by Bajaj, Karan
‘USA,’ the German called out.
Nearly three-fourths of the group raised their hands.
‘Collect there,’ he said, pointing to one corner of the airport. Folks huddled together, shivering despite the hot Cambodian summer, staring out the window at the rapidly advancing procession. They were barely a hundred metres away now, and the loud hoots of the boy soldiers outside could be heard as clearly as the subdued voices of the hippies inside the airport. The PhD student and I busied ourselves with the map as the German went through the list quickly.
‘Britain.’
‘France.’
‘Germany.’
‘Brazil.’
‘Thailand.’
‘Philippines.’
‘Malaysia.’
Within seconds, he had exhausted the entire list of embassies that appeared in the guidebook, even as we managed to figure the route out. I looked up to see just one person unassigned: Sam.
The German checked the list again. No Indian embassy. I was an American citizen thanks to NASA’s quick processing of my citizenship application, but General Electric hadn’t processed Sam’s application as yet. Sam turned a shade whiter, if that was at all possible.
‘We’ll go to the American embassy,’ I told him gently as I joined him. ‘We are students, so we should be good.’
He nodded, still looking dumbstruck as we walked over to the American group.
‘Where are you from?’ the German asked the PhD student.
‘I am Ishmael from Estonia,’ he said calmly.
The German looked at the list again. ‘No Estonian embassy.’
Ishmael, I thought, wasn’t that the narrator from Moby Dick? The name seemed eerily prophetic; and Estonia, well, I didn’t know much but I would be surprised if there was an Estonian embassy anywhere in the world.
‘You can pretty much choose any group to go with,’ the German said.
‘I will go with him,’ said Ishmael, pointing at me.
I looked at him for a second, trying to ignore the rumble of the tanks crashing through the gates of the airport.
Then, hurriedly, Ishmael and I showed the German the map. It was a relatively straight route with the American embassy located right next to the king’s palace, and all the other embassies clustered together on the other side of the diplomatic district bordering the airport.
‘Let’s move. The American group follows them,’ the German shouted, pointing at Ishmael and me. ‘Others follow me.’
We ran out from the rear end of the terminal, jumped over the crumbling fencing surrounding the runway and split in different directions.
Ishmael and I ran at the head of the twenty-odd American hippies, glancing in every direction to check for signs of the black-clad Khmer soldiers. We didn’t stand a chance if we ran into them. Despite knowing almost nothing about the Cambodian revolution, a lifetime spent playing rough sports had me convinced that any fifteen-year-old boy with a shiny black gun would pull the trigger, no matter how slight the provocation.
What a mess, I thought, as I ran faster to keep pace with Ishmael, and to think it started as a vacation.
The embassy was three miles away as per my estimation; a good thirty minute run, maybe longer. We would be very lucky if we didn’t encounter any soldiers en route. And what if the embassy had already been evacuated, I thought suddenly. If the coup had taken place the previous day, like the marines on the flight had said, the Americans wouldn’t be hanging around, would they? Where would we go then?
‘Have you been to Thailand?’ I puffed to Ishmael, who was running calmly in front, not breaking into much of a sweat despite his shaggy, emaciated look.
He nodded. ‘It’s safe there,’ he said.
‘The map indicated that there is a forest bordering Cambodia and Thailand. Do you think we can get there if we manage to slip inside the forest?’ I asked.
‘The forest is strewn with land mines to keep out the Thai. Besides, the border is a hundred miles from here. How will we get there?’
‘What do we do if the embassy has already been evacuated?’
He shrugged. ‘Shit happens.’
Indeed, I thought. A five minute trip to the MIT international affairs department would have given us the latest on the crisis. Instead, we had taken a twenty-five hour journey to arrive in the middle of it. I had no one to blame but myself.
Two miles in and the road became less bumpy. Dirt tracks gave way to narrow, pebbled streets, and the deserted countryside was replaced with colonial buildings. There was still not a soul in sight, neither soldiers, nor the ordinary junta. I prayed Ishmael had read the map right.
‘What is the Khmer Rouge after?’ I asked him. ‘Why don’t they just take over the government and be done with it? Why the violence?’
‘They are extreme communists. By “they”, I mean the top lieutenants, not these boy-soldiers of course. The soldiers are just village kids looking to kill for kicks. The leader of the Khmer Rouge is a crazed communist despot called Pol Pot, who hates the “bourgeoisie”, a word he uses for just about everyone who isn’t a farmer - teachers, doctors, industrialists, factory workers, city dwellers, foreigners, even the Red Cross. His personal ideology is less Marx, more Hitler on steroids. He wants to exterminate all bourgeoisie, partly to make this a nation of farmers, partly because he is a psycho.’
‘Would they attack the embassy?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I don’t trust them one bit. They are all crazy motherfuckers.’ He laughed. ‘Believe me, it’s going to be brutal.’
‘And you don’t care because?’
‘Because I am a karma yogi,’ he said, mispronouncing and mangling the words. ‘I learnt it in your country, atop the Himalayas. All I have control over is my actions, my karma; the results are beyond my control. Que sera sera.’
I stared at him in incomprehension, but I was too breathless to ask anything more. I looked around to check on Sam. Finding him all right, although still lagging behind the others, I began to run faster.
We spotted the embassy at the end of a deserted Parisian street with empty colonial bungalows and abandoned cafés on either side. My heart leapt when I saw the American flag still flying high atop the building, and I felt even better when I saw no sign of the Khmer soldiers anywhere on the street.
We raced up to the spiral embassy gates at the end of the street, panting, and joined a large group of Cambodians, all dressed in plain clothes, standing outside the closed gates and shouting in their dialect. We pressed ourselves against the gates, begging to be let in.
‘American citizens only,’ said the two crew-cut marines guarding the gate.
A howl of protest broke out from the Americans who were safely on the other side of the gate. Apparently, they were trying to get their Cambodian friends evacuated too.
‘He is my cameraman,’ said an agitated, red-faced giant on the other side of the gate, pointing to a thin young Cambodian who was clutching the bars of the gate tightly. ‘The New York Times cameraman, goddamn it.’
The marines remained impassive to this and similar shouts:
‘He is a Red Cross worker who saved American lives.’
‘A hospital nurse.’
‘She is the Ambassador’s nanny.’
‘Citizens only,’ the marines repeated.
‘We are Americans,’ shouted someone from our group excitedly.
The Cambodians holding onto the gates moved aside to give our group space. They looked at us longingly. I felt bad for them for a moment, but shrugged away the thought. My own life was at stake here; the drowning couldn’t save the drowning.
‘Take out your passports,’ said the marine.
We began to fumble through pockets and backpacks to get our passports out amidst the growing din.
I glanced quickly at Ishmael as the rest of our group began to queue up in front of the gates.
‘Why don’t you run to the French embassy or some other European embassy?’ I said desperatel
y. ‘Maybe there is a chance there.’
‘If the Americans don’t let me in, it’s unlikely anyone else will,’ he said.
‘What will you do?’ I asked.
Before he could respond, there were shouts from the crowd. A large tank had arrived at the far end of the street, about half a mile from where we stood. The crowd began to scatter, afraid perhaps of being seen at the gates of the enemy. Our group moved forward and began to push their way inside. I rushed over to Sam, who was at the end of the queue, and stood behind him.
‘Get your student ID out,’ I said.
He fumbled in the back pocket of his cargo pants, still looking a bit dazed.
‘You need to focus, Sam,’ I said. ‘We are almost out of this, okay?’
His hands were shaking as he produced his MIT student identity card.
‘Don’t show them your Indian passport,’ I said. ‘Show this. Do you understand?’
He nodded.
‘Take this map,’ I told Ishmael, who was standing behind me, staring vacantly at the tank. ‘And this.’ I emptied my pockets of money.
He accepted the map and the money without question. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
He sauntered casually to the sidewalk and began studying the map while he sized up the street.
The rest of us shouldered our way in through the gates - to freedom. It had worked, I exulted; we had pulled it off.
‘You can’t enter with this,’ said the marine at the gate when Sam showed him his student identity card. ‘Show me your passport.’
My fear had abated; now it returned with a numbing force.
‘Are you a citizen of the US?’ the marine repeated. ‘Where is your passport?’
Sam stared at him nervously. ‘I…I…’
‘We are both students of MIT,’ I said forcefully. ‘The Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Boston.’ The Ivy League namedrop didn’t have an impact.
‘American citizens only,’ said the marine flatly.
‘His citizenship is being processed by General Electric,’ I said in a rush as the street shuddered with the rumbling of the approaching tank.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘We came in with a group of marines from Boston just this morning. They must be inside. You can check with them.’
‘American citizens only,’ he repeated impatiently. ‘Is there anyone else with an American passport?’
No one came forward.
‘Okay, we are all in,’ he shouted to someone inside. He began to move the Americans away from the gate, perhaps to board the helicopters that would shepherd them to safety.
‘Wait,’ I said, rushing up to show him my passport and escape to safety.
I glanced at Sam quickly as the marine came up to us. Sam’s baby-face had contorted in fear.
I don’t know what came over me. ‘Here is his passport,’ I said quietly.
The marine looked at the passport reluctantly, then looked at Sam.
Our grainy photos would pass for each other’s, I knew, at least to an eye unaccustomed to Indians. Besides, all he cared about was matching the number of passports to the number of people; if somebody wanted to be stupid, that was their choice.
What was I thinking? For a second, I almost wished he would catch the bluff.
‘Okay,’ he said. Sam looked confused as the marine pulled him inside.
‘Do you have an American passport?’ He looked at me.
I shook my head and turned away from the gate.
I walked with heavy steps to join Ishmael. Fuck, I thought with a sudden, sinking feeling, what had I done? What would happen now? So far, escape had felt like a certainty. Now I was caught in the middle of raging lunatics who were likely to shoot me on sight. I was about to die, I thought. It felt surreal.
‘Holy fucking fuck, you gave him your passport, didn’t you?’ said Ishmael amidst the roar of the departing helicopters.
‘Can we get to Thailand? How far is the border?’ I asked, my eyes stinging with tears.
I wasn’t a hero. I didn’t want to be a hero. My life mattered more to me than anyone else’s, but did I have an option after seeing the way pale, petrified, clumsy Sam had floundered along since we landed in Phnom Penh? I at least had a sliver of a chance of making it alive; Sam had none.
‘How could you do that? How could anyone do that?’ Ishmael said.
Sam had pulled me out of the darkest phase of my life. I couldn’t turn my back on him now. Or could I? Was anything more important than your own life?
‘We need to get out of here,’ I said.
Gunshots and hoots filled the air as the tank began to roll our way. From that distance, they couldn’t make out that we were foreigners, but that would change very quickly.
‘Get out where?’ he asked.
‘Thailand?’
‘I told you, the border is a hundred, maybe hundred and fifty miles from here.’
My heart sank. ‘Let’s at least get started, shall we?’ I told him.
He shrugged. ‘Sure.’
We began running in the general direction of the border, knowing we wouldn’t even get close.
‘I can’t believe you did that,’ he repeated.
‘Enough of that now,’ I said sharply. ‘There are things you don’t understand.’
But did I really understand any better? What had made me behave like a hero in a cheap Hollywood flick?
Another tank with soldiers entered the street from the other side and we ducked into an alley, which led us smack into what looked like the city centre.
I stared disbelievingly at the sight in front of me. Like a scene from a low-budget zombie horror flick, hundreds, maybe thousands of Cambodians were on the street - men, women, young, old - crying, begging, pleading with the black-clad Khmer soldiers in their midst. Shops and houses stood abandoned as everyone walked reluctantly in one direction, shepherded by the Khmer boy-soldiers who coaxed them along with sticks and rifles.
‘They are evacuating the city,’ said Ishmael. ‘Everyone will be moved to the villages to work on farms. We are dead.’
‘Why?’
‘They are going to make it a Utopian communist society. You eat what you produce; everyone works equally, everyone eats equally. Great in theory, but in practice, these idiots don’t know a thing about farming except how to produce rice. Soon, everyone will die of starvation.’
I didn’t care about macro-economic socio-political issues. I just wanted to get out of here alive, to go back to the security of my dorm in Boston. Once there, I promised myself I would gladly embark on the downward journey that Sam kept referring to. I would lock myself in the room and never leave, not to buy groceries, not even to watch films - if I managed to get out just this once.
‘Keep your head down and try to merge with the crowd,’ I said. ‘If we can make it to a village without being spotted, perhaps we can find a way from there.’
‘You aren’t going to give up, are you?’ He smiled. ‘Works for me.’
A heavily pregnant woman fell down a hundred yards in front of us. One of the soldiers walked up to her and struck her on the head with the butt of his rifle, while shouting at her to get up. She resisted. He seemed to go ballistic. Again and again, he hit her on the head with the rifle until all I could see was a pulpy mass of blood and skin. Still dissatisfied, he sliced a bayonet through her stomach and the traditional white Cambodian dress she was wearing turned crimson. She stopped moving and he walked away, satisfied. I watched silently, then continued to walk with my head bowed. No one’s life matters more than my own, I repeated to myself.
Soon though, it became increasingly difficult to be inconspicuous as more and more people became victim to sudden eruptions of violence from the boy-soldiers. An old man had his legs broken with a staff because he had stopped to rest; a baby was thrown into a ditch because it was wailing; a young man’s head was burst open with a rod because he was drinking water from a ditch. The crowd began to thin alarmingly.
‘How far is the
closest village?’ I asked Ishmael.
‘Two, maybe three days walk,’ said Ishmael. ‘It’s going to be fun in the sun then. Harvest rice twenty hours a day so that Pol Pot can measure his dick against Mao’s and Lenin’s.’
He was a funny guy, I thought, completely unperturbed by what was happening, almost enjoying himself.
‘What if…’
An intense light blinded me as someone struck me on the back of my head. I turned around in reflex and another blow on my side seemed to shatter every bone. I felt my face hitting asphalt, heard gravel crunching - and then there was silence.
I tasted blood. Every part of my body hurt. My eyes refused to open. I drifted out of consciousness.
I awoke again with a throbbing pain in my head. I tried to move but something weighed me down. My throat was parched. I moved my tongue over my lips and tasted more blood. I coughed and it felt as if someone was dropping massive piles of bricks on my ribs.
‘My name is Nikhil Arya. I’m from Delhi. I study at MIT,’ I told myself silently.
I was alive.
But where was I? I tried to wiggle my toes and felt them move. I moved my fingers and they touched a hard surface. I was lying on a cement floor. A sudden thought struck me. Why was everything black? Had I lost my eyesight? Not my eyes, I thought, anything but that, please.
I tried to speak but only a whimper escaped my lips.
‘Are you awake?’ A steady voice pierced the darkness.
The Khmer Rouge. Ishmael. The city centre.
‘Yes,’ I said.
My throat hurt. A rush of blood filled my mouth. I coughed, and again felt the shooting pain in my ribs as if a bus had run over me.
‘Don’t worry. You aren’t going blind. It’s pitch dark,’ said Ishmael.
I felt a sharp relief despite the situation.
‘Where are we?’ I asked through gritted teeth. It hurt to speak, but I resisted the urge to cough up blood again. I tried to use my arms to sit up, but something restrained my wrist. I pushed again, and a heavy mist seemed to surround me. I drifted away again.