Rajee
Rangoon, Burma, 1934
“No telegrams? Again!” Rajee slammed her palm against the postmaster’s table “But I get one every month.” She closed her eyes. “It’s been three months,” she whispered, trying to hold back tears, trying to swallow the stone that had grown in her throat.
With a grimace the slight man used the back of his hand to wipe away the spittle Rajee had sent flying across the steel table and onto his face. “Maybe they forgot,” he mumbled. Rajee let out an irritated grunt. Looking at her the postmaster shrank back a little into his chair.
Rajee stormed out of the post office. It was a cool afternoon but her neck felt hot, her cheeks burned. She had been a fool. Such a fool.
In minutes she was home. Home was a large two-story brick bungalow with a wooden upper verandah. It was one of the homes built for the British, by the British, almost fifty years old and still in good condition. The bungalow stood on a narrow street lined with tamarind and palm trees, a few miles outside the town center, close to everything yet away from the bustle. The occasional tanakha smeared vendor or two calling attention to her spicy snacks that sent pungent smells from large bamboo baskets were the only sounds and smells that broke through otherwise restful afternoons.
Rajee settled down in a wide bamboo chair on the verandah trying hard to keep her thighs from jiggling. She looked longingly at the Shwedagon Pagoda’s main gold tipped stupa tower that stood in the distance. Its regal opulence had always sent assurances her way, made her feel a life of brimming happiness and affluence wasn’t too far. But today it seemed dull, inattentive, unwilling to give her the solace she sought. Rajee got up. No sense letting her mind wander to dangerous places. There were boxes that still needed unpacking.
A raise and a promotion had resulted in their move from a tiny dormitory like room to this house, two weeks ago. The landlord had refused to rent it to them at first, what with the rising anti-Indian sentiment in the country. But thankfully, her husband Mani’s bosses had exerted their influence and the landlord had been appeased. It was a prickly situation. The rich, in Rangoon especially, were all Indian. Most locals lived in relative poverty. Rajee felt guilty for being part of the upper class here, the foreigners who had taken over. But there was nothing she could do about it. Riots had started a year before and there were regular news items citing one more anti-Indian or anti-Chinese uprising. Not to worry, people had said. Mani’s was an unremarkable salesman’s job at Remington Brand Typewriters. The anti-Indian locals usually targeted the richer, more prominent Indian businessmen and their families.
Rajee willed the niggling worries to slide off her chest by thinking of their blessings instead, like this one, their new home. She walked from room to room, savoring the creaky wooden floors that seemed to speak to her, keep her company at every step. The fresh-smelling coral-pink painted walls were ablaze with the streaming light that made its way in through floor-length windows.
The gods had showered so many blessings on them and best of all she was pregnant again. If only her poor father had lived to see his grandchild. Circumstances prevented him from knowing his first but this one—it was so unfair that he was no longer alive to hold, kiss and spoil this one either. Stop Rajee stop! She put both her hands to her temples and pressed them to curb her racing mind. She stepped out of the house and settled back in her chair on the verandah. Sinking into it she took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, as if blowing away the past.
Mani was walking towards the house taking long strides, swinging his new leather briefcase and whistling tunelessly. He hurried over to her, stroked her hair, and asked how she was feeling. Rajee got up, using his arm for support.
“Nothing from your sister,” she said. “Again.”
Mani began picking at a piece of loose skin on his lip. “We made a promise.”
“I don’t think I can keep it,” she said miserably.
He gave her a pleading look. “We have to.” With a smile he touched her belly. Rajee put a palm over his. They looked at each other. The baby was touching them, reaching for them. At once Rajee’s heart started to beat slower, calmer. A quick flush of happiness spread across her chest. “Lets go out,” she said.
Mani said eagerly, “There’s a new Indian restaurant--”
“Somewhere else.” She looked at him with raised eyebrows.
He let a slow broad smile spread across his face as he touched her cheeks with warm hands. “I know. Next week, we’ll take a trip on one of the Irrawaddy Flotilla Company’s steamers.” Their lips touched. She could smell stale cigarette smoke on him. His colleagues all smoked. Mani hated cigarettes and had tried without success to get them not to smoke in his presence but Rajee wished he’d take up the habit. She breathed deeply inhaling the intensely masculine odor. “We’ll go all the way to Mandalay,” he whispered. “On first class deck seats, we’ll sit with all those pompous English sahibs, eat cake and sip tea. What do you say?”
Rajee looked into her husband’s eager eyes. The steamer would take them along the Irrawaddy River past pretty villages dotted with pagodas small and large and ever so lush rice fields. What could be more perfect? Part of her wanted to leap high into the sky, soar with wings spread, like some proud, invincible bird.
Part of her felt like life couldn’t be more wonderful and yet...
***
Rajee could see Mani outside the room, tearing his nails with his teeth and spitting them out. A bolt of pain sliced through her. She screamed. Siti tried to hold her down as she tossed about. Siti, a local Burman was the best midwife in town. Poor Siti. She’d delivered hundreds of babies but not one of her own five or six had survived. Mani ran inside, took Rajee’s hand. Rajee tried not to think about Siti’s dead children as another painful surge cleaved through her. She screamed again and pushed. Surely her bloody stomach and intestines along with a whole lot of human dung must be thrown out and on the floor by now.
Siti held her legs apart in an iron grip and half an hour later, Rajee was handed a tiny cherub. His face was red and puckered. He had dimples in his cheeks.
Siti looked at Mani. “You have a son,” she said in Burmese. She held the baby out to him. “I can’t take my eyes off this one. So much curly hair, such a noble face but so tiny like a kitten….” Mani couldn’t bring himself to touch the baby. At last he sat down by Rajee’s side. His lips trembled, he had tears in his eyes.
“He looks like you,” Rajee said. “Gopal.” Tiny baby Gopal lay nestled in the crook of her arm. The gods had been kind. Mani put his arms around her and nuzzled against her shoulder. Rajee closed her eyes. Tears ran down, warming her cheeks. “We’re a family now,” she whispered. “At last.” Rajee felt a rush of love for her two men. Coming to Burma had made Mani the husband she could count on. And Gopal was the one blessing that their happiness needed to be complete. Gopal was special, a baby to be cherished and loved. She’d spoil him, give him everything his heart desired. And the way things were going she’d always be able to.
Siti was with her again two years later. This time the birth had been easy. Mani was away on tour. And baby Swaminathan was born with little ceremony.
“See how he looks at me,” Rajee said with pride. “Those eyes, piercing, sharp.” Rajee held her new son to her breast.
“He’s handsome!” Siti said, “but not as fair as Gopal.”
“So what? He’s my Swami. That was my father’s name. Turn on that fan, will you? My baby will melt in this heat.” Rajee caressed baby Swami’s cheek. “This one will take care of me in my old age.”
Siti turned the fan on. “Why him, why not Gopal?”
Rajee clucked her tongue. “I just feel it here.” She touched her chest. “Gopal is such a needy baby. This one will be more independent. Did you see how he grabbed at my breast? Aiyoh!”
“He’s born at an auspicious time.” Siti wiped her hands on a threadbare towel. Her soft eyes turned filmy. “Burma is finally free now, not from the British yet, but at least from India. And soon the British will have to go too. I have nothing against you Indians,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “You’re the only ones who can afford to pay me…but…it’s an auspicious time. Maybe your Swami will be brave like the rebels who made our freedom happen.” She picked up her enormous bag.
Swami would be courageous and staunch, Rajee thought. His first look that had held her eyes in an unwavering gaze had told her so. She kissed his forehead.
“Same time in two years?” Siti said saucily and left the room swinging her ample hips.
1943.
Rajee sat on the verandah fanning herself with a sheet of newspaper. The fleeting few seconds of breeze it provided were little comfort for it was as though the sun god was having a merry laugh at their expense—‘here let me surround you with gorgeous orchids and hibiscus of every imaginable color, leafy trees of tamarind and fragrant mangoes and blind and scald you with light and heat,’ he seemed to say as he bore down upon the earth with every ounce of energy he could muster.
Mani, who was reading the morning paper, kept swearing at intervals. He downed his coffee in a single gulp. “Where’s the rest of this article?” He slammed down his cup on the table in front of him. Why was he being so crabby? Rajee ignored him and continued to fan the paper about her face. “Take this.” He handed her a magazine. “And give me--” He leaned over and snatched the paper from her hands. “That.”
Rajee listlessly picked up a cashew biscuit and bit on it. The thick buttery confection melted on her tongue. “Hmmm.” She closed her eyes.
Mani picked up his coffee cup and raised it to his lips again. Then realizing it was empty, he let out another stream of curses. “At this rate, we’re going to have to return to India soon. This war--”
“You don’t see the Burmese all leaving.” Rajee elaborately pointed her biscuit at the door. As far as she was concerned, they were home. “What should I make for lunch?” She dusted crumbs off her hands and got up.
“Wait.” Mani held up a palm and continued to scan the newspaper with narrowed eyes. Rajee stood beside him with her hip jutting out, her fingers tapping impatiently against her waist. He was probably reading between the lines finding things that didn’t exist. Newspapers existed to exaggerate the truth. But better let Mani have his say. That way he’d get it out of his system and forget all about whatever was bothering him. Hmm…so what should she make? There were some leftover lentils, fresh spinach and carrots. Usually full of ideas for meals, she found herself feeling completely blank. Tiny morsels of cashew lingered on her tongue still. She moved them about her mouth a little before finally swallowing them.
Mani read out a few lines then looked at her. “The Burmese are cooperating with the Japanese to fight the British. But the Japanese can’t be trusted. They have their own agenda.” He folded part of the paper and used it to swat a bunch of flies clustered near spilled drops of coffee.
Rajee was unconvinced. “It’s all just speculation,” she said.
“Listen,” Mani went on, “it’s not safe here for us anymore--the Burmans have never liked us. We’ll always be Kala Lumyo to them.”
Rajee winced. Kala Lumyo--black people, black aliens, something like that. Some ignorant Burmans called the local Indians that, but so what? This was her country too. Right audacious it was when Rangoon was crawling with Indians. She didn’t care if they were called stinking black pigs or sewer rats or worse. Their life here was far too precious to be affected by such drivel. She hadn’t spent so many years in Burma only to be sent back by idiots’ ranting and a senseless war that had nothing to do with them.
“I really need to start lunch,” she said and left.
The very next day, Mani came home with wonderful news. He had been chosen salesperson of the year. Remington Brand Typewriters was being most generous, for Mani was to receive three thousand rupees as reward, more money than anyone in his family had ever seen. They’d be able to buy land, a house, anything. And they might actually be able to, with perseverance and patience, ride out the war, it seemed.
Some months later
The Japanese declared Burma independent. But their promises of independence for Burma turned out to be false and the government they’d set up was their puppet. The people had turned against the Japanese and their new firebrand leader, Aung San and his people were plotting to take over.
Rajee pushed her plate away. “I won’t go back,” she said. She could feel the hairs on her arms rise, goose bumps felt scratchy against her blouse.
Mani pressed down on a piece of dosai rice pancake, and pushed it around his plate a few times until it had sopped up all the coconut chutney. He stared it for a long while before putting it into his mouth. Gopal, Swami and Cheenu suddenly entered the dining room chasing each other amidst loud shouts and laughs.
Rajee whispered, “If we must let’s go to Bombay. Let’s go anywhere but there--”
Mani grabbed three-year old Cheenu and hugged him close. Cheenu began to squeal and kick his legs in the air until Mani let him go. The boys sprinted out of the room. Mani looked at Rajee. “We can’t take three children to a new place. We’ll stop at home first. After that we’ll…we’ll see.”
Rajee packed a few light bags. We’ll be back. In a year or two at most, she told herself. Over and over. She walked around the house trying not to sob at the sight of her precious possessions covered with ghostly sheets. She swept her eyes across every room, gathering memories from every corner, burning images of every single nook in her restless mind.
On the last day, she dressed the boys in starched white shirts, khaki shorts and navy blue blazers. Their black leather shoes shone like mirrors, they wore hard hats to protect their heads. All they knew was that they were taking a trip, a long one. There had been tears shed over toys and clothes left behind but promises were made about coming back for them very soon.
As Mani checked the bolts and turned the key in a large iron padlock, fear that the happiest years of her life were being left behind that door pierced Rajee’s heart. She took one last, lingering look at the golden Shwedagon Pagoda with its shining gems. For so many years it had stood there, visible from every window in the house, like an umbrella of richness and plenty, surrounding them, shielding them. Mani tugged at the lock. Rajee clutched a picture of Lord Ganesha to her chest. “Protect us.” She hoped he was listening.
The ship tore them away from the shores of Burma. Rajee looked at the beautiful country that had been her home for so many happy years. She wished it and its gentle people well, and prayed that its years of struggle might soon end, that the rebellion for freedom would prevail. This country had given them much joy. She hoped that very soon, the Burmese could also live quiet, happy lives without fear of oppression. Just as she had.
Days later, they docked at Vizag port. They took a taxi to the train station and got on a train to Madras.
“Won’t cousin Ambi be excited to see us?” Gopal said. “I wish I could have show him my train set.”
“He’ll probably be in school now, in Madras,” Mani said.
“Huh?” Rajee said in a croaky voice. She was half asleep, undulating with the train.
Mani kept his eyes on the boys. “Lets just get home first,” he said in a stern voice Rajee knew was directed at her.
Rajee looked out the window and began counting the coconut trees that zipped by. The earth seemed swallowed by paddy fields. Sun burned men and women stood wearing colorful lungis sarongs in ankle-deep water soaked fields and called to the people on the train, with hands cupped around their mouths, their faces lit up with tranquil smiles. Rajee thought about her home in Aarumugam village, the land she had left behind. Her land. Her own modest rows of rice, her patch of fragrant ginger. And the trees. Coconut, tamarind, mango. The mangoes must be ready for picking. Should she make pickles? Did it make sense to plant rice? Her temples began to throb. “When do you think we can go back to Burma?” she said.
Mani sat still like a statue, stared straight ahead. He didn’t say a word.
Aarumugam Village, Tamil Nadu State, India
They got off the bus and walked slowly towards their land, exhausted, hungry. Rajee pushed open the creaky gate. The land was covered with masses of weeds and overgrowth. With a cry, she tore towards the house, running her hands through the tall, wild grass. The courtyard was covered with thick patches of caked mud. Dry leaves fluttered about in the breeze. The windows were shut and giant cobwebs connected the pillars of the verandah. There were splatters of bird droppings and dried cylinders of rat turd everywhere.
Shaking with anger, Rajee leaned against a tamarind tree. “Look…look at what they’ve done!” she said between heavy sobs.
“Don’t start...” Mani said harshly. Gently then, he put an arm around her, bent down and plucked out a clump of grass. “This is home, Rajee. All will be well, trust me.”
In the distance, temple bells began to ring. Rajee turned towards it. The temple’s tapered dark stone roof peered through the trees. A ragged red flag tied at its tip flew furiously in the breeze. This was no Shwedagon. There were no encrusted gems to feast her eyes upon. This temple was all stone, dark and cold. Just then, above the clanging of the bells, a chant of mantrams rose. A group of women were reciting them in clear loud voices. The mantrams sought the blessings of the divine for peace and happiness.
It was, Rajee decided, a good enough omen. All would be well, just as Mani said.
