced briefly, and I went around the little circle shaking hands as everyone smiled and nodded politely. Bob Chrystal was a colleague of Denis’s at Guthries, and he and his cheerful Australian wife lived next door to him in the Guthries compound in Ampang Road. Alec Dean was one of Denis’s oldest friends in Malaya, while his wife Margaret was a ‘new chum’ to the colony whom he had met and married on his last leave in England.

  The Deans were destined to become our closest friends in the Golden Age that was to come for the four of us, and to be the first to die in the storms that ended our idyll. But I had no premonitions on that sunny morning in KL: all I recall is that we chatted happily on the sunlit terrace, perhaps just a little subdued as groups tend to be when several of the party have only just met.

  ‘The Singapore contingent!’ Denis said, getting to his feet as the last two of our party arrived. ‘Brave souls. Came all this way, and all they’ll see is the Singapore Cricket Club being ground into very little pieces.’ He introduced them, a youngster called Ivan Lyon and an older man with the bearing of a soldier, Hayley Bell.

  I remembered that Bell had been mentioned as someone who might have buried the guns on Pulau Orang Laut, and inspected him curiously. He seemed quite an ordinary individual, good-looking in a conventional way and pleasant in his manner, but distinctly forgettable. Hardly the potential hero of clandestine operations deep behind enemy lines, or the masterful spymaster in an Oppenheim thriller.

  But Ivan Lyon was quite a different kettle of fish. Lithe and handsome and with brooding Celtic features, he was every schoolgirl’s dream of what a romantic spy should look like. In fact, as soon as he sat down beside me I couldn’t help turning his way. ‘Are you really here for the match?’ I asked. ‘You don’t look the sort who would be happy simply watching other people play cricket.’

  ‘I’m here under orders,’ Ivan said. ‘A very new boy being shown the ropes. Colonel Bell thinks that a visit to the Selangor Club essential education for a newcomer. Meet the right people, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘How boring,’ I said. I looked at him provocatively. ‘What would you prefer to be doing?’

  ‘Sailing,’ Ivan said promptly. ‘I know it’s an unfashionably selfish sport, but then I’m an unfashionably selfish person.’

  ‘We’ve just sailed the East Coast,’ Fiona put in, leaning across the table. ‘My first time on a yacht and I loved it. So I must be unfashionably selfish too.’

  I saw Ivan’s tawny eyes sparkle. ‘They’re pretty interesting waters on the East Coast. I’ve seen the charts. Lots of islands and plenty of reefs, so one would have to be on one’s toes.’

  So as the houseboys circulated with curry puffs and trays laden with fresh drinks, we talked about sailing, and the lonely jungle shores of Pahang, and the prospects of high adventure in the wild backblocks of Malaya. As we spoke I saw Ivan’s interest quicken, the energy gather behind his eyes. He was a subaltern in the Gordon Highlanders, but it was quickly apparent to me that the regimented life of a conventional soldier would not be for him. And in fact at one stage I saw Denis tap Hayley Bell on the arm. ‘Someone you should use,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Working for me already,’ Bell replied.

  We lunched early so that Denis could have something to eat before the game, and then moved from the dining room back up to the terrace to watch the cricket.

  And that’s when I spotted Tanya and Eugene Aubrey sitting close together, their heads almost touching. For a second or two I couldn’t believe my eyes – Mother had marked out Eugene as her own territory – but then it made sense. They were both aliens in an extremely, if unconsciously, inclusive society. They were both reserved, complex creatures and both, it seemed to me, were crying out for the support of a caring relationship.

  I decided that it was lovely to see them together. They could make a perfect, complementary couple.

  I walked across to them, still holding my drink, and stood be
fore them smiling warmly. ‘A secret assignation?’ I asked, trying to sound sly.

  You would have thought that I had dropped a hand-grenade on the table. They sprang apart, Eugene knocking over his drink in clumsy haste and Tanya flaring a blush that turned her face quite red.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, completely at sea.

  Tanya recovered quickest. ‘Nona, please don’t tell your mother that you saw us here today,’ she begged. ‘We were supposed to go to the Turf Club with her this afternoon. It would break Julia’s heart if she found out we had ditched her to be together. But Eugene and I really had to talk. Nona, can we talk about this later? Not now?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And of course I won’t tell Mother.’

  Eugene had regained his sangfroid, and stood up to greet me with a formal lift of his hat. ‘We would be awfully grateful if you could keep our meeting quiet,’ he said. ‘It is nothing underhand, I assure you. To the contrary’ – he shot a glance at Tanya – ‘we are discussing something important to us both, and quite delightful.’

  ‘Not now, Eugene,’ Tanya interrupted. She looked at me pleadingly. ‘We’ll talk later?’

  Impulsively I grabbed her hand. ‘It’s lovely to see you here together. I’m sure Mother wouldn’t mind.’

  But as I walked back to our table I knew that Mother would mind dreadfully. She had lost Robbie, Dr Macleod had walked out on her, her incipient campaign for Denis had been rudely interrupted by her own daughter. Now – if what my eyes told me was true – she was about to lose both Tanya and Eugene in a single blow.

  A selfish thought struck me: if Tanya left Parry Drive, it was going to make it even more difficult for me to leave when the time came for me to join Denis.

  I was preoccupied for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the company and the conversation but principally focused on what Tanya was going to tell me. The look on both their faces as they had talked quietly to each other, heads almost touching, had been unmistakable.

  I have to admit that the cricket again failed to engage my attention, except when Denis was centrally involved. Unfortunately he was out cheaply when he batted, and though I was told he bowled well, he didn’t get any wickets. He was in a sombre mood when he joined us after the game, and seemed keen to get away.

  ‘You aren’t at your normal sunny best,’ I chided him gently when we drove out of the Club car park. ‘I didn’t know you took your cricket so seriously.’

  He grinned suddenly and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Oh, I take cricket very seriously indeed,’ he said. ‘But it’s not cricket that’s on my mind. I had a chat with one of our fellows who’s in the police force. Apparently, they intend to take this Srinivasan business rather seriously. There were papers on Rajeev that suggest he was one of a gang, so they’re going to crack down on Tamils throughout Selangor in the next few days. It’ll make it unpleasant for everybody concerned.’

  I felt a twinge of guilt that I had temporarily put Rajeev out of my mind. ‘Is there anything we can do?’ I asked.

  Denis didn’t answer my question directly. ‘I detest the way the police tend to get bees in their bonnet,’ he said. ‘They lose all sense of proportion. There will be raids and arrests up and down the State, and a lot of poor innocent Tamils will be forced into the arms of the extremists on their own side. I’d do exactly the same if I were picked on, and I’m sure you would too. So the cycle will start all over again.’

  ‘Is there anything we can actually do?’ I persisted.

  This time Denis turned and gave me an odd look. ‘There probably is,’ he said cryptically. ‘But let’s not go into that just yet.’

  We called on Mrs Srinivasan the next morning. Denis had been quite right and there were a lot of people at her home, a large, green-painted timber bungalow set in a well-kept compound.

  Mrs Srinivasan was as impressive as her home, a tall, grey-haired woman with the features of a Roman matriarch. She met us at her front door, flanked by half a dozen venerable Tamils with cautious, unsmiling faces. I gave her the copy of Rajeev’s letter, and she put on her glasses and studied it intently. There was the throbbing of drums from the back garden and somewhere in the house bells were tinkling.

  Mrs Srinivasan took a good ten minutes to read the letter, her face impassive. When she had finished, she stood for a moment looking into my eyes. And then slowly, with infinite grace, she enveloped me in a gentle hug.

  I don’t know why, but I immediately burst into tears. We clung together, me sobbing like some silly schoolgirl while Mrs Srinivasan, the grieving mother, held me and patted my back as if comforting a child.

  ‘You were Rajeev’s friend, so you and your friends are always welcome in my house,’ she said, finally unclasping me and stepping back.

  We were led through the darkened house to the verandah that ran across the back. It was crowded with people sitting on cane chairs or cross-legged on the floor, eating sweetmeats and talking, sipping tea, chewing betel-nut, even laughing. On the lawns below a group of gaily-dressed drummers were playing, using the palms of their hands to produce a low, throbbing, hypnotic beat. It didn’t look or feel anything like a funeral and Denis read the question in my eyes. ‘It isn’t a funeral,’ he said. ‘Rajeev was cremated last Thursday, and this is the Tamil way of putting his death behind them. For Hindus, death is merely a stage in the circle of life, and today they are reminding themselves of that.’

  There was another European amongst the dark faces on the verandah, and he came over and shook Denis by the hand. ‘The Tiger of Selangor,’ he said with a cheerful grin. ‘Read all about your seven wickets against Perak. Jolly good show.’

  ‘This is Nona,’ Denis said. ‘Robbie’s little girl. Darling, meet Pat Noone.’

  The man smiled at me and gripped my hand. He was tall, with a handsome, sensitive face and expressive eyes. ‘I met your father only once or twice but we got on awfully well,’ he said quietly. ‘He was interested in my work, and helped me a bit. I was sorry to hear that he had died.’

  ‘What is your work?’ I asked.

  Pat smiled. ‘If I really got going, I’d bend your ear all day,’ he said. ‘Suffice to say I’m studying the original culture of Malaya. The ways of the Sakai and the Temiar.’

  I would have loved to pursue the subject but it didn’t seem appropriate in the circumstances. ‘Did you know Rajeev?’ I asked.

  ‘I know the family,’ Patrick replied, smiling across at Mrs Srinivasan. ‘I once courted Rajeev’s sister. They’ve had to put up with me ever since.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t win her heart,’ I said, and there was a slightly awkward silence.

  ‘He did win her heart,’ Mrs Srinivasan said, speaking with complete dispassion. ‘But Lakshmi died of fever.’ Then she turned to Patrick. ‘We do not “put up” with you on account of Lakshmi, Tuan Pat,’ she said. ‘We love and respect you because you are a good man who has helped us on many occasions.’

  Pat actually blushed and I warmed to him instantly. It took a brave European to court an Indian girl in KL in those days, and a sensitive man to blush when complimented.

  A group of young women had made their way to the centre of the compound, and now they began to sing. They were dressed alike in green saris edged in dark blue and black, and while their words were unintelligible to me, the lilt of the music and the slow, expressive movements of their hands was indescribably beautiful. ‘They are performing the Hindu grieving songs,’ Pat whispered. ‘The Upishalla. The words are hundreds of years old. Perhaps thousands. But they are still completely relevant today.’ Silence had fallen on the crowded verandah, with everyone’s eyes and ears only for the singers on the vivid green grass below us.

  And then I became aware of other sounds. The squeal of brakes, the discordant sound of doors slamming, and then of heavy boots running. A door in the house behind us crashed open and someone screamed.

  Denis had grasped my hand. ‘It’s a police raid,’ he said to me, his mouth at my ear. �
�Don’t for heaven’s sake make a move or utter a sound. These fellows will have loaded weapons in their hands.’

  What happened next occurred so quickly that it was a blur to me then and remains a blur to me even now. A kaleidoscope of vivid pictures and sudden violence. A young Tamil, no more than a boy, was abruptly sprinting along the verandah in front of us, clearly intending to vault the railing and make a break for a thick, leafy hedge that ran down the left side of the compound. At the same instant a Malay policeman appeared around the corner of the house, his rifle levelled. The youngster ran straight at him, his eyes wide with fear and his mouth open in a soundless scream.

  ‘Halt!’ the policeman shouted but still the boy kept coming, gathering himself to leap the low railing. I don’t think he even saw the policeman. I screamed, knowing precisely what was going to happen: the Tamil would leap, the policeman would fire, and the boy would fall dead at our feet.

  Then, inexplicably, Denis was diving forward, catching the boy about the knees and bringing him crashing to the floor.

  I had seen violence – lots of violence – on the cinema screen: Ronald Coleman knocking out the baddie with a crisp uppercut, Douglas Fairbanks Junior cutting down the pirate leader with his flashing sword. But none of that had prepared me for violence in the real world. In films, violence is choreographed, predictable, contained, sometimes almost beautiful. In the real world it is none of those things. It is discordant, capricious, uncontained and immensely ugly. I heard the vicious exhalation of breath as the two bodies collided in mid-air, saw the Tamil’s face slam bloodily into the timber decking, felt the concussion through the soles of my shoes. But even then the violence continued. People screamed. Someone, misinterpreting Denis’s action, kicked at his unprotected back. And then the policeman was amongst us too, trying wild-eyed to get a clear shot at the boy with his rifle but foiled by the press of bodies.

  ‘That’s enough! That’s enough!’ A European police officer had appeared from nowhere, his face as white as a sheet. He had to literally wrestle the gun from the policeman’s hands. ‘Go back to the truck, Hamid!’ he shouted. ‘Back to the truck!’