Extract from The Furies of Krishna Devi

Sonia Slattery

There seemed to hang a littleness about the city that morning as Krishna ventured along North Bridge Road in search of fresh provisions to replenish her depleted stocks at home. It had now been little over a week since the surrender, during which time she and her husband had kept their heads low, their shutters closed and their doors locked. Only Khanchand had ever left the house during all of this time, slipping out at daybreak to cautiously enter the burning city and make his way to their shop on Orchard Road. Remaining there until long after nightfall, he guarded the entrance with a metal stake wound with barbed wire that he had picked up from the flotsam of abandoned barricades strung out at intervals along the beach at Changi. 

He fretted now, as he sat on his wooden stool, staring at the boarded-up façade of the darkened store. Perhaps he should have stood up more to his wife and not given in when she had wanted to leave the house that day. Such had been her determination, however, that he had eventually caved in to her entreaties:

‘Husband, we have no more rice in the house. Let me go and see what food I can

find. We cannot starve!’

‘But there are Kempei and looters everywhere. Areh, it is too dangerous, wife.’ He had looked imploringly at her, at the same time wishing he could summon some obliging genie to magically appear and abracadabra one of his exquisite Baloch rugs into a sack of rice. His wife, he knew, would insist on a more pragmatic solution to their current predicament. 

‘They will not see me. To them I am invisible. Just another woman going meekly about her business, her head covered, her eyes lowered. Not young, not pretty. An inconvenience only.’

‘But you are none of those things to me.’ Khanchand replied softly, looking with sad, brown eyes at his wife. 

‘That is very nice of you to say so, husband,’ Krishna was standing in her familiar position, hands placed firmly on her hips, feet planted squarely on the floor, ‘but that doesn’t change the fact that we have nothing to eat!’ 

In the end, under siege, Khanchand had put up the white flag and surrendered to his wife’s demands.

A gentle breeze blew against the metal rings on the flagstaff outside the now deserted British military headquarters at Fort Canning, interrupting the eerie silence as Krishna picked her way carefully along the gentle slope of the hill. Tilting her head, she looked upwards. The billowing Union Jack she had spotted on that first day of her arrival to start a new life with her husband and young family in this tropical island city, was now gone. Just as that old life had also gone. Gone and replaced by another sort of life. In another place. Syonan; Light of the South, where Krishna must begin yet another new life. 

Everywhere she passed that morning, there had been notices informing the population of a new Japanese name to replace the old one. Pragmatic. Unsentimental. Proclaiming a New Order. They were plastered over billboards or nailed onto boarded-up shopfronts in Tanglin where the old hand expats had always flocked to buy expensive European goods to remember home by. Those same expats who, if they hadn’t made it off the island in time, were probably now all fighting over a few grains of stale rice and rationed sips of water. The lucky ones. The others were likely to be dead. Big, red painted letters on cyclostyled sheets of paper trumpeted the new name: Syonan! And from the top of the flagstaff, a blood-red Imperial sun shone warmly over its newest acquisition. Liberated, at long last, from the shackles of colonialism to take its place within the fantasy of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, where all Asiatic races would be equal, but the Japanese would always remain more equal than any other. 

A tall, wrought iron gate, opening on to a small grassy area, creaked listlessly on its hinges. Pungent, stale air rose from the depths of the concrete bunker down into which it led. Outside, two soldiers of the Imperial Army’s 25th Division now guarded its entrance. Krishna had been right; the sentries took no notice as she hurried by. The invisible woman. 

Up ahead, the grey concrete walls of the reservoir came into view. A strategic target locked into the sights of Japanese bomber pilots carrying out their daily raids, the island’s supply of water had gone down from twelve million gallons to just one. Food reserves were also dangerously depleted and as land and sea routes from the Peninsula to the island collapsed like dominoes into Japanese control, it was highly unlikely that they would be replenished anytime soon. Nor could the local civilian population draw comfort in bulletins from General Percival’s office reassuring them with cheering news of the four million rounds of small arms munitions still remaining in the Fort Canning magazine. Only Generals and the elected politicians they served under would have such appetite for bullets. With water and food running dangerously short, there was little doubt the rest of the population would have gladly traded each bullet for a single grain of rice.

It was nearing midday. High in the sky, the sun took its own turn to scorch the island. Looking across from the hill to where the city stretched away in the distance below, Krishna urgently weighed up her next move, determined not to return home empty-handed. Even if food supplies had been kept up here, she realised they would have already fallen into Japanese hands. No, there was simply nothing for it except to head into the city where she was more likely to find something, even though she had agreed with her husband that the city would be too dangerous and should remain off-limits.

There was an unnerving silence as Krishna turned onto the wide tree-lined pavements of Orchard Road. The whole area would normally be bursting with shoppers and ringing with the din of street vendors who seemed to occupy any available space, no matter how small, even if was simply someone selling syrup-flavoured crushed ice from a box strapped to the rack of his bicycle. She was hurrying past a group of Japanese soldiers, their soft peaked caps pulled low over their eyes to ward off the sun’s glare, when one broke away, stepping in front of her and barring her way. She smelled the alcohol on his breath as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. Her first thought was relief that she was nowhere near her husband’s shop, where he might have seen her. If he had, and then came rushing out to help her, in all likelihood they would have killed him. And laughed. And thought nothing more of the matter. No-one could help her now. She was at this man’s mercy. He barked some words at her in his language. Krishna remained where she was, her eyes fixed to the ground. She counted the pairs of shiny boots circled in her gaze. Twelve boots, six pairs, six men, plus the man standing in front of her. She had no choice; in such a situation what woman has? It was simply up to them to decide what should happen next. A sudden explosion of pain across the left side of her face as the soldier slapped her hard and began shouting again at her. She lifted her head, thinking that some understanding of what he was saying might be gleaned from the expression on his face, but when she looked up at him, his features bore the cold arrogance of a soldier determined to enjoy the spoils of a war to which he has given his own blood and sweat. His arm shot forwards to grab her roughly by the neck and his fingers dug bruises into her soft skin as he applied unbearable pressure, forcing her head down and her knees to buckle. 

‘Yes, just like that! Very good!’ He spoke in rudimentary English, laughing now as she heard the others joining in. She thought she might black out from the pressure restricting the flow of blood in her neck where he gripped her. ‘You bow always when you pass Japanese soldiers!’ 

He let go of her, pushing her roughly away and she heard their raucous laughter behind her as she fled. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks which she brushed away angrily. 

‘Not broken!’ She screamed the words in her head, over and over again, until she sank down exhausted onto the street and sat, dull-eyed like some vagrant. Yes, that was exactly what she had become she thought to herself fiercely, because now there could never be a home for her in this new place, this shining light Syonan. For now, she told herself, struggling back on to her feet, I shall be patient and suffer these brutalities because the gods watch over us and lend us their strength which is greater than the strength of ordinary mortals. 

‘But these bruises do hurt,” She touched the swollen skin around her neck gently and winced. 

Just then, she felt the presence of a pair of curious eyes upon her. A rakish-looking mynah bird, its yellow feet planted for now on terra firma, was peering at her. It held its head tilted slightly to one side in an attitude of thoughtful deliberation as it observed her. With its own blue-black feathers now looking a bit shot through and the tip of its beak a little chipped, Krishna was taken aback to hear it open their conversation with slightly derogatory words about her own appearance.

‘You’re looking a bit the worse for wear,’ it admonished her with its gravelly voice.

‘You look like you’ve been in the wars!’ It hopped around in a little circle, pleased to have injected some humour in order to seem a little friendlier to the stranger. ‘I don’t suppose you have some rice or a small piece of roti on you?’ it asked quickly, thinking how a more attractive plumage and musical voice might have brought more success to the unpleasant task of begging for a little food. 

‘Well, no, I’m sorry,’ Krishna felt wretched to turn down a stranger’s request for food. ‘I was on my way to find some myself, when I ran into some Japanese soldiers.’ 

‘Beat you up a bit, did they?’ the bird sounded genuinely upset. ‘They were throwing stones at me just before you came along. I guess I should thank you for saving me. I think that makes us both survivors!’ The thought seemed to cheer the bird up. ‘It’s okay if you don’t have any food for me’ it added, ‘I’ll get by.’

‘But what will you do?’ There was an unmistakeable note of despair in Krishna’s voice as she realised the hopelessness of a situation in which she could not offer even the smallest crumb to the little bird.

‘Do you know the difference between us both?’ the bird began. Krishna thought this must be some sort of trick question because the answer seemed so obvious, so she wisely chose to remain silent and let the mynah bird continue. 

‘You live in a brick-built house and I live in a tree!’ Pausing to preen its ragged feathers, the bird waited to allow his friend time to follow his train of thought. ‘And when you live in a tree, you understand that the strength of your chosen dwelling place comes from the way a tree will bend in the face of a storm. The same storm will make the tiles fly off the roof of your brick house or maybe it will gather enough strength to smash your windows. Or you will simply crouch fearfully in your home and hope the storm will soon pass. We are in that storm now and your only protection will be to seek refuge in trees. Do as these conquerors demand, bow like a graceful tree, understanding that the storm will pass soon enough, after which you can stand tall and proud once more.’

Krishna enjoyed listening to the little bird and had to admit that she felt a little better. However, a doubt still remained. ‘But that’s all very well for you to live safe in your tree, but I’m too heavy to sit on a branch. You must weigh nothing at all!’

‘Not so, dear lady,’ the bird refused to countenance her view. ‘We are all weighed down by the amount of guano we carry inside us. It is something that we must constantly relieve ourselves of. Then we are made light and able to fly up into the safety of the trees.’

‘You have given me much to think over,’ Krishna thanked her little companion. ‘And you are very wise. It is true that confrontation will only snap and break us, but by bending and bowing, as our subjugators demand of us, we become stronger. But I think that it was an Indian who said that first.’

‘Well anyway, don’t forget about the guano!’ The bird jumped lightly onto Krishna’s shoulder to give her a peck on the cheek before it was off, flying into the troubled sky, untroubled by the weight of guano.

Despite much food for thought from this encounter, Krishna could still hear the insistent rumbling of her belly and headed off, once more, in search of something to eat.

A terrible stench assailed her as she drew nearer to the Chinese quarter of the city. She pulled the end of her sari tighter over her head, stretching it across her face, covering her nose and mouth from the putrid smell of rotten and decaying meat. Instinctively she kept her eyes lowered as she passed through the now deserted markets and shops that had always scared her a little with their riotous disorder and noise. Now it was the silence that signalled a worse fear. She recalled how it had been at her insistence that Khanchand describe the state of the occupied city to her each evening when he returned home from guarding his shop, exhausted and each day looking a little more defeated.

‘They have set up their headquarters at Raffles College,’ he told her. ‘The rest of the city is a ghost town.’

For Krishna it seemed incomprehensible that the teeming city should suddenly be deserted when just a week ago life had gone on as normal. No-one had taken the idea of an invasion seriously and there had been little or no preparation for any defence. Even attempts at a blackout over the city had petered out and the dance halls stayed open for troops and local girls with their oily pimps never far behind. Despite his clear reluctance, she had pressed her husband further: ‘The Johnny’s won’t be there, sure, or the Aussie soldiers because the Japanese must have them as prisoners by now. But everyone else? People like us. I thought you said the Japanese had no fight with us?’

‘That is true, wife, so there is nothing for you to worry about. I even heard a rumour that they were making a new Indian National army to help the Japanese kick the British out of India!’

‘Areh, husband!’ Krishna was perplexed, suddenly at a loss whether it had been a victory or a defeat that had just turned her life upside-down. All she knew for certain was that some countries seemed to change hands more often than others, so the wisest course would be simply to wait and see. 

‘So, they are not making trouble for the rest of us, the Malays, Chinese, only the

 Europeans?’ The seed of an idea to return to Sindh once things with the Japanese got back to normal as her husband seemed to be saying, planted itself in Krishna’s head.

‘It is a little more complicated perhaps,’ Khanchand had gently remonstrated with his wife. ‘Come, let us not worry about such matters. No doubt General Yamashita will have a plan.’

‘That is exactly what concerns me, husband,’ Krishna had replied, looking suddenly worried. ‘All these Generals and all their plans!’

Once teeming with life, now the silence and looming emptiness of Chinatown sent shivers through her body. She walked on; hesitant, unsteady steps. She had come too far to give-up now and scurry back home, defeated. The price paid had been too high. Up ahead a grey, writhing mound of rats fought greedily over a carcass. Now they are in charge, thought Krishna, feeling nauseous at the sight. As she drew nearer, carefully keeping clear of the rats scurrying across her path, one ran suddenly in front of her, dragging its prize clamped firmly between protruding razor teeth. In the same moment, she felt one end of this object brush against the hem of her sari as the rat scurried from the open street to the safety of some underground den. Looking down, she saw how spots of dark, part-congealed blood now patterned the bottom of her sari like ink-blot pictures that conjure a world of madness. She glanced up quickly and saw the rat disappearing down the street, no doubt in a hurry to reach its nest and tear into the bloodied meat. As she watched the rat’s clumsy progress with something that was clearly too large for it to hold properly, Krishna looked to see what it was that the rat seemed to be dragging in its wake. Recognition became suddenly horror as she saw the clawed fingers of a human hand trailing in the dirt; a wristwatch still attached to the hand that was clamped firmly in the rat’s bony jaw. 

She began to run, trying to get clear away, but as she looked frantically about her, the sheer scale of the Chinese massacre became clear. On high poles, placed along the entire length of a parade of godowns and ramshackle opium houses outside which the old men used to sit all day to play their endless games of mahjong, the decapitated heads of Chinese, young, old, men and women stared down at Krishna with bulging eyes and swollen tongues hanging from their open mouths like fat slabs of pink meat. 

On she ran, regaining an inner strength as her lungs burned and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. This feeling of her own life, beating strong and urgent inside her and the purpling bruises of the Japanese soldier’s fingers around her neck would be constant reminders to her that she must never surrender. And now that she understood Syonan to represent Darkness and not Light, she also knew that something much greater was now at stake.