Road to Delhi. M. Sivaram
to Britain's George Cross) which had been "graciously awarded by His Majesty the King, for meritorious service rendered to the country and the nation" just a couple of months ago, for my part in the frontier war between Phibun Songkhram's Thailand and Indochina under the Vichy regime. I hastily pinned the medal to my shirt and held out the citation to the senior officer. In a flash, the frontier officials were changed men. Their hands went up in salute and they became all goodwill and hospitality. They offered the most profuse apologies for any misunderstanding their attitude might have caused, sent for a couple of Indians in the locality and ordered them to find us some accommodation and help us in every possible way. As for the exit permit, they were helpless. The frontier was closed and, any way, it would be unsafe to attempt the crossing. Where was the guarantee that we would not be shot by the frontier guards on the other side? The logic was irresistible.
In a dirty little hut on Maesod's main street, we established ourselves and spent a month and a half of what my friend, Mr. Ayer, called "clean living and high thinking." Seated on a torn straw mat, which was the only item of furniture in our new abode, and sipping the coffee ordered from a nearby shop, we discussed war strategy and speculated on a British advance into Thailand via Maesod. The only radio in the village was at the district office and, though we were always welcome there, we did not wish to bother the officials too often, with our hunger for news.
In a few days, Maesod became a busy place. The Japanese troops started arriving in large numbers, walking across the jungles and mountains we had covered. They brought with them a few hundred horses and then went about requisitioning all the ponies and bullock carts. They also collected all the bullocks belonging to the villagers for the transport of ammunition and supplies. British aircraft came over occasionally and observed these Japanese preparations and we thought we were destined to cover another border war. Then, one fine morning, the Japanese troops walked across the creek, followed by a colorful assortment of pony carts, bullock carts and pairs of bullocks tied together, carrying ammunition cases and stores on wooden planks perched across their back. The bullock cart invasion of Burma was under way.
We did not see any fighting—did not even hear any shooting. In three days, we were told, the Japanese had reached Cockerill, a town about forty miles from the frontier, on the road to Moulmein. And, then, we decided to return to Bangkok, instead of dying of malaria and dysentery in Maesod.
The task, however, was not easy. Thailand was at war and there were restrictions on the movement of foreigners. According to wartime regulations, Indians had to apply for and secure an official permit from the Indian National Council in Bangkok and we had to conform to these formalities. When the permit was finally granted, they gave us a police escort up to Bangkok, though we never knew why that distinction was conferred on us.
This time, we were familiar with the jungle route. As the Japanese had requisitioned all the ponies in Maesod for war purposes, we hired an elephant to carry our luggage. It was an unexciting retreat and we did the trek by easy stages—five days to Raheng and four days by road and rail to Bangkok. And we found the Thai capital thoroughly changed in the brief period we were away.
Bangkok was all agog under the new order. The hastily-concluded agreement for the transit of Japanese troops had matured into a formal declaration of war by Thailand on Britain and the United States. The Thai-Japanese alliance was considered sacred and the Thais looked on helplessly, as Japanese officers and civilians occupied every available building in the city and the Japanese military police often took the law into their own hands. Mr. Ayer, found his house comfortably occupied by a Japanese army officer and a new tenant had taken over my house with all my belongings. The result was that we had to establish ourselves elsewhere. But there was no paucity of accommodation, as quite a large number of people had moved out of the city because of the occasional air raids.
Life under the new order, however, was a trifle different from what it was before the flare-up. The Japanese left me alone, mainly because of my close association with the leaders of Thailand. But the record was there with the kempeitai (Japanese military police). I had been working for the Associated Press and my friend, Ayer, was a correspondent of Reuters, Besides, the Bangkok Chronicle, which I edited for nearly six years, had maintained Thailand's policy of absolute neutrality in a manner that was not exactly to the liking of the German Legation or the Japanese Embassy. We were exhausted, physically and mentally, and wanted to lie low for the time being. But, amid the new-fangled politics of the new order, we knew it would be difficult.
Looking back at those embarrasing days and weeks of suspense and anxiety, the most unbearable factor was the gnawing feeling of "not belonging"—to the society in which one existed, or any society, for that matter. It was shocking to realize how unpopular, how helpless I had suddenly become—and, that in Bangkok where, I imagined, I was somebody. And then, one day, equally suddenly, I found myself swimming in Indian Independence League politics!
The first phase of the war was almost over by that time. Life was fairly normal in Thailand but reports from Malaya and other parts of Southeast Asia were hardly reassuring. The Japanese military administration in these former colonial territories was a quaint combination of absurd reforms and ruthless tyranny. Probably, the exigencies of the war were partly responsible for it. But millions of people had already become disillusioned with the new order and the promised haven of Asia for Asians. The military regime was so stern, however, that everybody soon learned to value his head and became a loyal subject of the Tenno heika (Emperor) and an obedient servant of the Japanese war machine.
If someone suddenly set up a small wooden board, with something written in Japanese on it, at the gate of your house, you realized immediately that the place was needed for the use of the army, either for the residence of some officer or for operating a consolation camp, and you quit promptly, bag and baggage, and thus contributed your share to the victory campaign. If you happened to be taking a stroll and saw some Japanese soldiers unloading cases of ammunition from a fleet of lorries, you just rolled up your sleeves and helped the war effort. If you tried to walk away, you would not get far; you would be lying on the road with a bleeding bayonet wound in your back.
The Japanese military administration had introduced a series of reforms. All the clocks in Southeast Asia showed nothing but Tokyo time, which meant that the people got up at 4:00 in the morning, got to their place of work at 6:00, took their dinner at 4 p.m., and went to bed before 6:30 in the evening. Many people began to complain that meeting Nippon-jin always gave them a pain in the neck, as they had to bow before every one of them, and there were special orders specifying just how many degrees one should bend his back, to comply with the proper standard of the new order etiquette.
The new order, however, brought its crop of small mercies. Most of the people who formerly worked in British Government offices were able to get back to their jobs, though under a system of reduced pay. Those who picked up a smattering of Japanese went high up, while those who acted as agents and informers fared even better. The military administration tried to out-British the British in the tactics of "divide and rule," handling all matters on a communal basis—Malays, Chinese, Indians, Eurasians, and others, each under a leader chosen by the military chiefs. Those who spoke English in the streets were looked upon with distinct disfavor, suspected of being enemy agents and accused of undermining the morale of the public. Down went most of the signboards in English and those in Japanese took their place. Bars, restaurants, hotels, and dance halls were named Tokyo, Osaka, Kobe, and Sakura. Those who were unemployed, or suspected of being troublesome, were promptly rounded up and carted off to work on the strategic highways and railways which the Japanese had started building between Thailand and Burma.
Throughout Southeast Asia, the Indian Independence League was recognized by the Japanese military authorities as a branch of essential war service. League membership was supposed to assure your identity as a non-enemy subject, while active work for the League ensured some safety from the prying eyes of the Japanese military police.
Malaya was the nerve center of the Indian independence movement. League branches were established in most of the towns and many prominent Indians had joined the movement. While the civilian side of the organization grew fast, Mohan Singh and his followers were busy with the task of organizing the Indian National Army. In three months, about 12,000 Indian prisoners of war, out of nearly 80,000 who surrendered to the Japanese in Malaya, had joined