The life of our family changed dramatically on 5 April 1944, when Major General Shigesaburo marched 30,000 troops of the Japanese Imperial Army from Myanmar into India. With him came, under Operation U Go, Subhas Bose’s Indian National Army. They attacked Kohima and Imphal.
In preparation for the invasion, the Japanese had dropped a few bombs on Kolkata, the principal city and vital port. Father suggested that mother should leave Kolkata with the two small children and be safe. He could not; he had to remain on his job. Two of her brothers, affluent doctors in Bihar, affectionately welcomed her.
They each owned two large houses and assumed that mother would stay in one of their houses, as her exile was temporary. They hadn’t reckoned with their sister’s fiercely independent bent. Mother had already written to a cousin to rent one half of a small duplex. Our new home had two bedrooms, one for mother and the other for us two brothers, a tiny living room and a tinier kitchen. The charming feature was a verandah at the back and a porch in front, both of which we loved. My brother and I would rush out on the porch to see war planes roaring by, and then sketch our impressions in colored chalk on the floor.
They each owned two large houses and assumed that mother would stay in one of their houses, as her exile was temporary. They hadn’t reckoned with their sister’s fiercely independent bent. Mother had already written to a cousin to rent one half of a small duplex. Our new home had two bedrooms, one for mother and the other for us two brothers, a tiny living room and a tinier kitchen. The charming feature was a verandah at the back and a porch in front, both of which we loved. My brother and I would rush out on the porch to see war planes roaring by, and then sketch our impressions in colored chalk on the floor.
The other feature that had appealed to mother was the large open space fronting the house. It was only reason the ill-designed locality merited the misleading name of Bose Park. We played soccer there every warm afternoon, and mother liked that she could keep an eye on us whenever she looked up from her books or emerged from the kitchen. Enthusiastically, we kicked around an old football until dusk, making up by energy what we lacked in skill. The boys of the community had accepted us two brothers, on the false expectation that we would be skilled soccer players. That misapprehension arose from my brother’s cannily dropped hint that we had received training from the captain of India’s Olympic team. The fact was that, Dr. T. Ao, father’s friend and a very genial captain, had indeed given us a few lessons, but the gain in our proficiency had been minuscule.
Mother, who was the uncles’ favorite, invariably took us weekends to visit an uncle and our large brood of cousins. It was a culture shock for me, as if I had been teleported instantly to another planet. Everything in our family was low-key: we talked about literature and society, quietly and decorously. Our cousins were noisy and rambunctious; their talk was about movies and fashions. I was shocked, but I also had fun. Dinners were sumptuous, in between we ate endless cookies and drank limitless cups of tea. Life was a party in high decibels.
Mother sprang a surprise. She announced one night that she would go back to work, acting as the principal of a school. She had taught before she married, and she liked teaching. She explained that she hadn’t as many domestic chores as in Kolkata and she wanted to supplement father’s income. She added that, while my elder brother was already slated for another school, I would attend my mother’s school.
School, my first school! I was both excited and intimidated. My class teacher, Mrs. Das, assured my mother that she would take good care of me. She did. She was young and pretty, and had come to her first job with the mission to win every young heart. She did. She spoke softly, explained clearly and took pains to carry her pupils with her whether she taught reading or arithmetic.
At the end of the first day, she reported to mother that I did well, but seemed to have a urinary problem, for I rushed out at the end of every period. Embarrassed, mother had to explain that I did not go to the restroom; I went to her office every time to say that I was hungry. Mother said, firmly each time, that I could have my snacks only during the recess after the morning classes.
I did not find the lessons interesting, but I adored Mrs. Das and wanted to please her by learning my lessons well. I found it far more interesting, doubtless influenced by my elder brother, to read the books mother brought home for us. They were mostly literature, sometimes history and biography. That was when I first discovered that most biography is really hagiography, often fiction. Surprisingly, it was fiction that was far more real and, as Rousseau said, better designed to make us decent.
Mother, who was the uncles’ favorite, invariably took us weekends to visit an uncle and our large brood of cousins. It was a culture shock for me, as if I had been teleported instantly to another planet. Everything in our family was low-key: we talked about literature and society, quietly and decorously. Our cousins were noisy and rambunctious; their talk was about movies and fashions. I was shocked, but I also had fun. Dinners were sumptuous, in between we ate endless cookies and drank limitless cups of tea. Life was a party in high decibels.
Mother sprang a surprise. She announced one night that she would go back to work, acting as the principal of a school. She had taught before she married, and she liked teaching. She explained that she hadn’t as many domestic chores as in Kolkata and she wanted to supplement father’s income. She added that, while my elder brother was already slated for another school, I would attend my mother’s school.
School, my first school! I was both excited and intimidated. My class teacher, Mrs. Das, assured my mother that she would take good care of me. She did. She was young and pretty, and had come to her first job with the mission to win every young heart. She did. She spoke softly, explained clearly and took pains to carry her pupils with her whether she taught reading or arithmetic.
At the end of the first day, she reported to mother that I did well, but seemed to have a urinary problem, for I rushed out at the end of every period. Embarrassed, mother had to explain that I did not go to the restroom; I went to her office every time to say that I was hungry. Mother said, firmly each time, that I could have my snacks only during the recess after the morning classes.
I did not find the lessons interesting, but I adored Mrs. Das and wanted to please her by learning my lessons well. I found it far more interesting, doubtless influenced by my elder brother, to read the books mother brought home for us. They were mostly literature, sometimes history and biography. That was when I first discovered that most biography is really hagiography, often fiction. Surprisingly, it was fiction that was far more real and, as Rousseau said, better designed to make us decent.
I was reading a breathtaking Tarasankar story about Thuggees when uncle arrived, breathless, with the news that the Japanese threat had ebbed. Their supply line had been overstretched. The samurais had receded less from the heroics of British India’s garrisons than from the fevered, furious onslaught of malaria. No more bombing, Kolkata was safe. Uncle did not have to wait. Mother’s decision was swift.
Father stood beaming in Howrah station as the train disgorged us and our baggage. Facing him, mother stood demurely, I was deeply embarrassed to see, like a new bride. My brother and I stood quietly, almost ignored, till one of them condescended to say, “Let’s go.” Our nine-month war-time exile was over.
Father stood beaming in Howrah station as the train disgorged us and our baggage. Facing him, mother stood demurely, I was deeply embarrassed to see, like a new bride. My brother and I stood quietly, almost ignored, till one of them condescended to say, “Let’s go.” Our nine-month war-time exile was over.
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