AS SOON as he drove through the College gates he felt something was amiss. There were no students about. The classroom block was deserted, except for a group of teachers on the upper verandah who seemed to be waiting for classes that hadn’t turned up. He heard cries from the dormitory block hidden by trees. It could be birds or monkeys but it was more likely to be students. What were they up to? They should have been in their classrooms.
He got out of his car to talk to the teachers above.
‘Where are the students? What’s happened?’
Mr Srinavasan, white-haired and solemn, who taught Maths, answered with his usual precision. ‘It would appear, Mr Sandilands, that they have all gone on strike. We have been waiting for your return to call them to account. They have all lost their senses, I fear.’
George Baker was a blunt Australian; he taught English. ‘They’ll get the whole bloody place shut down.’ He said it cheerfully. He foresaw massive compensation.
Mrs John was a Tamil lady who taught Geography. She wore vivid saris; the one she had on now was yellow and black, like a butterfly. Small and dainty, she was as black as ebony. Compared to her Leila could pass as white. ‘It is because Chia, Lo, and Salim have been chucked out,’ she said.
Mr Koh was Chinese and taught Art. Everything about him was correct. His paintings were the most meticulous and the most lifeless Sandilands had ever seen. ‘Without permission they have used College materials to make their placards,’ he said. ‘I forbade them, of course.’
‘What do they want placards for?’ asked Sandilands.
‘They have seen it on television,’ said Mr Srinavasan.
‘Has anybody been to talk to them?’
‘We were leaving that to you, mate,’ said Baker.
‘That is so,’ said Mr Srinavasan. ‘As Vice-Principal you are responsible for discipline.’
‘And get paid for it,’ added Baker, who thought he should have been Vice-Principal.
If the students were demonstrating on behalf of their three colleagues, should I commend them or rebuke them, Sandilands wondered. They would be showing a maturity he had never given them credit for, and also an altruism that was even more unexpected. He wouldn’t have called them selfish, it was too crude a word to express their attitude of wishing everyone well provided they themselves fared that little bit better. He would have expected their reaction to be sympathetic, sad, and circumspect. They would have ready some aphorism in Malay or Chinese, such as ‘If you provoke a tiger do not be surprised if it bites your head off’ or ‘He who puts his hand into the fire gets it burnt.’ Now it looked as if they were all provoking the tiger and putting their hands into the fire.
‘Good God,’ cried Mrs John. ‘They are marching like hooligans.’
Those on the verandah had a better view than Sandilands, but soon he too could see the procession and its placards.
He stood in the middle of the road, with his hand up.
They stopped but their smiles, though as polite as ever, had a quality in them that he had never noticed before. Those smiles said: We like you, Mr Sandilands, we enjoy your lessons, but you are not one of us. You do not know how we feel.
Their placards were colourful and quite artistically inscribed. Mr Koh should have been pleased. There were words that many of the students would have had difficulty in pronouncing, such as ‘Democracy’, ‘Tyranny’, and ‘Justice’, but they were all correctly spelled. The English Department should have been pleased.
Another thing he noticed. The young women, brown, yellow, or black, were beautiful. He had always thought them pretty but doll-like. Now their faces were alive. They reminded him of Leila.
The young men were similarly transfigured. They had shed their carefully fashioned masks that had portrayed politeness and submissiveness. Revealed was a pride in themselves. In their eyes, all brown like Leila’s, was a view of a nobler future than safe jobs and comfortable conformity.
If the Sultan ever allowed free elections he might be in for a shock. His Party might not have the easy victory he expected. The British Resident seemed better informed. Had Sir Hugo not warned him to scotch the snake before it got too big? Democracy, for what it was worth, would come, but the Sultan, advised by the British, would make sure it had only the appearance of power and not the reality.
They were waiting patiently for Sandilands to speak to them.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked, smiling. ‘What’s all this about?’
They did not smile back at him. Several voices answered him.
‘We are going to stand outside Government House.’
‘We want Chia, Lo, and Salim to be released.’
‘We want them to return to the College.’
‘Chia, Lo, and Salim are not in jail,’ he said.
‘Where are they?’ someone shouted.
‘In a safe place, I assure you. Do you know Mrs Azaharri, the lawyer?’
Yes, they knew her.
‘Well, she has asked me to go with her tomorrow to Government House to discuss the matter with His Highness’s private secretary.’
They were silent, thinking about it. Then someone cried: ‘Do not discuss, Mr Sandilands. Demand.’
Sandilands would have expected that from a Chinese, but no, Jerome Dusing was a Malay.
They seized on the word. ‘Demand. Demand. Demand.’ Half of them, he was sure, hardly knew what it meant.
All the same, he had certainly undervalued them. There must have been meetings and discussions he had known nothing about. They hadn’t trusted him. Though he felt hurt, he had to admit that they had been right not to trust him. He was a mercenary after all. He would take his pay and leave. They would be here all their lives.
‘Long live Mrs Azaharri,’ someone cried.
Others took it up.
Evidently Leila was a heroine to them.
Sandilands was disconcerted. He had been thinking of her as a private person with whom he had fallen in love. But if she was ever his he would have to share her with many others. He remembered Mr Cheng’s saying that she would be Prime Minister one day. Would she give up her political ambitions for love? Perhaps, but the man who could inspire such love in her would have to be heroic himself. Sandilands hardly qualified.
‘In the meantime please go to your classes,’ he said.
They conferred.
At last Jerome Dusing said: ‘We shall go to our classes, Mr Sandilands, but tomorrow you will come and tell us what His Highness’s secretary has said.’
‘I promise,’ he said.