Madras Harbour, 1 January 1967
Stanley stood at the bow of the ship, looking at the country he had forsaken a little more than three and a half decades ago in search of an identity his native milieu couldn’t offer. From this very port, he had sailed to Singapore with a small suitcase and a wallet that his eldest sister had provided in exasperation so that he could pursue his dreams, and now he was back at the same port with a smaller wallet and a big suitcase full of family: a wife and seven children.
His past identity was now small and irrelevant history that had rolled through time; an icon forged by the winds of change but a relic that few would understand. He set his memories aside as the port loomed ahead, and thought of the tasks awaiting him. He had to get to Bangalore, another southern Indian city, where he hoped his eldest sister would still be a doctor in a hospital.
That had been 37 years ago.
He wished he knew for certain; he regretted that he hadn’t kept in touch with her all those years, but there had been the war that had changed his priorities—a war that had led him to Burma, a country that had never been on his mind when he had set sail to discover the mysteries of the Orient East.
*
Madras, South India, 1 January 1967
Simon had no delusion that there would be the Statue of Liberty to feast his eyes upon, or that he was on the Mayflower hoping to see a virgin continent that promised paradise. As he disembarked from the bowels of the SS Saudi, Simon gawked at the sight of his new countrymen—a sheer mass of humanity that he never knew existed—toiling, chattering and spitting, and generally looking in more dire circumstances than he was in. He couldn’t imagine how he would make a living in this land that was going to adopt him?
What was peculiar was that except for several individuals, whom he intelligently assumed to be officials, the majority of the people wore hardly any clothes at all; and that the government didn’t seem to mind. Was this democracy, Simon wondered, not oblivious of the Indian government’s magnanimity to accommodate them and allow them to set up home on their soil?
Overpowering the pervading stench of stale urea that emanated from some dark corners, compelling and enticing was the spicy whiff of Indian sambar, idli s, and vada s that promised breakfast. The SS Saudi’ s or the Indian government’s decision—he couldn’t tell which—had just stopped providing a meal, for he realized that payment would have to be made.
The Burmese government hadn’t made it any easier for them either. The entire family was allowed to carry only 180 rupees, about USD 22 then. But Simon had one rupee that he had won on the ship, and decided to make good use of it and relieve his father. He bought breakfast for the family and promptly relinquished his financial status just when he had obtained it. The breakfast had cost one rupee.
That night, the family boarded the Madras mail, on its nocturnal run to Bangalore; chugging and tooting noisily through an endless maze of stations, each looking like the one they had just left. Wherever he looked, Simon didn’t cease to be amazed by the mass of humanity and began to notice for the first time a passivity in the people. Or was it some kind of a collective preoccupation with a common fate, he wondered, that they either didn’t care or accepted readily the presence of strangers without a qualm?
The Indian psyche was getting interesting and this was just the beginning, Simon guessed. There would be a lot more to learn, of that he was certain. He was no longer concerned with preconceived notions of the nation, but began to look for the quintessence of the ancient heritage of this land that he was travelling through, so unlike the land that he had left eight days ago.
Simon kept awake at night, recollecting stories of his childhood and thinking of his friends, while his ears and eyes assimilated the din of the pulling and pushing crowd—all trying to secure themselves a place on-board the bulging train as it strained its way across fields, villages and towns, its glowering eye seeking for the station of its sanctuary where it would disgorge its burden of men, mail and material and keep its promise yet another time.
*
Bangalore, South India
2 January 1967
Streaks of light, like emissaries from the resplendent realm of the sun, filtered through the expanse of the eastern sky—banishing before them the hosts of the night as the glorious fireball ascended in their crimson wake, heralding another day of giving life and a re-enactment of the creation.
This was just another day amongst the countless millions of days that the earth was traversing through its territory. This sun had seen this young planet evolve from its primeval insignificance through cataclysmic throes that had even made him shudder. But this planet was a survivor and had come of age, and today was a proud planet teeming with an incredible array of life. Oh! What a waste, moaned the sun, that one day this beautiful blue planet would become—just like him, cosmic history. Neither of them had the power to outlast eternity.
But for now, everything seemed well with the planet and except for a few thousand wars here and there, a colossal poverty and hunger and the beastly propensity of the human race for cruelty and destruction, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Humans! A well-developed, curious life form that carried more venom in its kind than a tarantula, thought the sun in awe.
*
The Railway Station
Bangalore City
January 1967
As daylight broke, rising the night over Bangalore, the exhausted Madras Mail limped into the station. The city was a pleasant sight, gardens green and clean as they were then…reminiscent of the way the British had left it. The barracks that housed the British troops had seen a change of uniform, insignia and flag, but the tradition was maintained. Major roads, intersections, parks, buildings, schools and market squares still retained their British names; heroes of the colonial conquest and silent reminders of a powerful empire that had gone into recession.
Stanley gathered his family and the few boxes containing all his worldly possessions, and herded them to the less busy section of the platform. After refreshing the family from the night’s tedium, he left the station for the hospital where he expected to meet his eldest sister. It had become a prominent government hospital and was easily located. His spirits began to soar as the taxi drove into the porch, anticipating wonderment at the reunion, for the prodigal brother had returned home.
‘I’m sorry, Mr David, Dr Cecilia died three years ago!
No, she never married…stayed single.
Yes, we believe there are relatives here in Bangalore.
Yes! One of her sisters used to visit the hospital…married to a postmaster. Why not look up the Christian Theological College? She teaches there.’
The discovery that piped into his ears devastated Stanley. His hope of rescue collapsed instantly, leaving him without an inkling of a doubt on finding an immediate solution to a problem that could soon spell disaster. He wondered whether he had exhausted his share of miracles, for he needed one sorely now. There was a family marooned on a platform of a railway station, pinning its self-respect and livelihood on him. He composed himself with all the will that he could muster and prayed for one more miracle. He still believed in miracles, for he was convinced that miracles had always been the essence of his life.
It was late in the afternoon when Stanley returned to the railway station, looking distraught. His family sensed that something was wrong but kept their silence and allowed him to think, for they had implicit faith that whatever the problem was, he had the ability to surmount it. They had a brisk meal at the station’s restaurant, while Stanley sought an answer to a problem that he hadn’t anticipated.
He was weighing his chances of holding out at the station against the cost of lodging at a nearby hotel when Stanley felt a sudden stillness descend upon the station, portent with an imminent act of God, he thought, and soon the miracle that he was praying for arrived in the form of a policeman. Sub-inspector Dawson was coincidentally strolling through the station, en route to his office for the evening duty he had been assigned. The tall policemen’s trained eyes noticed the attire of a woman and her son, who appeared to be the eldest amongst her children. The attire was Burmese! The policeman had served with the British Indian Army in Burma and still spoke a smack of Burmese. Without hesitation, he approached the family.
‘Nay kown yet la(Are you well)?’ he politely enquired.
Stanley understood the policeman’s question, but wasn’t confident on continuing the conversation.
‘You’re from Burma, aren’t you?’ he addressed Stanley while his eyes swept the family with kindred concern.
‘Yes,’ Stanley replied.
‘Are you passing through Bangalore?’ enquired the policeman. He had presumed that the family was waiting for a train connection.
‘No, this is our destination,’ explained Stanley, and soon the story of his sister Cecelia at the hospital emerged. The policeman decided to rescue the family immediately.
‘Come with me,’ Dawson asked of Stanley, and they didn’t return until later in the evening.
The sun had set and the flare of a maroon twilight at the horizon was retreating rapidly as the hosts of the night began reclaiming the evening sky. Soon, the sentinels of the night became visible, reassuring the family with their winks that this part of their ordeal was coming to an end.
A beaming Dawson and Stanley charged into the station, followed by a few porters who loaded the family’s luggage atop a taxi. The family was now on their way to a temporary reprieve from the rigours of a nomad’s journey. Sub-inspector Dawson had managed to sway the heart of his superintendent, and secured an unoccupied one-room flat for the family. The flat was theirs for two weeks, by which time the superintendent hoped Stanley would be able to settle his family down.
Stanley set out the next morning with the policeman, opening an account with a local bank where he would transfer USD 1,000 that he had wisely saved overseas during his last days in Burma. He then devoted the rest of the day to locating members of his family. Presently, with the network of the policeman’s connections, he began to locate several of them—experiencing the turmoil and the strain of re-establishing relationships that had lost their lustre and vitality.
A few of them were delighted, and some concerned, but the majority of them—daunted by the size of Stanley’s family— absolved themselves from a needy recognition of their kin. He was an apparition of the past best distanced from. Stanley soon realized that not a single member of his family could provide an avenue for the resettlement of his family, and that he would have to prowl in this jungle alone, looking for succour for himself and his family.
The initial discomfort and strangeness Dora felt on setting foot on a foreign land where the differences in race, language, customs and culture stood out more glaringly than they did in Rangoon began to dissipate with the ever-present struggle— a struggle for survival in a land that was burdened with a stupendous population, striving for existence in an incredible environment of staggering unemployment.
Being married to an Indian and living in Rangoon in a cosmopolitan environment, small as it was, was not the same as being a Karen married to an Indian, living in a city of Indians where the closest resemblance to her race were the few Chinese who ran some restaurants in the city; they had been in India for more than a generation and had their origins in Calcutta. In any event, the erratic family fortune disallowed her from relishing delicacies her palate had relished in Rangoon.
She marvelled at Stanley who, in all those years in Burma, had felt less a foreigner than she did now, or never showed it if he ever did, and took strength from the thought that whatever the circumstances, bad as they were, she had him and the children. They were her world and she wasn’t going to fail them. Ignoring the insensitivity of some she came across and the silent snobbery of her husband’s people, she made friends with the Christians of the neighbourhood and took up secretarial practice again with a Christian organization.
Stanley had found work in a small industry that took him throughout the vastness of the country and had, for some time, restored a semblance of well-being in the family. The children had recommenced schooling and Simon would be going to university in a couple of years. The period of penury that befell the family was a hard lesson in parsimony, and pocket money was considered an extravagance. But the children trudged to school, uncomplaining of their frugal lunch packs, tolerating the conceit of their more fortunate classmates.
Dora was amused to see that the Indians were also capable of racism; her children were teased and bullied at times for being Burmese. Paradoxically, they had been teased for being Indians in Rangoon. In time, she began to appreciate the diversity of the people, their beliefs, their languages, their social order and their prejudices, their styles and their exotic deities—which numbered more than a thousand to her.
These were a people who had claim to an ancient heritage, remote in time, now lost in the sacred pages of the Vedas, and sadly eclipsed by a generation whose values and way of life did anything but reflect it. The thriving film and entertainment industry did little to embody or rejuvenate this ancient greatness, but further alienated the ethos of the people with the outlandish plagiarism of a culture they had sought to drive away.
But perhaps it was because of the spirits of their ancients, touching her with their wisdom and peace, that she found security in the subterranean kindness and tolerance this new land had. So she went to work every day, boarding a public transport that was usually overcrowded, patenting her national costume and preserving her identity as if to say, ‘Sorry folks, I respect the country and am grateful for the kindness in the land, but I am not an Indian.’
They let her be. It was the nation’s gift of democracy to her.
‘Stubborn Karen!’ Stanley would say, and laugh now and then when she refused to learn how to drape herself in a sari. Her resilience drew respect from the few friends she had made. And this resilience was to take care of Stanley when he no longer could work and began to fall ill. He had run out of his share of miracles by then. She and the three older children would shoulder the family’s burden for the next 10 years, soaking in eagerly any report on Burma that would appear in the news.
And it did.