BackExcerpt: In Search of Freedom
Meeting Janaky Thevar, who was a commandant of the erstwhile Rani of Jhansi Regiment, and one of India's several unsung women freedom fighters
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I had met Janaky Thevar at Gouri Sen’s house in New Delhi. Although Gouridi had passed away, the warm image of the two old friends embracing each other with fervent affection, as they sat sharing memories, remained with me. I was anxious to re-establish contact with Janaky in Kuala Lumpur as soon as possible. I called her and she picked up the phone and said with deep affection, “Come to my home tomorrow, for lunch—lah!" and I gladly accepted.
Meanwhile I twisted my ankle in the bath that morning. I had broken a bone and damaged a ligament in the same leg in Delhi earlier, but I thought it had healed. Now I was rather anxious and decided to get the throbbing pain seen to, at once.
The university hospital was nowhere near as crowded as a general hospital in India. I met Hari, a young doctor from Chennai, and he was fascinated to hear about the research I was doing. “You are locating India’s surviving freedom fighters!" he exclaimed, then he promised to help and meanwhile cast my leg in plaster solicitously, with “the extra care a fellow countryman should give another"...
...Limping out of the hospital, my leg cast in plaster all the way up to my knee, I set out for Janaky Thevar’s house in a taxi. The woman who once commanded the Rani of Jhansi Regiment in Rangoon was a tiny woman, now limping after a stroke and unable to see because of her cataracts. Yet she was anxiously awaiting “a daughter from India" at the porch of her gracious bungalow in Titiwangsa. It was hard to imagine her in military clothes, marching with a rifle in her hand. Janaky Thevar’s left side was now paralysed, her left arm hung loosely and her left leg was dragging. But here stood the woman who marched through the forests of Burma, fighting for India’s freedom—Janaky Thevar Nahappan.
She now lived in a large bungalow surrounded by a garden. The decor inside the house was completely Indian—gods and goddesses, handicrafts and Tanjore paintings adorned the rooms. There was a large idol of Krishna with fresh flowers, along with photographs of her children and grandchildren. Her son Ishwar was a financier in Singapore, while her daughter Gouri, named after her friend and fellow Rani, Gouri Sen, was living in England. The third, she explained, was “a girl of Chinese origin, Jayashree, whom I lovingly call Janice. I adopted her and she now lives in Johar Bahru."
Janaky and I sat across the dining table and she showed me old photographs while her maid and younger sister, Savithri, attended to her almost military-like summons, asking for more albums and scrapbooks to be placed on the table. Over a sumptuous Indian lunch, Janaky talked about how she once bicycled down to hear Netaji speak in the padang (large park). Inspired by his dynamic presence and moved by his speech, she gave her earrings away to the Azad Hind fund. She had hidden the visit from her parents, but the morning newspapers carried her picture and her parents found out that she had given away expensive jewellery to the cause of the freedom movement.
Janaky showed me the newspaper clippings with pride, and then showed me a photograph of herself with the other Ranis—young women in military uniform, their arms thrown carelessly around each other, laughing. Although the girls were in uniform, the picture was like that of any group of young girls having a good laugh. There was a spirit of camaraderie and bonhomie, something intrinsically free about them.
“So tell me from the beginning, how did you join?" I asked. “I mean, was this not an unconventional thing to do? Tell me a bit about your childhood."
She laughed, shut her eyes as she remembered and began. “I was born on 25 November 1925. My father, Rengasamy Muthiah Thevar (also spelt Davar) was an adventurous man who left Tanjavur in Tamil Nadu in 1907 and sailed for Malaya, paying his way through as a deckhand. But he became a successful businessman and took lavish care of his fourteen children, of which I was the second."
“Tell me about your mother." I prodded.
“But what brought out your unusual spirit, your spunk? At that time a lot of Indian girls were still in purdah."
“Right from the beginning I was in contact with people from all walks of life and I joined the Girl Guides," Janaky said. “When the Second World War broke out, my sister and I joined the St John’s Ambulance Brigade."
“From Girl Guides to joining Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose was a huge conceptual jump. So, how then did you join him?"
“It was 6 September 1943. Netaji was to address a meeting in Kuala Lumpur, in the padang opposite the Selangor Club." Her eyes lit up at the mention of his name. “I went on my bicycle. His presence was electrifying. He said, ‘Tum mujhe khoon do mein tumhe azaadi doonga.’ (Give me blood and I will give you freedom.) He said that the days of minimum sacrifice were over and that we must give maximum sacrifice—human life and resources—to win freedom. I was so moved by his speech that I took off my chain and earrings (she enacted this), handed them to him and gave him a salute. He shook my hand and returned my salute. It was a moment to cherish."
“Were your earrings made of gold?"
“They were, in fact, made of diamonds. I was frightened that my parents would scold me. So I hid this from them."
“And then?"
“The next day the newspapers carried a photograph of me giving away my earrings! That too on the front page!" She laughed. “My parents saw it. My mother scolded me and even pulled my hair! She told me, ‘If you join the army, you will come back without your arms and legs and no one will marry you!’"
“Did that intimidate you?’
“No, because I knew she was saying this just to frighten me. When my father went to town, many friends who had seen the photograph congratulated him. I had met Captain Lakshmi at the Indian Independence League headquarters and I invited her to our house for tea. I had kept the two forms ready. Captain Lakshmi said to my father, ‘Mr Thevar, you must be extremely proud of Janaky. It is a great honour that you have given her permission to join the Rani of Jhansi Regiment.’ There was pin-drop silence and my father realized what this tea was really about. I seized the moment; I leapt up and gave the forms to my father to sign right away, in front of her! He hesitated and said he would sign later, but I insisted he sign then and there—and he did!"
“What happened after permission was granted?"
“At night, I excitedly shared the news with my sister, Papathy. We talked till the early hours of the morning. She wanted to join as well and this time father readily agreed!"
“How come?"
“He said the two of us were never to be separated and we made headlines once again: ‘Sisters join the Rani of Jhansi Regiment,’ with our full-size photographs. The Indian Independence League headquarters were flooded with other young women who wanted to join! In a week’s time we left for Singapore."
“What was the journey like?"
“We had a special train and some of the girls cried as they left their parents." Her voice choked as she said this. “We were garlanded. The train kept stopping to pick up more and more girls on the way. Just imagine, we were one thousand one hundred and fifty-six girls, ready to die for the cause!"
“What was the training like in Singapore?"
“We were given orders to queue up, given a mess tin, mind you, not a cup! Food was a dosa and the tea had bits of jaggery, as no sugar was available. Each of us had a mat, a pillow and a blanket and we had to run around with 30 pounds of weight, a haversack and a rifle."
“Did you ever feel low?"
“Yes, sometimes, but we sang patriotic songs to boost our morale!"
She started to sing, her voice breaking: “Kadam kadam badhaye ja, khushi ke geet gaye ja, yeh zindagi he qaum ki, tu qaum pe lutaye ja… (March onwards, step by step, singing songs of happiness, this life belongs to the nation, you sacrifice it for the nation…) We were trained to handle firearms."
I must have had a look of disbelief, because she handed me several photographs. “See this photograph, the girls are holding rifles in uniform, this is Muthulakshmi here."
“Where are you?" I asked, looking for her.
“I am commanding them, so I am not in the picture. But here"—she hands me a photograph of the officers at the Singapore training camp—“here I am. I am second from the left, beside me is Gurupdesh Kaur, third from the right is Anjali Suppiah, fourth from the right is her sister Dhannalakshmi Suppiah and second from the right is Jeeva Mudaliar."
I looked closely at the photograph; there were sixteen young women in uniform and one man. It was a simple barrack; in the middle was a table with a flower pot below it. Behind them was a painting of the Rani of Jhansi on a white horse. The girls all looked young, less than twenty-one years old, and had earnest expressions. The man on the right was dressed in white and had a beard.
“The passing out parade was a memorable event. Netaji took the salute at the march past and a full battalion of a thousand regiment members and army personnel marched to the strains of “Chalo Dilli". We also put up a play at the Victoria Theatre in Singapore, March to Freedom. It was so true to life, it was about young girls leaving their homes to fight for the freedom of their country. I remember crying while singing, ‘Amma, appa, poi varugeran’ (Mother, father, I am going now, for the cause of the country)..."
Edited excerpts, with permission from HarperCollins India.
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