Road to Delhi. M. Sivaram

      4

      Destiny Obscure

      MAESOD may not be on the map. It is a mean little village on the bank of a shallow creek that forms the boundary between Thailand and Burma in the mountainous hinterland east of the Dawna Ranges. It is less than 100 air miles from the port of Moulmein, where the Salween drains itself into the sea. But you must also reckon with the mountains, jungles, and rivers in between.

      Maesod is the frontier post on the Thai side, a desolate little spot on the fringes of the jungle, with two rows of thatched huts along the main street and a few dilapidated buildings which house the government offices. It was in Maesod that my hurried trip from Bangkok came to an abrupt end. It was there that I spent the best part of the winter of 1941-42. And it was at this dreary jungle location that I witnessed one of the quaintest military campaigns of the century—Japan's bullock-cart invasion of Burma.

      It was a slow train, packed to capacity. Most of the passengers were women and children, fleeing to the safety of their countryside homes, immediately after the Japanese forces began their occupation of the capital. A few Europeans, who tried to board the train, were promptly taken away by the Japanese military police at the Bangkok railway terminus. There were three of us in a corner of one of the compartments. And every time the train stopped at a wayside station, we feared that the end of our homeward journey was at hand.

      The train was running behind time. We reached a place called Pitsanuloke, about 250 miles north of Bangkok, by midday. The next local train northward was a couple of hours later. We whiled away the time at a nearby Buddhist shrine. We thought it was safer than the waiting room at the station or the restaurant across the street. The idea was to get to the frontier and cross into Burma, without getting caught by the Japanese. We did not have the faintest idea that the Japanese were not treating Indians as enemy subjects. And it just did not occur to us that the frontier might be closed.

      My companion on this fateful jaunt was Mr. S. A. Ayer, a veteran journalist, who had been in Bangkok for about a year as Reuters correspondent. He had waited, in vain, for instructions from his head office in London, without knowing that Thailand's communications with the outside world had been cut off, and finally decided on the flight to freedom. We were intimate friends, our personal problems were fairly identical, and each regarded the other as a source of strength and confidence. The third man on this race to the frontier was a native of Gorakhpur, in Northern India, who used to work as head watchman at one of the British banks in Bangkok. He decided to quit, after the Japanese sealed the bank and took away the British officers.

      A few hours journey by train to Sawangaloke, followed by a hectic bus ride, took us to the tiny town of Raheng on the edge of the jungles and mountains. On the way, we passed the ancient city of Sukhothai, named after the birth place of the Lord Buddha in India, where everybody at the market place and the bus stand seemed excited over the outbreak of the war and yellow-robed Buddhist monks solemnly chanted hymns and prayed for the safety of Thailand and the Thai people.

      Raheng, on the east bank of the Maeping River, was considered those days as the last outpost of civilization in central Thailand. The town was fast asleep by the time we staggered out of the rickety bus. The local Chinese hotel keeper, whom we woke up, refused to let us in until a Thai policeman on his beat intervened with the towkay (proprietor) on our behalf. But, once we were comfortably settled in the only room he kept for hire, readily accepting his terms, the towkay turned out to be one of the most helpful men in Raheng.

      We explained our plans to him and insisted that we must start for Maesod early next morning. The towkay tried to discourage us, pointing out that we required at least two days to prepare for the five-day trek across the jungles and mountains. Guides, porters, and ponies had to be procured; and foodstuff for the party had to be acquired and packed. Besides, he asked whether we carried with us some sort of first-aid kit and the ointment to keep off the leeches in the streams and all along the jungle track.

      We assured him that we were not bothered about the leeches, or even the food, but we needed a guide and a couple of ponies to carry the two small suitcases which were all the luggage with us. And we implored him to get these lined up immediately.

      I sat sipping tepid beer, which was the only beverage readily available at the place, while my companions waited for the black coffee they had ordered. In less than an hour, the towkay turned up with two young men who offered to take us across to Maesod. They had also brought two aged ponies to carry our luggage, foodstuff, and other things. They warned us, however, that the trek would be arduous and take a minimum of four days.

      We readily agreed to the terms they stipulated and the expedition was on it way before dawn. The ferry was not available, so we waded across the Maeping, and then the jungle enveloped us. First came the low-lying hills, covered by lush green, and then the steep barren mountain ranges. The narrow, winding tracks through the dense forests and the perilous ascents and descents, traversing the mountains, held no terror for us. In our anxiety to get to the border as quickly as possible, we waded through muddy streams and swamps, without noticing the leeches until they climbed up the thighs and blood blotches daubed the trousers. On the first day, we did not even stop for lunch and our guides had a hard time keeping pace with us. We spent the night in the open, sharing the rice cooked by the guides—and thinking of the vast changes since our joy ride on the river in Bangkok just 72 hours ago.

      It was an awful trip. By the end of the second day, we were exhausted. We even began to doubt whether we would complete the journey to Maesod. But the march continued, painfully but vigorously, as we neared our destination.

      From the third day, however, we were no more the lonely travelers in the jungle. Units of the Japanese infantry and cavalry forces were also on the march, presumably bound for the frontier. They came up in batches of 50 or 100—silent, grim-faced, well-disciplined men, in shabby mud-stained uniform. Every three or four hours, they halted for their meal. This seemed to come from nowhere to the jungle track—a large pot of steaming rice and a roasted pig hanging from a pole. Each soldier helped himself to a bowl of rice and a slice of pork, and washed it down with the water from the stream. And, then, they continued the march.

      Finally, after a trek lasting three and a half days, we hit Maesod and made straight for the district office. We produced our passports, the aliens registration books, and other documents and asked for permission to cross the frontier into Burma. The officials eyed us suspiciously and told us we should have known that the frontier was closed, after the enemy across the river made an attempted aggression and was repulsed by the Thai frontier police. We gathered that there was a minor shooting incident across the creek between the Thai policemen and the dozen or so Sikh policemen on the Burmese side. The incident was just over and the Thai frontier officials were on the lookout for spies and fifth columnists when we staggered into the district office after that strenuous journey.

      The officials kept our papers, turning the pages carefully, while we waited at the counter. Then, I overheard the whispered conversation between them in the Thai language, and realized the peril in which we had landed ourselves. Their discussion centered on the vital question of keeping us in custody, as we were strangers in the place and our mission looked extremely suspicious.

      I thought fast and brought out from my pocket a small token of my standing with Thai officialdom—the Thai Home Defense Medal