The Himalayan Arc

by Namita Gokhale

He left to interrogate some other prisoners who had been dragged in. One of them refused to part with his watch and was tied to a tree, his arms spread, and whipped brutally. Another was slapped hard for no reason at all.

  The guard who had beaten the Major stood near him, eyeing his boots. The Major nicknamed him ‘Harami’. He asked Harami for some water but had to remain thirsty.

  It was night by now. The Major studied the Japanese soldiers, the ones guarding them and the others that came and went. Some of them wore caps over their helmets, some had flaps attached to their caps. Their legs were bound in puttees, and one of them wore the strangest thing he had ever seen – split-toed boots. Clearly they were planning something. About ten of them had changed out of their uniforms into laungyis, the single piece of cloth the Burmans wore, so like the lungi in India.

  Disguised as Burmans, they fanned out. Through the endless night, he heard them fling crackers in the air and make crazy noises, trying to get the army to reveal its position. Now and then the jitter party succeeded and there were short sharp bursts from British machine guns, the sound of which cheered the Major immensely.

  When the jitter party returned, the prisoners were given some soggy rice and muddy water. They were then made to walk single file out of the jungle and across a field, into a shed, where they joined another set of prisoners. He found Ram Pyare there, rambling from the loss of blood. ‘Please make sure my salary reaches my mother, sahib,’ slurred his havildar. ‘Tell them I died in battle, did not … run from the enemy.’ The Japanese flashed torches on them now and then. They were not allowed to speak.

  Through the night, he tried to comfort Ram Pyare, both touched and embarrassed by his faith that the Major would survive intact. The havildar’s words had reminded him of his own delicately built mother and with great difficulty he stopped himself from thinking about his home and family.

  Being a prisoner was not acceptable; he must escape.

  In the darkness, mosquitoes bit wherever his skin was exposed. The driver of the truck the Major had travelled in crept up to him. Perhaps they could make a break for it? The driver whispered that he had hurt his thigh, he did not have it in him. He positioned himself in such a way as to help undo the rope tying the Major’s wrists.

  About six hours later, all the prisoners, including the wounded, were made to leave the shed. Mid-way, Ram Pyare fell, but no one was permitted to stop, to help. The Major hoped that the havildar’s end would come soon. The driver limped at the back of the line, struggling to keep up. The rope was loose enough to slip out of, but Bhawander kept it in position over his wrists to fool the guards. The darkness might give him an opportunity.

  A series of whistles close and distant guided them through the jungle. By first light, they reached a grove near a road. There, for a moment, the Major wondered if he were dreaming, so surreal was the sight of a company of about 150 Japanese soldiers on 150 bicycles, surrounded by a cool mist. He had to admire their strategy. The bicycles meant they could avoid the main roads. He could not wait to get back to HQ and tell them all that he had observed.

  ‘Tenno Haika Banzai!’ cried the Japanese soldiers with great fervour, as they set off in formation down the road, steel spokes and pedals turning.

  Another set of soldiers went about efficiently setting up a road block. Left alone with the most brutal of the guards, the prisoners were marched at speed into a clearing where they joined five British NCOs taken that morning. Harami kept close to the Major, prodding him now and then with his bayonet. His interest was personal; he had tried to steal Bhawander’s boots at night, but had been unsuccessful.

  As they entered the clearing, Bhawander’s heart sank. The ropes were being checked and retied. When his turn came, he tried to position his wrists in such a way as to get some slack. The only relief was that Harami had been delegated to another task.

  They were made to lie flat. The sun was climbing in the sky; soon it would be unbearably hot. Hit by a bullet, a bird turned inert. Bhawander watched it plummet through space. And then there was the familiar sound of a 37-mm gun. The deafening noise of battle washed over him – the orders shouted in Japanese, the sobbing moans of the wounded, the periodic bursts of firing and the rumble and clatter of artillery, and worst, the screams of the dying. Flies swarmed maddeningly over them, buzzing instruments of torture. He worried at the rope, the knot.

  Harami returned. This time he tugged the Major’s boots off. Worried that he might discover the rope was loosened, Bhawander did not protest, though he had to control himself not to kick Harami in his face.

  A couple of 25-pounder shells whistled through the air and fell very close. The tremors raced from the ground into his bones. Bullets were flying overhead, small fountains of earth springing up where they hit the soil. The guards settled on their stomachs, ready to fire back. Two Type 95 Japanese tanks trundled aimlessly across open territory: sitting ducks.

  The Major relayed a whispered message, ‘Let’s make a dash for it.’ The collective reply: ‘Please don’t try!’ There were several reasons given: many were in no condition to try to escape, it might endanger the wounded left behind, and if they failed, death by bayonet was certain. It was disappointingly clear to the Major that if an opportunity arose, he would have to act on his own. He worked on the rope with great concentration, and for a while he was deaf to all the din around.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw two black mirrored surfaces – his own boots on Harami. The man loomed over him. Something in the Major’s abstraction, or an unwanted telepathy, had alerted him. He stuck his rifle, bayonet fixed, in the ground and gestured to the Major to roll over, so that he could check his wrists. The Major resisted. Angered, Harami squatted next to him to forcibly flip Bhawander’s torso. The stink!

  Now or never! Jai Bajrangbali! He hardly knew that he had his unit’s war cry on his lips as he grasped Harami’s rifle and hit him with it. The man fell sideways and the Major butted his head with the rifle. The Major stood up, but even as he tried to walk, he realized he was weak from hunger. He was woozy and his steps heavy, not fit for the dash he had intended. He staggered on. A Japanese within about six yards from him fired; the bullet grazed his skin, but he kept going.

  Another ran at him with his bayonet. As they tangled, the man slashed at his legs rather than his body. Somehow, the Major pulled away and escaped into the jungle on legs that he could not feel any more. He would move through the jungle, avoiding the Japanese patrols on the nearby road, and would soon reach his camp in Rangoon.

  The jungle closed in on him. At times, he could not see more than 4 feet ahead. He could not stop. He ran on, pushing at fronds and slim branches that were surprisingly resistant. His bare feet stumbled over thick roots and stones, slid over large fallen leaves and slippery vines. It was dark, but mercifully cool. He ran, the slightest sound magnifying into a Japanese spectre pursuing him. Ahead lay his unit, his orderly Om Prakash, a hot cup of tea, and rest. He could not stop.

  By his estimate, Rangoon lay a couple of miles ahead. But he had run for quite a while and did not seem to be nearing a city, nor could he hear firing. It was some hours before he admitted to himself that he was lost. He had to find the right direction, but in this part of the jungle the canopy was very thick. He needed the sun.

  He reached a little glade where there was some light. He decided to stop and reorient himself. It was only then that he looked at his legs. On his right leg, the bayonet had sliced through to bone near his shin. His trousers were in shreds; he tore off a piece to use as dressing. On his left thigh, there were many cuts. Two leeches hung on his flesh, growing plump. His feet were a mess. He bound several leathery leaves and pliable bark to his feet with plant fibre.

  With a twig and its shadow – how he had scoffed when they were taught this during training – he found north. The direction of the breeze, assuming it was from the sea, confirmed it. He had better get going, heading south-west, before night fell. He would soon be amongst friends, he consoled himse
lf.

  He strode over barely visible tracks and blade-like grass, checking his direction periodically. The thick tropical growth pressed into him. Suddenly, it was terrifyingly dark and he was alone in the jungle with no weapon, no kit. He climbed a broad-branched tree with difficulty, dozed fitfully through the night.

  Morning brought with it delicious dew, dripping off the veins of leaves, and he drank thirstily. He glanced at his wounds and looked away. He was certain to reach his camp soon; nothing else mattered. He set off again.

  As the trees grew sparser, as he sighted paddy fields, as he reached the outskirts of Rangoon, he also smelt acrid fuel burning before he saw columns of dense black smoke like stationary tornados twisting into the sky. Bhawander was miles away but from the location of the source of the inferno, the impossible height of the spiralling smoke, it was clear to him that the oil refineries near the wharves had been blown up: the very last act of an army that was leaving – scorching the docks, the jetty, the godowns, the military posts, the very earth.

  He ran, ran in the direction of the HQ, only to find trampled ground and military litter where the tents had once stood. On the roads, he was shocked to see that there were no soldiers, neither British nor Indian. The roads were empty.

  It was the eighth of March 1942 and the British Indian army had withdrawn from Rangoon, leaving it to the Japanese.

  The Major was stranded, alone, behind enemy lines.

  PACIFIST PRISONERS AND MILITARISTIC MONKS

  Salil Tripathi

  Yangon’s riverfront oozes with colonial charm as you walk along buildings that have seen grander days, standing shoulder to shoulder, symbolizing the solidity and permanence that an empire brings – there, that is an airline, here is a shipping company, a library stands beside a consulate and a hotel where expatriates flock at sundown. It is a site designed for contact with the external world. As I go closer to the water, I see ships that have been converted to restaurants, which offer spicy mohinga, the fish broth; lahpet thoke, the pickled tea-leaf salad; khauk swe, the noodle soup; and local beers, Myanmar or Mandalay. (The wine from Shan State is quite good too).

  At the Strand Hotel there is a bar, a shrine that commemorates distinguished visitors from the past – surely, W. Somerset Maugham and Rudyard Kipling, Paul Theroux, maybe even George Orwell, were there once? Kipling called this land ‘a pleasant damp country where rice grew of itself and fish came up to be caught’. He liked the ‘almond-coloured girls’ who smiled and weren’t demure, unlike the women in India, and marvelled at the imposing Shwedagon Pagoda, perched on a hill, ‘a golden mystery … a shape that was neither Muslim dome nor Hindu temple spire’, which told him: ‘This is Burma, and it will be quite unlike any land you know about.’ And so it was.

  Shwedagon is beyond the zoo, across from Kandawagyi Lake, perched on a hill, as if aloof from the city it guards. It is visible from many parts of Yangon – or, at least, will remain visible until glass skyscrapers erupt, giving the city a new skyline which could hide familiar landmarks. Burma is now Myanmar, socialism is now capitalism, and yesterday’s generals are today’s businessmen.

  I was at the pagoda at sunset, when its golden stupas glow bright, adding an alluring sheen to the twilight hour. The ostentatious display of gold looked out of place, given Buddhism’s central tenet of detachment. Men and women bowed repeatedly and muttered mantras, their faces intent and full of concentration, many seeking what they did not have – a Burmese woman offered flowers to the idol of a fertility goddess and a young Thai woman prayed for promotion. Young boys and girls dressed in finery walked by, wearing more gold over their white clothes, as they were led towards monks with whom they would spend some months as novice bhikkhus. A youngish monk chewed gum and wore designer sunglasses, a fancy smartphone in his hand, looking at nobody in particular.

  At the entrance of one temple was a big stone lion, and sitting on top of that lion was a bald cheerful boy, who was as excited as if he was on a rocking horse, while his father kept his hand on the boy’s back to steady him. The boy’s cheeks were smeared with thanaka, the coating made from bark to protect the skin from the harsh sun. As I took his picture, the boy made faces at me; his father laughed, I laughed.

  On my way out, I saw children selling copies of George Orwell’s first novel, Burmese Days, for a dollar.

  Orwell came to Burma in 1922 and spent nearly five years in the country as an imperial police officer. He was troubled by the colonial experience – the encounter anguished him, and he expressed that dehumanization in his 1936 essay, ‘The Shooting of an Elephant’, where the narrator shoots an unruly elephant even when he does not want to, but he must because it is expected of him. Burmese Days also offers minute observation of the lives of the sort of expatriates you’d find at the Strand bar in those days, the forerunners of today’s deal-makers. ‘…every white man,’ the narrator wrote in Burmese Days, ‘is a cog in the wheels of despotism.’

  Free speech is unthinkable. All other kinds of freedom are permitted. You are free to be a drunkard, an idler, a coward, a backbiter, a fornicator; but you are not free to think for yourself. Your opinion on every subject of any conceivable importance is dictated for you by the pukka sahibs’ code. […] Your whole life is a life of lies. Year after year you sit in Kipling-haunted little Clubs, whisky to right of you, Pink ’un to left of you, listening and eagerly agreeing while Colonel Bodger develops his theory that these bloody Nationalists should be boiled in oil.1

  Change a few details, and Orwell could have been describing some businessmen I ran into in 2011, during one of my early trips to Myanmar (as the country is officially known after the generals changed Burma’s name in 1989). By the time I went there, even though the generals were still in power, political change seemed imminent. Aung San Suu Kyi had been released from house arrest and was a candidate in parliamentary by-elections. Once banned, her photographs could now be seen on the dashboards of taxis, on banners on streets, on T-shirts worn by tourists. As our taxi drove along University Road, where she lives, my driver instinctively bowed his head.

  This is the part of the Burmese narrative Orwell hadn’t predicted. Emma Larkin, a pseudonymous writer who has astutely observed the country, has called three Orwell novels (Burmese Days, Animal Farm, and 1984) prescient about the country and its political trajectory. Burmese Days drew from Orwell’s life in Burmese towns, showing a nation frozen in time and ruled by an imperial power. When the generals clamped down on democracy, during the so-called ‘Burmese Way to Socialism’, the city was plastered with slogans that only humourless dictatorships could invent, and as the newspaper New Light on Myanmar published soporific stories about ministers holding meetings with government departments to monitor the progress of some plan, the country began to resemble Animal Farm. And as totalitarian horror shrouded the country, spreading dystopian desolation, it began to resemble 1984.

  Burma’s tragedy began in 1947 when, weeks before its independence from the British, soldiers stormed into the Cabinet of General Aung San and shot him and many of his colleagues in a coup that has remained unsolved. After General Ne Win took over the country in 1962, Burma cut off contact with the outside world and the long nightmare began. During his visit in the 1970s, Paul Theroux noted Rangoon’s listlessness, calling it ‘a collapsing city’ whose people were ‘strikingly handsome’ … ‘a race of dispossessed princes’.2 Nothing worked; nobody protested.

  Aung San’s daughter Suu Kyi lived abroad, married to a Tibetologist. She returned to look after her ailing mother and, as she spoke out against the military, she struck a chord among the Burmese, who thronged to her public meetings in townships and at Sule Pagoda. In 1990, the generals gambled and called an election, only to lose spectacularly to Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy (NLD). The generals promptly cancelled the election results and jailed thousands, prolonging the nightmare. She remained under house arrest for close to two decades, occasionally allowed to step out and address people. Amitav Ghosh saw her sp
eak in 1995 and in his book, Dancing in Cambodia, At Large in Burma,he noted how Suu Kyi was to prove him and others like him wrong, for they had taken for granted that there were no more heroes left. ‘She lived the same kind of life, attended the same classes, read the same books and magazines, got into the same arguments. And she had shown us that the apparently soft and yielding world of books and words could sometimes forge a very fine kind of steel,’ he wrote.3

  Suu Kyi’s political journey began in 1988, when she addressed a large crowd at Shwedagon Pagoda, promising to lead the struggle for democracy. Larkin wrote: ‘Burmese history and folklore is punctuated by millennial leaders and would-be kings who emerge at times of crisis to lead the people to safety. Here, in this modern era, a female version had appeared, seemingly by pure chance, during a catastrophic upheaval … the crowd was instantly smitten.’4

  The generals wanted to bury the past: their slogan could as well have been ‘He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past’ as Orwell had written in 1984.

  One way the generals thought they could do so was by inventing a new future. There was too much history in Mandalay, where the old kings ruled, and it was now seen as a Chinese city; there was too much commerce in Rangoon, as Yangon was known then, where the British had moved the capital and where Indians dominated trade. The generals built their future in their own capital, Naypyidaw.

  Naypyidaw (also spelt as Nay Pyi Taw) has an unreal feel – it is a city without pedestrians, without hawkers, without street stalls, rare for one in South-east Asia – it has the feel of having been evacuated. If it didn’t exist, would anyone have invented it? This sprawling city, whose scale can only be understood from images taken from a camera aboard a satellite, became Myanmar’s capital early this century.

  If Los Angeles is called seventy-two suburbs in search of a city, Naypyidaw is a space where seventy-two buildings are in search of a suburb. Distances are vast, as if the urban planner ensured that if any enemy force ever attempts aerial bombing, they won’t be able to cause substantial damage. Buildings with ministries crucial for the nation’s survival are not clustered together. But hierarchies matter: residential complexes are colour-coded, indicating where officials and workers live. In certain parts, the road signs are only written in Burmese, making it difficult for foreigners to figure out where they are. That’s probably the point.