Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam
***
Chapter
30: Bangkok
Bangkok city was in its usual
festivity. It was, perhaps, the only city which hadn’t lost its sheen due to
war. No one with worn-out clothes and frail, starved bodies was seen anywhere
in the city. Money was being spent like water. One could buy and sell any
currency in the black market, be it Swiss Franc, or Swedish Krona, or American
dollars. You need anything else other than these? Grenades, automatic tanks,
Jeeps, motor boats? If you have money- money in hard cash- the cash that creaks
at every flip, you can buy anything in no time. It just simply meant for every piece
of ready cash, you will literally get everything in hand. No more questions of
how and what. Even if you desire to have rare, hidden jewels and cultural
artifacts looted from many countries during war, you can bet on us. Or do you
want criminals and other articles to be deported to the shops on the banks of
Mom River? Yes, we do have expertise in that too.
Menam River is the main ‘road’ of
the city diverted from it are big bazar, numerous canals, and streets. Shops
are floating in boats, people come floating in boats, make their purchases from
the floating shops and return floating. The faces bearing no signs of woes of
life chatter loudly without hiding anything in their hearts.
Cars, jeeps, trams and rickshaws
were moving with their myriad sounds of horns and bells across roads quaking
the town.
British troops, American sailors,
Vietnamese communists, Indonesian revolutionaries and men of Mao Zedong were
roaming here and there. Everyone had huge number of currency stacks under their
possession and weapons hidden in their cloths to meet any eventuality in a
matter of seconds. The Indonesians were busy sending their country grenades and
rifles procured with the money earned by selling rubber, coffee, tea and
pepper- all which they could manage smuggle despite the tight vigil of Dutch navy.
The bony Vietnamese men who wouldn’t
stand a strong slap were busy with big sized commodities. Those who had been
ignorant of mortars, bazooka, jeep and those who hadn’t been unaware of the
movements of Mao’s men were just roaming on the streets incognito with fear filled
in their heart.
Masanam and Muthaiah who escaped
from Burma had taken refuge in K.K Resan’s shop upstairs. Pandian had joined
them. Resan suggested that they could open a separate shop for Pandian, Masanam
and Muthaih. They thus started “Oriental Trading Company” as he suggested.
Their shop started functioning in
a building nestled along the bank of river. They sold whatever that had fallen
into their hands- British guns, American dollars, and Indonesian tea were some
hot picks. Sometimes their small business could sell out occasional big catch
of materials such as tanks, Jeeps, and motor boats. They could amass huge
amount of money and spend it at their whims. One could find those four
lieutenants of Indian National Army in the crowds that used to visit the fun
houses as soon as the sun sets, with all their make up on.
It was Sunday.
They set off a trip to go out of
the city. Greenery all around…coconut groves and paddy fields. Women sitting in
front of their huts stretching out their legs, chewing betal leaves and chattering
guilelessly. Small boys were playing Raka…Raka game with ball shaped cane
fruits.
The entire city shone like a ball
of lights. Crowds of people gathered everywhere. Cars were waiting in front
every restaurant carrying the fervor of celebration. When they reached their
final destination, Moon Ling hotel at about half past seven in the evening,
their heads whirled with the heaviness of inebriation but with an unusual
strength in body and a regal gait in their walk.
The jeeps and cars of British-
American officers, Siamese nobles and Chinese businessmen were parked in rows
in the front. The trees were festooned with illuminating, glaring, colourful
lights. The Jazz music wafting through the air from inside made one’s body
titillate. The cars were still streaming in and parked in rows. White men and
local men got off those cars with women who looked golden statues and stepped
into the building with mouthful of lies and fake smiles.
All those four Tamil men sat on the
chairs lying in south. White men in threes and fours were sitting on chairs in
front of them and women among them added a sheen of lightening with their
presence. Beyond them near the door were found a Siamese- Chinese couple.
Vietnamese were sitting in front of local men. Next to them, were sitting two
Indonesians.
A woman in golden colour wearing
half skirt tied in black lace and silky glass embedded brazier was singing,
entertaining them with her sensuous leaping moves:
“Yai yai yai yaaa
Yaa yaiyaaa
Yayi…yayiiiiiiyayi yayiiii yayi
Yaiyaaa yaaa yayiiii”
The room was filled with the
layers of smoke visible through the dim mixture of lights in different colours.
The smell of French perfumes was so heavy as if sticking to one’s face. Ogling
at the danseuse absorbedly, Muthaiah pulled out a song.
“O virtuous lady!
My lady! My gem!
If you are a chaste woman
Your skirt sliding out…”
“Shut up. Don’t you see women are
there?”
“What? What did you say? Masanam,
what did you say? O! Women…Women”
The attender who approached them
as stealthily as a cat walking on a cloth slipper bent down a little and asked
them their order covering his mouth with his right hand. Resan listed their requirements.
Drinks listed first.
The danseuse in black attire
completed her performance. A mild Siamese melodious music note emerged from the
dais to fill in the interval before the start of next programme.
Resan’s frantic eyes were fixed
repeatedly on a British captain who was sharing drinks with a Siamaese lady sitting
in front of him. A woman who was sitting very closely to a man sleeping on
chair at the entrance, was staring at Pandian without batting her eyes. Her
fronts were shaking and her left hand fondled her stomach. Pandian turned his
head and threw his eyes around.
“Hei…look there” Masanamm nudged
Muthiah’s ribs. “Look at that lady fondling her stomach…Pandian plans to seduce
her”
“Ah…is it? Then Pandian is gone
forever. We have to then dispose him off in unaccounted expenditure. What did
all our ancient sages preach us? Don’t look at women…and for god sake do not
even think of a woman who fondles her stomach. But see…what is Pandian doing?
He is ogling at the stomach fondling woman. So, his future is sure shot for
spoil. He is gone”
Masanam, now glanced at the woman
caressing her stomach, intently.
“Masanam, hei…you useless bloke
from Therikkadu1!”
“What?”
“Why were God Indra and Chandran
condemned?”
“Because of women”
“Why did the King Ravanan and
Kovalan die?”
“Because of women?
“So, my dear Masanam, take my
advice very seriously. Don’t ever look at women; it is vile to look at women;
listening to the words of women is despicable; having relationship with women
is dangerous. Do you know whose golden words are they?”
“Saint Muthaih”
“Shut up man! It is Annai
Vayitriya Andama Munivar. Haven’t you read his epic work ‘Idakini pei en
illa kizhaththi’ (Idakini, the demon, is my wife). You must read it. There
is one more reason why one shouldn’t have relationship with women. It is …”
Before his words spilled out of
his mouth, Resan’s booming voice in English suddenly emerged and attracted
everyone’s attention in that hall.
“Ah…The Prince Shree Puvongshree,
the king of medicine…here is the Field Marshal Maharaja Shri Shri Vinayanando
Pandya, a valiant Tamil General who is gifted with the acumen of supreme
commander of army, navy and air force, Mon Stain and indomitable spirit of
Rokochovsky and equanimity of Mont Gomery. He is the direct descendant of the Pandian
kings who once ruled the three worlds and seven seas”
“Ah…ah…ah….Maharaja Pandya!” the
prince grasped the Tamil Nadu’s Supreme commander’s hands and gave out a
naughty smile.
“Here is General Shree Masana
Abhayvangse, the general of famed first army of Tamils, a skillful shooter who
can bring down a bird flying above while running. Such a courageous man he is
that it is he who had transported a huge number of Tamil goats to the slaughter
houses in Kohima. Here sitting our General Muthaihthriji Gurlalmia. He is the legendary
commander of Tamil commando forces. He is the one who had defeated Lord Mount
Batten in a running race. Most of the gold mines and mint houses in India
belong to his family”
Both acknowledged his pompous
introduction with a stiff chest-up in military style.
“I am extremely happy…very
happy…I seek your pardon…I have an urgent work”- the prince scratched his head.
The prince must be aged about above thirty five but below seventy five.
“Revered Prince, let us sit a
while for a drink” Resan told as he bent a little, keeping his left hand folded
on his back. “The Anglo- American generals who rule the herds of blacks,
yellows, and browns are sitting in this noble court. Let us make them
understand the happiness of our meeting. Please come…please”
“Sorry…can’t we make it some
other time?” The ageless silhouette of the prince swiftly paced toward the door
and disappeared.
Resan, standing, poured in the
drinks into glasses. Others sat down.
“Gentlemen” his English oration
resumed. “Now we shall pray to God almighty for the supreme health of our
honorable King George VI- the officiating monarch of India, the savior of black
people- who sways his reign all over the Great Britain, Northern Ireland,
dominion countries and colonies beyond seas. We, who have taken our births as
slaves of the king, now enjoy this drink in the name of our king”
“Don’t yell out man!” Pandian
admonished him in his mother tongue. “Speak in Tamil”
“Taamil….do you mean Taaamil?”
Resan’s voice rose like thunder as his right hand picked up the tumbler. “Down
with Taaamil. Hell with Tamilians. Hail English…Hail Englishmen”
He kept the tumbler down on the
table with a thud after emptying it. The glass shook.
The ambience of the hall grew
tense followed by a deep silence. The shopkeeper was standing at the entrance
kneading his palm with uneasiness. Masanam and Muthaih glanced at Resan impishly
and resumed drinking. The Siamese nobles and Chinese traders who had come there
along with their women were grossly confused at the developments. The
Vietnamese turned to where Resan was standing, and talked among themselves in
hushed tones.
The music was over.
“It gets late. Let’s make a move”
Pandian rose, circled around Resan’s waist with his left hand and threw his
indifferent glances all around the hall. ‘Anything can happen…everyone is
drunk and holding weapons in hands’
“You black fellow! A slave of
superstitions! You the incompetent Tamil who doesn’t know how to respect the
prophets! Sit down”
Pandian sat down. His heart
wailed helpless. ‘This fat bugger is trying to pick fights. We are just
four…but these men are many’
“You Brown men! Yellow men! and Blacks!
“Resan’s voice went on louder. “Have you forgotten the curse by the Lord in
heaven that all of you will remain doomed as slaves until you change the colour
of your skin into white? So, jump into fire immediately and get your skin
white. Or else…”
“Dear prophet, we are highly
obliged” Pandian said, his voice overflew with devotion. “It has got already
late. We can leave for offering our prayers to god almighty before His servants
close the temple doors. Please come with me…”
“You blackie! Get away from me.
First listen to the words of prophet”
The locals who had come there
with women vacated the hall immediately with their companions. The prostitutes
who accompanied white men, and other high class whores were staring at Resan,
not batting their eyes, intuitively expecting some untoward incident that was
likely to unfold there and with a proclivity to relish a fight scene over
there.
The prophet’s oration tore
open the silence of the hall once again, and grew louder.
“I, Kathiresan, son of the direct
descendant of Adam from Aden garden Prophet Karmegam, the chief of potter
clan from Kalavazhi Nadu, have come from the Bangokiya, a city close to God’s
heart here and hereby pronounce the words of wisdom. O! Earth! Do Hear me. O!
Sky! Give me your ears. O! Wind! Listen to me. The God almighty, the savior of
everything, had appeared in my dream as a ball of flames and told me,
“Kathir…Kathir…why are you here in this desert leaving your core profession of
pottery?” I replied, “O! My God! Let your undying mercy live forever on this
planet. I am a sinner. Pardon me” and God said that he would surely forgive me.
Further He asked me why I toiled there and sought an immediate reply. I asked
him, “O! My savior! My people toil here like worms. Won’t they be redeemed of
it?” He replied that our men did sins and are facing troubles in their life and
nothing could be done about it. Next moment, the ball of flame disappeared and I
stood alone”
“Hahahahaa….” A young American
Naval captain having his drinks sitting in the north eastern corner of the hall
laughed out aloud at Resan’s prophesies and mocked him yelling out “You are an
unadulterated prophet of the Bible. Prophet of Jews…Prophet of deserts”.
“You American ignoramus! Aren’t
you the one who had humbled the sons of Lord Surya by breaking the atoms and
burning it into flames and proved the ancient wisdom of our spiritual masters
false? Shut your mouth up. Or else you will face the wrath of prophet and
cursed into misery of no return”
“Respected prophet, I have
sinned. Please pardon me”
“You are forgiven. Now sit down”
The American had a tough time to
control his laughter, and sat down. The English oration of the prophet resumed.
“I, Kathiresan, who has attained
the enlightenment of knowing three dimensions of time with the blessings of god
almighty, further pronounce my prophesies: “Hei…belittled Tamil land! How pity
are you? Thakkolam…you too pitiful. Kadaram, Kombojam, Sambave,
Savagam. Malaiyagam, Mavirlingam- you all are pitiful. Aren’t you? You, the
deaf despite having ears! In spite of the prophets admonishing you all for long
change your skin colour into white, why do you still remain careless? If you
have white skin, you can well assume rights to destroy nations and cities. No
one would question you. You can even kill women and children en-mass. No more
questions will be asked…”
“Shut up” A British captain
sitting with a Siamese woman shrieked under inebriation.
The heads turned to the direction
of the voice. Resan bent a little, in a slow motion, picked the bottle from the
table and roared as he poured it out into a tumbler.
“Who’s that philistine
obstructing the words of blessing of the prophet? Who’s that? Who? Is it
Raffles?*
“No…No…No…It is Mont Gomery”
A tall, stout man rose from his
chair as his body tottered. His face was red due to excessive drinking. The
woman sitting beside him was pulling him her side, trying to make him sit, but in
vain.
The shop keeper came running from
the door. Masanam gestured to him with his hand, intimidating, to go back to
the entrance. The shop keeper returned helplessly kneading his palms.
Pandian thought of asking Resan
to move on left. But the prophet, to his disappointment, moved a step on right.
“Who’s that? Mont Gomery? The
general of much famed eighth unit of the British army.” He raised his right
hand and pointed at him with his forefinger. “So…he is that brave heart who
invaded Romalin Africa Core with fearless heart despite having an army three
times powerful than his enemy…El ala min brave heart Field Marshal Bernard Mont
Gomeriiiiiiii”
“Shut up”
“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiii. Mont
Gomeriiiiiiiiiii”
The field Marshal paced towards
him. The prophet stood with his dreamy eyes and disconcerted body.
Before the Marshal’s hand reached
its target, it got tangled with the prophet’s left hand that rose in a lightning
speed to obstruct the blow and at the same time prophet’s right hand showered
punches in bulk on Marshal’s nape of neck, followed by his left punch, then
right, then left…
Field Marshal fell onto the
ground on his face.
Some men in the opposite row
pulled out their pistols and rose from their seats.
“Let us not play with the
pistols, please…”Pandian spoke calmly with his raised right hand holding a
pistol. The brand new automatic Browning pistols they had procured that morning
were shining in Masanam’s both hands and Muthaih’s hand. A dead silence ensued
amidst those Vietnamese who were till then drinking with much of noise. The
pistols were aimed at the opposite rows. Two Indonesians rose from their seats
holding a pistol in left hand and Greek knife in the right hand.
The prophet drank a glass of
whisky, and threw his scrutinizing eyes from one end of the hall to another
end. Placing the glass on table, Resan resumed his lecture of mockery.
“Where has the British sense of humour,
a much touted one everywhere, gone? Where has your professional probity gone?
Do they really belong to white men? If you are defeated in an unarmed combat,
you will pick up guns, and if you are defeated in gun fight, then you will pick
up Atom bomb. Is this cricket?”
Hands that were holding the pistols
were still aimed at their targets. One second, one round…Many were just
watching the show as if their lives were confined in the discharge of one round
in one second. It was just enough for a round to unleash a deadly commotion.
“It is utter stupidity. Utterly
stupid…” A British Major from the back row came forward with a heavy stump on
the floor.
“We all have come here to forget
our worries. Not to die in stupid shoot out. Keep your weapon in holders”
But the weapons weren’t withdrawn,
still pointing at its targets.
“It isn’t a battle field. It is a
fun house. Keep them in your holders” – his voice resonated as a resolute
order, a characteristic confidence he had gained over a period of experience in
facing high pressure situations in life.
The weapons disappeared.
“Revered Prophet”, the Major went
near and told, “It is not Negev desert. It is Moon Ling restaurant in Bangkok
city. Please have some mercy on us and have a seat to get yourself relieved of
pain due to standing for long”
“You, an old Major, let you be prospered.
Considering the immediacy of world peace and cordial relationship between the
East and West, let me withdraw myself as of now”
The prophet sat down.
The Major, standing closely
looking at Resan, couldn’t control his laughter, laughed out loudly. Following
this, the hall was filled with the sounds of laughter.
The captain lying on the floor
somehow managed to get up, and blinked vacuously. Another Captain went near to
him, led him out with his comforting hands circled around his back.
Waiterrrrr”
***
Days passed.
Pandian announced that he had planned to go home after visiting Sumathra. His friends tried their best to dissuade him but couldn’t succeed in changing his decision.
***Chapter
30 “Bangkok” Ended***
Part 3 Flower, Chapter 31: Penang
will be published shortly.
1.
A semi desert region in Tirunelveli district)
2.
Sir Stamford Raffles, the founder of Singapore in 1819.
He is known as Robert Clive of South East Asia”
