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Whenever soldiers trudged through the rubber plantations, Siva would run after the men, calling – “Johnny” or “Tommy”.

Then the Japanese brought the war to Malaya and many Australian stragglers took refuge in the jungles. They crept out to scavenge food from the locals.

Siva persuaded his mother, Neela Kanni, to spare whatever they could from their meagre store. Late at night, he would pick his way to the jungle fringe and leave baked tapioca wrapped in banana leaves. One morning, a scrap of paper held down by a stone, greeted him - “Thanks mate!” With a broad smile, Siva ran home with the treasured gift held close to his heart.

About two weeks later, sharp raps on the door startled the household. It was five in the morning. Siva’s father opened the door to four Sikh policemen, who emerged from the ghostly fog. They were apologetic but had come for Siva and his father – on Japanese demands.

Trembling with fear, Neela Kanni bade her life and soul good bye and sent them into the dark. At daybreak, she hurried to the police cantonment. Seeking out a familiar face, she beseeched the tall Sikh. His eyes wet, it was outside his control, was all he could say. Her husband had been beaten and bundled off in a truck headed north to build the “Siam” railway.

“My son, kind sir, what about my Siva,” she pleaded, her lips quivering fear.

“The Japanese hold the boy,” whispered the Sikh. “But fear not, dear mother, your son is safe…for now.”

It became a daily routine, that five-mile trudge over undulating track to the police cantonment. On some days, they released prisoners, tortured and torn. Neela Kanni would wait until the sun pulled away its light from the land. Then she would plod back, ignoring the devils along the pitch-dark track. Every morning she would set out with fresh hope, mouthing a thousand prayers for comfort and company as she approached the harsh white washed walls. Some days she heard cries escaping over the walls. Beating her chest, she would wail with the other women. Come day end, her hopes drowned, her throat raw, she would return, an empty soul to a miserable hovel.

Then one morning, there was a clamour. People ran and shouted about a rumour – the Japanese would that day release six prisoners or more.

Pulling the hem of her sari between her legs, tucking the cloth into the back of her waist, she ran, beating her chest. “Oh God, please, please, my poor son release.” She cried with no tears as her wells had long emptied. Her blouse, a sweaty second skin stuck to her flesh as she overhauled her neighbours, thinking that by being first, her son would gain preferred release.

A throng had already gathered outside the walls. Oriental men stood with tall rifles and long bayonets sticking through the iron gate. Growling dogs strained and snapped from inside, Sikh policemen stood vanguard outside. The bearded men of Punjab flayed their sticks on legs as they pushed back the pressing knot.

Pushing, shoving, scratching and screaming she broke through the crowd. A huge cloud of metallic green flies rose with an angry buzz.

With a soft cry, she sank to the ground.

There stretched on the ground were the bodies of the six, minus their heads. One was her son, she could tell by the tattoo on his forearm.

(This is based on a true story. When the Japanese beheaded him on 23rd January 1943, Siva was seventeen)

********** Copyright @ Eric Alagan, 2012 **********