For thirty one years, I have harboured that thought. But now, like a serious matter losing relevance, I have to write before the ink fades on that memory. What remains seems like a silent movie with shadows acting.
At that time, we lived in Borneo – an island divided and administered by three countries: Indonesia (more than 70%), Malaysia (the two big states of Sarawak and Sabah) and Brunei. When I jog my memory, it is not the best or the worst which comes to mind but two rather irrelevant memories.
I remember that, in those days, Brunei did not like to recruit Malayalis because of ‘their communist inclinations’. Around the same time, in Sarawak and Sabah, the government was facing the danger of secession and also, communist protests. The government had even passed an order declaring that communists would be shot-at-sight.
Even with such conditions prevailing, the people from Kerala were not viewed with a single label. Thanks to that, my father worked as an engineer for the Sarawak government and he even received the medals for long-service and good-service from the Head of the State.
My second memory is of the Iban, an indigeneous tribe of Sarawak. At one time, the Iban used to be a fearsome warrior race famous for headhunting and piracy. My father used to tell us that the Iban were a simple lot, quick to please and even quicker to anger; he called them the original human, worthy of trust and loyalty, before becoming primitive like us.
We were occasionally invited by my father’s Iban sub-ordinates for simple meals at their longhouse. On one of those visits, to express their affection and respect, my father was presented with a parang, a sword more than 100 years old, well-designed for one handed use and probably, with a few human heads to its credit. I used to wish for that parang as my inheritance.
The place where we lived was too small to be a town and too big to be a village. There were two Indian families and the rest consisted of Malays, Chinese and Iban. Shreya’s family was the other Indian family.
Shreya was my classmate from lower kindergarten till primary three. Her father worked in my father’s office, in the clerical or accounts division, and both of them reported to a Chinese boss named Mr. Chung. I used to hear my parents discuss about ‘irregularities’ in the accounts division and about some confrontation between Mr. Chung and Shreya’s father. My parents and Shreya’s folks rarely socialized. But, my parents treated Shreya like a daughter.
Since we were the only Indians in that town, she had to be my girlfriend. I did not complain because she was beautiful, dusky; with lovely black eyes and long lashes; and, she could smile and laugh the way I love. We never played doctor-and-nurse-or-patient because she wanted to be the doctor all the time. I used to go to her house for books, jigsaw puzzles and her cycle. She used to play with me in our three-acre compound, treasure-hunting on the green slopes under the shade of huge wild trees. She allowed me to be the guide and her protector.
Once, I asked her if she is a Tamil brahmin. A Tamil chettiyar, she proudly corrected. I asked her what it meant, brahmin or chettiyar. We were eight or nine then and neither of us knew. She asked me about what I am. I don’t know, I remember saying with a defeated low tone, my father told me that it is not worth knowing, I added weakly.
In that village-town, my family used to be invited for a party nearly every other week. My parents got along well with nearly all. We used to have parties in my house too, including the day-long party on Diwali. I used to call Shreya but she could not come without her parents.
Of those days, I also remember my mother arguing with my father’s ‘bad habit’ of not saying ‘no’ to those who ask for money. Every month, a week after pay-day, I would see my father being approached for small loans. The Iban used to return. Most of the others tried to return with chicken or meat, fruits or vegetable.
My father used to take me with him to his office when he had to check on some work on holidays. I used to hear him shout and rage with his famous temper. But I knew that it was not really serious. Without my father’s knowledge, I used to receive sweets from his co-workers. They used to tell me that my father is a good man.
It was a Friday when everything started. Shreya and I were resting inside a freshly-dug pit at the edge of the compound.
- Sree, I got a new jigsaw puzzle yesterday.
- (envy and silence from me)
- It is different…it allows for three different pictures…depending on how you start at the center…
- Wow (curiosity won the battle)…can I play with that…with you…
- But, you have to show me one thing…
- What? (what could I have)
- Will you show me the headhunter’s sword…the Iban parang?
That evening, while my parents were entertaining some guests, I took my father’s parang from their bedroom cupboard and smuggled it out within my Yonex racket case. It was with great pride that I displayed the sword in her room. Shreya had to beg real hard before I allowed her to hold it in her hand, with my hand over hers to make sure that she did not drop it or hurt herself.
We heard someone outside her room. I took the sword from her hand. I didn’t have enough time to put it away in its case or within the racket case. I hid the parang beneath Shreya’s bed. It was Shreya’s mother at the door and she informed me that I was wanted at my place.
The next day, I went to Shreya’s house at around ten. Shreya told me that the sword had been there beneath the bed the previous night but that morning, the parang was missing. We searched together. When she cried, I wanted to cry too. At noon, I told her that I will return later that day to search the house more thoroughly.
That afternoon, heavy equatorial rain caught us by surprise, and by evening, the village-town seemed like one big muddy flooded playground. But, it was a common affair.
At about six, it was quite dark outside when my father received a call from Mr. Chung for some urgent document. I begged my father to take me with him. We went in our old Beetle. At the office, I was told to remain in the car. My father entered the office through the front entrance. There is another entrance on the right, close to the back-gate, and I saw someone exiting the building that way. It was dark and raining. But, I caught a glimpse of the face in the bright search-light placed at the gate. It was Shreya’s father but I could not be sure.
A few minutes later, I saw a police-van and an ambulance rush into that office compound. I sat in the car for a few more minutes while I watched more police cars enter the area. Curiosity got the better of me and I left the car. A constable prevented me from entering the building. A senior policeman there recognized me. Maybe, he had seen me at some party. He ordered one of the constables to take me home. He told me that my father would come later. Nobody asked me anything else.
During the days that followed, I heard that my father had found Mr. Chung dead, hacked to pieces. The police were trying to get more details from him. I was assured that he would return to us soon and I believed that my father would return. I saw Shreya a few times but I did not tell her or even my mother about seeing Shreya’s father that night. It did not seem to matter and I did not want to cause any trouble for Shreya. In all that confusion, I even forgot about searching for my parang.
A week or two later, I heard a Chinese lawyer talking to my disconsolate mother.
- I advised him to go with my story about an Iban.
- (my mother was weeping)
- I told him to say that he saw an Iban, one of those sub-ordinates, being reprimanded by Mr. Chung and in a flash of anger the Iban had chopped Mr. Chung. But he won’t listen to me…can you make him listen?
- Don’t you know that he won’t agree to such stuff?
- What la, you know it is going to be difficult…
A month later, I read the ‘whole’ story in the newspaper about how my father had a fight with Mr. Chung, how he killed him with his own parang which was found at the scene of the crime. My father was not even able to explain how the parang had reached that place. The rest of the columns described my father as a bad man, a hot-blooded man known to have fits of anger and even a suspected communist. It seems that he was ‘cool’ enough to take his son to the office and even ‘bold’ to call the police himself.
The senior policeman came to our house to question my mother on one of those days. When he was leaving, I approached him. I told him about how I had lost the parang. I told him about seeing Shreya’s father. The policeman held my shoulders kindly. He told me that my ‘girlfriend’ had also phoned him to tell him about how the parang was lost.
- I do hope that you and your girlfriend have a better time ahead of you. But, do not tell stories like this, ok? Another person in my place might not take it lightly.
- But, it is not a story…
- Listen, young man. You are now accusing your girlfriend’s father? I know why you are saying that…maybe I should ask your girlfriend about that…stop it! Do you understand what I am saying? The next time, I will not be so kind…
My mother and I left the country a few days after the execution. I had stopped meeting Shreya long before that. I heard that Shreya and her folks also left for Australia a few months later.
Last week, at Chennai airport, I saw Shreya and her father – the girl I could not forget and the man I wanted to kill. She came to me and said,
- Sree, it is me. Shreya, remember?
- (silence)
- Your father was a good man, Sree.
- I know.
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