Many political prisoners voluntarily offered to help Vinayak when he was enduring the kolhu. Despite the strict orders from the authorities, they sometimes washed his clothes or cleaned his drinking pot and dinner plate. Without their knowledge, Vinayak would wash their clothes or help them, which they protested about. They considered him their leader and did not approve of him serving them in any way. The warmth and camaraderie that these gentle souls displayed even in such trying circumstances moved Vinayak immensely. They would surreptitiously communicate with people living in the cell below them by putting their sleeping planks straight up, beneath the window, perch atop it and talk. If a jamadar or warder were spotted walking past, they would throw themselves down from this height of twelve feet. They also rang the bars of their cell with their dining plates to initiate conversation; it was their uniquely coded ‘telephone system’.
Eminent Marathi writer and humourist Purushottam Lakshman Deshpande spoke about the sufferings that Vinayak endured during his speech at Cellular Jail on the occasion of Vinayak’s birth centenary in 1983:
You have probably read what punishments he suffered in Andaman, from his book My Transportation for Life. However I am certain that, in this book, he has not described even 10 per cent of what he actually suffered, because he did not want pity or sympathy from us, neither did he want people to react and merely say, ‘My God, what horrors Savarkar suffered.’ He wanted youngsters to react and say, ‘I too am prepared to suffer like Savarkar for our nation. 28
Dinner was served to the convicts before five in the evening. Even while they were trying to gulp down the unpalatable food, a jamadar would pace the corridor, showering abuses and reminding them that if they did not finish their daily quota they would be in for trouble. They held their fist ‘upon our nose and explained with vehement emphasis that our nose would be flattened out with blows, if we did not work properly’. 29 The punishment also involved the jamadar’s kicks and fisticuffs, in addition to a bludgeoning received from his stick. The very thought of this made many of them drop their food and get back to their labour. Out of a hundred, it was only one with a truly strong body who could manage to extract the mandated daily quota of coconut oil. For most people, it took at least two days. The day ended with horror for most people, as they anxiously watched the weighing machine. Invariably, their output would fall short of the quota and they would end with a battering from a jamadar. Most people returned to their cells with tears in their eyes and groaning in pain. ‘I see their weeping faces,’ writes Vinayak, ‘vividly even to this day.’ 30
Often, Barrie would be there at the weighing scene at the end of the day and would order the prisoner that he needed to continue the kolhu through the night till he finished his daily quota. He brought his chair and sat in front of them, taking great pleasure in seeing them almost fall off as they continued to work the mill. Work usually carried on for some unfortunate souls, including Vinayak, till 8 or 9 p.m. on such occasions, even as the rest of the jail went quiet. Slipping in and out of his sleep and snores, as he sat inspecting them, Barrie would hurl abuses and occasionally call the jamadar to cane errant prisoners.
Barrie often came to Vinayak and admonished him that he should be ashamed of himself for extracting so little oil while others managed much more. To this, Vinayak would angrily retort:
Yes, you are right; I must be ashamed of it. But when? If I had been inured to hard physical labour like him from my early childhood . . . let him compose a sonnet in an hour. I will do it for you in half an hour. You will not, on that account, be justified in crying shame upon that prisoner; you cannot say that he had shirked the work. He can well retort, ‘No body taught me the art of poetry in my childhood. Hence you cannot expect me to do it now.’ You employ in your office unlettered peasants, robbers and dacoits for writing work. If they do not speak fine English like you, surely enough, you do not blame them. And they are not ashamed of that drawback. Equally I need not be ashamed if I cannot turn out as much work from the oil-mill as my next-door prisoner does. Those really are to be ashamed of it who yoke intellectuals like us to the oil-mill, and employ hodmen [sic] to do the work of a desk. They fail both ways, for they do not get the best out of either. 31
Many young men who were unaccustomed to this level of physical toil fell ill and preferred death to this work. If they complained of ill health, they were often accused of feigning, locked up in their cells and never taken to the hospital even when they burned with high fever. Many political prisoners had to continue with the kolhu even through their high fever or diarrhoea. The doctor too was petrified of Barrie and seldom reported the truth about a prisoner’s condition. Serious illnesses of prisoners were concealed, despite the doctor knowing about them. To avoid the back-breaking work, many prisoners went to the extent of infecting themselves with other ailments and diseases. As Vinayak notes:
‘Give me medicine for fever and diarrhoea!’ When any prisoner asked this favour of another in a suppressed voice and with a dejected mind, it did not imply that he demanded mixture to drive out these maladies, but to induce them into him. A man, it was reported, gets high fever if he swallows the paste of Kanheri roots; another told me that the easiest way to get loose continuous motions, with blood in them, was to drink the paste of red berries called Gunja . If a thread soaked in some liquid—I forgot which—were sewn into a wound, another said, the wound remained raw and open for six months on end. This was the talk of the prison. And if I questioned the authenticity of these reports, they told me that the medicines were tried and found effective for these purposes. Prisoners, put on the oil-mill or sent out to cut down the jungles or detailed to pick oakum and weave the threads into a coil of rope, were so much done up with the work and felt such a terror for it, that they preferred anything else to going on with it. Hence, they would resort to these dangerous shrubs, roots and berries or would make a wound to their feet, with the scythe they carried, to fall ill and come back into the hospital. They would sow a thread into that wound to keep it from healing. They would prick their throats with a needle and to convince the physician in charge that the blood had come out with their spit and from their chest. Any of these tricks they employed for purposes of escape from the toil under which they were being ground down in their prison-life. Others feigned madness, and, to prove that they were really mad, would besmear their faces with urine and excreta, and, occasionally ate them also. 32
Babarao who was lodged at the same jail and subjected to the kolhu suffered from severe ‘hemicrania continua’—a medical condition marked by chronic and persistent headaches accompanied by sensitivity to light. To add to his woes, the prison food gave him repeated bouts of acute diarrhoea that again went largely untreated. He had griping pain in his stomach and intestines all day. Often, he would end up soiling his entire cell and earn the jamadar’s wrath. Sitting and sleeping amid that squalor further aggravated his health condition. Despite this, Barrie made him work in the hot sun for months together, denying him any medical care. After submitting the diurnal quota of oil at the end of the day, he would totter to his cell and throw himself full length on the wooden plank that served as a bed, groaning all night with pain.
For instance, the condition of the Bengali revolutionary Abinash Chandra Bhattacharji steadily deteriorated. Within hours of beginning the daily chores, by 10 a.m. itself, he would be exhausted and unable to stand. Indu Bhushan Roy was the strongest among them and assisted Abinash when he fell to the ground with exhaustion. Ironically, it was Indu who was among those whose will power was to break in the future due to the excessive tortures meted out to the prisoners.
It was only a matter of time before the pain and suffering of the political convicts boiled over and this it did in the revolt of Nand Gopal, a tall and handsome Punjabi, and the editor of the Swaraj newspaper of Allahabad. 33 This occurred a couple of months after Vinayak’s arrival. At the very outset, when Nand Gopal was taken to the oil mill and forced to accelerate his speed, he stopped and looked the pett
y officer sternly in his eye and said, ‘Sorry! It will not suit me to turn the mill so quickly and all that!’ As a result, by 10 a.m. not even a third of his work had been completed. By that time, most political prisoners would quickly rush down from their cells, swallow their insipid meals and hurry back to the oil mill. Nand Gopal decided to have a leisurely meal. When the warder warned him to get back, he decided to humour him with a long lecture on health and hygiene. He told him it was disastrous for his health to swallow food that way and it needed to be chewed and ground well in order to digest it. It was also a good exercise for the teeth, he added. He was after all a ‘guest of the benign government’ for ten long years and if his health deteriorated it would bring unwanted disrepute to the Crown. Hence, he was taking additional care.
The petty officer was flummoxed and promptly reported the matter to Barrie, who came over and abused him, warning him of severe horsewhips. Nand Gopal smiled and repeated his lesson on medical science. He also quoted the jail manual rules that stated that the time between 10 a.m. and 12 noon was allotted for meals and rest and that he did not wish to breach such a benevolent rule. Barrie went red with rage. But being unused to such insolence he merely fumed and left the place. Nand Gopal finished his meal and while the petty officer thought he would resume his work, he coolly went back to his cell for a little nap. Any abuse or reprimands made no impact on him, as he stretched and feigned deep sleep. He got up at 12 noon, turned the mill for another hour or so, and when he saw that he had extracted half the day’s quota, he tied up the rest of the coconuts in the sack and quietly sat down. When asked who would do the rest of the work, he nonchalantly replied: ‘Whoever likes, let him do it. I am not a bullock certainly that I should turn the mill the whole day. The ration I get per day is not worth even one anna and a half, then how should I grind 30 lbs. of oil?’ 34 The shocked superintendent saw that there was no hope of getting the quota from Nand Gopal. He was shut in his cell till further orders.
This went on for nearly a month. Worried that the virus of resistance and revolt might spread among the batch of men who were prone to being rebellious, Barrie summoned Nand Gopal to his chamber to strike a compromise. He was told that if he did the work for four full days without dereliction, he would be released from the oil mill for good. Nand Gopal agreed and he was duly released from the tiring work.
But his freedom was short-lived. A few days later, he was put to a bigger mill and when he refused, the consequences were fetters and confinement. A general order was passed that everybody was to grind oil for three full days. The political prisoners realized that if they complied, it would mean that only their corpses would leave Port Blair. Hence, the authorities were met with a mass refusal to obey the order—the first strike that took place in the jail.
But Barrie was not to be deterred by such measures. He took this insolence as a personal insult against his authority. Summoning the prisoners to the courtyard, he berated them:
Listen, ye prisoners! In the Universe there is one God, and He lives in the Heavens above. But in Port Blair there are two: one, the God of Heaven, and another, the God of Earth. Indeed, the God of Earth in Port Blair is myself. The God of Heaven will reward you when you go above. But this God of Port Blair will reward you here and now. So, ye prisoners behave well. You may complain to any superior against me, my word shall prevail; I hold my own. Mind ye well. 35
The punishments became more intense and their food was limited to just tasteless ganji. Ullaskar Dutt, Nand Gopal and Hotilal were made to live on just one pound of ganji, each, twice a day served to them continuously for more than a fortnight without a break, even though the jail rules stipulated that this needed to be served only four times a week. None of these punishments were noted in the prisoners’ ‘jail-tickets’ so as to not leave any record of the atrocities meted out.
Following the strike, some of the prisoners were dispatched for other jobs outside the prison, apparently on lighter work. Barin was sent to work as a labourer under a mason, Ullaskar went to make bricks, a few were sent to the forest department to hew wood, and others to work at the embankment. A few unfortunate prisoners were condemned to be yoked to carriages to carry the jail officials around Port Blair. Many initially thought that being away from the hellish jail conditions would be a whiff of fresh air, but it turned out to be worse. They had to battle rain, storm, heat and poisonous leeches that came out in the monsoons only too often. A good part of their rations were also pilfered by the jail authorities while they were away during the day.
Barrie tried to indulge Vinayak after the strike broke out. He knew that the revolutionaries respected Vinayak. Hence, having him on his side made sense. With his usual tactic of pitting one against another, creating dissensions and gathering intelligence about some of the political prisoners, Barrie tried being cordial and friendly with Vinayak. Regarding the other political prisoners, Barrie would tell him: ‘Mr Savarkar, a man like you ought not to mix with such people. They are a despicable lot. You are a well-bred gentleman. These wretches will go back to their homes after running their term of eight or ten years in this prison, and the world will forget them. That is not so with you. You have to pass here full fifty years of your precious life; and you are no mere political prisoner. You will lose much if you associate with them, go on strike with them, or sympathize with them. Even talking with them is fraught with danger to your future. Whatever you intend to do, do it on your own. You take care of yourself never forgetting your ticket. Do you understand me?’ 36 He often did this in the presence of the other prisoners to humiliate them further.
But this seemed to have had the opposite impact on Vinayak. Also, his repeated reference to the fifty-year term of imprisonment was intended to scare Vinayak. But this constant allusion made him more callous about it. ‘It was,’ Vinayak recounted, ‘like the artillery man for whom the constant sound of the whizzing cannon-ball had ceased to frighten and unnerve.’ 37
Despite several attempts by Barrie, Vinayak never budged, nor did he let down any fellow prisoner or stop his interactions with the others. This enraged Barrie all the more. After Barrie’s angry exit, Vinayak would often console the dejected prisoners who heard this diatribe and expletives that were generously hurled at them by the jailer. ‘Do not feel small,’ he advised them, ‘do not be dispirited by what Mr Barrie said of you in my presence. What he says of you today, he will say of me the day after. Thereby he does not insult you and me: he only insults and degrades himself. We are helpless today, the world holds us in disgrace today, but a day is sure to come when it will honour you, perhaps raise statues to you in this very place where they revile you, and thousands will visit this place to offer their tributes to you as martyrs to the cause.’ 38
Defying the rules, Vinayak stealthily began meeting several of the political prisoners, boosting their morale, and asking them to bear these atrocities with resilience. Many of them began to look up to him with reverence and as their mentor and confidant.
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Right from the time he was convicted to transportation for life in the Andamans, Vinayak was keen to meet his brother who had been here since 1909. Upon reaching the Cellular Jail, he tried making inquiries with a few sympathetic warders and petty officers about Babarao’s whereabouts. He was informed that Barrie had issued peremptory orders from his superiors not to tell him whether his brother was lodged there or not. The structure of the jail and the segregation also ensured that nobody could fathom who else was locked up there. Finally, a warder managed to facilitate a meeting of sorts. He arranged this in the evening when everyone came together for the daily roll-call. Even during this time everyone was not called at the same time, but in batches and in serial order. The order of these batches was left to the warder’s discretion. So, the kind warder managed to send Vinayak’s batch inside at the same time that Babarao was presenting his roll-call for the day.
As Vinayak hurried inside with expectation and anxiety, he saw Babarao just as he was finishing his duty and comin
g out. Their eyes met. They had last met when Vinayak was leaving for London in 1906 and there had been pride and contentment in his eyes about his younger brother’s bright future. To see him in this abject condition, as a fellow prisoner, shattered Babarao completely. The expression and the way his lips parted seemed to be asking why he was here and how he was doing. The warder quickly segregated them, lest swayed by emotions they began speaking to each other, leading to complications with the jail authorities. Seeing his elder brother, who was a father figure to him, in this pitiable condition, broke Vinayak’s heart. The emotional surge seemed to temporarily weaken his resolve to face the terrible conditions of his present with equanimity.
With the help of the warder or otherwise, the brothers managed to exchange notes on scraps of paper. In his note, Babarao lamented that what made his incarceration bearable was the hope that his beloved Tatya would carry on Abhinav Bharat’s work and labour for the motherland. He was shocked to see him there as well; he wondered how he got there, especially because he had last heard that he was in Paris. Babarao had no details about Vinayak’s conviction since correspondences with family were extremely infrequent. He had received vague hints from Wamanrao Joshi, who had also been sent to the Andamans. But he had hoped against hope that these were merely rumours and that Vinayak was safe. But seeing him that evening dashed those hopes. Who would look after Abhinav Bharat now, and their dear younger brother Bal? he wondered.
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