Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  CHITTAGONG

  Summer of 1930

  MANOSHI BHATTACHARYA

  HarperCollins Publishers India

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  NOTES

  GLOSSARY OF BENGALI WORDS AND EXPRESSIONS

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  PEOPLE TELLING THE STORY

  WHO’S WHO

  PHOTOGRAPHIC INSERTS

  TIMELINE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  ONE

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 1923

  The radio crackled to life. Jogendramohan Babu’s body stiffened. He had been leaning forward in his easy chair twiddling the knobs, when the few discernible words of the headlines stilled the lines of his body. Unable to withdraw his fingers, he sat as if glued into position.

  A small dark head appeared from under the flowered kantha in the next room. Dark eyes peered across, ready to snap shut should his older brother turn around. Dada stood concealing himself behind the door-jamb, peeping into the living room where his father had turned on the radio. Deboprasad was all of twelve and worldly-wise. He had an opinion on most things and knew, it seemed, nearly everything. He could predict with confidence the outcome of most news items, and they fell from his lips like pearls of wisdom whenever Baba was not around. Rarely would he express them in the presence of his family, for they generated a predictable chain of responses: a cold grunt or nothing at all from his Baba, admiration shining through Ma’s unsmiling face and a look of repressed amusement from Thakur-Ma. But Ananda’s little face would stare in wonder, his mind hurriedly going over the precious words, trying to push them deeper into his head. They would come in handy before his classmates. It was useless to ask Dada what they meant or how he came to such conclusions, for he would either pretend not to hear or curl the corner of his upper lip in a sneer. Three years, Dada was three years older and that gave him such an advantage, such a wealth of knowledge and understanding.

  Dada had raised himself on his toes, leaning at almost a dangerous angle, craning his neck to get at the words that had so excited the newsreader. Chatga was in the news again.

  Chatga. The word ended with a nasal sound.

  Ananda played around with it silently. That was not the way the genteel would pronounce it.

  Chattogram. Now that was the way Baba would say it and so would the teachers at school. But old Thakur-Ma, who had cut her hair short and worn only white since the day Thakur-Dada died, would often lapse into the nasal Chatga. It was all right when she said it but if it slipped out of his mouth, it did not fail to attract Dada’s unforgiving notice. A short snort and Ananda would quickly be reduced to embarrassment.

  ‘Chittagong.’ The British liked to call it Chittagong. It had a nice ring to it.

  A movement caught the corner of his eye and biting his lip to keep himself from breaking into a wicked grin, he drew his eyes shut as if they never had been open.

  Ma drew Dada away, her hands fondly caressing his right ear. It had not really been pulled and in any case it was time for school.

  It was time to get up. Kneeling, he plunged his hands between the mosquito net and the side of the mattress that sat heavily upon the loose edge. Taking a good grip on the fabric, he tugged hard but lost balance and fell backwards. As he geared up once again to liberate himself he saw that a corner had come undone leaving a gap large enough to wriggle through. The four-poster bed towered over him. It would be many years before he would be tall and strong enough to pull out the fine drapes of netting and toss them onto the hammock-like top that stretched over the ornate wooden posts. He went to stand by the window sill. Dada would still be bathing and it would be best not to come across Thakur-Ma while still in yesterday’s set of clothes.

  Dada was at the table. ‘Eat slowly, Khoka,’ Ma was admonishing him. The breakfast was being wolfed down. Dada was visibly excited.

  ‘Aye.’ Ma looked up at Ananda. ‘Come. Sit.’

  Slipping into his chair, Ananda pulled at his thala until it was below his chin. It was past eleven and Baba’s chair was empty. Ma placed a gleaming golden kansha bowl filled with warm milk before him. Refusing the freshly fried luchis, he reached out for the sandesh. Deboprasad did not wait for his brother to finish. Rinsing his mouth with the water that had been kept overnight in an earthenware pot, he took a long draught.

  ‘Aashi.’ He called out. ‘I’ll be back.’

  Broad steps cut into the hillside leading the way out of the gate, past the European padre’s garden hedged off with its border of young greens that needed careful minding by hurrying feet. Ananda raced down the hill, scarcely feeling the cold wind that stung his cheeks making them glow. Chattogram was in the news. The full story would be relished only once he and his classmates had put together the little nuggets they had imbibed. These were adult matters. Not to be discussed in the presence of adults.

  Little lanes wound past the houses leading to the broad tarmac road that led to school. The ground had long been trampled into submission but here and there, after the night’s rain, it had turned into muddy patches and little puddles. But the sun was high in the sky, having cleared the last of the mists and drenching the rainwashed gardens with its pale rays. Himangshu waited at the bottom of the tila. That was their daily meeting point. Deftly skipping past the glistening pools, for, Gobindo-da’s eyes never ceased to burn the back of his neck, he turned down the slope and into the school lane. Makhon – Jibon Ghoshal – was puffing his way up. The Ghoshals’ house was amongst the largest in the valley standing across the street from the Sadarghat Kali Bari. Jibon was a year ahead in school but the two were thick as thieves.

  ‘Did you hear?’ Jibon called out. ‘Master-da Surjya Sen has confounded the British again.’

  Ananda doubled up, holding onto his stomach as Himangshu took a flying leap kicking at the air. He landed with all the finesse of a martial arts warrior. The winter woollies did little to hamper his style.

  ‘They can’t catch him.’

  ‘They never will.’ Ananda laughed. He danced a couple of steps out of sheer joy before sprinting down the street with Gobindo-da chasing after them. He had relieved them all of their satchels and though his legs no longer found it easy to keep up with the flying warriors, he succeeded in getting them to the school gates on time.

  Gobindo-da was well past his prime now, having begun his innings at the Gupta household as a twelve-year-old accompanying the new bride – Thakur-Ma – from her maternal home. He had been her personal errand boy, always at her beck and call. Since then, his role in the household had grown from picking quarrels with her to keep her amused, to a position of authority. Jogendramohan Babu acknowledged Gobindo-da’s place amongst the elders of the family and often meekly accepted a lashing from that rapier-like tongue. But the children knew they had him wound around their little fingers.

  Master-da had surpassed all heroes, past and present. He could move like lightning, fly from rooftop to rooftop and disappear from sight at will. The British with their cumbersome police could do nothing. Their lathis and bullets could never find their mark. Dullwitted and slow, they continued to gape at the crowds that milled around them, failing to nab that veiled woman that brushed past them. No, they were no match at all.

  School buzzed with news. Would a holiday be declared? After all, the Assam Bengal Rai
l Company had been looted. Seventeen thousand rupees had been stolen. It was being called the AB Railway Dacoity. A holiday had to be declared. The boys were ushered into the classrooms as usual at the stroke of twelve but even then it was obvious that the teachers were far too preoccupied. There would be no serious study today. Where were Sahayram and Subodh? Would they have heard the news? The little boys gulped down the information greedily.

  ‘But who could it be?’ ‘Who could be such a daredevil?’ Their eyes shone with anticipation.

  ‘It is Master-da.’ Ananda was confident.

  All day, boys hurried up and down the corridor smuggling juicy little titbits of news. The robbery had taken place in broad daylight. The horse-drawn coach carrying the AB Railway’s money had been robbed at gunpoint. The details were still not clear. But it was quite like the sensational swadeshi robbery that had taken place a couple of months ago. It had made such news. The British administration had been busy herding the peaceful and docile Congress workers into the jails for having started a non-cooperation movement, when forty men armed with revolvers occupied the village of Paraikora. They had held it captive for two whole days and decamped with thousands of rupees. Every one had suspected the hand of Master-da but there was just no proof. Nothing could link him to the robbery. But Ananda had overheard Baba say that the account had been wildly exaggerated. That it had been conducted by a handful of people and barely a couple of hundred rupees had been taken. And for this handful of money Chattogram’s good name was being sullied. Not that Baba admired Gandhi-ji’s way but this certainly was not the gentleman’s way either.

  This time, however, it did not take long for the police to swing into action. Within days, Suluk Bahar Kuthi, an abandoned house six miles away from Chattogram had been raided and a stash of weapons discovered. The presence of the Hindu youths in a predominantly Muslim area had not failed to attract attention. The police officer – Abdul Majid, had come in a phaeton; peeped through the window startling the Hindus and fled, having instructed the villagers to keep watch until he returned with reinforcements. Master-da had raced out of the house but by that time the phaeton had set off. The villagers had begun crowding around and, as Master-da and his colleagues ran towards the security of the hills, they followed at a distance pelting stones. The bullets fired into the air had not scared Master-da and his colleagues. They had run up the Nagarkhana Hill but by then DSP Braj Bihari Burman had arrived with his men. A running gun battle had ensued and carried on for a couple of hours. A police havaldar had lost his life and a few others had been injured. Master-da Surjya Sen and two of his colleagues had been found unconscious and taken alive. It had been the first civilian versus police encounter to be witnessed on Chattogram’s soil.

  ‘A disgrace. An absolute disgrace.’ Baba could not hide his contempt for the man.

  His voice had been raised for Dada’s benefit. Ma muttered something inaudible.

  ‘For this does one bring up a son?’ Baba raged. ‘A common murderer; about to be hanged.’

  A strange prickling broke out over Ananda’s back.

  ‘Like he is going to sit around in jail and wait,’ snorted Dada. ‘Even the cyanide could not kill him.’

  Ananda felt instantly better. Cyanide, even cyanide could not kill him.

  ‘Ah! That poor wife!’ Ma clicked her tongue.

  Then she dropped her voice. The boys strained to listen with Ananda pretending he had no real interest in the matter.

  So the superhero had a wife. The piece of information had the potential to set a young imagination on fire. The superhero’s wife – a superwoman herself. She must be a secret partner. Ananda shut his eyes. A mysterious young woman, dressed in black, scaled the walls of the Chattogram Jail. For a moment she turned and the bright red of her sheedur flashed at him. He smiled at the vision as she stepped lightly over the wall disappearing from view.

  RAM KRISHNA BISWAS

  Running feet thundered up the wooden staircase. Horen, Khoka and Sachin, the Sen family boys, burst into the room chattering brightly as parrots and flung themselves on to the floor. The house with its thickly plastered mud walls and woven bamboo roof was a cool one – a good place to while away a summer morning.

  This was followed by a familiar measured tread, making its way up the stairs. Baba! Ram Krishna could imagine Durgakripa Babu on his wooden chowki, eyes shut tight against the world, concentrating on a patient’s pulse; starting at the noisy entrance of his friends; counting out the kaalboris before excusing himself. Something had played on his father’s mind since the day he had stopped to watch the four friends perched on the edge of the Bhuvan-Biswas Pul, their naked feet dangling over the flowing waters of the khal, staring past the expanse of rice fields into the darkening evening sky. Baba had watched silently and then gone his way, but Ram Krishna could feel that he was working himself up for one of those talks.

  ‘This age is for karma and dharma,’ Baba began without preamble. ‘If this country has to be uplifted it will not be until we all come down to mother earth.’

  The boys were taken aback. But they maintained a respectful silence.

  ‘Lofty dreams will never materialize if we do not wake up first. If a new Bharat has to be sculpted, you have to be the sculptors. Do not flutter about like a kite struggling at the end of its string or like mercury that slips through the fingers. Steady your minds.’ Durgakripa Babu left as abruptly as he had come.

  The big room on the ground floor was full that day with patients squatting on the white sheet stretched over the shataranji-covered floor, the queue spilling onto the verandah. Malaria was a heavy burden on this starving population and they came for Durgakripa Babu’s kaalboris, little medicinal pellets concocted from his own recipe of mixed herbs, as the government-issued quinine was hard to come by. Anything that helped bring the fever down in these hard times was welcome. In the afternoon, Durgakripa Babu would make his rounds of the little huts carrying his black umbrella and bag, calling out the names of the skeletal figures that lived there. They were either to be found under tattered kanthas dragged to a spot where the scorching sunrays could reach, shivering as if on the heights of the snowy Himalayas; or in a dark corner boiling a little rice in a clay pot as sweat streamed from their bodies indicating that the chills and rigours had passed; or out in the fields making the best of a symptom-free day. They called it the alternating fever.

  When the kaalbori refused to work its magic and the spleen grew hard and tender, Durgakripa Babu handed out money, from his own meagre savings, to buy quinine.

  The boys looked sheepishly at each other. During idle moments of leisure they had toyed around with the ways and means to help. But money and manpower had always been the issue. A beginning would have to be made. Ram Krishna lay on the bed staring vacantly at the ceiling. His father had chosen to name him after the devotee of Ma Kali – Sri Ramkrishna Paramahansa – the one who embodied the soul of modern India. You, he had told Ram Krishna once, the youngest of my four sons and three daughters, came on a night so dark and stormy that we had been unable to call for help. There was nobody by your mother’s side that night, no one to sound the conch but we welcomed you with a dab of honey in your tiny mouth. Like the paramahansa or the swan you too must learn to drink the pure and clean water of the ponds skimming over the dirt and murk in the depths.

  Ram Krishna wished he had the vision of the man he had been named after.

  But the Devi will not grant such a little boy like you her powers. At least not before you have grown into a man. A man with strong arms that people will depend on, and a good heart that will earn you a name as a trustworthy friend.

  The voice was soft but clear as if the speaker were right by his side. It had assumed a character over the years, low and melodious, and had become associated with the scent of flowers and incense that hung about the temple of Kalchand in Haola village. He remembered the moist grip of his mother’s hand as she led him there to seek blessings on his fifth birthday. But once in the temple,
she had become busy with the flowers and fruit that were a part of the offering and had forgotten about him. And he had found the saffron-clad sadhu right outside. It was a tale that he had got to hear several times during his childhood. Nayantara Devi had been recounting the names of each of the members of her young family, bringing their individual needs to the notice of the Lord. As her Ledu’s name came to mind she had become suddenly aware that his fist no longer clutched the end of her sari. He was nowhere to be seen. She had rushed out, frantic with worry, but had found him right outside, squatting on his haunches. A sadhu, a patient old man, had resigned himself to becoming the object of the little boy’s attentions.

  Shakti? Ram Krishna was saying to the sadhu. You are trying to gain power? Sitting here? You don’t know much, do you? Come, I will take you to where the men and boys exercise. You can learn to be strong.

  The sadhu had considered the suggestion quite gravely and had clarified, No, that is not quite what I meant. You are talking of physical strength whereas I am talking of mental strength.

  The child had quickly arranged his limbs into the lotus position saying, I want to learn too! The old man had shut his eyes and given the matter some thought. Then he had spoken in the lilting voice that is used with little ones. He had said, Can that be possible? No, the Devi will not grant such a little boy like you her powers …

  The moment had been fixed in Ram Krishna’s mind. The way he had looked him deep in the eye, the warmth of his blunt, calloused fingers as he reached out to cup his chin and the solemn way he had said, You have a long way to go. Sanyas is not for the young. Your country and your people need you. Learn to be respectful of your parents and elders, fair to those of your own age and kind to those who are younger.

  The words had tumbled about in his head for days, and for many years thereafter it had remained a story he asked for repeatedly and one his mother never tired of telling.

  ‘Ma!’ Ram Krishna stole into the kitchen to discuss the feasibility of his plans.