A Different Sky (50 page)

‘Uncle, Uncle,' they yelled, dancing about him. He dug into his pocket with a broad smile and pulled out a handful of coins that he divided between them. The boys ran off, shouting their thanks. It was the usual procedure; whenever he visited he made sure he had a good supply of coins. He did not think Leila would ever give him a nephew now, and it was hard to tell when he would marry and have children of his own. Until that time he was happy to treat Yoshiko's sons as his own.

It did not take long for Raj to find Shinozaki at the British Army Field Security Service headquarters. He had lost his puckish grin, but otherwise appeared as always, dressed in a dark suit and tie. Raj was allowed to meet him in a busy reception room with rickety rattan chairs, a ceiling fan and a couple of desks. The room was constantly astir as people walked in and out on various missions. British army personnel were everywhere and it was strange to see again tall thin men in khaki shorts, instead of small men in high boots or puttees. Unexpectedly, a bowl of orange heliconia sat vividly on a table, lifting the threadbare room.

‘I picked them this morning. They grow beside the entrance,' Shinozaki explained as he came forward to greet Raj, seeing his approving gaze.

‘You have to pick them as soon as they bloom, otherwise they become full of insects,' Shinozaki said over his shoulder, as he led Raj to some basket chairs with worn cushions.

‘What do they do in this place?' Raj asked, looking about him.

‘It is an investigative unit,' Shinozaki explained importantly. ‘Now the war is over, the British want to understand our Japanese battle strategy and how we administered Singapore. They also want information the
kempetai
gained about communists during interrogations. With this information the British will know later how to control things. They feel I can be of help to them, as a translator and liaison officer. I translate the
kempetai
interrogation reports that were handed to the Field Security Service at the transfer of power. Some
kempei
ran away at the time of surrender, but they have since been caught and brought back here and it is my job to question them. All these British Field Security Service men are very intelligent people.' There was a note of pride in Shinozaki's voice at being associated with such men, even if they were former enemies.

As they sat down, two Gurkhas entered the room with a tall, dignified Malay wearing handcuffs. He was released to a waiting British officer and led away up a corridor as Raj and Shinozaki watched.

‘That man, Mohammad Abdullah, is also helping the British to understand Japanese operations with regard to the Malays. I have spoken with him. I believe he knows your friend Howard,' Shinozaki said and Raj looked with interest at the Malay. The diplomat shook his head ruefully.

‘I'm lucky not to be handcuffed like him but to live in comfort here at Field Security Headquarters. Every day that poor man is taken back to Outram Prison. He was a member of a group working for Malayan independence, the KMM, and associated with Major Fujiwara's intelligence outfit, just like the Indian National Army people. However, I am told he raised his gun to a Japanese officer who he says insulted the Malay race. All we Japanese wanted was to form these KMM men into a military force like the Indian National Army, but Malays are too peaceable; no one wants to fight.'

‘How is Takeshi?' Raj asked. The mention of Major Fujiwara had reminded him of his Japanese teacher.

‘Takeshi is dead. He died the day after the surrender. Along with many others, he killed himself in shame.' Shinozaki shook his head
sadly. Raj sat forward in shock, the image of Takeshi's prominent winged ears suddenly before him. The room was uncomfortably hot; there were no fans and a shaft of sun fell upon Raj, forcing him to move his chair nearer to Shinozaki.

When at last Raj explained about Yoshiko, Mr Shinozaki nodded. ‘I too was interned at first. I walked with Yoshiko and her parents to the camp in Jurong. It was a long walk and a great ordeal for Mr and Mrs Yamaguchi. On the way Chinese children threw stones at us, and this angered many of our people. I told them, we forced the British to walk to Changi and now they are making us walk to Jurong. We cannot complain. This is how things are in war. I carried old Mrs Yamaguchi on my back for the last few miles. I will ask if something can be done for Yoshiko,' Shinozaki promised as Raj stood up to take his leave.

Raj now had his own car. It was a second-hand vehicle and he had acquired it just before the surrender with the help of Shinozaki, but nowadays he used a rickshaw or a trishaw to get around and left the car at home. The special licences Raj had had from the Japanese military, to trade in cloth and other commodities, had made him a wealthy man. Yet, it was now dangerous to be seen as having prospered under the Japanese. Raj had not ventured far beyond Manikam's Cloth Shop for days. Gangs of locals still roamed the streets, meting out vigilante justice to those they viewed as collaborator ‘dogs'. At the height of the fear, Raj had heard of people being killed on the spot, or tied to lamp posts and having their ears and noses hacked off. It was impossible to hide his association with Shinozaki, but the man's largely benevolent reputation had overflowed advantageously onto Raj. The British were slowly picking up the pieces, and this terrifying anarchy of the streets, encouraged by the communists in the Malayan Peoples Anti-Japanese Army, had all but ceased. In spite of this, Raj still kept a low profile. He was thankful that, before the surrender, he had invested his money with Shinozaki's help in a terrace house on Waterloo Street with a narrow front but a roomy interior.

Leila and Krishna had moved with him into the place, and lived in the upper part of the house, while Raj had his home on the ground floor. It was a spacious residence compared to the cramped rooms above Manikam's Cloth Shop or the tenement room Krishna had rented. Krishna had resumed his job at the Ramakrishna Mission
School and Raj, his once illiterate student, was now his landlord, although no rent was ever taken. Krishna's meagre salary was barely enough to keep himself and Leila. All his dreams were now painfully threadbare. India was not yet free of colonial rule and Subhas Chandra Bose was dead, killed in Taiwan at the end of the war, in a mysterious plane crash.

On reaching Waterloo Street, Raj paid off the trishaw and approached his house, gazing up as always with a sense of proud bewilderment. The pungent aroma of cooking hit him even before a servant opened the door. He sniffed and thought he detected the smell of mutton curry and wondered where Leila could have found goat meat; food was so scarce people fought over scraps, and the ration shop queues were even longer than those under the Japanese.

‘Your nose is playing tricks on you; still only tapioca. You're just smelling our black market spices,' Leila said as Raj greeted her.

Leila had taken over the management of the house. They no longer ate from banana leaves on the floor, but from banana leaves on a table sitting on upright chairs. The main room was furnished with a narrow wooden bench and a rattan sofa, a standing bookshelf and a sideboard, in which Leila kept a Japanese tea set hand painted with scenes of Mount Fuji. A large cupboard was built into one wall and a metal
almirah
with a lock and key in which they kept their valuables, stood beside the window. There was also more than enough room in the house for a wife, should Raj decide to marry.

As a servant appeared with the food, Krishna entered the room, his hair dishevelled, the smell of alcohol about him. Leila looked at him coldly. A large framed photograph of Subhas Chandra Bose hung on the wall behind the table, draped with a garland of everlasting flowers. With a respectful glance at the picture, Krishna pressed his hands together in obedience to
Netaji.
Taking his place at the table, he sat silently hunched over his food, his face thin and morose. Two deep frown lines were now etched between Krishna's brows like antennae sprouting from the bridge of his spectacles.
Netaji's
violent death in Taiwan had engulfed him in such desolation it seemed he might never recover.

Everything had collapsed for Krishna with the disbanding of the Indian National Army. The Indian soldiers, who had crossed from the British Indian Army to the Indian National Army, had all been arrested
by the returning British authority and shipped to India to be tried as traitors in Delhi. To save their lives, civilian soldiers like Krishna had quickly discarded their uniforms and melted back into everyday life. Every time he shut his eyes, Krishna remembered it all anew. They had trekked up the Malay Peninsula and into Thailand, the women of the Rani of Jhansi Regiment in trucks, the men walking, and then on through Burma to the border town of Imphal. At last they were almost in sight of Delhi. From the slopes of the hills and from the encroaching jungle there were calls of
Inquilab Zindabad
and
Azad Hind Zindabad
from the different INA regiments. Shots rang out. Someone fell beside him as they ran, rolling ahead of him down the slope, blood pouring from his head, but Krishna could not stop to help. They had fought for sixteen hours. They had waited for this fight and the great distance they travelled had been fuelled every mile by hope and then at Imphal after the terrible battle, came the news that they must retreat.
Netaji
spoke to them, giving them strength.

‘Our retreat is a temporary retreat. We are not going to stop until India is liberated.' Krishna heard
Netaji'
s voice in his mind once again, and then suddenly, rudely, there was Raj's voice, bringing him back to reality.

‘So you have decided to come home,' Raj remarked to Krishna, as he joined them at the table. He exchanged a glance with Leila. Krishna had not been seen for the last two days, and Leila had been sick with worry about him.

‘Why are you spending your time with left wing rabble, and worrying your sister?' Raj was unable to keep the anger out of his voice. Krishna frowned but did not reply. Taking hungry mouthfuls of food, he kept his thoughts upon
Netaji.
Krishna's regiment had suffered appalling casualties, both in the battle and on the retreat from Imphal. It took nearly two weeks to reach Bangkok. Krishna arrived alive but half-starved and in a terrible condition; he had marched for one thousand miles. Now he tried to shut out the voices of his sister and his brother-in-law, but they would not let him be.

‘Nowadays, he is keeping the company of communists and mad radicals, and not fighting any longer for a pure cause.
Netaji
kept him straight,' Leila commented bitterly. Krishna stirred and emotion flooded his face.

‘The Japanese murdered him because he was seeking Russian help
to liberate India. When Russia declared war on Japan they killed him; his plane was sabotaged,' Krishna raged.

‘Go back properly to your school teaching. How will the Ramakrishna Mission School keep you if you run around with communists?' Leila reproved him.

‘The British are promising India independence next year. You should be happy such a great dream is at last coming true,' Raj said. Both brother and sister looked sternly at Krishna over the table.

‘Communism is the same as socialism, only stronger. I am always for left-hand thinking,' Krishna growled.

‘If workers rise up against employers, how will commerce function? Who will make the world go round in a sensible way, if only left-hand rabble are ruling? No one will be able to make any money,' Raj raised his eyebrows.

After school finished at the Ramakrishna Mission Krishna wandered the streets, getting drunk or debating politics with one or another group of left-wing rabble.
Netaji'
s death had destabilised him. He came home late at night, throwing himself down on the old string bed, his breath foul with home-brewed liquor. He refused to sleep on the new Western-style beds Raj had acquired for his house, and always woke late with a hangover so that Leila must make excuses to the school to explain why he did not appear.

‘Too much education has made your brain mad in old age.' Leila sighed, thinking of the idealistic man she had married, and how many things had changed between them.

‘You have become a fanatic,' Raj announced in a critical voice. ‘And you are an Imperialist. Only interested in money and in consorting with that Japanese Imperialist Ho Ho woman,' Krishna shouted. Leila stared at him in alarm, and Raj looked as if he had been slapped.

The subject of Yoshiko Ho was a sensitive one for them all. Leila had met the woman several times over the years, but since Mr Ho's decline she had become uncomfortably aware of her brother's interest in Yoshiko. She could not understand it. Yoshiko was unfailingly polite and affable when they met, but Leila found her so self-contained, so neat and precise, so different from anyone she had ever met; it was difficult to fathom the woman.

Several times over the years she had gone to a matchmaker or tried to engineer a suitable match for Raj. Nothing had materialised because
Raj himself refused to take any prospective bride seriously. Now, Leila realised, his negative attitude towards an arranged marriage sprang from his interest in Yoshiko Ho. Perhaps, she thought, he may only recently have stumbled upon his real sentiments, now that Mr Ho was so feeble and Yoshiko was in such ascendancy at Ho Biscuits. Their working relationship had allowed an intimacy to blossom, Leila thought, hot with a jealousy that surprised her.

She too was now a businesswoman. Every day she spent some hours helping in Manikam's Cloth Shop at her brother's request. Krishna did not like this. Although, at the time of their marriage, he said he wanted a modern woman, Leila found his ideas of what was modern differed from her own. The war had changed them both. At Manikam's, business had picked up, not for cloth which was still largely unavailable, but for all the cheap sundry items Leila suggested the shop should sell, such as needles and thread, scissors and buttons, paper and ink, boot polish, tape measures and shoulder pads. She had persuaded Raj to drop the words Cloth Shop and call the place simply, Manikam's. A new sign had gone up above the shop.