by Anita Anand
His father’s close friendship with Udham Singh had put the family at risk. There was nothing to link him to the Caxton Hall shootings, or any evidence to suggest he had known of Udham’s intent, but still, Indarjit’s mother and father were tense, waiting for a knock on the door, anticipating a police van which would take him away. Years later, when asked if his father might have known what Udham was planning, Lord Indarjit Singh would simply say: ‘I’m pretty sure he did not. If he did . . . I’m not sure he would have talked him out of it. My parents hated O’Dwyer with a passion. In their eyes he was a mass murderer who got away with it.’17
‘It makes no difference to me whatever. Do what you like but I still say I am Mohamed Singh.’18
The meeting between Udham and Detective Inspector John Swain at Brixton Prison was not going well. The smiling man who had sat opposite him in Bow Street Magistrates’ Court had been replaced by a man who was both angry and adamant. Swain had gone to visit Udham in prison to inform him that his true identity had been discovered and his name on the charge sheet would be changing to ‘Udham Singh’ accordingly. To say the news had been badly received was an understatement.
Udham demanded pencil and paper so that he might write a formal letter to Swain’s superior. In it, he asked for certain personal items from his flat. The letter simultaneously revealed his belligerence and his lack of formal schooling: ‘Will you please send my cigarettes with which I have in my passition [possession] and 1 shirt long-sleeve and 1 Indian Shoe.’19
In an implied taunt to the police, suggesting he had been doing a lot of running to keep one step ahead of them all these years, he requested a new pair of shoes from his flat, the old pair having lost their heels because they had been ‘left buzy [busy] with your Police’.20
Udham also asked if he might have his turban and a pair of cotton trousers from his flat, to wear while he was in prison: ‘The hat do not suit me as I am a Indian.’21
Taunting over, Udham came to the crux of his letter: the matter of his name and his meeting with Swain: ‘[I] like to tell you one thing do not try to change my name what so ever I have given to you my name is Mohamed Singh Azad I do not care if any one say any thing let them go to hell But I want to keep my name I have told your man they came to see me . . . do what so ever you like But don’t change my name.’ Signing the letter, he added a postscript: ‘All over the world I am called by Mohamed Singh Azad MSA .’22
His request for the charge sheet to remain in the name of Mohamed Singh Azad was flatly refused. As were all his repeated requests for a change of clothes and shoes. An internal letter from Inspector Swain to his superintendent explained the grounds upon which he should be turned down: ‘The shoes [at his flat in Mornington Terrace] are of sandal type . . . he also asked for his turban. His object then was to dress up and give the case added political appearance.’23
Udham did not know, but herculean efforts were underway to rob him of any connection to his true motive. Even his sandals were contentious.
The police in India and England were rounding up Udham’s friends and acquaintances. One pedlar, who had no connection with him at all, was arrested simply for having the word ‘Azad’ written on his suitcase.24 Others reported being roughed up and threatened by police. It would have been much easier for men like Dr Diwan Singh, Shiv Singh Johal and Surat Ali to walk away from Udham in the days after the shootings, but they remained fiercely loyal.
Their steadfastness galvanised those who had been afraid immediately after the arrest, and about a week later, pedlars, dock workers and the Indian doctor fraternity started to come out of the shadows. They seem seized by a collective anger and shame. How could they back away from a man who had done what many of them had dreamed of doing themselves?
Pedlars offered what little money they could for their old friend’s defence via the Shepherd’s Bush Gurdwara. Surat Ali also started collecting money, mainly from ship workers around the East End. Udham’s old Ghadar friends in California mobilised too, and cash started pouring into the radical Stockton Gurdwara.
With a trial bearing down on them fast, there was building anxiety in the highest echelons of the British government. What if Udham Singh turned his court proceedings into a political spectacle, stirring up Indians in general and Punjabis in particular? In a top-secret memo, never meant to see the light of day, somebody of significance in the security services, perhaps Kell himself, or Vickery of the IPI, sought to discuss strategy with his peers across departments:
Experience of political-criminal trials in India gives rise to expectations that UDHAM SINGH will do all he can to make political capital out of his crime. There are already some indications that this is his intention. Realising that nothing can save him from the gallows, possibly wanting to pose as a martyr, he may be expected to adopt an air of complete assurance – even insolence – and to indulge in a good deal of bravado, to play up to the gallery and generally to make himself out to be a hero. He is probably hoping that his behaviour in court will receive wide publicity, partly to encourage Indians both in this country and at home to commit similar crimes and partly to impress the English public with the intensity of the popular movement in India for the removal of British rule.
The unsigned note continued:
A great deal will depend on the counsel engaged to defend him. Their influence, particularly if they are Indian will go far to influence him in his actions in court. If he were being tried in India, he would certainly raise the revolutionary war-cry ‘Inquilab Zindabad!’ (Long Live Revolution!) on arriving and at leaving the court precincts – a brief cry of defiance hurled at the judge and the whole British Empire. When invited to make a statement he would also spread himself in a political oration – carefully prepared beforehand – enlarging on the evils of the British system of administration of India.
The next few lines of the memo suggested that pressure might be brought to bear on Udham’s defence team. If they were English, it would be easier to persuade them to steer their client away from the political minefield which might blow up the past conduct of the Raj:
If he is wisely advised by his counsel he will probably refrain from such behaviour in an English court, but the possibility cannot be ignored. To guard against the possibility certain steps should be at once taken. The Director of Public Prosecutions should be warned and asked to explain the situation to the court before the case comes up for hearing. Also measures should be adopted to ensure that undue prominence is not given in the press to any heroics in which UDHAM SINGH may indulge. It is presumably possible to limit the number of press representatives, all of whom should be requested to deny the accused the publicity which he may be seeking. The press censors should be informed of the possibilities and put on their guard. All press messages for India and America in particular should receive careful scrutiny.
These methods, though important, would not guarantee success:
Should the prisoner indulge in objectionable conduct, a threat to clear the court and hold the proceedings in camera, with only two or three press representatives present, might prove very effective.
The court room is certain to be crowded and the most interested spectators will be Indians, who may attempt to display manifestations of their sympathy for the accused man. As the possibility of a further ‘spectacular outrage’ being committed in court by some disaffected Sikh cannot be altogether overlooked, Scotland Yard will no doubt take such precautions as are possible to scrutinise those securing admission; the precedent afforded by recent IRA trials may prove useful.
Finally, the unsigned memo acknowledged the link between the Jallianwala Bagh massacre and Udham Singh’s actions, something that the British government would strenuously deny in public: ‘The anniversary of “Jallianwalabagh” [sic] will fall on 13 April and arrangements are in train for the holding of commemoration meetings both in the West End and in east London. It would be advisable to avoid holding the trial on this date.’25
Albert Canning, chief consta
ble of police and head of Special Branch, bridled at some of the tactics being suggested: ‘I will let you know the name of the counsel briefed to defend Singh as soon as I learn it,’ he said, adding:
The problem of curtailing press activity . . . is a difficult one. Any attempt to limit the privileges of press representatives at court is bound to be followed by an outcry, and even if there were only one or two agency reporters allowed in, their reports would be circulated to all the papers. The press and censorship department of the Ministry of Information can, however, control messages regarding the matter sent abroad, but this is a very thorny question.26
Canning stood alone. All other branches of the security services agreed with the two-pronged strategy of muting the press and undermining Udham’s defence. Philip Vickery and Cecil Silver started making back-channel approaches to editors and encouraging operatives to find out which lawyers Udham’s friends were approaching.
Courting the press proved easy. The largest independent news agency in the world, Reuters, which would be providing copy to most newspapers in Britain, agreed not to report anything politically incendiary, nor to connect Udham’s act with the freedom struggle in his country or the massacre. A coded telegram from the secretary of state for India to his viceroy confirmed the English press at least had been effectively muzzled: ‘Udham Singh’s trial. Arrangements have been made with Reuters and we will do what may be possible in conjunction with Censorship Bureau here in regard to messages through other channels. As however we can give no guarantee it is presumed that careful censorship will be exercised at your end in relation to messages from correspondents of Indian newspapers.’27
With the press coverage taken care of, it was time to focus more closely on Udham’s defence.
* * *
* In Indian households, friends of parents are called ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’ even if there is no blood relationship.
CHAPTER 23
TRIAL AND TRIBULATION
All his life Vengalil Krishnan Krishna Menon divided opinion bitterly. A graduate of the London School of Economics, he had studied under Harold Laski, the only dissenting juror in the O’Dwyer vs Nair libel case of 1924. Laski described Menon as the keenest mind he had ever come across.
A trained lawyer, Menon was wiry, dark and dapper. His long, tapering face, strong brow, winged nostrils and widely spaced eyes gave him a lupine look. Everything about Krishna Menon suggested a calculating, intelligent intensity. When he smiled, which in photographs was not very often, he looked more hungry than happy.
In 1940, Menon was one of the best-connected Indians in the United Kingdom, boasting close friendships with Jawaharlal Nehru, the future Prime Minister of India, and many of the top cadre of the Indian National Congress. Thanks to a foray into British publishing in the 1930s, editing the Bodley Head’s Twentieth Century Library series and founding the Pelican imprint for Penguin, he had also nurtured warm associations with the left-wing cultural and political elite of Great Britain. Bertrand Russell, Aneurin Bevan, Stafford Cripps and Michael Foot were all good friends.
Menon had initially wanted to disassociate himself from Udham’s actions. As secretary of the ‘India League’, an anti-imperial organisation, he repudiated the shootings within hours of the event. Expressing revulsion, he claimed to speak for all Indians: ‘The tragedy at Caxton Hall yesterday will be regretted and condemned universally in India. Indian national opinion abhors such acts of terrorism, which find no apologists or supporters in any section of Indian political opinion. Congress and other nationalist circles have always condemned them. Indians in this country, students and residents and all friends of India feel similarly.’1
Jawaharlal Nehru and Mahatma Gandhi were similarly scathing. Gandhi fired off an uncompromising condemnation in his newspaper Harijan: ‘The news of the death of Sir Michael O’Dwyer and the injuries to Lord Zetland, Lord Lamington and Sir Louis Dane, has caused me deep pain. I regard this act as one of insanity.’2 Nehru wrote in his newspaper the National Herald: ‘[The] assassination is regretted but it is earnestly hoped that it will not have far-reaching repercussions on [the] political future of India.’3
Gandhi and Nehru had been locked in delicate negotiations with the British and wanted desperately to promote a counternarrative to that of the late Sir Michael O’Dwyer. Indians were not violent barbarians. They could be trusted to run their own affairs. The Raj could either negotiate with men like Gandhi and Nehru, or leave India to militants like Udham Singh.
The Gandhi–Nehru condemnation was somewhat compromised by the youth wing of their own party. At the Annual Session of the All India Congress Committee, held weeks after the Caxton Hall shootings, a commemoration was held for the victims of Jallianwala Bagh. Young men and women shouted slogans in support of Udham Singh, declaring him to be a revolutionary hero. Congress representatives in the Punjab Assembly refused to condemn the O’Dwyer murder, defying their own leadership.
When it became clear how much publicity Udham’s case was getting, and how much support he had within British Indian circles, Krishna Menon appeared to rethink his own position. If there was to be a trial, it would be a very high-profile affair, and Krishna Menon wanted in.
Thanks to their surveillance of him, the IPI and MI5 got to hear about Menon’s Damascene conversion even before Udham’s friends did. Menon approached a barrister, with whom he shared chambers, and without any instruction from the prisoner himself, asked him to represent Udham and retain him as junior counsel. Menon had started working on the preliminaries when he heard Surat Ali, the trade union leader, had already engaged a lawyer, supported by funds from the Sikh community.4
Krishna Menon was furious. Surat Ali had beaten him to the punch, and instead of offering to help, he decided to wrest the case from Ali’s hands. As a result, two enormous egos spent crucial time bickering among themselves, shredding any chance Udham might have had for a coherent defence. The authorities could barely hide their glee at the chaos:
The present position is that a battle royal is in process of being waged between Menon . . . and Surat Ali with the Sikhs on the other. The Sikhs led by a certain Shiv Singh [Jouhl] have started collecting funds from their compatriots and a sum of nearly £200 is already available. Somewhat unexpectedly Menon’s hand has been reinforced by a cable which he has received from Ajmere Singh, secretary of the Sikh Temple in Stockton, California, asking him to telegraph whether Azad was being defended legally. Ajmere Singh is an active member of the Ghadar Party.5
With precisely no legal standing in the case, Krishna Menon took it upon himself to send a telegram to the Stockton Temple, informing them that he was now running Udham’s defence: ‘Krishna Menon being barrister unable to communicate you direct. In consultation Krishna Menon. Legal arrangements partly made. Will cable further.’6
Menon then used his communications with Stockton to convince Shiv Singh Jouhl to dump Surat Ali and bring the Sikhs over to him.7 ‘It seems clear that Menon is most anxious to be briefed for the defence . . . and will probably seek to procure evidence of insanity.’8
Krishna Menon did not care about Udham’s motivations or state of mind. He had a two-pronged interest in taking over his trial: firstly, it would confirm his importance in the eyes of the world; secondly, it would allow him to steer proceedings in a direction that best helped his friends Nehru and Gandhi in India. If it did not serve their interest to have Udham’s nationalism dragged into court, he could keep it out. On the other hand, if the situation demanded it, there was nobody better than Krishna Menon to create a political grandstand.
Krishna Menon’s attitude to Udham was neatly summarised in another of Vickery’s secret IPI memos: ‘Menon is not interested in Udham Singh or the result of the trial but merely in the opportunity that this offers for making political capital.’9
Sowing confusion and distrust among friends, Krishna Menon put all his efforts into taking over the Udham Singh case. Vickery noted: ‘The whole affair is the subject of so much intrigue tha
t it is difficult to ascertain what are Udham Singh’s own views in the matter; the truth is probably he is quite indifferent as to who defends him and thinks that it is pointless colleting funds for that purpose.’10
Vickery was right. Sitting in his cell at Brixton Prison, Udham was busy working out how best to kill himself.
CHAPTER 24
LETTERS, BOOKS, CARS AND CODES
Days after the assassination of Sir Michael, the FBI communicated a new threat to Great Britain’s interests, from California. They believed they had uncovered a Ghadar plot to murder Sir Michael’s only son, Jack O’Dwyer. The cypher telegram, sent by diplomatic staff in San Francisco, was meant for a few select eyes only:
Limited distribution
Decipher. Mr Butler (San Francisco)
22 March 1940
Local police state they have received reports from an Indian informant, who has hitherto proved reliable, which indicates that Indian extremists in California maybe contemplating attempt on the life of Mr O’Dwyer. In view of the criminal record of many Indians in California police consider this report should not be disregarded.
I have requested the police to take protective measures but they maintain it is impossible to guarantee that attack by some fanatic may not take place. I am also consulting FBI. In the meantime all reasonable precautions will be taken.1
It was just as Udham had scribbled in his own notes. He would take care of Sir Michael; others were encouraged to deal with his son. Somehow, his Ghadar friends had got the message and were doing their best to hold up their end of the deal.
Sir Michael’s son had not made it back for his father’s burial, nor the commemorative Mass that followed. Serving as the British vice consul in San Francisco, he remained in California and never commented publicly about his complicated sense of loss. When local press picked up the story of his father’s murder, he refused to speak to them: ‘J C O’Dwyer, British vice consul in San Francisco, remained in seclusion today, grief stricken over the London assassination of his father, Sir Michael O’Dwyer.’2