Nagalim: …A Saga of Love and Sacrifice

By Suvo Moitro

ALICIA SEMA understood little about the insurgent
movement, even after the Naga rebels came to her school
to recruit comrades. But now sitting on a cliff facing
the immense expanse far below, she listened
with great interest, the virile voice of her school-mate,
KAITO KEVI his fervid description of the movement,
his dreams of a free nation a free Nagalim

Years later, a mystic phone call makes her to wonder,
did she bury her sweetheart Kaitos bullet-ridden body?
Then she had no time to think she had strangled her baby
image, killed her innocence and then gunned down the
responsible army officers.
Drawn up against the backdrop of Naga freedom struggle,
in which, thousands sacrificed their lives, wives became
widows and children became orphans
NAGALIM... the Smoldering slopes !

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469171296

Suvo Moitro

Suvo Moitro, author of “Boundless Bondage” and “Nagalim: A Saga of Love and Sacrifice” available on Amazon.com and other sites, was born in India, and now lives in Greenbelt, U.S.A. An engineer by training, he has worked and lived in India, England, Canada and U.S. He writes fiction based on facts, characters and places he had come across. www.suvomoitro.com

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Copyright © 2012 by SUVO MOITRO.

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www.SuvoMoitro.com

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012903276

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-7128-9

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-7127-2

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-7129-6

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Prelude

Chapter: 01 Zippo

Chapter: 02 Shirley Deported

Chapter: 03 The Bus Stand

Chapter: 04 Collecting Pebbles

Chapter: 05 CMorung Days

Chapter: 06 Sekrenyi

Chapter: 07 Red Rhododendrons

Chapter: 08 Recruiting Rebels

Chapter: 09 A Sudden Whisper

Chapter: 10 The Banks of Brahmaputra

Chapter: 11 The Guerrilla Warfare

Chapter: 12 The Training Camp

Chapter: 13 Twinkling Fireflies

Chapter: 14 The Rebel Attack

Chapter: 15 The Check-Post Lockup

Chapter: 16 Brigadier Sharma

Chapter: 17 The Vengeful Nervous Night

Chapter: 18 Kamakhya Temple

Chapter: 19 Flickering Butter-Lamp

Chapter: 20 Sara Sema Ao

Chapter: 21 An Open Casket

Chapter: 22 The Barren Corridor

Chapter: 23 Rehana Rahman

Chapter: 24 Major Sinha

Chapter: 25 The Next Stop

Chapter: 26 Sergeant Borde

Chapter: 27 Adieus Calcutta

Chapter: 28 Alicia Returns

Chapter: 29 The Dilapidated House

Give me again my hollow

Tree,

A crust of bread and Liberty.

ALEXANDER POPE

To those who lost their lives . . .

Acknowledgement :

Khukithulie Zeliang, Jalukie, who may never read this book. She lend me a bed in her shack to sleep during my visit to disturbed place, Nagaland in 2001 and her two other friends, whose name I do not remember after all these years. They took me around the village . . . to the barren church and the homes with graves of their beloved. These all form the backdrop of various chapters of this novel. The villagers, some Kithulie’s relatives, some Hareka workers, who came to greet me with a pan of Zu, Naga country liquor. I did not forget anyone of you. Wherever you are this book is dedicated to you.

Also to Dr. Bhattacharji (Dimapur) who arranged my stay with Khukithulie Zeliang. Mon (don’t remember her last name) and Elisa Medhi, (last known lecturer at Cotton College), Guwahati, who took me around the town and Kamakhyaya Temple, where Shri Dharinikanto DebSharma was our priest. I have stolen just his name.

It has been 12 years since I visited Jalukie, in Nagaland . . . so forgive me for forgetting the names of many who helped me . . . . their photo which I still have reminds me of them . . . of a hobo on that rain soaked shopping parlor, the girls sitting on the verandah of a church, mute graves in one’s courtyard, the bus stand of Jalukie, the campus of Cotton College . . .

PS: If any of my readers know any one of them they may write to my email address.

[e-mail]

Prelude

Pallbearers stepped out. They were gently bringing a casket down the steep steps of a row house on London’s East End. In the midst of unusual scorching rays of afternoon sun, several people gathered to pay their final farewell—a last homage. They were waiting for this moment . . . they were waiting to witness passage of a chapter in the history of mankind—a passage that may soon be buried under oblivion. They stood in profound silence. The casket was coming down step by step. A shiny coffin van, which had been waiting on the curb since midday, was wiped, shined and kept r3eady by its proud owner. There was no rush. The British Airways, which is to carry the casket, would fly out at just after midnight. Moments passed. And then someone in the assemblage shouted Inquilab! A few responded, Zindabad! Then a few more joined and then a few more.

InquIlab Zindabad!

Long Live Kaito Kevi!

Amar Rahen Kaito Kevi Ao! Long Live Kaito Kevi!

Earlier, George Wise, Kaito Kevi’s next-door humpback neighbor, was strolling back home from the Upton Park tube station. He had been there to collect his old age pension. He whistled along the sidewalk, trampling on strewn eucalyptus leaves, scattered and heaped up by the autumn wind. As he took a turn he stalled and started to pace out the long queue in front of his neighbor’s house. There were people of all colors and shapes, some with caps and some without. The line spiraled along over half of the block.

George Wise knew his neighbor had been gravely ill. Could he have kicked the bucket last night? He wondered. May be he had. In fact, while on his way out this morning, George had noticed a few pensive faces hanging around their door. But he had been in a rush.

But, where did all these people come from?

To the best of his knowledge, his neighbor was neither a knight nor a head of state; neither was he a man of awards nor was he a wealthy man leaving behind a large estate. Or was he? But so many couldn’t just be related to him? Could they? He continued ponder. Little did George know that these men, standing in reverence, were waiting to bid a final farewell to a man they revered, to a man they loved. They were there to be a part of a short paragraph of Naga history, perhaps an unwritten chapter in the history of Nagalim.

Swallowing his curiosity, George picked up his pace and scurried past the line of people to his house. In fact, it had taken him over two years of evening walks before he first spoke to his neighbor. No one had introduced the two. But on one fateful evening, it suddenly started to rain. His neighbor had taken him under his benevolent umbrella to spare his checkered flat cap from the downpour. And, within the cramped corridor, they made each other’s acquaintance for the first time. Yet today, he could not raise the courage to ask one of these unknowns to explain exactly what was happening. The growing curiosity within him was bulging his stomach to its fullest, the curiosity that he could hardly digest.

*****

To her utter surprise, Alicia Sema was in the company of a man in a black two-piece suit and matching tie exaggerated in contrast by the pressed white shirt which served as a backdrop to a somber scene. Rimless glasses matched his well-groomed hair. His polished and pointed shoes rested the fold of his pants with the slightest bulge. This man, who was ushered in, introduced himself as the Second Attaché to Indian High Commission, London. He handed Alicia a letter of condolence, signed personally by the High Commissioner, on the sad demise of her husband—the person who was in his final rest, cozy inside his casket, placed on a table in the center of the entrance hall of the meager townhome.

Startled Alicia read the letter; turning it over out of reflex and habit: a condolence letter on behalf of the government—signed by its highest representative in the country, expressing bereavement on the demise of a person who, when alive, was chased from one jungle hideout to another; the same government which wanted to take the man, dead or alive, and had labeled him as most wanted.

Alicia Sema had just her first cup of coffee since her childhood sweetheart tried to smile at her one last time before he shut his eyes for good. She listened to the man’s proposal quietly, while reading the letter once again to be sure, and then said, Thank you, but no thanks. That would not be what he would have wished.

Ma’am, I would advise you to think it over, the Second Attaché spoke up. Who has seen tomorrow, ma’am? Maybe one day his dreams will be fulfilled. A new autonomous Nagalim may be established, where the sun would rise first across the Indian subcontinent. And on that day, it may not be possible to dig out the casket, out his grave in a London cemetery, and carry it over to his promised land. He paused and cleared his voice, and continued, "And, again, who are we to deprive him of going back to his own land; the land he so adored? It was never the land that went against him. His land loved him dearly. It never wanted to part with him for a single moment. It is us: We humans, to fulfill our ambitions and plans, move people out of their homelands to take it for ourselves. But, the faithful motherland never does."

The Second Attaché paused, It’s you, madam, who has to give permission to let us fly him to Nagaland, his motherland, and bury him in the place he devoted his whole life. The government may not have agreed with his path, but it never looked down on him at any moment. Though he was an enemy of the government, he was still a freedom fighter. The people of his state are eagerly waiting for him to return. He is their own—their very own.

A few leaders of the Nagalim Freedom Fighter Movement, who had been permanently settled in England and maintained close contact with their leader Kaito Kevi Ao were able to persuade Alicia to agree to accompany the body to Nagaland. Uneasily, she assented.

George Wise continued to peep through the curtains, noting the movement in front and around his neighbor’s house. Should I walk out and ask? Stuck by the window, he tried to gather the courage to walk down. And then he could resist it no longer. He came out as the pallbearers brought down the casket. Yes, it’s him. He removed his flat cap and crossed his heart by reflex as they put the casket in the van amidst shouting and chanting.

Long live our leader!! Long live Kaito Kevi Ao!!

A man, who seemed to hold some form of authority and stood beside George, cast a stern glance at him as he crossed his heart. George’s temporary bravery shriveled like the eucalyptus leaves around his feet. He mumbled with an apologetic smile, Was he a Christian, Hindu, or Muslim?

While the man continued to stare without answering, George muttered, Uh . . . I am . . . um, that is, was his neighbor.

The man frowned as he stared at George for a moment and then blustered, It does not matter. A dead man has no religion, no color, caste, or creed. A dead is a dead.

Amidst the growing chants, the van rolled out.

Chapter: 01

Zippo

A patched olive green van came hurtling down hill at dusk. It suddenly swerved and came to a screeching halt. A chasm yawned on the other side of the road.

Come on . . . shouted the driver.

Two men in uniform hopped out and rushed to the rear. They dragged out what looked like a battered body from the back. The torso slipped for a moment but they steadied it. They walked over to by the edge and then flung it over the cliff.The body rolled and slithered down. And then it got stuck in the wild bushes on the slope.The men scanned the surrounding area. The deserted country road was quiet and dark. Satisfied, they jumped back as the van started to roll down the slope and then it sped off. The body, wrapped up in blood clotted torn shirt, lay off the edge of the country road as the enigmatic night continued.

A distant bulldozer’s rumbling came reverberating through the surrounding quiescent mountain. The noise, mingled with chirruping of birds formed a white noise. It was an eerie silence. It was an integral part of the high land. The mountains haphazardly scrambled around each other. The sun was high, the body still. The disgusted stems and wild bushes of the swamp which refused to give way the night before remained partly crushed beneath the dead weight. But, the abundant supply of a cool, crisp breeze, which blew across the endless valley, began to resuscitate the man.

The blaze pierced through the scattered openings of the bushy trees. It smeared the spot where he lay. He squinted as he tried to open his eyes. It has been long since he had opened them last. Few cotton clouds; white and squashy, were drifted sluggishly in the clear blue. A marsh turtle waded its way up to him. It came to see if he cared. He did not. He closed his burning eyes, laid still, camouflaged by the jungle green by his smudged dress and wild bushes.

The sun continued to occasionally peep through the floating clouds. Not that it intended to dry the imbedded moisture on the ground caused by the last rain. It just did. The day warmed. The man’s head throbbed with pain, splitting it apart. A part still wet with oozing blood. It refused to clot. Some wounds were still fresh and the cuts delicate. He touched to feel, an animal instinct. Again, he forced opened his eyes. He tried to work himself upright as a new sensation took precedence over the pain: hunger.

Further below was a mountain creek—sparkling, cool, fresh, glistening. The creek gently meandered down the acclivity of the slope, dislodging stones that blithely rolled down with the late monsoon stream.

The place bore a resemblance to something familiar. He could not remember when he last was in such a place. Try as he might, the memories would not come back. In fact, he could remember nothing at all. How did I land here? Hunger disrupted his thoughts; his brain holding them ransom for food. He looked around: the slopes across the narrow valley cut into the earth by the flowing river, the flat farmland on the steppe of the hills—it all looked familiar, yet not the same.

He was felt he was from these hills. But, he did not care. He dragged his ailing and aching body towards the rippling water. The sharp edges of scattered stones hurt his swollen feet; both imbued with blood clots and scabs.

A light, marshy grass skirted the stones, large and small. He tiptoed his way towards the glimmering waters, frail and fragile. He squatted down by the stream, scooped, gargled, spat out dry saliva, and drank deeply. He watched the stream rippling by and drank again.

He panned the horizon. The other end of the creek was lumps of dwarf mounds. Far beyond the mounds was the crest of a towering mountain. He drank another handful; the sparkling cool liquid squelched his throat. It drained the sludge that had coagulated and cooled his burning innards. He splashed it about his face, head and body. The splash hugged and freshen him but it woke up his wounds, burning instantly and incessantly. But the continuing cool breeze caressed his ruptured body; made severe pain and burning bearable. He was getting used to it now. He was still hungry.

He looked around to position himself within the immense expanse of wilderness, the babbling of ripples and rustling leaves. The sun drooped a little off its pinnacle. It was mild.

The daunting mountain beyond the creek was no more than a distant smudge on the horizon. But, he could see a pathway, a paved road, which spiraled along the breast of the mountain. He waded across the creek and scampered up the bushy slope towards the road. His hunger pushed him forward.

He remembered a stifling tiny room—with walls crammed, rude and rough, damp and suffocating. He was hanging on a grilled gate at one end for fresh air. Across from him, there were a bunch of uniformed, apathetically antagonizing men. Who were they? How did I get there? They hung him and slogged his body. His armpit and muscles were taut and swollen, causing pain as he dragged him toward the mountain. Relentlessly, he trekked on, inching towards the tarred road in the distance. He could no longer see it, but knew it was there.

The sarcastic sun, playing hide-and-seek, went behind the clouds again. It did not pose an eminent threat of thundershower or even a drizzle. It does not drizzle this time of the year. It just pours with a flash across the dark, dusky sky. But today the chances of any downpour were slim. The wind, which had started to intensify, would blow away any meager overcast to clear open the face of simpering sun. But then, you never know. He did not want to think.

He plodded through the calamity of unruly stems and wild bushes, skidding and trampling along the strewn leaves and innocuous and naïve wild saplings. Will I ever find that road? He stopped to look up again. He could not see the road. He pressed on his battered legs, but his smashed ankles gave up. He slumped down and lost his senses.

He lay there. His shirt, which he dampened at the creek, had dried and clung to his skin. He was still breathing, ever so softly; saliva secreted sluggishly between his parted lips, further wetting the moist grass, strewn leaves, and stems beneath him.

He was within striking distance of the elusive road, which came down girdling a bend from up the hill and then went down past him to disappear abruptly after an acute turn. A handful of jeeps and one truck laden with an army platoon patrolling the area crisscrossed the hillside as the clouds started to gather together like a rioting mob in a futile attempt to threaten the craggy slopes. A few birds continued to hop, from one tree to the next, searching, picking, and chirruping.

*****

We should have buried the body ourselves and not depended on the shepoys alone. These days, the shepoys may bite back at any time if they get a chance, and when it comes to an officer torturing and liquidating a militant, they will keep it all recorded and use it if they need to hold you at ransom.

The commandant of the unit, Lieutenant Colonel Bharve, who was pacing from one wall to the other, took a deep drag of his tobacco pipe and spoke openly to his subordinate, Captain Prasad. The colonel wondered if it was he who hit the body last. Perhaps by the time he hit the man, he was already dead. Was he?

The man was hung upside-down when he took over. He had to. His worthless men could not make the fellow speak. The fellow was not responding to his interrogations either. Maybe he could no longer answer. Maybe the fellow was already dead. But it was too late to think of the consequences. He ordered his men to bring him down and carry the body away to a far away remote location and bury it.

The Colonel, a man in his thirties, was a commissioned direct recruit officer. He had climbed the ranks fast due to his intelligence and accurate decision-making power. Yet, that arrogant, stubborn, silent man had riled his temper. Now, the officers were waiting for their men to return. What is taking them so long?

"But, sir, as per the message received from headquarters, I instructed our men to drop him by a roadside near a village. And, I checked, sir. He was not dead. He was still breathing. He is one hell of a tough guy—a rebel leader. He was transferred to our check-post from our maximum-security jail in Ahmedabad under a heavy security cordon, sir," said Captain Prasad.

Will he survive? the colonel felt guilty.

He surely will, sir. I instructed the men to simply roll the body a few feet from the curb so the people walking back from their farms don’t find him too soon; not until our men return to the check-post.

Why didn’t you tell me about the message? Colonel frowned.

You came in and went straight to the interrogation chamber, sir. And by the time that peon told me you were there, you had already asked them to bring him down, Captain Prasad said. And that being classified communication I could not inform you through any of our peons, sir. And with the number of media ladies from the NGO Human Rights organizations spying on us, I did not want them to see us dropping a battered body. They’d be down here in a heartbeat to interview us and take statements. And then the news paper would flash . . . ‘Atrocities of the Ruling Party’ Captain Prasad simpered, and paused abruptly as an orderly came in with cups of tea.

And we kept no records of the fellow being transferred to this post. Captain Prasad continued between sips of simmering tea. The man is a senior rebel leader, adored and loved by the whole community, sir.

I still think we should have been slightly more careful. You might have apprised me of the memo before I started interrogating him. Colonel Bharve returned to his chair.

Sir, the Captain spoke out, I am told the man was a firebrand leader and an extremely dangerous one at that. So, he was kept at the high-security prison in Ahmedabad. A man of his size and strength would be able to sustain a bit of a beating and may have undergone such treatment many times before, mature Captain took a pause, We should not worry about him anymore. There is no record of him being here, so it does not matter. He paused again to give his boss a chance to speak, but Colonel did not.

The ceiling fan continued rotating slothfully. The two 100-watt bulbs did barely illuminate the room with an enigmatic gleam. The two officers continued on, on their seat of authority, tensed up with trouble and distress.

Sir, they bought few chickens from the market today, and I asked the kitchen make quite a spicy dish of it, Captain Prasad said in an eased but forced tone, trying to sound normal and calm. "Would you like plain roti or paratha to go along with it?" he asked. They knew there was no use thinking about the inevitable—life must always go on.

Paratha, Col Bharve responded. As hard as he tried to forget it, the commandant continued to ponder the fate of the dead man. He shook his head in disbelief.

Sir, don’t worry, Captain Prasad reassured him. He knew his young boss, the commanding officer, was still wondering if he had delivered the final and fatal blow. In any case, sir, we will do the mock firing around ten tonight; our same old ritual. The villagers know that means we are chasing an escaped prisoner. So, if they find a dead body, they won’t be surprised. And, if the body turns up tomorrow, the media will write a report; if not, they will ignore the incident altogether.

*****

A few curious sets of eyes encircled the unconscious man on the floor of the veranda. A makeshift tent, strung over a bamboo beam supporting the thatched roof, prevented any splashing rainwater from dripping on the man. His torn shirt was dry but still stuck in his wounds. The blood smears, lacerations, scrapes, and scabs were visual proof of his beating. None of the onlookers knew why; they postulated about family vendettas and other potential reasons. Whatever the reason was, he had managed to escape. He was alive, still, but barely.

The man, having been carried into the house unconsciously by the locals who happened come across him along the roadside, finally opened his eyes. The men surrounding the bloodied body, speaking in hushed tones, were unfamiliar to him. He did not want to confuse them by asking who they were. He could not have answered any questions, regardless—he did not even know who he was.

He tried to think but gave up. He was still too weak to think or to speak. An old man was applying ointment to his delicate and still-oozing wound. He closed his own eyes to avoid the sets of silent, curious eyes that ogled him continuously.

And, then he heard an unmistakably authoritative timbre, sternly advising one of the onlookers: Give him something to eat and let him sleep. After he does eat, give him this mixture. It will help him sleep. I will come back later to dress his wounds.

Let me take you to the gate, spoke another unseen voice. Then there was silence.

For a long while, he lye there. After some time, he opened his eyes again. He looked about his surroundings, confused and puzzled. When finally he could muster the strength to think clearly, his only thought was, Where am I? No . . . Who am I? He closed his eyes again and surrendered him to the situation.

It did not rain for a few days now. The rescued man was getting better. His wounds were healing; some already had. Pain had reduced at some places, or perhaps he was just getting used to it. But still, he did not know who he was or how he ended up there. The last thing that he remembered was a mountain creek rippling along downhill in the midst of stones strewn all around, steep slopes going up on the other side, and wild bushes all around. He recalled dragging himself to the stream to slake his overwhelming thirst. But he did not tell them that, for they did not ask

An army van worked its way up the stifling pathway. It entered the sprawling courtyard of the house which doubled as a makeshift hospital for the injured man. The rumbling engine alerted the residents to its presence. The rescued man rushed to the window and peered out. He purposefully—out of reflex and instinct—looked around his room.

The van halted in the center of the courtyard. An officer stepped out and took a short stroll, casually banging his baton on his side, scrutinizing the house and its surroundings. The officer exchanged greetings with the house patriarch; who had come out to greet him. They spoke for a while before the van started its engine again. The patriarch stepped back awash in worry, as the van rolled out.

As the van disappeared out of sight, the rescued man opened his window and took in his surroundings. The morning was still ripe, the sun’s rays courteously basking most of the courtyard in its warmth. A group of coquettish pigeons returned; ignoring the discord, they resumed picking, flirting, and hopping from one spot to another.

How do you feel now, Zipoo? the patriarch of the family, a benevolent and aristocratic man, asked as he walked in. The nameless, rescued man had heard people around the household referring to him by the name Zipoo. He did not know how they had arrived at the name, but he liked it. It was nice . . .

Much better, sir. Zipoo tried to pull up a smile.

I see you are walking around a bit with Mowli. The man looked around his room. That’s good. It will help you to recover.

Yes, sir. I should good to go by tomorrow, Zipoo hesitated as he remembered he did not know where he was let alone where he would go.

No. No. I did not mean in that sense. You are can stay here to recover further before you go. I don’t think they will return soon. The man consoled and then added,  . . . unless someone is waiting for you or you have to go now.

Zipoo smiled . . . a hesitant despondent smile. He had no place to go.

The physician, who came to check up on Zipoo occasionally, saw many winters in his time. The doctor advised him not to speak to any outsider. Zipoo did not. Little Mowli, a lower caste boy, who helped him recoup, became his friend, and it was Mowli who on his own told him whatever he wanted to know. Mowli did not ask him anything, neither did he ask Mowli.

And so, Zipoo’s life continued.

Chapter: 02

Shirley Deported

I am giving this movement another year. And, if you are not allowed to return by then or our lawyers cannot get a judgment in our favor, I promise to call it quits and come to England with Alicia. I swear it, Albert Sema affirmed. Amidst the buzzing with excited passengers, and humming with the vast assembly of well wishers and loved one, at the Calcutta airport, Albert held his sobbing wife, Shirley, tightly in his arms to console her.

Shirley continued sobbing. She did not want him to swear, she wanted him to remember. Her voice choked on her words. She had nothing else to add. Shirley had no choice but to keep her faith in justice. She carried a glint of hope that the judges would reconsider their verdict of deportation for her. They would surely take into consideration her nuptials with a local and her having bore a child within the borders of the country—not solely on the basis of her having a British passport, which many of natives would still be carrying. The lawyers, too, opined similarly. He also confirmed that they would appeal the verdict as soon as she left the country.

Shirley left little Alicia in the care of Muchi-ma—the toddler a living reminder of Albert’s promise; a vow he reaffirmed on that fateful afternoon of Shirley’s departing flight. Shirley plodded towards the boarding gate. Albert stood at the edge of the immigration checkpoint. Shirley stopped and looked back one final time before slowly walking up the steps into the aircraft. She somberly wondered, Will this be the lasting image I’ll carry of my beloved for rest of her life?

Shirley wiped away her tears with hopes of seeing Albert more clearly. But she could not. The passengers were ushered into the waiting aircraft. The plane closed its door, the steps moved back and it began to taxi away towards the take off position; away from Albert and Alicia. Albert watched the aircraft speed its way down the tarmac. All too quickly, it took to the sky, gained altitude, and disappeared through the clouds of the western sky. Albert leaned against the rail, staring at the clouds for some time before he walked back through the bustling airport lounge.

*****

The town of Stirling sits in the heart of Scotland, within the tranquility of mountains, lochs, and far away from the roaring shores of Atlantic. An ancient town built around a a daunting castle on the hills, it was known as the Gateway to the Highlands. Stirling was where Shirley Bronson grew up, amongst her friends, patronized and spoiled by her grandmother. When her husband passed away, the grandmother came over to help her daughter, Shirley’s mother, raise young Shirley.

Shirley Bronson grew up oblivious to the issues facing the country. Yet, there were times she quieted her noisy, childish play and listened to the radio broadcasts with her mother and grandma. The newscast played excerpts from the German Chancellor’s speeches—Adolph Hitler. Shirley, naïve teenager, couldn’t figure her mother and grandmother’s apprehension over the news clips; nor did she have any idea how any of it related to her father’s homecoming with chocolates from Kings Cross, London.

Shirley, along with her friends, would perform a daily routine of traveling to the Black Boy Fountain and Gardens, and then up the cobbled streets and alleyways of Old Town to Stirling Castle. Some days, they would walk down Baker Street, and then to the railway station to watch the engines gasping and emitting smoke. The engineman would tell the station attendants and anyone else who was in earshot, the latest news from the Front he had picked up in Edinburgh. The news broke first in Edinburgh; it took more than a day to trickle down to the tiny, sleepy town.

Shirley continued to grow up amidst the serene backdrop of the congenial hamlet of Stirling, surrounded by enchanting Scottish hills and eerie lochs. By the time of her graduation from junior school, Shirley was growing taller by the month and perhaps because of all the walking up and down the streets, more shapely, while blustery wind at hilltop castle esplanade ruffled her blonde, fluffy hair.

The eight-grade girls’ class took a fieldtrip to the mystic Linlithgow Palace. They walked the ruins of the palace, and looked in on St. Michael’s Church. It was there, Shirley and her friends watched with great interest, as a bride stepped out from a Rolls Royce in an exquisite white bridal gown and tiptoed into the church. The gregarious guards whispered to the children, "If