Teatime For The Firefly. Shona Patel

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      CHAPTER 11

      Manik and I continued to exchange letters over the next several months. The weather ceased to matter and I had only two kinds of days. Good Days and Waiting Days. April arrived and a subdued dhola drumbeat pulsed through the bamboo grooves. It was Rangoli Bihu, the spring harvest festival—the most joyous time in Assam, typically celebrated with a whole week of reveling and feasting. But that year the festivities were low-key because a thread of tension was running through our town.

      In a surprise move, the Japanese Imperial Army had infiltrated India through Assam. They inched past the sawtooth mountains into Manipur and headed straight for the small Naga town of Dimapur, just northeast of Silchar. The invasion came on the heels of Britain’s crushing defeat in Singapore and its faltering hold on other colonies around the globe. It was a tactical move by the Japanese to overthrow the British in India. Dimapur was the hub of the Assam-Bengal railway, the only lifeline of food and military supplies for British troops stationed in Burma. If the Japanese captured Dimapur it would have devastating consequences for British troops and the British Empire and most likely tip the balance of power.

      Suddenly Assam was no longer inviolable. The lights in Dadamoshai’s house stayed on all night as community leaders gathered on our veranda to discuss the Japanese situation. It was 2:00 a.m. and cups of tea remained untouched, dark rings forming on the inside rim. I sat quietly hidden in the shadows of the jasmine trellis, listening to the elders talk.

      “New regiments have been deployed from South India,” said Amrat Singh, the Police Chief. He was an imposing man with a fine turban and beard, who still looked dapper at that unearthly hour. “The convoys are traveling night and day. But it will still take another ten days to reach Guahati. Meanwhile, the Japanese are advancing fast. Three divisions are marching toward Assam—over 80,000 Japanese soldiers, I am told.”

      “I hear they have already blocked off the road between Kohima and Dimapur—is that true?” asked Dadamoshai. The crease lines on his forehead had deepened. He suddenly looked very old.

      “So I hear,” Amrat Singh said. “We get news of the Japanese movements from a guerrilla force patrolling the Naga Hills. They keep the generals updated on the enemy’s advance.”

      “The Naga Hills! That is the most treacherous jungle,” exclaimed Dadamoshai. “I can’t imagine British soldiers surviving those grueling conditions.”

      “They are being assisted by the Nagas,” said the Forest Officer. “The Nagas, as you can imagine, are the only people capable of navigating that mountainous terrain. Also being a strong and hardy people, they run up and down as stretcher bearers. The soldiers are cutting their way through using machetes and taking extra doses of Benzedrine to stay awake. Grueling, as you say.”

      I sat in the dark trying to imagine the British soldiers holed up in the rainy jungles with the Naga headhunters. I hoped to God they had ample food. The Nagas were known to be cannibals. They were a ferocious tribe who wore bushy loincloths and embellished their shields and earrings with the hair and bones of slain enemies. But the Nagas were also known to be an intensely loyal and moral people and they hated the “Japani.”

      “Hundreds of Nagas have also joined the regular British Army in Kohima. People are coming together from all walks of life to stop the Japanese invasion. Even the tea planters—many planters have left their gardens to join the regiments.”

      “Tea planters!” I exclaimed, СКАЧАТЬ