IN MANIKAM’S CLOTH SHOP Raj rewound the bale of white muslin a customer had earlier inspected, and pushed it to one side. A pile of fresh garlands for the wedding was heaped on the counter, the sweet scent of jasmine filling the shop. Raj looked uneasily over the flowers to where his sister, Leila, sat on a chair, head bowed, waiting. The day was one of those turning points of which he had already seen so many; something was ending and something new was beginning. Leila had pulled her sari down over her face so all Raj could see was the gold hoop of her nose ring, a hanging pearl trembling as she breathed. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap, the nails bitten down to the quick.
‘Krishna is a good man and my best friend,’ Raj reassured her yet again, but Leila remained stubbornly silent. She had said little since her arrival a few days before, sitting with head covered and eyes downcast, answering his questions in monosyllables. It was natural for a bride to feel apprehensive, Leila knew nothing of Krishna and had not even seen him yet, but how many brides saw their husband before a wedding? Raj reasoned. He could not tell if her silence was one of anger or submission, and tried to control his impatience.
When Manikam died and he had inherited his business, Raj felt able at last to send for his sister. Within a short time of Manikam’s death, Raj had also had an unexpected opportunity to diversify in business. Mr Ho, the biscuit maker, had introduced him to a man who was a ship chandler and wished to sell his company. After the trolleybus incident at Kreta Ayer, their friendship had grown over the years. Raj visited Mr Ho regularly, and the man had taken on the aura of a further mentor for him. It had been Mr Ho who encouraged him to think beyond the narrow confines of Manikam’s Cloth Shop. If we do not risk we do not gain, Mr Ho told him. Mr Ho had also taken Raj to a Chinese bank and helped him to arrange a loan with which to buy the ship chandler’s company. Next, Mr Ho had introduced him to his daughter-in-law’s father, a Japanese shipping agent who lived on Middle Road. Mr Yamaguchi had contact with many Japanese ships, and it was through him that business had come to Raj. Now, Raj kept a desk at the back of Manikam’s shop where he managed his new business, a far more profitable trade than the selling of dhotis and mosquito nets. He had been able to buy a gold necklace for Leila, and bangles to cover her wrists.
Leila wore this jewellery now, and Raj observed the gleaming ornaments against her smooth flesh with both possession and pride. Feeling his eyes upon her, Leila raised her head and met his gaze and he saw, with some surprise, resentment in her face. Then she quickly pulled the sari down over her head, showing him only the delicate fingers of her small hand clutching at the silk.
As her brother had done before her, Leila had sat huddled on the deck of the ship through endless days at sea, enduring the sickening pitch and roll, burned by the never-ending sun, queuing with men for use of a single stinking toilet. The last thing she had expected when she finally arrived in Singapore was to be married within days of reaching the place. All she had thought about on the long journey was seeing her brother again. Before the voyage she had gone no further than a kilometre from the village. The courage to leave India and travel to Malaya came from her brother, whose letters over the years she had waited for impatiently. She had been seven years old when Raj left India; now she was eighteen. After he left she had lived alone with her grandmother, in a crumbling mud hut that leaked when it rained. Eventually, the old woman died and after her death Leila had gone to live with an aunt in a neighbouring village who treated her like a servant, giving preference in everything to her own daughters. As soon as Leila was of marriageable age, the aunt began searching for an elderly widower who would overlook the absence of a dowry to acquire a young wife. It was at this time that Raj suggested she join him, and the aunt was only too happy to be rid of her.
At last she had disembarked from the ship to feel solid land beneath her feet once more. The noisy clamour of the quay and the alien Chinese faces made her realise how far she was from the village, how untraceable her journey; she might never go home again. What would she do if her brother were not there? How would she recognise him after all these years? Standing to one side of the gangplank, a bundle of belongings beside her, she anxiously scanned the crowded quay. As the wharf cleared Raj saw her and came forward, and the sight of him filled her in a rush.
It was Raj who suggested to Krishna the idea of marriage to his sister. The thought had suddenly appeared in his mind once he was certain Leila would join him in Singapore. Since the day, long before, when Krishna had written Raj’s first letter to Leila, the schoolteacher’s destiny and that of his sister had appeared to Raj to be linked together. At first Krishna had declined the offer, apologetically informing Raj that he intended marrying a literate woman, a schoolteacher like himself, and that, through a matchmaker, he was soon expecting to be engaged to just such a person. Yet, within days, Krishna learned that his prospective bride, far from being a schoolteacher as reported, was a deaf-mute and his trust in all matchmakers was shaken. Raj had quietly mentioned his sister’s availability again, and had also set about convincing Krishna that her illiteracy was to his advantage.
‘You will be able to educate her yourself to your own standard; no one’s education will be there before you,’ Raj suggested as he produced a faded photograph Leila had sent him some years before.
‘She was a child then, now she is of marriageable age. You can see there are no defects – eyes are straight, colour not too dark, no harelip; you might call her beautiful,’ Raj encouraged him and Krishna nodded, holding the photograph in his hand, observing the pleasant but unreadable face staring up at him.
‘It will be proof of our friendship,’ Krishna said slowly at last, unable to refuse his friend, and feeling it likely one woman might be just as good as another in the role of wife.
Later, Krishna had firmly refused the dowry Raj offered. ‘I want nothing. I am not for these old ways of thinking; dowry should be abolished,’ he said. His parents in India were long dead, and there was no one to protest his decision.
Against the advice of an astrologer the date for the wedding had been picked for no better reason than its convenience; Krishna was a schoolteacher and could not miss a day of work. Raj now wondered if it was right to conduct a wedding in so strange a manner with no family relatives, no musicians, no feasting or dancing, no gifts of sweetmeats to distribute. It was a wedding arranged by two bachelors without a need to prove their social status and with no women to question its form. Krishna insisted that besides the loathsome dowry system, traditional Indian weddings were a criminal waste of hard-earned cash. Raj had purchased garlands of flowers and the few sweetmeats necessary for the ceremony but, apart from the red sari and jewellery Leila wore and the new dhoti bought for himself and Krishna, there was no evidence of a wedding. The bride and the groom would walk together down Serangoon Road to the Sri Perumal temple and the waiting priest, in a manner against all convention.
Through the open front of Manikam’s Cloth Shop, Raj had a good view of the road and soon saw Krishna approaching. He watched as his friend stopped before Subramaniam, who sat as always with his parrots at his stall under the five-foot way. Krishna helped the old man to his feet and guided him across the road between bullocks, carts and rickshaws. Manikam’s was cramped and dark and smelled of the starch that impregnated the bales of muslin crowding the shelves. Krishna and Subramanium filled the recess as they entered, blocking out the light. Subramanium’s two parakeets sat on his shoulder and gave occasional croaks.
Leila lowered her head, her hands twisting and trembling in her lap. She dared not raise her eyes but as the men entered the shop she had stolen a glance as she pulled the sari further forward over her face. At the sight of the unkempt old man with a beard of white stubble against his dark skin, and two parakeets sitting on his shoulder, she was filled with panic. Then she was vaguely aware of a younger man stepping forward, but did not dare lift her head to observe him. Instead, she shrank back into the chair, her heart beating violently, her eyes fixed upon Krishna’s bare feet in worn leather sandals as he stood before her. Instinctively, she knew these were the feet of her future husband, but was unable to make a judgement of him from the limited view of his toes with their sprouting of dark hair.
The strong jasmine scent of the garlands was now tempered by the perfume of the sandalwood soap with which Krishna had scrubbed himself that morning. He wore the new clothes Raj had bought, the dhoti standing out stiffly around him. Raj stepped forward to welcome the wedding party but Krishna, his eyes fixed upon Leila, did no more than nod to him. Seeing Krishna’s curiosity Raj turned to speak to his sister.
‘Raise your head; look at him. There is nothing to fear. He is my friend and will be a good husband to you,’ Raj ordered. In response Leila raised her head but pulled her sari further over her face so that she could see something of her bridegroom through the thin silk, but he could see nothing of her.
‘Let us go,’ Raj announced impatiently, picking up the garlands and a box of oily sweetmeats needed as an offering at the ceremony. Guiding Leila out of the shop behind Krishna and Subramanium, Raj began the short walk up Serangoon Road to Sri Perumal temple.
The road was crowded as always. A herd of bleating goats on their way to the nearby slaughterhouse filled the road with confusion. For a moment Raj saw his mute sister as similar to the confused animals, on her way to an irrevocable destiny. Leila took small quick steps to keep up with him, her thin shoulders hunched with tension. Krishna had overtaken them and was now some distance ahead, striding forward with his usual brisk determination. The frightened goats swarmed about them again and Raj drew Leila to the side of the road until the animals passed. They walked on past new rows of shophouses, goldsmiths, sari shops, vegetable sellers and the provision stores that had begun to appear on the road to meet the demands of a growing populace. The holding pens, slaughterhouses and dairies that had filled the road when Raj arrived were now all but gone.
At last they reached the temple, and Leila fell back apprehensively. The heavy silver doors stood open and the perfume of incense drifted out beneath the sculpted figures of brightly painted deities crowding the pagoda. Although she knew this was the home of the gods Leila hung back, understanding that to step across the threshold committed her to her future. Then Raj placed an impatient hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward towards the gate. As they entered the dim interior of the temple the scent of incense thickened. An ancient priest hobbled forward, his bare hairless chest and dark stringy limbs in stark contrast to his soft white dhoti. They followed him into the inner sanctum and sat together as he indicated; he showed little surprise at a wedding party whose only guests were a senile old man and two grumbling parakeets. His sparse grey hair was twisted into a knot and his old eyes watered as he mumbled prayers over a coconut decorated with flowers and leaves. Lighting more incense he began his incantations, the sounds humming through his nose and building rhythmically, beginning the rituals that would make Leila and Krishna man and wife. Next to Raj, Subramanium flexed his arthritic legs. The birds shifted about on his shoulder and pecked at his ear for attention, their droppings splattering the cloth on his shoulder.
Krishna sat opposite his bride and observed her. Once or twice she accidentally caught his eye and at once pulled her sari down over her head in confusion. He was heartened to see a slim-faced woman with large eyes and a grave expression. Behind the overt modesty he sensed her alertness and knew already, approvingly, that she was a woman with a mind of her own. A feeling of relief washed through him and he realised how tense he had been since agreeing to Raj’s proposal. His bride was not only passably attractive but appeared intelligent besides; he would teach her to be the modern woman he wanted as a wife.
The priest droned on and as the rituals proceeded, Leila began to feel numb. The scent of jasmine from the garland Krishna had placed upon her shoulders was overwhelming. As he had lowered the garland over her head she noticed his slim-fingered hands and looked up to meet his eyes. It was as if she had entered a dream. Within minutes she would stand again on Serangoon Road, a married woman, but when she tried to imagine what lay ahead no thoughts would form. Her mouth was dry and the garland’s perfume so strong she had begun to feel sick. Once, as a child, she had seen a chicken carried to market with its wings broken and its feet tied together before its throat was slit. She did not know why this long ago image came suddenly to her in the middle of her wedding. The priest’s nasal chanting continued, but everything within her had stopped.
At last it was over, and they emerged from the cool shadow of the temple on to Serangoon Road. Raj could not hide his pleasure at the thought that the lives of his sister and his best friend were now knotted together for eternity. Leila would return with Krishna to the room he had recently rented in a crowded shophouse around the corner from Manikam’s Cloth Shop.
Raj did not think he had ever looked so deeply into himself as he did on Leila’s wedding night. He kept waking, worried about all she must be experiencing. He realised there had been no older woman to explain how Krishna would act towards her now that she was his wife. In his anxiety to give Leila a life, everything had been done with undue haste and many important details had been overlooked.
As soon as he could the next morning Raj hurried to Krishna’s room, pushing his way up the stairs against a stream of descending tenants. He found Leila crouched down on her haunches, sweeping the tenement room with a broom of soft twigs. He looked for some change in her face, but found none. Krishna had already left for the schoolroom. The remains of his breakfast stood on the floor beside the rolled up rush mat upon which they had slept the night before. The now withered garlands were heaped in a corner, their scent stale and lingering. Raj was overcome by embarrassment for all that must have taken place in this room the night before. He had brought some sweetmeats with him, and placed them beside Leila as she crouched silently before him, head bowed and covered as always.
‘How will I cook him a meal? There is no pan. Until now he is buying his food outside, at the food stalls on the road.’ She lifted her head, her eyes upon Raj, wide and anxious. The sari slipped and although she immediately pulled it back in place he saw in the tendrils of escaped hair and the line of her cheek the extent of her vulnerability.
‘We will go shopping,’ Raj laughed in relief. Already he sensed that Leila had given her trust to Krishna; everything would be all right.
She had had some notion of what might happen on her wedding night. Married women gossiped in the village, in the fields animals lived a randy life, but when it was done she found shame was the greatest trauma, even though it was quickly over. Much of the night she had lain awake, staring at her sleeping husband. A street light shone through the window and revealed not only the stealthy movement of cockroaches and the scurry of mice, but also the profile of Krishna’s face. Afterwards, he had smiled down at her and had gently pushed the hair off her brow. You are now my wife, he told her. She said nothing, wet and sore between her legs. The only thought that came to her was that he had opened his life to include her, much as a fish opens its mouth to breathe in water, instinctively and without premeditation; she had begun to cry. Then, dawn was breaking and she knew she must rise and bathe and make her husband the cup of tea he would expect upon waking.
After taking Leila to purchase pulses and vegetables and then some pans to cook them in, Raj returned to open Manikam’s Cloth Shop. It had been decided between them that Leila would cook a meal in the tenement’s communal kitchen, and then bring some lunch for him to the shop. Later, as he ate and she squatted apprehensively before him waiting for an opinion on the quality of the food, he felt grateful that she was here. Life would be different from now on, not only for Krishna but also for himself.
‘You are speaking and writing so many languages,’ Leila spoke suddenly in a conversational tone, and he stared at her in surprise between mouthfuls of food.
‘I am learning the Japanese language,’ he boasted and was rewarded by a widening of Leila’s eyes as he explained his new life as a ship chandler. ‘I need this language for my work. I am mixing now with Japanese people.’
‘What is this work?’ Leila asked, looking up at him with the same admiration he remembered in her face as a child.
‘Now, besides Manikam’s Cloth Shop, I am selling things to Japanese ships when they arrive in port – fresh food, rice, cooking oil, rope, nails; many things. It is because of Krishna that I am doing all these things. Your husband will give you education, just as he gave education to me,’ Raj informed his sister and Leila nodded, her face brightening.
‘Already he has told me this,’ Leila said in a low voice, her mind astir with excitement.
Later that evening Raj made his way once more to Krishna’s room. As he climbed the stairs the smell of food came to him from the common kitchen in the tenement, and his mouth began to water. When he entered the room, Krishna was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind a low desk. He waved brightly as Raj entered, and lifted a loosely bound sheaf of papers in his hands.
‘See, I have a copy at last of Subhas Chandra Bose’s new book, written while he was in prison. It was smuggled here from India. This is a first draft, but already it is in circulation. This is a dangerous book to be seen with in India and many risks have been taken in getting it to us here. I will speak about it this evening,’ Krishna said, returning to the papers on his desk, anxious to finish the notes for his lecture that evening at the Indian Youth League. Raj knew this talk would be like all Krishna’s talks, a fiery and fanatical advocacy of the need for Home Rule in India.
With Leila bustling about the room, a plant in a tin can on a window ledge, a string bag of vegetables in a corner and Krishna’s shirts hanging from a bamboo pole at the window, the place had already acquired the look of a home. Leila served a meal of rice and vegetables on banana leaves, and they ate with relish. When they were finished they rinsed their hands in the basin of water she offered. Then Krishna gathered up his papers and, with Raj behind him, made his way down the narrow staircase and out into the street for the short walk to Race Course Road.
They walked in companionable silence, Krishna taking long strides and Raj, who was a head shorter and of wider girth, hurrying to keep up. Soon they turned off Serangoon Road and walked towards the small bungalow that housed the Indian Youth League, a social club whose activities centred mostly on sport and the education of young Indians. It had a growing list of members and a comfortable lounge with an eclectic assortment of tables and chairs. There was also a library with biographies of Indian leaders, books on Hinduism and on other aspects of Indian life. Krishna’s scholarship and commitment to Indian causes was valued at the League, as were the regular talks he gave on Indian history and culture. As they approached the club the young members smoking on the veranda outside straightened up with respect, stubbing out their cigarettes and greeting Krishna. Chairs had been arranged in the library and although there was a seat for the speaker, Krishna preferred to stand before his audience who were already settling expectantly.
The organisers of the Youth League, a committee of elders and wealthy businessmen from the Indian community, although dimly aware of Krishna’s radical background, did not fully comprehend his true mission in life. They were grateful, for his regular talks on Indian history and politics were so well attended that extra chairs must often be hastily found. Yet, although the evening might be advertised as a lecture on Indian history, world history, Indian philosophy or any other of the topics Krishna spoke on, his slant on each subject was narrow. His mind was focused on the freeing of India from British rule. Of world history Krishna chose only to discuss the history of revolution. Similarly, in Indian history he picked out the tales of famous Indian revolutionary zealots, Velu Thampi, Tipu Sultan and the Rani of Jhansi, or he might talk about the Indian Mutiny or the unscrupulous doings of the rascal Robert Clive, hailed as a hero in his home country, but whose ruthless rape of India was impossible to catalogue. Philosophy for Krishna was always Marx and Lenin, Subhas Chandra Bose and Mahatma Gandhi.
‘When an older generation of leaders have failed, youth have the responsibility of reconstructing society. We must prepare to defend India’s pride and glory. We must end British rule. We must prepare to shed our blood, and sacrifice our lives if necessary for the independence of our motherland.’ Krishna’s voice began to rise, and the words flowed powerfully from him.
Raj was always fascinated to watch the transformation in the schoolteacher as he talked. Krishna appeared a self-effacing man and his lectures began in a mild enough manner, yet within minutes he was transformed into a fiery preacher. Men sat forward on their seats and sucked their lips in concentration whenever the schoolteacher spoke.
Raj looked about the room at the rapt and attentive faces and knew, with some sense of disappointment, that he could not share the enthusiasm around him. Listening to his new brother-in-law, Raj was aware all too clearly of the gulf between himself and the idealistic Krishna. He thought of the great men Krishna admired, Einstein, Bose, Marx and so many others, men of revolution and reinvention. Idealists though they were, Raj viewed these men not as dreamers like Krishna but as pragmatists. In their special worlds each had known that opportunity must be seized. So it was also with Raj. Through the schoolteacher he had entered a world in which men would lay down their lives for an idea. Yet commitment of this nature appeared insubstantial to Raj; practicality was the only realistic way forward in life. He knew already that money was what he wanted, and it was not of great consequence to him in what political circumstances he lived as long as he was able to acquire it.