Swadesh Roy was plump, soft and yet so eager. Ananda repressed the laugh that had been bubbling in his throat ever since the young contractor had jumped into the ring.
‘Dekhli?’ Swadesh swung himself down. ‘Did you see?’ His face had turned into a dark shade of pink, the flush unable to contain itself behind that light-coloured skin. Everything about Swadesh gave away his background: an overpowering mother who personally oversaw his every meal, obsessing that the slightest negligence could ruin his health; servants that kneaded his flesh with warmed mustard oil and the teachers that were employed to train his voice. Swadesh came from an affluent family, one that did not believe in tiring him out unnecessarily. So what was he doing here?
‘Dekhli?’ Swadesh’s eyeballs swivelled in the direction. ‘Ganesh Ghosh!’
An elegant young man with a moustache was sitting on a chair, his legs stretched before him, one well-shod foot resting on the other. He was watching the practice sessions. Well, not quite. He was watching nobody in particular. He shifted lazily in his chair and Ananda half suspected that his eyes had drawn shut behind the spectacles.
‘Ananta-da’s friend?’
‘From Municipal School.’ Swadesh filled him in. ‘But not a dropout.’
‘Why was he arrested?’
‘Bombs!’ Swadesh rolled his eyes. ‘He was caught experimenting with explosives in the laboratory.’ He waited until Ananda looked him in the eye. ‘At BT College in Jadavpur.’7
‘Engineering student?’ Ananda looked suitably impressed.
‘No real proof of course, but they arrested him anyway.’
Swadesh straightened his features and sat up. Ananta-da was walking up to them, a towel draped around his shoulders. He polished his spectacles, held them up to the light and then put them on.
‘You need to be quicker on your feet; a little more chot-potey. He slapped Swadesh on the back, setting off a ripple that spread to his belly and chest. ‘Chol,’ He cocked an eyebrow at Ananda, ‘let’s walk down to the river.’
Ananda got up to leave. Ganesh-da, he noticed, was sitting up in his chair looking interested for the first time. Bidhu-da and Naresh-da were climbing into the ring – it would be Kumilla versus Mymensingh. These two budding doctors were well matched.
The Sadarghat Club was one of the many akharas that had mushroomed in the city. The revolutionaries, it seemed, had decided to spend their time establishing an ethos of physical fitness amongst the sleepy Bengali youths. Coaching was available in boxing, ring and knife throwing, bamboo wielding – the lathi khela and parallel bars. Lessons were also available in driving, boat racing, shooting and horse riding. It drew the youths by droves. The elders had nothing to complain about. It was a healthy trend.
Cheers and shouts could be heard from the river. Tegra, hot and sweaty, was spotted in one of the boats. A voice called encouragement from the top of the bridge. Ananda turned to look up. Phutu-da – Tarakeshwar Dastidar, who was a couple of years senior to Dada at college – was egging on the rowers. Standing by Phutu-da’s side was Dada, staring down at him with narrowed eyes. Ananda looked away grimacing as if he had caught the sun in his eye.
Ananta-da had missed none of it. ‘Would you like to learn to drive?’ His voice held a note of amusement.
RAM KRISHNA BISWAS
Koroldanga Hill stood wreathed in a fine mist of clouds. Ram Krishna made his way up the slope picking his way through the thorny bushes wondering what it was that drew Phutu-da here. Perhaps he would find him sitting cross-legged, meditating with his eyes shut as if he were on Mount Kailash.
He peeped behind every rock and scanned the shade beneath every tree. Where was Phutu-da?
‘Why, Ram Krishna? Look at your hair … it has been blown about by the wind … and your lips are dry and parched. Are you not well?’
Ram Krishna burst into a grin. There he was. ‘I walked down right after school. I didn’t stop for a wash or a drink. What a place this is. Where would one even begin to look for something to eat?’ He had walked the three miles that lay between the school and this place without so much as a drink of water.
‘Come,’ said Tarakeshwar as he led him to an orchard. ‘Remember, Ram Krishna, health is wealth,’ he said as they sat down to eat. ‘Let me tell you about the nutritional properties of various foods and their effect on our bodies …’
It was to be the first of many such Saturday afternoons.
‘You are a bookworm and have not begun to think about these matters, so I have to point them out to you. Stay away from women and girls until you are certain that you cannot fall prey to their charms. Womankind for us can only be viewed as the divine mother. Tea, tobacco … stay away from them as well. Do you know what these self-sacrifices are? They are your strengths, your band of students, upon whom you must invest your time and your knowledge. It is the responsibility that is taken on by students in every age; for it is they who sculpt the destiny of their countries. You have taken a great vow but your work has only just begun. You have to grant the crores of men and women that are content with their daily lives the amrit mantra of bhrahmacharya, which will enable them to make sacrifices. The Bharatvarshis have lost their self-respect. It has to be won back. None of these, by the way, are my words. These are the orders that Master-da has issued for you.’
‘Master-da? Who is this Master-da?’
‘He is our leader,’ said Tarakeshwar. ‘Come let us talk no more. Let us forget our sadness and enjoy the evening sunshine.’
There was a new book for that day: Desher Kotha – About our country – by Sakharam Daushekar.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 17 NOVEMBER 1928
A host of proscribed literature had made its way into Chattogram. It was being passed around with great care. The elders were not to get even a whiff of it. Some were banned; liable to throw parents into jail. But Ananda was at that age when a young man’s fancy took flight. He sighed deeply and often appeared listless whenever he was at home and answered in monosyllables. Ma fussed over him and advised Baba to be patient.
The madhobilata curled its tendrils entwining the bars of the window, thrusting the flowers into the room. The heady fragrance filled the night air. Absent-mindedly, Ananda stood uncoiling a tendril. But the tiny green shoot held a death-like grip over the iron. Lala Lajpat Rai had died that day. Word had it that the police were responsible; that Superintendent of Police J.A. Scott had ordered a lathi charge and had personally taken his baton to Lala-ji. The elderly leader had collapsed. All he had been guilty of was having led the peaceful protest march of 30 October 1928 at Lahore. The Simon Commission had arrived that day to deliberate on India’s fate and did not want to take Indian opinion into consideration.
Shaat koti shontanerey hey mugdho janani
Rekhechho bangali korey, manush koroni
Seven crore children! Oh, besotted mother,
You have kept them as Bengalis but not allowed them to grow up.
The poet’s raised finger struck a chord in Ananda’s soul. The poet had not forgiven the bhiru Bangali, the cowardly Bengali. Theirs was such a useless existence. Anguish welled up deep within, and Ananda relished every drop, mouthing the remaining lines. A hand fell on his shoulder. Too stunned and almost embarrassed to turn around, he realized it was Baba’s. They remained still for a few moments and then Baba left. Not a word had been exchanged but despite his palpitating heart, Ananda had felt the sadness that had washed over his father.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
The sight of the raised hand brought Ananda to a stop.
‘Eki? Bidhu-da, you are here?’ Ananda dropped onto the bench beside him. Bidhu-da called for another cha. The little waiter with his shaved head rushed between the tables.
‘Going home for lunch?’
Ananda nodded. ‘What did you do today? In class?’
Bidhu-da laughed. ‘The real thing will take place now in the afternoon session.’ He was enjoying the anticipation in the youngster’s face. ‘The skin has all been removed fr
om the thigh. Today we will scrape the fat out. It’s a bright yellow now, having been steeped in all that formalin.’
Looking away he added casually, ‘Looks like the custard they serve in the mess.’
He had achieved his desired effect.
‘That Naresh. Poor fellow. Wonder what he is eating down at the mess hall.’
Ananda made a face and got up to leave. Bidhu Bhattacharya was known for his wicked sense of humour. But, he suspected, Bidhu-da probably did not have the money to pay for lunch.
He knew how the two medical students had come to be friends with Ananta-da. A man had died of smallpox and the people had been too scared to lend their shoulders to that final journey. Ananta-da had rushed about trying to gather some support when the two medical students had come forward voluntarily. Since that day a firm bond had formed.
Thakur-Ma’s raised voice came from the Upasana griha. She was complaining once again to Thakur-Dada’s photograph. ‘Hey griher swami! Tumi to bahar diya choila geley. Aar aamarer rakhia geley Gobindor bhoroshayey … O master of the house! You have cheated me and gone away leaving me dependent on that Gobindo …’
Ma was busy feeding Chotkun at the table and smiled her tightlipped smile, her forehead knitted into a frown. It was a warning against being cheeky. Gobindo-da retained his clueless look, the one he adopted on such occasions. Taking the books from Ananda’s hands, he gave him a push towards the washroom.
‘Here, give him to me.’ Thakur-Ma had emerged from the prayer room. She clasped the squirming child and seating him on her lap, pulled his thala close to her. ‘When he goes home next,’ she raised her voice, ‘I will pray that the Karnaphuli will flood. Let us see if there is a single person left to light a lamp in his name! … Listen,’ she said to the struggling child. ‘I will tell you the story of a tiger … a real bagh.’
Chotkun’s face puckered as his little fingers curled into claws. Gobindo-da ignored Thakur-Ma. He had heard her threats before and knew that she would make sure he would get to hear them many a time again. Wordlessly, he filled the bowls and brought them to the table. Ananda surrendered himself to Ma’s ministrations and resisted the urge to tease his grandmother. Thakur-Ma kneaded the rice on Chotkun’s plate moulding them into little balls while he chewed on the first one that had been popped into his mouth.
‘Joteen Mookerjee was a little older than you,’ Thakur-Ma’s story was tailoring itself to the requirements of the moment. ‘He lived with his mother and sister … wait, I will tell you his sister’s name … Binodbala. One day Joteen and Binodbala were walking back from school. The path led through the jungle to the river, beyond which lay their home. It was a very dense jungle with tall trees, so tall that their branches formed an umbrella overhead. No light could get through.’ Thakur-Ma prodded Chotkun’s cheek, reminding him to chew. ‘Binodbala hated this part of the walk and like every other day she began to run dragging Joteen by the arm. Where was the need, Joteen wondered, for did he not have his trusty Gurkha kukri tucked into his belt?’ The pace would have to be quickened for the little one’s face was a picture of disappointment. ‘Suddenly Binodbala stopped. She was shaking as she pointed to the side where the long grass grew. Joteen looked carefully. There was the print of a paw.’
The child’s eye held a glint.
‘It was wet. A little moisture glistened within it. As they stared at it horrified, the wetness sank away before their very eyes.’
‘Wait.’ Chotkun had clamped his hands over Thakur-Ma’s mouth. ‘Binodbala will die.’
‘No, no,’ comforted Ananda.
‘Then Joteen will die.’
‘If you chew that mouthful I will tell you the rest,’ scolded Thakur-Ma. ‘Joteen killed the tiger that day and Binodbala helped her nearly dead brother home. A doctor came to bandage him and when he heard the story he named Joteen – Bagha Joteen or Tiger Joteen.’8
The story was over and the child had shot out of Thakur-Ma’s grasp. Gobindo-da picked up the thala with the half-eaten meal and chased after him.
The rest of the story was abandoned but Ananda knew it all. Tiger Joteen had become a stenographer in the service of the Government of Bengal. As a young man he had come into contact with the likes of Professor Aurobindo Ghose and Swami Vivekananda. A desire to serve his people had awakened in him. What began as volunteering with flood relief missions grew into a realization of the need for an organization that would keep the British from squandering the Indian budget upon their interests in China. Joteen had been tried in several conspiracy cases but acquitted each time for want of evidence. He had finally been dismissed from service and had taken to living as an underground party worker, eventually ending up as the commander-in-chief of the revolutionaries. A flamboyant leader, he had become the hero of every heart in Bengal – Joteen astride Sundari, had been immortalized in the sketch that came with the banned book Revolutionaries of Bengal: their methods and ideals by Hemanta Kumar Sarkar. The final encounter with the police had taken place at Balasore on 9 September 1915, when Joteen Mookerjee had been martyred.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, JANUARY 1929
An air of tension had hung about the house ever since Dada had returned home. Baba had retreated into the office room and refused to join the family at the table. He had become so quiet that he barely said two words to Ananda and glowered when approached. Dada too had a new attitude: sullen and angry.
Later one night, Ananda was passing by when he overheard Baba speaking to Ma. He pressed his ear to the closed door.
‘… grateful that he is back,’ Ma was saying.
Ananda heard the sneer in Baba’s voice. ‘I should not have let him back into the house. Gone to Kolkata!’
‘He is a good boy. You should talk to him.’
‘Both you and Ma. You are spoiling him.’
Dada had left, ostensibly to visit cousins, but had confessed to having spent all his time with the Congress volunteers.
‘It’s not riff-raff that he keeps company with … they are all sons of respectable families, all good boys.’
‘It has nothing to do with that.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Then?’
Ananda heard the rocking chair creak as Baba shifted on it. He pressed his ear even harder against the door.
‘Rashik Nandi came to me in tears yesterday. Amarendra has left home – renounced the world to become a sanyasi! But he too is in with them. Admission into Chattogram College and he gives it all up for the sake of sanyas. I told him to keep an eye on the nephew, Phoni. They, the English, have a saying … it is the same thing … the case of the bad apple. These are troubled times. Boys at this age get so easily out of hand. Without a good education what will become of him? Politicians prey upon the sons of the middle class.’
Ananda tiptoed back to his room. The news that Dada had attended the forty-fourth session of the Indian National Congress on 29 December was driving Baba round the bend. The Bengali papers had not stopped talking of the spectacle that had taken place: Motilal Nehru had been elected president; Subhas Bose, the chairman of the reception committee, had led a volunteer corps to man the session. It was this second piece of news that had grabbed all the attention. Instead of the Gandhian white, the participants had worn khaki shirts and shorts and behaved like a well-drilled military unit. Bose had played the role of a general in command of the corps, leading it on horseback. He had made women march alongside the men. That Oxford-educated woman, Ananda had heard Baba say with contempt … the Oxford-educated woman had been Lalita Ghose, who had put on a colonel’s uniform and led a 300-strong women’s contingent – some recruited from Bethune College, Victoria Institute and some from amongst the teachers of the Calcutta Corporation. Baba feared that the Congress was drawing the best and the brightest away from their studies. They would then be dropped once they had served their purpose. But by then perhaps it would be too late for many.
Jatin Das, a student of the Bengal Technical Institute, had become the ta
lk of Chittagong. He had taken a leading part in training Subhas Bose’s volunteers and had attracted a great deal of attention dressed in the uniform of a major. It was apparent to all parents: here was a bright future well on its way to being blighted.
TWO
LADY KATHLEEN TEGART, 2 FEBRUARY 1929
The governor’s motorcade had arrived. Kathleen waited with the ladies for the men to escort Sir Stanley and Lady Jackson in. They were all coming in from the Dum Dum Aerodrome,1 having inaugurated the first two machines gifted to the Bengal Flying Club. Sir Stanley had declared the club open and the Gypsy-Moth, gifted by the generous Sir Victor Sassoon, had been christened by the first lady of Bengal after her own name. Characteristically, as it always is on such occasions, the bottle of champagne had displayed a will all of its own. The manufacturers always succeed in slipping one made of reinforced glass into the case and destiny decrees that it will unerringly be chosen. Despite the raucous encouragements from the onlookers, it had held together defiantly, yielding against the spinner only when Julia’s arm swung in the widest possible arc gathering momentum with all the violence she could muster.
Kathleen had been the first passenger that morning to accompany Captain Leete on the test flight. It had been a perfect morning with clear skies and the land, with its unending green laced by the fingers of racing water which led the Ganges to the sea, made for a charming sight. The second aircraft, a gift from the Government of India, had been honoured by the presence of Princess Ila Devi, the eldest daughter of the maharani of Cooch Bihar. The two Gypsy-Moths had been followed by an Avro ‘Avian’ belonging to the Bengal Air Transport Company and then Baron Köenig had taken off in his monoplane – the ‘Kamerad’, which he had flown in the previous year from Germany. The three light aeroplanes had flown in formation and performed combined stunts.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 3