This is the story of an ordinary person caught in the Charybdis of extraordinary situations- the brutal Japanese regime in Malaysia, communal killings in Sri Lanka, tribal warfare in Sierra Leone, coup d' tat in Liberia; leaping through time, colliding with different cultures, crossing oceans and continents and, in the twister of all the turbulence all the while in the hunt for jobs to keep the home fires burning.
Mining My Own Life
This Much I Remember And This Is How I Remember It
By K. B. Chandra RajTrafford Publishing
Copyright © 2014 K. B. Chandra Raj
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-3324-1Contents
Dedication, ix,
Acknowledgements, xi,
Author's Note, xiii,
Countries I have lived in, 1,
Countries visited as accountant, 4,
How I came to write this book, 5,
The purpose of this book, 8,
I begin with a handicap, 13,
Choice of format, 15,
The Daily Journal, 17,
How do I feel about life lived so far?, 18,
The Trap, 20,
The title, 22,
My Story, 24,
My regret, 27,
My father comes to school, 29,
Sayonara to Sentul, 31,
Victor and I, 32,
The Barber of Sentul, 33,
My visit to Kuala Lumpur, 35,
The swamis next door, 36,
The Japanese are here, 39,
No sense of direction, 43,
The British retake Malaysia, 44,
Subhash Chandra Bose, 46,
Post World War, 47,
The War on Me, 49,
Me and exams, 51,
In Ceylon, 53,
Memories of Jaffna College, 55,
Into sports, 57,
Escaped a beating, 58,
My uncle in Vavuniya, 59,
Concerning my birth, 61,
Representing Ceylon in India, 63,
My visit to the hospital, 66,
The riots of 1958, 68,
My uncle and I, 70,
My days at Aquinas, 72,
Me my mother and the movies, 74,
My father in tears, 76,
How I came to do Accountancy, 77,
In this inn there always was room, 79,
My first job, 82,
Neela and Deeran: How I met your grandmother, 85,
The two incidents, 87,
The other woman, 89,
My olden, golden days, my purple years in sports, 90,
On my grand- parents, 92,
Threw discretion to the winds, 94,
On my parents, 97,
Letter to our grand-daughter, 99,
Letter to our grand-son, 102,
Permission to stay in the U.S. denied, 103,
Dreams, 105,
Arrival in London, 108,
Opening my first bank account in London, 109,
The little dreams that came true, 111,
Some dreams turn out pipe dreams, 113,
My first job in Liberia, 117,
My second job in Liberia, 119,
My third job in Liberia, 121,
We leave Liberia chop-chop, 126,
Kan Kam appears to me, 128,
In Sierra Leone: (West Africa), 129,
Jalloh our watchman, 132,
The plums of office, 133,
Et tu Brute, 135,
Inside Track, 138,
In search of a job in Sri Lanka, 140,
Leaving Sri Lanka second time - 1982, 142,
Accountant General, 144,
My visit to the State House, 146,
Left to stew, 148,
Mums the word, 150,
On crying, 152,
Beat me kick me don't touch my child, 154,
My first job in the United States, 155,
My second job in the United States, 164,
My third job in the United States, 166,
Attributes of a good boss, 168,
A fair question, 170,
I have been asked numerous times, 171,
Summing up, 175,
End Notes, 177,
CHAPTER 1
Countries I have lived in
In Asia
Malaysia
Born in Sentul, Malaysia
By land the country borders Thailand, Indonesia and Brunei and by sea Singapore, Vietnam and the Philippines. Malaysia (known before as Federated Malay States) is a member of the Commonwealth of Nations of which the Queen of England is the titular head.
Capital: Kuala Lumpur
Population: Around 29 million
Major racial breakdown: Malays, Chinese, Indians
The constitution declares Islam the state religion while protecting the freedom to practice one's own faith.
Official language: Bahasa Malaysia
Climate: Tropical
Ceylon
The country is now known as Democratic Socialist Republic of Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka became independent of the United Kingdom in 1948. It is an island republic in the Indian Ocean, south of India.
Sri Lanka is a member of the Commonwealth of Nations of which the Queen of England is the titular head.
Capital: Colombo
Population: Around 19 million
Major racial breakdown: Sinhalese and Tamils
Official language: Sinhala and Tamil
Climate: Tropical
In Africa
Sierra Leone
The Republic of Sierra Leone in West Africa is bordered by Guinea to the north east, Liberia to the south east and the Atlantic Ocean to the south west
Sierra Leone is a member of the Commonwealth of Nations of which the Queen of England is the titular head.
Capital: Freetown
Population: Around 6 million
Major racial breakdown: Temne and Mende
Official language: English
Climate: Tropical, not humid
Liberia
Situated in West Africa is bordered by Sierra Leone to its west, Guinea to its north and the Ivory Coast to its east
Capital: Monrovia. Named eponymously after James Monroe the 5th president of the United States of America
Population: Around 4 million
Major racial breakdown: Mande, Kru, Mel, Mandigo and Fanti. About 3% of the population is "Americo-Liberians" descendants of freed slaves from the United States of America
Official language: English
Climate: Tropical
Countries visited as accountant
In South America
Suriname
Situated in the northeastern Atlantic coast of South America, Suriname is bordered by French Guiana to the east, Guyana to the west and Brazil to the south.
Capital: Paramaribo
Official language: Dutch
In the Horn of Africa
Eritrea
Bordered by Sudan to the west, Ethiopia in the south and Djibouti to the east
Capital: Asmara
Official language: The country has no official language. The constitution affirms the equality of all Eritrean languages. English serves as a working language. Italian is understood by most people.
How I came to write this book
Soon after my book, "Your Sense of Humor – Don't Leave Home Without It" was published my wife planted a chip in my brain which kept buzzing, "You should write about your experiences – you should write about your experiences." While I was kicking the tires about, very reluctant to get into the driver's seat, Mooly, friend from my early accounting years e-mailed me from Toronto, "You should write about your experiences"
I enjoy reading. I can spend hours on end in the company of a book. Poorly tutored in English literature, not in possession of even a piddling knowledge in the art of writing, the woeful want of a university education (the joy of flipping the tassel and tossing the cap in the air eluded me) that would have given me the confidence and cache, the prospect of writing therefore becomes for me a daunting exercise. I take comfort, sustenance, some oxygen from the words of the great Robert Louis Stevenson and move on regardless.
"I think" R.L. Stevenson states, "it improbable that I shall ever write like Shakespeare, conduct an army like Hannibal or distinguish myself like Marcus Aurelius in the paths of virtue." and may I add dribble and shoot goals in soccer like Beckham.
Writing on a particular subject also demands a torrent of reading often not entirely to your liking. Macaulay the renowned scholar reads twenty books to write a sentence; he travels a hundred miles to make a line of description and Samuel Johnson posits that "the greatest part of a writer's time is spent in reading in order to write. He believes "a man will turn over half a library to make a book."
I will be imposing myself on my home town library in Whitneyville for books and more books impinging on their kindness and acts of supererogation ; surfing the internet, scouring Amazon.com (Dave Barry, author of "Insane City" lets us into his modus operandi – "most of my research" he says "consists of Googling in search of factoids that I can distort beyond recognition"), cranking –up my memory; tell me who likes to stir the memory pot?, flexing the memory muscle can be stressful exercise; self-editing, proof reading the publisher's submissions, a frustrating back- and- forth ping pong, in my case all solo and single-handed, a one man band frankly – I might as well be given a pocket knife and ordered to cut up the carcass of a whale – from conception to completion the agony of at the minimum a two year fall from a cliff- pray why do I need this, when I could sunk lazily in the big chair be watching gleefully previous night's recordings of Letterman, Leno or Last Man Standing"
All the while the interminable buzz inescapable and insuperable continued. Right at this time propitious or not independent of my wife's and Mooly's exhortations I got a call from Sid my childhood buddy in New York City, (heaven forbid) "Chandraraj:" he intones "You should write about your experiences" and went as far as suggesting a title.
Maybe there is a story to be told, leaping through time colliding with different cultures, crossing oceans and continents, spending nearly all my adult life in countries where I always was a numerical `minority' and all the insecurities that go with it. The story of an ordinary person propelled by circumstances into great many extra ordinary situations. Hold your applause. The big chair in front of the television was seductively beckoning me and winning.
All I needed at this stage to stop thinking through my fingers and put away my lap top is for one serious person to play ball with me like, "Why do you need this stress?." I was looking for ways to dodge the long hard pull of writing that was staring at me. And so as most of my writing will be undertaken hermetically sealed in this library carrel, on one of my visits to the Whitneyville library hoping I would be shown the rat- hole through which I could hyper drive to freedom, shake off the trammels of the world free to vegetate in solitude and carelessly fleet the time away, I mentioned to the librarian Maureen Armstrong what my wife and old buddies were inveigling me to embark on finishing off with the flourish, "Who the hell is interested in my experiences anyway?" With her usual aplomb and savoir faire she handed me this sobering comment: "If Frank McCourt thought like you we would not have "Angela's Ashes." – The story about a boy struggling with poverty in the slums of Limerick in Ireland. I preferred "Teacher Man" but that's beside the point. The consensus was compelling.
The purpose of this book
The question may be asked if I feared the work would be grim and grueling why then did I decide to write. When Gandhi began writing his autobiography a very close friend had serious doubts. "What has set you on this adventure" he had asked. The friend was very dismissive about the undertaking. The thrust of his question was what purpose would it serve? It is a reasonable question to ask for I too have asked this question.
As every parent knows, children are only mildly impressed by our reckoning of our own fascinating lives until they have children of their own and begin to feel the first twinges, the early heralding of their own advancing age and there is my friend Bob who discouraged me putting it all out. In his opinion it weakens one. It's the secrets that remain untold he says that sustains you. Once you empty yourself you become vacuous and hollow. When revealing one's self he preferred the closed fist to the open palm. I was also painfully conscious that I might hurt the feelings of those close to me but I took comfort from the fact that so long as I stick to facts it should not really matter.
Be that as it may I chose to go for it.
My father left Sandilipay a little village in Jaffna (Ceylon) habited mostly by family, friends and acquaintances, the kind of village where on the day you were born you will know where you will die, who will light the funeral pyre and very often who you will marry. Lives are mapped from birth and nothing you do will alter the map. My father was an aberration - an oddity. When barely eighteen years old when the twentieth century was still in its teens, equipped with nothing more than a high school diploma, a good head for numbers and ability to speak fluently in English threw all discretion to the winds and very likely disregarding wiser counsel my father traveled thousands of miles by boat to take up employment in Federated Malay States (now Malaysia).
How did my grand-parents react to his leaving to settle down so far from home? There was no telephone in his parents' home and letters took several weeks to reach them. How did my father settle down in a country where the population was predominantly Malays and Chinese? Who helped him?
The country was under British colonial rule. The bosses were all British. The Brits lorded over the natives and all non-British down in your sniffling little soul you always saw them as mighty superior. Malcolm Muggeridge in George Orwell's "Burmese Days" gives a clear picture of conditions prevailing at this time.
"Their fatuous insistence on their innate superiority to the "natives", their arid isolation as sahibs in a land which they govern but never bother to understand"
How did the British bosses treat my father handicapped as he was by race, religion and cultural dissimilarity? There prevailed an uncompromising class and color divide.
Consequently the onward and upward movement of his career had predestined limits. Great Britain ruled not only the seas but also the minds of her subjects. They ruled the waves alright but when it came to their kind they were known to waive the rules. I know my father had a trigger – happy temper and we feared his few and far between hair-trigger eruptions. It must have been a prolonged Himalayan endeavor to keep his temper in check at the office. How many trips did he make home to see his parents?
I know he participated in an interstate walking competition and was placed within the first five for which he received a gold chain. He said he would bequeath it to his first grandson and he did. What was the distance he had to walk? How many participated? I do not know.
How did mother who could not speak English cope? The cultural shock must have been staggering. My mother never worked. It is very likely my parents continued to live in the enclosed way, mentally separate from the more colonial, more racially mixed life around them. So with the salary of a clerk in the Malayan Railways with opportunities for vertical progress cut off beyond a point as plum jobs were set aside for the British – he retired as chief clerk the highest position a non-British could aspire to – how well was he able to provide for the family?
My parents never discussed these matters in my presence. You see as a family we never indulged in cozy talks. They shared in their generation's dread of spontaneity and physical contact. Whatever I learnt growing up about my family was from snatches of conversation I would catch between my parents. Their financial difficulties, health problems, dealings with relatives and even their plans for me were kept away from me by design or default I do not know. I remember my mother one time being very ill and in severe pain. Finally she had to undergo surgery. I visited her at the hospital, kept her company until she was discharged but never knew what she was there for. Many years later I gathered she was operated for tumor of the womb.
I wish I had answers to all the above and more. Elie Weisel in "All Rivers Run to the Sea" referring to his father laments, "How I wish he had told me of his childhood, of his studies and experiences." He goes so far as to say, "Sometimes I envied Isaac, who was alone with his father when he climbed Mt. Moirah." Time and again I have read men and women's refrain of regret that they had not maintained a journal. Here's Gloria Steinem Queen among feminists in "Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions" – "I regret very much, after more than a dozen years of traveling at least a couple of days a week as an itinerant speaker and feminist organizer, that I never kept a diary."
Memories die with their owner and then it's too late to lament, "I wish I had asked my father about that." Again and again we see the second generation having no time to talk to the first.
How I wish my father had maintained a journal. I wish to the best of my ability remedy this omission. My wife is very proud of the book, "Asthma – Cure without Drugs" (now on E-Bay) written by her father, a doctor who qualified in Great Britain which is always at her bedside table. I hope my book will provide a window into the life time experiences of at least one of Neela's and Deeran's progenitors which otherwise would have been lost. This is the goal toward which my sweating horse would strain. I also hope my grandchildren and those who come after them will find this book interesting and even useful even as it gives me the opportunity to remove my mask so I can breathe freely.
A shepherd when asked why he made ritual observances to the moon to protect his flocks replied, "I'd be a damned fool if I didn't." This book, with all its crudities and confusions, contusions and contradictions that could confound even those close to me, frog-leaping in time and space is written for the love of our grandchildren, Neela and Deeran. To echo the shepherd, "I'd be a damn fool if I didn't."
And yet as Maureen Corrigan states in her book, "Leave me alone, I'm reading," "Perhaps there are some life experiences that are simply beyond books."
So sweet Neela and Deeran, "This book's for you."
Excerpted from Mining My Own Life by K. B. Chandra Raj. Copyright © 2014 K. B. Chandra Raj. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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