Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 1928

  Ma sat beside her charcoal stove, her wok brimming with dark-yellow mustard oil. The slices of brinjal slipped into the hot oil with a loud sizzle and rose to the surface. The gram flour batter bubbled crisp and golden leaving long trails like beads on a necklace. Her bangles jingled as Ma wiped the excess batter from her fingers. She pushed them firmly towards her elbow until they remained in position. But the ones closer to the wrist would not retain their hold on that rounded arm and slid down within seconds, much to her annoyance.

  A hand tapped the top of his head lightly. Thakur-Ma broke the spell, urging him to get on with his meal. Ananda broke the neat cupshaped mound of rice with his fingers and waited until she poured a lava of simmering ghee onto the fragrant grains. Drawing the salt and the lemon wedge from the edge of the kansha thala, he leaned forward resting his chest against the edge of the table and began to eat. There would be many courses today. Three thalas had been laid out, each one ringed by a set of gleaming bowls. Thakur-Ma paced around the table, her sharp eyes keeping a lookout for items that seemed to be the quickest to disappear on the thalas.

  Two, still sizzling, fritters landed on Dada’s plate. His head jerked up in surprise. Baba wore a broad smile. Ma had served Dada first. It was a special day. Dada had passed his matriculation exam. Baba had personally supervised the buying of the hilsa that was to be cooked that day. His son was a star student. The teachers had expressed great hopes and the admission into Chattogram College had been a cakewalk. Deboprasad was now a first year intermediate student.

  Ananda had fared well too. He had been promoted to class eight at the Chattogram Collegiate School, as had Himangshu. His thoughts went to Moti, as Ma served slices of steaming hilsa and ladled the rich mustard gravy over them. Moti had graduated minor school at the same time as him and the two had met for the first time at Collegiate School the previous year. It was unlikely that he could be sitting down to a meal half as splendid as this one, thought Ananda as he worked a green chilly into his rice, mixing it with the gravy. His family could not afford it. But then again there was little that they could afford. He had visited their house several times. Moti’s mother had always been pleased to see him, and his brood of little brothers and sisters never failed to accord an exuberant welcome. But the signs of abject poverty that were evident in the Kanungo home never ceased to strike him as exceptionally cruel. That Moti was able to continue his education was because the British educationists had recognised his ability and granted him a scholarship that was seeing him through.

  Tegra? Tegra had also made it. The teachers at school and the Bal household had let out a collective sigh of relief. That wayward boy with his flamboyant looks and personality was like a young colt raring to go. Trying to hold onto him, much less getting him to sit at his books, could wear down the patience of the most dedicated of teachers. Baba had voiced his disapproval. Associating with Tegra could only spell trouble. Trouble ran in his blood. Tegra’s dada – Lokenath-da – was an upcoming swadeshi. It was barely discussed openly at school and never at home. But it gave Tegra a certain air about him. The children had sensed it on the very day he had joined Collegiate School. It hadn’t escaped the school’s notice either. His heart appeared to be in the right place but the boy could not seem to keep away from a good fight. It was the sight of his well-scrubbed face, round, plump and cheerful, the curls of his brown hair tamed to submission by a mother’s hand and the sheer innocence that lit his eyes that kept Tegra inside the classroom and not constantly, on one leg, outside its door.

  RAM KRISHNA BISWAS

  ‘Oh, mashima! The container is empty,’ a young lad called out. Then winking, he added, ‘It will not bring good fortune to your store of rice.’

  The lady smiled indulgently. ‘Help yourself, baba. Take some from the large sack,’ she called back.

  It was Sunday, a school holiday. Horen and Sachin had joined Ram Krishna and Tarakeshwar early in the morning and had set off with three jute sacks slung across their shoulders. Containers had been handed out, earlier that week, to all homemakers with the request that one handful of rice be put aside for every meal they cooked. The four boys had distributed the collection duties amongst themselves. They would bring it all to the clubhouse by afternoon.

  Tarakeshwar Dastidar, Phutu-da to all his juniors at school, had heard of him and his plans and had sent word requesting a meeting. He had left Saroatali village and had joined the BSc course at Chattogram College but whenever he came home for the holidays he liked to pay the old school a visit and meet the youngsters. Ram Krishna had been ready that day at the school gate, pencil and notebook in hand; his newly acquired spectacles perched on his nose and his thick curls smoothed down with a little water. Phutu-da was tall and thin, and sported a very manly moustache, but at first glance Ram Krishna had classified him as the gentle poetic sort. The moustache had failed to disguise the sensitive mouth. Together they had made their way along the raised mud track that led through the flooded rice fields. Green shoots had raised their heads above the standing water. A pale-green snake had coiled itself along a stalk pretending to be the tender curling tip of a marrow vine and a brown freshwater snake had swum along, hunting amongst shoals of small fish that flashed about catching the evening light. A sudden clap of wings and the herons had taken off in a great white cloud, settling down a little distance away from the young men. They had walked with practised ease, ignoring the slippery, dark, clinging clay and the overcast sky – two madmen so lost in their thoughts that they had been oblivious to the richness of the surroundings. The pair had settled under a tree on the banks of the Jora Dighi and watched as the evening darkened.

  There is need for pain in life, Phutu-da had said. The blacksmith uses blows to tame the iron and fire to make it stronger. Water hardens to ice only after being subjected to intense cold. Life, Ram Krishna, will not bloom until one faces reversals and troubles.

  Ram Krishna had listened without uttering a word but with a quickening within his chest.

  You want to work for the poor … help relieve the poverty? Tell me, Ram Krishna, who is responsible for creating these conditions? Who has heaped these miseries upon our heads? Who drains the wealth of India? It is time for us to break these bonds, if we are to survive.

  Where shall I begin? Shall I begin with Purulia where the people survive on boiled corn alone? Survive? Is that the right word to be used for those who drag their half-naked skeletons about? Or shall I tell you about the people of Singhbhum and Manbhum1 who live on boiled mahua flowers? Can you imagine that? Adults and children living off flowers? And the people in Bihar and Orissa who would rather stay drunk on toddy than wake up to the pangs of hunger? Remember Ram Krishna, remember the famine of 1876. Six zilas, a total population of fourteen crores starved not because there was a dearth of food but because there was no money to buy it! Fifty lakhs perished in the belt between the river Krishna and Kanyakumari. Did their cries reach the ears of the British government officials? No, they were too busy raising taxes that would fund the festivities planned for the durbar at Delhi. You can pull out the Amrita Bazaar Patrika of 23 November 1876 … it has all the details of Lord Lytton’s2 extravaganza. A famine caused by taxation. What next?

  What came next was, of course, the series of Afghan Wars. No one was exempt from taxation; not even the forest tribes that till no fields, nor conduct any kind of business. Where will people who live off the fruits, shoots and roots of the forest find money? It is said that the Roompas of the Godavari zila were charged for the firewood they gathered from the forest. No one knows about the exact numbers of lives that were lost but it is said that numbers of skeletons that littered the forest floor were enough to make your skin crawl. Their blood had been drained to the last drop not by the lion of the forest but by the British lion.

  Phutu-da’s voice had trailed off and still there had been no response. Sensing the battle raging within, he had said kindly, Die we all will, Ram Krishna. Death is the
one certainty that lies ahead of each one of us. But can we give a new meaning to that death? Mitthey joto hridaye jurey eibala shob jak na poorey, Moron majhey tor jiboney hok rey porichoy … Burn away the falsehoods we have believed in with heart and soul. In death let your life find a new meaning. Ram Krishna, remember no one is going to give you credit for the things that your father has achieved. You will be remembered only for the work that you have done.

  Tarakeshwar’s words had set off something within Ram Krishna that day. A strangeness filled him, an emotion he could not explain. For days there had been no appetite, no desire to open his books, nor a wink of sleep. But if Tarakeshwar had touched Ram Krishna’s soul, he had not escaped being deeply affected either. It brought him back every Sunday to help with the collections.

  ‘Ha rey? Begging? What does your father have to say about this?’ An old lady was pouring the rice she had kept aside.

  ‘Nothing, Thakur-Ma. Today is the day we spend in the worship of mankind. You stick to your bel pata, phool and chandan for your Lokkhi Thakur.’

  In the clubhouse Ram Krishna handed out lists. They bore the names of those that were sick, in need of money and without any relatives; widows with no clothes; people who were in need but would never come forward with demands. Some money had been collected. The unclaimed dead would be buried or cremated according to the faith they had followed while they lived.

  The afternoon was hot, and sweat trickled down freely. The boys had spent the better part of the morning in ferrying the sacks to the clubhouse. The next part of the job would begin only when the sun went down. They stretched their legs out on the floor and rested their aching muscles.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 1928

  It was Tegra that had brought the news. His dada had said that the swadeshis had come home from jail. The boys crowded around in curiosity. What was jail like? Had they killed someone? They were really strong, weren’t they? What did they feed swadeshis in jail?

  Tegra’s chest swelled with pride.

  ‘Hari Gopal Bal!’ The master barked at Tegra.

  The boys nipped back into their seats.

  ‘Master-da is back.’ Jibon announced as they met up after class. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He was still not used to them. They fitted uncomfortably. His face, it was assumed, would grow into them in time. A light fuzz had begun to appear where a moustache hoped to sprout.

  Ananda nodded his head in affirmation. For four years there had been little news since the brilliant defence conducted by Deshpriya Jatindra Mohan Sengupta. Everybody had been taken by surprise. No one, especially not the authorities, had anticipated it, least of all the accused. The swadeshis had been acquitted. But Baba had instantly predicted a backlash, and within a month, an order to arrest all extremists in Bengal had been promulgated. They called it the ordinance which granted the police temporary powers of detention as specified under Bharat Raksha Rule or the Defence of India Act. Arrests had begun almost instantly. The Bengal Legislature had refused to pass it but Lord Lytton,3 the governor of Bengal at that time, had used his special powers to turn the BCLA Act4 into law. Of Masterda there had been no news. It had come eventually in October 1926 when after two years of effort the police had succeeded in hunting him down. Since then, barring a small insert in the papers, there had been little talk of the superhero.

  Chattogram seemed to have changed overnight. There was a charge in its atmosphere that was impossible to deny. With Master-da had come the heavily bearded Ambika Charan Chakraborty; darkskinned Nirmal Sen with his unusual height, who peered benignly down at everyone; muscleman Ananta Lal Singh; the moustached Ganesh Ghosh; and Charu Bikash Dutt who walked with a limp. They were referred to as the ex-detenues. Young and old kept their eyes peeled should one of these demigods deign to step onto the road. Spotting one meant a rush of gossip. An instant allegiance had made itself apparent amongst the children of Chattogram. ‘Lame Park!’ the little ones would scream at those that eulogized Charu Bikash Dutt and they would lower their eyes when cries of ‘Beard Square’ would break out, indicating they had sold their hearts to Ambika Chakraborty.5

  The classrooms were abuzz with memories.

  ‘And Ananta Lal Singh,’ said Ananda.

  The boys traded smiles. He was the one that had paid those surprise visits to the schools during the non-cooperation movement of 1921. Ananda had a vague recollection of those days. The junior classes had not faced the intrusions and the seniors that had been targeted had long since left for college. But the little bits he had picked up from Dada’s conversations remained glued in his head. When Gandhi-ji’s call had come, Master-da’s party had responded and taken part in the non-cooperation movement as members of the Congress.

  ‘Strike’ had been the operative word for the non-cooperation movement.6 It had been straight up Ananta-da’s street. The people flocked to his side, hanging onto every word he uttered: Schools, colleges, offices and businesses must respond to this call. We are together. Let us show them.

  But it was the sight of him swaggering onto school and college lawns that drew the maximum attention. Ananta-da. It was impossible to keep the boys away from the windows. Lectures would come to an abrupt end and despite appeals to maintain discipline, there would be a mad dash for the door. Ananta-da would storm into a classroom, spring onto a table and deliver a grand speech: Two hundred years of foreign rule … this all consuming fear that binds our countrymen in its coils … pride in oneself … sense of right and wrong … the thirst to live an independent life …

  Some would gaze in open admiration, some followed every word, its import dawning upon them, but a number of students and teachers resented the disruptions: You aren’t even a student. Get out.

  Ananta-da would respond with a: An impotent lot. That’s what you are. What will their education do for you? You were paralysed since the day you drew your first breath!

  A brawl would be the invariable outcome and Ananta-da would leave, his face glowing with evangelical zeal. He had been given the charge of motivating students. He was a natural leader – one that could captivate the hearts of youngsters. He was everything that young boys idolized. At eighteen, he had been an incredibly handsome youth at the peak of physical fitness; tall and strapping with a thick mop of dark hair. The girls had swooned and mothers had wished their sons were more like him. And his body, the outcome of regular workouts, was one that every young Chittagonian hoped to achieve. His was a spirit on fire. When impassioned he could be driven to such eloquence that he was impossible to resist.

  The little ones had listened with rapt attention as the older brothers described their day at school: Ananta-da had visited yet again.

  ‘And during the Khilafat Movement?’ Jibon smiled. ‘The day Deshpriya Jatindra Mohan Sengupta delivered his address at the Double Mooring Jetty?’

  That morning the Bullock Brothers Steamer Company had been shocked to discover that their loyal khalasis had turned into nationalists overnight. The deck had been rent with cries of Bande Mataram and Allah ho Akbar and when the engines were started, the horrified captain had watched helplessly as his defiant workers leapt overboard. It had been rumoured that a sampan had been doing the rounds all night despite the heavy security and had contacted all Indian workers.

  That had been Ananta-da again.

  RAM KRISHNA BISWAS

  The crowd that thronged the edge of the field parted to make way for the teams. The boys streamed out on to the field in their shorts and blazers. The coach blew his whistle and the game began. The spectators on the touchline shouted encouragement.

  ‘Saroatali!’ they yelled, in rolling waves of sound, holding on to the last note of the cry until their breath ran out.

  The play swept from one goalmouth to the other. The forwards had the ball now and were attacking strongly. A long, low, swerving shot came in from the left and Horen, in goal for Saroatali, dived to make a brilliant save.

  ‘Good save!’ called a chorus of voices.

 
The ball was cleared and away went the Saroatali forwards, Ram Krishna, at the outside-left, streaking down the field with the ball at his toes.

  Tarakeshwar had been away for many months now. He was in the big city, pursuing his dreams … a degree in chemistry at Chattogram College. He returned only during the holidays. For Ram Krishna it had meant intellectual isolation. He could empathize with the legendary prince Lakshman who never wished to leave his older brother Lord Ram’s side.

  It was the opposing goalkeeper’s turn to dive and gather the ball safely to his chest before kicking it clear.

  A dutiful cheer went up for the opposing team. All through the first half the battle raged evenly with neither side scoring. But Ram Krishna’s concentration was suddenly no longer on the ball. Somebody was waving to him from the edge of the field.

  It was Tarakeshwar. Ram Krishna turned and ran. His friend was back!

  The two hugged each other.

  ‘Phutu-da, I’ve been offered the position of team captain,’ said Ram Krishna breathlessly.

  ‘Koroldanga … tomorrow.’ Tarakeshwar whispered back. He was tucking something into Ram Krishna’s waistband. ‘Careful, this could mean six months of jail,’ he smiled, motioning to him to return to the field.

  Ram Krishna tugged at his jersey, pulling it down while scrambling back to take up position. A new excitement was bubbling up within him. The precious secret, whatever it was, lay cool and smooth next to his skin never letting him forget its presence.

  The game ended and the boys trooped home. The secret could not be uncovered until he was safe in the privacy of his study.

  That night, after dinner, Ram Krishna sat in the glow of the hurricane lantern and undid the little parcel. It was a small book with a bright-red cover. In bold letters it said, KANAILAL DUTTA. The author was Motilal Rai.

  That captaincy would have to wait.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA

  Ananda sat up on the bench on which he had been stretched out until now. The sweat poured down his back and he pinched at his vest, flapping it a little to cool himself. He had flocked with the rest to Ananta-da’s akhara – the physical culture club. Ananta-da was in the ring showing Swadesh a couple of moves.