A VIEW FROM THE FOREST OF PALMS
GIAN lay in the forest of palms, scanning the sea below him. As it grew dark, his eyes began to play tricks. Hazy shapes loomed on the surface of the water, shapes that he had not seen there before. Rocks brought up by the receding tide?-or were they boats? He was expecting to see just one boat. It was to creep up in the dark, hugging the coastline, showing no light, except, of course, the signal. What were the shapes then? a squadron of the Japanese Navy, suddenly come to foil their plans. The British were clever at planning, but the Japanese had proved themselves even cleverer. Could they be lying in wait for the boat? But did not ships always have some kind of light? They had to have lights inside. Could they be a pack of submarines, then, coming to the surface for air? The sea was like a blanket of tar flecked with mica. The shapes he saw had again become one with the darkness. The minutes passed, slow as molasses spilling out of a hole in a barrel. His excitement subsided, giving place to a feeling of utter exhaustion. He wanted to lie back and sleep. But it was important not to fall asleep; he must keep awake, whatever happened. The rescue boat was going to flash its signal for only thirty seconds, he reminded himself-thirty seconds every half hour. He could not afford to miss the signal. He got up and began to walk trying to fight off sleep. He wished he had a watch, to find out how much of the night had gone. He took out the zine water bottle which Mulligan had given him and took a long drink. The water was warm and tasted of rust. He splashed some of it on his face.
The sleepy feeling kept coming in waves, even when he was walking. There were vague, rustling noises in the jungle behind
him, and once, somewhere far away, he heard a sudden rata-ta- ta-ta cough of some animal, that made him nervously grip the handle of the coconut knife that hung from his belt.
He became aware of the sound of music; a music that was somehow a part of the sounds of the night; indistinguishable from the gentle roar of the waves and the breeze soughing through the palm fronds and the chirp of the tree-frogs. He stopped and listened, trying to locate the direction of the sound. It was like a caress, soothing, almost hypnotizing. He suddenly realized what it was, even though he had never heard it before: a Jaora feast.
His skin tingled. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the spell of the night: somewhere the Jaoras were having a dance or a sacrifice or something of the kind and this was their music; primitive, haunting, man's first crude efforts at reproducing the music of the elements. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. This would not do. He was dropping off to sleep. He began to walk.
=without being weird or discordant. He was at the crest of the hill ouder. Its beat quickened, the notes of some reed instrument now mingled with the other sounds-a damsel with a dulcimer, he thought to himself. Then other instruments joined in so that the sound seemed to become richer and mellower, and oddly enough, hauntingly familiar. It was somewhere to his left. Perhaps beyond the rise of the next hill, hardly a mile away. If he climbed a little higher, he could keep an eye on the beach and also get closer to the music. It was even possible that he might just be able to see the feast or whatever orgy the Jaoras were having. The thought occurred to him that he would be one of the very few men ever to have done so, for when the Jaoras celebrated, they posted sentries with poison-tipped arrows all round. Few men had seen one of their feasts even from a distance; fewer still had lived to tell the tale. He realized that he had been walking in the direction of the music, attracted towards it as a cobra is drawn to the notes of the pungi. Now fully awake, he increased his pace. Very soon, he began to run, crashing through the undergrowth, stumbling, cursing. The music sounded clearer now, divorced from thejungle noises. It was unlike any other music he had heard, without being weird or discordant. He was at the crest of the hill now, and still running. Then the trees opened with startling suddenness. He stopped.
They were not more than three hundred yards away, in soft white sand that now looked grey-green; men, women and children dancing stark naked.
The beat of the music came from drums, skins stretched tightly over hollowed wood and rubbed with thongs which, from the distance, looked like animals' tails; the notes he had thought to be those of reed instruments were human voices; men and women sitting to one side and making a continuous, nasal wail comparable only to the sound of bagpipes.
In the centre was a circle of fire, and close to it at least a dozen drums of varying sizes and a number of men who clapped at intervals and made jungle cries and other sounds: the sharp crack of bull-whips, the calling of monkeys, the roar of tigers, the piercing cry of jackals, the mournful honk of the python in search of a mate.
Around them was a circle of women, dancing hand in hand, and outside the women, another much bigger circle made by the dancing men. They jumped and they postured and they coo-eed at intervals, each as wildly as any animal of the forest, totally unrestrained, and yet contributing to the overall pattern of music.
And every so often, as the drums rose to a crescendo, the big whips cracked, and the music and the dancing stopped with dramatic suddenness, each dancer holding the pose that he or she had acquired, like figures in a photograph, not moving, until the whips cracked again and the drums rolled.
It was weird, almost spell-binding and, in its own way, perfect. A dull half-moon had risen in the sky and the faint yellow circle of fire cast a one-sided light on the dancers, lighting up only half of their bodies at a time. The women who were said to be ugly and diminutive, looked from that distance almost perfectly formed, their bronze bodies glistening as though smeared with oil; maidens offered to the lust of a hundred dancing devils, men who were only half human. This secret theatre made by the narrow inlet of the sea, the beach surrounded by a forest of palms and with hills rising on all sides made a striking setting. Endless civilizations receded and fell away to the beginning of time, when primitive man first surrendered to the ecstacy of bodily surrender to rhythm and made of it a pagan ritual.
The big drums thundered, the bull-whips crashed, the dancers held their poses as though turned to stone. The night was stabbed by a moment of silence. Gian's skin tingled. This was something he had seen before: a tableau of bronze gods and goddesses suddenly coming to life. And then he remembered where he had seen it: in the private museum at Duriabad, with Sundari standing by his side.
This must be a fertility dance, virgins being initiated to strange sexual practices, an orgy of selective mating; the best in the breed chosen to fertilize the crop. He wondered how and when it would end. No wonder many a white man had risked his life to see a Jaora dance.
The thought of a white man jolted his mind. A sudden cold panic came over him. How long had he been watching the dance? Had the boat come and gone?
The whips cracked, the drums crashed, and once again the dancers were switched into motion. Gian turned on his heel and began to run, aiming for the crest of the hill showing faintly against the sky, crashing noisily through the undergrowth, not caring if he got a poisoned arrow in his back.
Even as he topped the crest of the hill, he saw it: a green flash, a red flash and a green flash. He stopped. Carefully, he unslung the Very pistol and inserted the green cartridge into its chamber. He fired the two flares as quickly as he could load the shells. Then he ran down the slope of the hill.
When he reached the sand, he flung himself down beside a dry log and waited. He was panting, but the fatigue of his limbs had vanished. Now, with the misty light of the half-moon, the surface of the sea looked quite blank; not even the rock shapes he had seen earlier could be seen. Very soon, he heard the faint slap of oars dipping in water; intermittent at first, and then in a steady rhythm. He peered hard in the direction of the sound and could make out the blue-black shape of the dinghy. Then, almost immediately, he heard the sound of the canoe crunching against the sand. Two men got out and pulled the boat on to the sand. He could see another figure in the stern. He rose to his feet and coughed. 'Mr. Mulligan sent me,' he said.
For a second or two, there was silence. Then a gruff voice said:
"Come closer, in the open, and stop when I tell you to stop. Oh, there you are. What's your name?
‘Gian, sir.
"Who are you?'
"Mr. Mulligan sent me..
"Have you brought a letter or anything from him?"
"Yes, sir, if I may come closer.'
*All right, Dickey, let him come up,' another voice said. It was a much younger voice.
Gian delivered the letter Mulligan had given him, and the third man flashed his torch and glanced at it in its beam. "Where are they? Mr. Mulligan and the others. How soon can you get hold of them?
"They are about two miles away, sir,' Gian said. "Half an hour to go, another half an hour to come back. One hour-perhaps a little more, on the way back."
The men looked at the luminous dials of their watches. Plenty of time for that,' the younger voice said. 'Go ahead, then. Get back as soon as possible... don't want to hang around here too long. How many are there in all?'
I don't know, sir. Mr. Mulligan said seventeen were to come; but there were only eight when I came away in the afternoon." "We should be able to manage that. Tell them to hurry, and to leave all their stuff behind. What was the matter with you?
We made the first signal nearly an hour ago." *I must have missed the first signal, Gian said.
"Snoozed off, I bet,' the younger voice said.
Gian began to climb the hill at the back on the way to the forest bungalow. When he had left them, earlier in the afternoon, only six others had joined them. He wondered how many more had come by now. He ran and walked all the way, walking only long enough to regain his wind. The forest bungalow looked unnaturally white in the moonlight, and it was also unnaturally still. Even as he walked into the clearing in front, Gian experienced an odd sense of fear. He halted, not knowing what had prompted him to halt. He gave a low whistle.
No one answered his whistle, and yet, from where he stood, he could see someone crouching beside one the of pillars of the verandah, stiff as a sentry aiming a rifle. He gulped his fear down, telling himself that he must hurry.
"They have come! The boat has come!' Gian shouted, throwing caution to the winds. "They want us to hurry.' He heard his own voice tremble, but no one stirred. Gian took out his coconut knife. Cautiously, he edged towards the hut, crouching, ready to pounce, trying to overcome the fear that was now in all his limbs, making him shiver. He climbed the steps onto the verandah. The man-figure against the pillar loomed over him, now quite distinct. It was the big Ramoshi. Even before touching him, Gian knew that he was dead. He crouched beside the post only because he had been tied to it, with his hands secured behind the post. They had bayoneted him; how many times, it was difficult to say. His guts trailed from his stomach, sparkling like a living diamond necklace in the moonlight. He must have taken a long time to die, Gian thought, as he looked at the dead man. And then he realized with a twinge of horror that his intestines sparkled as they did because of the luminous lines of ants crawling upon them; lines of squat, iridescent ants busily curving in and out like housewives at a sale, while behind them, long orderly queues of other ants waited patiently for their turn. He turned and fled indoors, looking into all the rooms, shouting out Mulligan's name. But there was no trace of Mulligan and the others. They must have been taken away, prisoners of war, live dummies for bayonet practice, Gian reflected.
He leaped out of the verandah and ran, not looking behind. At the edge of the clearing, he came to an abrupt half. There was something he had just remembered.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he turned and went back towards the bungalow, clutching the coconut knife in his hand. He walked up to the body of the Ramoshi, now stiff against the post, with the neck conveniently bending forward. He began to cut through the neck, working round the bone, and then inserted his fingers past the bone to locate the khobri. He found the coins without difficulty, and prized them out, one by one. They were sticky with the fluids of the body, but they shone dully in the light of the moon.
He did not count the sovereigns. He tore off a piece of cloth from the Ramoshi's shirt, bundled the coins into it and tied the bundle to his belt. He wiped his hands on the dead man's shirt, but the stickiness of the blood was still upon them. He felt something crawling up his foot. The luminous chain of ants had already formed around his feet, and some of their scouts had climbed up to his right ankle, where they were probing methodic- ally with their feelers. He brought down the flat of his hand hard against them, crushing the ants. Then he hurried away from the bungalow.
At the edge of the clearing, he stopped again and turned to take a last look. The half-severed head of the big Ramoshi now lolled drunkenly on one side, mocking him in the moonlight. He unbuckled his flare pistol and hurled it in the direction of the bungalow, in a gesture of anger and defiance.
'Well, that's a bloody mess,' the man with the gruff voice said. "Waste of bloody time coming all this way,' said the other. Well, what're you waiting for?" the young man at the back said with a touch of peevishness. "Hop in, damn it; we haven't got the whole night!""
Gian's knees wobbled as he climbed into the dinghy, and he had to keep his fists clenched to prevent his hands from shaking. The two men pushed the boat until it was free of the sand and then waited for the third man to jump in before getting in themselves. The slap of the cars broke the silence of the night. The moon was just going down.
Late in the evening, six days later, the destroyer turned into the channel for Madras harbour. The sea around them was full of catamarans and tiny fishing boats. In the destroyer, there were at least two hundred evacuees, men, women and children gathered from Singapore and Rangoon and Penang. No one asked Gian a single question. As soon as they berthed, Gian was one of the first ashore. No one noticed him, or missed him.
He had been thinking of this moment, planning for it. Back in India at least ten years before his sentence was due to expire, he had no wish to expose himself to any awkward questions. He had had his fill of prisons. But now he might be thrown into some Indian jail to serve out the remaining term of his sentence. The British were strict but just; they would have no option but to send him to jail. There was no one now to come to his rescue and explain that Mulligan-sahib had promised him a special remission of sentence as a reward.
He wondered what they had done to Mulligan.
BROTHERS FROM JAPAN
THE new masters of the Andamans did not do things by halves; nor did they waste much time. On the very day of their arrival, even as the citizens of Port Blair were celebrating their liberation, they got down to work. The Commanding Officer, Colonel Yamaki, passed an order imposing a state of permanent martial law. Every sector was to be segregated, anyone found outside his own sector was to be put to death.
The population was divided into two lots. Those with known pro-British leanings were herded into the prison; the others were impressed into a labour corps. Work on constructing an aerodrome began within three days.
Anything that bore the taint of British occupation was ruth- lessly eradicated. Old newspapers, books, magazines, anything written in English was brought out for burning. Huge bonfires were made in the main square of the bazaar. All radio sets were confiscated. The people were warned that anyone caught spreading rumours or expressing pro-British sympathies would be bayoneted in the main square. It was like the refrain of a song, the threat of the bayonet.
Yamaki looked so much like a Japanese version of Mulligan that many people thought he had been specially selected for taking over command of the islands, and spoke of it as just another example of Japanese thoroughness. He went about in a little command car, flying his flag on the bonnet, dispensing the justice of victors; he soon became the most dreaded man in the islands.
Teams of English-speaking Japanese came and pored over the prison records. With them they brought their own records too, containing black lists, white lists and grey lists. The work of grading men and women of the colony went on for many days.
Everyone was fingerprinted, and there were constant parades for checking identification. One name kept cropping up: Gian Talwar; a known collaborator of the British, a protégé of Patrick Mulligan. Then the teams of experts went back to Rangoon, taking away some of the prison records with them, and ordering that the remainder should be burned under strict supervision. Yamaki had the records destroyed in the prison incinerator. He also announced that anyone giving information leading to the capture of Gian Talwar would be paid a reward of five thousand victory yens, while anyone found giving him shelter, or sup- pressing information of his whereabouts, would be bayoneted. Copies of Gian's photograph taken from the prison files were posted on notice-boards and on all important street corners. On the same evening. Yamaki sent for Debi-dayal. Debi-dayal sat on the same sofa that Gian had sat on barely two weeks earlier. But this time, the house was spick and span and free of dust. On the coffee table, stood a spray of flowers, arranged with Japanese artistry and fussiness. On the wall was a portrait of Hirohito.
Colonel Yamaki himself remained standing, his short, stubby arms resting on the back of a chair. He peered at Debi-dayal through thick, rimless glasses.
"We have seen your record,' Yamaki told him. 'Excellent! We too have a dossier on you-our own Kempi-tai at Tokyo.
Excellent! I understand you speak Japanese-yes?"
"A little,' Debi-dayal said.
Yamaki waved his hand, as though whisking a fly. 'No matter. It will not come in your way... not knowing our language. I take it that you are willing to co-operate.' He smiled. It was more a hiss than a smile, a mere baring of stumps of teeth followed by the sound of suction. It reminded Debi-dayal of Tomonaga, his judo instructor. Is that how all Japanese smile? he wondered.
"In what way?' Debi-dayal asked. In a way you have yourself chosen-have chosen in the past,'
"Yes, of course,' Debi-dayal said, eagerly. Japan wants to free your country from the British oppressors. Is that not what you want?
'Of course."
"We have already liberated the people of Malaya and Burma from the British. And Indo-China from the French, and the Dutch Empire from the Dutch.' Again there was the baring of the brown teeth, a quick hiss. And the Andamans,' Debi-dayal reminded him.
Ah, yes; the Andaman Islands. So many countries set free, one almost forgets. Asia for the Asians, living in a sphere of prosperity, all on their own." 'And now India?' Debi-dayal asked.
'India, Ceylon, Australia, Yamaki told him. 'But India first, because Japan loves India. Wants her to be free. India first. Japanese soldiers are ready to die for India's freedom. We love the people of India.'
It would have sounded far more convincing, Debi-dayal thought, if they had not been making a practice of bayoneting any Indian who did not fall in line. But this was not the time to remind Yamaki of the ruthlessness with which the Japanese had enforced their particular brand of liberation. Now we have Indians in our army,' Yamaki said. 'Maybe you too will join our army, serve your country. in the Indian National Army. The Indian National Army,' he repeated. "Are there many Indians in the Indian National Army?" Yamaki straightened his back and took a deep breath. The government chair creaked as the weight of his arms shifted.
Last month, in Singapore, sixty thousand, seventy thousand- they all joined. We will get more, all the prisoners taken in Burma-soldiers trained by the British. They will all join; another fifty, sixty thousand, maybe.' He clenched his fist and thumped the back of the chair. "They have become our brothers. Soldiers in our army-our Indian army. You have heard of Bose-Subhas Bose ? "Yes, of course. He is one of our greatest leaders. We call him Netaji-the leader,"
The fist came down again. The chair creaked. "There you are. Subhas Bose will lead the army, the Indian National army-lead it all the way to Delhi. That is what we will do, we and you together capture Delhi. Now I invite you to join this army."
Yamaki straightened himself, and then bowed stiffly from the waist, 'I should love to-I mean, it is an honour. But I have no military training. Perhaps I could be given training."
Yamaki closed his eyes and leaned over the chair again. "That we shall see. People like you can do much more than soldiers much more. They can work from behind just as you used to." The eyes opened, stared at him, blinking, distorted by the thick lenses, like the eyes of an owl in daylight, Debi-dayal thought.. Hope suddenly sprang within him. You mean, in India?" he asked.
Yamaki nodded several times. Working from behind the enemy lines, Blowing bridges, sinking ships, burning down aeroplanes I understand you did that once. Good! Good!
Debi-dayal's mind reeled. This was something that his system had yearned for the havoc of sabotage behind the British lines, crippling their war muscles.
Now is the time,' Yamaki went on. "The British are ready to quit, just as they left the Andamans. The Gandhis and Nehrus will never make them quit. The British do not understand passive resistance. They have not given in an inch to your Gandhi for the last twenty years. Look how much Japan has taken from them in no more than two months.
But how can I get behind the lines-to India? Debi-dayal asked, his thoughts snapping back to the main theme. 'How is it possible?'
Again Yamaki bared his teeth and hissed. He released the back of the chair and it went toppling down to the floor. He kicked the chair away with his boot. Easy,' he pronounced. "The Kempi-tai have their own methods. They will do all that. I think they will take you to Assam, to the borders... thousands of refugees are still on their way, fleeing to India. You will be one of them. Then you go to Bombay, Calcutta, get into touch with your friends, Shafi Usman and the others... he stopped abruptly and shot a quick glance at the door behind him, 'I don't know the details, of course,' he said, as though he had already said more than he wished to reveal. 'I am not supposed to know them.'
Debi-dayal's hands shook. What wouldn't he give to come face to face with Shafil This was something that he had not dared to dream of.
Yamaki bent down and straightened the chair carefully, and sat down on it. From here you will be taken to Rangoon. see the General there. After that, I cannot say. The General will tell you the plans... what he wants you to do, how you are to do it, everything.' He clapped his hands. A short Japanese soldier in a green blouse came out with two bottles of Ashahi beer, still cold from the ship's refrigerator. He must have been waiting outside for the signal, Debi thought. Solemnly, they drank to the health of the Japanese Emperor and then of Netaji Bose, and over their beer, they talked, sitting on the verandah of the house overlooking the harbour, the victor and the collaborator. Before they parted, they shook hands and bowed to each other. The very next morning, Debi-dayal was on board a destroyer on the way to Rangoon. The first leg of his journey to India had begun.
