Chinatown Days
CHINATOWN DAYS
Rita Chowdhury
MACMILLAN
Contents
Prologue
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Part Two
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Part Three
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
Prologue
I am not the architect of this narrative.
I am but an inept artist, the narrator of this epic saga of a people caught in the maelstrom of history.
My name is Arunabh Bora. I am a writer.
I live in Guwahati, the capital of Assam, one of the states of India. My ancestral home is near the Dafalagarh tea estate, on the northern side of the river Brahmaputra, where my eldest maternal uncle used to work as the head clerk. I was quite young when my father passed away. My mother and I then moved to my uncle’s house. Growing up there, I never faced any sort of difficulty.
Even now, in Guwahati, I lead a comfortable life with my wife and two children.
It’s been a while since my uncle died, but my mother still lives with his family. My aunt does not wish to part with her and my mother does not wish to live with anyone else either. She has spent most of her life within the confines of my uncle’s house. As far as I can remember, she has always been quiet and withdrawn. Even though she actively took part in all the activities of the family, her mind always seemed to be absorbed in some distant world.
This is, perhaps, the only thing about my life that makes me sad. Apart from that, there is nothing much to complain about. I have gone through half my life without any crisis, hardship or trouble. After years of living in comfort and contentment, I could hardly imagine the strange future awaiting me.
It was a fateful day when Lailin arrived on the scene; Lailin Tham, a well-known Chinese writer.
Sometimes a door will open unexpectedly. A door through which we enter an unimaginable past – a past that is enmeshed with our present.
It was Lailin who opened that door for me. Before she did it, she gestured to me, looked straight into my eyes, and asked, ‘Will you dare to speak up? Will you dare to speak about us who are standing on Indian soil? Do you have the guts?’
Her tone was filled with rage, sharpened by a tinge of bitterness. It was like an arrow directed at me, a challenge thrown in my face. Lailin stood in front of me like an unwavering flame in a room devoid of air. It has been almost two years since Lailin unleashed the storm. It has left my beautifully organized life in a state of utter chaos. My home, my identity and my foundation have been shaken, perhaps irretrievably.
Part One
One
It was noon in Hong Kong. Lailin was reading. For a minute she took her eyes off the pages of a book by Assamese writer Arunabh Bora, and looked out vaguely through the window.
On the twelfth floor of an apartment in one of many skyscrapers standing close together sat middle-aged Lailin. Her straight, shiny, shoulder-length hair was tied into a ponytail. She was wearing a cotton top and pants. This was her mother’s apartment. It consisted of a drawing-cum-dining room with a sofa-bed, a bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom.
A few years ago, Lailin’s mother had got this flat by way of a government scheme for people with low income. A few months after her mother’s relocation to the flat, Lailin had moved to Canada. Since then, her mother had been living here alone. Lailin often came to visit and every time her mother would return with her to Canada for a few months.
This time, after a long gap, Lailin had come with her entire family. While she stayed back at her mother’s place, the kids had gone with their father to their grandparents’ house in Kowloon. They would return tomorrow. A community festival for the Chinese Indians was going to be held, and this was where the Chinese translation of Arunabh Bora’s novel was to be released. This book was about the Chinese Indian community itself. Lailin and her family had come to take part in the festival and attend the book release as well. Arunabh would arrive the next day. As soon as the book had been published, Arunabh had sent a copy to Lailin’s mother. Even though her mother hadn’t said a word about it, Lailin knew she had already read the book. She could clearly see the emotions playing on her mother’s face.
Lailin, too, began to feel overwhelmed as she turned the pages. As if the pain and anguish that had lain heavy as a stone on their hearts all these years had converged to take the form of a book. A past lay scattered across its pages, a past that not many knew about. Amidst its ruins pulsated a present that too had gone unnoticed.
Lailin returned to the page she had been reading.
I was in Toronto to participate in a writers’ meet, organized by an international forum of writers. Lailin, too, was present. She had not travelled from China; she had come from a town not far from Toronto.
On the very first day of the meet, she was shockingly discourteous. Someone – I can’t recall who – introduced me to Lailin at teatime. She openly ignored my extended hand and quietly passed me by. The writers around me were surprised, as was I.
After a polite pause, some people in the group commented:
‘That was really rude.’
‘Why did Lailin Tham behave like that? She is normally very polite.’
‘Have you two met before? Has there been any misunderstanding?’
I was surrounded by a group of people and almost everyone was either irritated or baffled. Unable to explain such behaviour, I felt both humiliated and angry. It made me curious as well. There had to be some reason; why would a writer of her reputation behave in that manner? I remained distraught throughout the tea break. I should have been able to move on from a matter so petty. But I couldn’t. Perhaps it was because of what I had glimpsed so fleetingly in her eyes: not only hatred and anger, but something more, something I could not understand. I was drawn to Lailin. But she remained extremely composed and impenetrable whenever I tried to approach her.
Eventually, one afternoon, I confronted her. She was sitting alone under a red maple tree.
When I greeted her, she looked as though she had woken up from a deep slumber. For a moment she appeared calm, but soon enough her eyes once again sparked with hate.
‘I want to talk to you, Lailin,’ I said.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ she retorted.
‘Have we ever met before?’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I just wanted to know if I have ever hurt you unwittingly. If not, I can’t see why you wouldn’t want to talk to me.’
Lailin picked up her bag and got ready to leave. Then she said, ‘I don’t want to talk to you and I am not obliged to give you my reasons.’
‘Please don’t leave,’ I said. ‘I don’t quite understand what has happened. At least tell me what I have done to you. Since we belong to the same fraternity, I presume there exists some geniality and friendship between us.’
She smiled at me with disdain. ‘Do you understand what friendship means? Do you even know what it means to be genial? You! An Indian!’
So nationality was somehow related to her hatred towards me!
‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked, completely at a loss now. Lailin left without responding. I grew even more determined to find out.
Two days after that, on the second floor of the Rogers Communication Centre, I met Lailin again. To my surprise, she spoke to me on her own. ‘Do you want to know why I dislike you? It is because you are an Indian. I hate all Indians. Don’t try to talk to me again. You will get nothing from me but insults.’
I was stupefied. Before I could respond, she turned away from me and walked off, leaving little scope for me to reach out to her ever again.
The matter should have ended there, but it didn’t. Lailin’s words, harsh as they were, made me even more curious. She did not hate me alone, but all Indians. How could I, an Indian, leave it at that? Determined to know the reason, I chose to confront Lailin again.
It was the final night of the conference. After the valedictory session, everyone left for their respective destinations. Adequately prepared for humiliation, I went over to Pitman Hall and knocked on Lailin’s door. She was surprised to see me. And there it was again, that sudden flare of anger. But the next moment she composed herself and looked at me for a while before sighing deeply. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘How long will I fight with you?’
Her resistance seemed to be slowly giving way. After a long silence, she began to talk.
‘I stayed away from you. That was the best thing to do. I have told you that I dislike all of you. I don’t want to talk to you. And yet you are so persistent. Don’t you see how I’m suffering?’
‘Yes, I do. That is why I’m persistent. I can see that you are extremely hurt. Tell me what happened to you. What have us Indians ever done to you?’
She looked at me, her eyes sad and tired. ‘What will you do if I tell you? Can you erase the feelings that I have been carrying in my heart?’
She flared up again. But pulling herself together, she said, ‘I don’t want to be rude to you anymore. Please go. Leave me alone.’
We sat in silence for a while. Then I said slowly, ‘I’ll go back. I have no right to disturb you. But I have a question. Can one leave without knowing why his country is hated so much by someone else? Will you please tell me?’
Tears brimmed in Lailin’s eyes. She looked at me for a while and answered, ‘I don’t know. Because, even today, I don’t know which country I actually belong to.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am sorry, I won’t be able to speak about this anymore today. Give me some time. Come back tomorrow. Please.’
I could sense the surge of emotions and the degree of discomfort she was struggling with. Without saying another word, and reining in my curiosity, I left.
The next morning when I went to meet Lailin, she was waiting for me, her bags beside her. Her eyes were red; she might have cried before my arrival. We sat facing each other, silently drinking coffee. I didn’t want to rush her today.
After some time, she asked, ‘What comes to your mind when you look at me?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Where do you think I come from? Look at me, tell me my nationality.’
I was at sea. With her slanted eyes, straight jet-black hair, fair complexion, slender build, what could this woman’s nationality be?
‘You could be Canadian-Chinese for all I know. But you don’t really look typically Chinese. But you are Chinese, though you are a Canadian citizen. You are Chinese, aren’t you?’ I was speaking rapidly.
After a few minutes of silence, she said, ‘In places like Hong Kong, China, Canada, Australia and many other countries, there are many people who are Chinese but don’t look typically Chinese. Because they –’ She paused halfway and then continued, ‘I don’t know why I chose to speak to you. I never thought I would speak to an Indian. It is your persistence that has forced me to speak. Perhaps your love for your own country has compelled me. But I have been thinking since last night: is it really necessary to talk about these things? It has been so long. So many years!’
I looked at her face; I just could not fathom what she meant.
‘I don’t understand, Lailin. What will you gain by not sharing? Who knows, if you share, you might find a way out. If you can think of me as your friend and not as an Indian, it might be easier for you to talk to me.’
Lailin looked down as she sat there, twirling the coffee mug in her hands.
That day at Pitman Hall, Lailin opened the doors to a forgotten land, placing before me the first page of a lost history. Standing on the threshold of this unknown land, she uttered the name ‘Makum’.
‘Have you ever been to Makum?’ she asked.
‘Makum? Which Makum are you talking about? The one in Upper Assam?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know about Makum?’
‘I’ll tell you. Have you been there?’
‘I can’t say that I have been to Makum. While going to Doom Dooma and Margherita, I have only passed through the town a couple of times.’
‘Do you know that there used to be a Chinatown in Makum?’
‘Was there? I only know about Tangra, the one in Calcutta. I have never heard about the one in Makum.’
‘It was not only in Assam – many cities in India had a Chinatown. They might not have been as big as the one in Calcutta but there were quite a few. Have you heard about the Chinese in Assam?’
‘I do know about a few Chinese families in Assam. I have also seen a few Chinese people in Tezpur. I know about the Chinese dentists. But that’s all,’ I said.
‘It’s obvious that you don’t really know. Not only you, but even for most people in Assam, the past does not exist. For me, though, that past is the sordid truth from which I can never dissociate myself. When I think about it, I feel furious and totally helpless.’
‘Why did you never write about all this?’
‘I thought about it many times. I wanted to write and bring everything to light. I wanted to tell the whole world, “Look at the real face of India, which speaks about democracy and Panchsheel. Look at Jawaharlal Nehru’s India, which vents its frustration and anger on the innocent.” But, whenever I think of writing, something stops me. What will I write? What’s the use of writing? Is it really worth creating something purely out of hatred? Even if there is any meaning in it, would it make any difference? I hate India. I hate Indians. My mother always says, “Don’t hate anyone. A nation and its entire people can never be bad. What happened was our misfortune.” But I still hate them. I just can’t help it.’
Lailin’s voice choked. Her eyes were filled with tears.
‘Please Lailin, tell me everything,’ I said softly.
‘Will you come to our house?’ she asked. ‘My mother is here to spend some time with me. If you meet her, she can tell you more.’
It didn’t take me long to decide. Everything dissolves before the curiosity of a writer. I could never imagine, however, the surprise that was waiting for me at Lailin’s house.
When we reached, it was evening. The softly lit residential area was quiet. So was Lailin’s house. The aroma of incense filled the air. It was my first visit to a Chinese house.