Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  The speeches had begun. The Outram Institute2 had become the Flying Club’s new headquarters and Sir Rajendranath Mookerjee was hosting lunch to celebrate the occasion. It was a historical building which had served as the old Bengal Artillery Mess, the first mess incidentally, which Earl Roberts had joined at the beginning of his service in India.

  ‘No great city,’ Sir Stanley was saying, ‘can afford to be without facilities for aviation. Our membership is open to all communities and I anticipate that within a short time, aviation in Bengal will become a popular sport and prove to be of great commercial and public utility.’

  Justice Costello, the president, had taken the floor. ‘The Light Aeroplane Club at Delhi has recently held its inaugural ceremony. To tell the truth,’ he declared, knitting his bushy eyebrows together, ‘they pinched our programme and forestalled us!’

  ‘And it’s the last time we will be so indiscreet as to send them our plans in advance,’ said Sir Charles Augustus Tegart, his Irish drawl distinct amidst the shout of general laughter.

  ‘Light aeroplane clubs have been founded in India,’ continued Justice Costello, ‘with the support of the government, to foster civil aviation. The Bengal Club has been brought into existence by the energies of Mr Arthur Moore. He is unable to be with us here today but has sent a message wishing us success, especially in competing for the Wakefield Presentation Plate! I hope that this meeting will yield more members and the rich and public-minded individuals will follow the example of Sir Victor Sassoon and present us with more aeroplanes. We owe a great deal to our patrons: Sir Rajendranath Mookerjee and His Excellency Sir Stanley Jackson. It is our desire that Lady Jackson become an honorary member. I request Her Excellency to accept this enamel and gold broach, which will serve as an open sesame to all future gatherings.’3

  A tour of the premises had begun. It was amply spacious and included two lounges, a dance room, a ladies room and a reading room. Two tennis courts lay outside and there was some unused land adjoining them which could always be used as an extension at a later date.

  ‘Strange name – Dum Dum?’ observed Lady Jackson.

  ‘Dom Dom actually!’ said the princess speculatively. ‘Perhaps it is the equivalent of the English bang bang, considering the British artillery unit was stationed there.

  ‘Excellent point!’ said Sir Rajendranath Mookerjee. ‘Why, of course! There are several old firing ranges in the vicinity and all that the locals would have heard in those days, was dom dom!’

  ‘And the first of the soft-nosed bullets that were developed here, by Captain N.S. Bertie Clay, took the name ‘Dum Dum’ from this very place,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Soft-nosed?’ the ladies were intrigued.

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Charles, ‘the soldiers realized that a hard-nosed bullet passed cleanly through the victim causing minimal injury. But on cutting the jacket away from the nose, the soft interior would expand as it came in touch with the victim’s body, slowing down its progress and inflicting, as a result, colossal damage as it travelled through the flesh.’

  ‘Mike’s4 memory … legendary!’ laughed Sir Stanley. ‘And now you have the ladies cringing.’

  ‘Oh, we can’t use it any more. The horror of it all led to far too many complaints by the Germans!’ Sir Charles’ eyes twinkled. ‘The Hague Convention outlawed it and Britain gave it up the very year I came out to India. I’ve never seen it in use.’

  ‘Did you know Sir Stanley before he came out to India, Mike?’ Kathleen buttered a piece of toast as she looked across at Sir Charles.

  ‘Saw him play cricket you mean?’ Colson, chief of police, had joined the Tegarts for breakfast. He had spent the early hours of the morning exercising and practising revolver shooting on the roof where Mike had rigged up a canvas with a life-size sketch of a Bengali assassin levelling a pistol. It was either him or F.J. Lowman of the Special Branch who took part in these sessions, during which no member of the household dared venture upstairs. It was customary for one or the other to give a sudden, unpremeditated yell; upon which the other had to switch around and shoot the canvas gunman in some vital part of his anatomy. ‘Who didn’t know old Jackers?’ he laughed.

  ‘Well, to answer your question,’ said Sir Charles, ‘I spent considerable time those days following cricket news. Sir Stanley played for his alma mater Trinity, Cambridge, for several years. And of course I went home in 1905, to watch him captain England: won all five tosses; topped the batting and bowling averages for both sides. Two wins and three draws – we retained the Ashes.’ He nodded to the bearer who set the coffee pot on the table. Adjusting his copy of the local Bengali daily with care against it, he added, ‘Had a fair bit of hair in those days. The Boers took most of it away and the parliament the rest.’5

  ‘But nothing was better than when he jumped in and drove the ball over the bowler’s head,’ added Colson. ‘And that nice easy bowling, plenty of spin and a good length!’ He jumped to his feet. The commissioner was ready to leave. They would have to be in office by eleven.

  ‘Dinner at the Hugh-Bullers, darling …’ Kathleen’s voice trailed off as Sir Charles dropped a brisk kiss on her upturned face and rushed out with Colson close behind. It was business as usual for him. He would be back for a quick lunch before rushing back to Lalbazar and then it would be time for the evening round of golf or polo. She hurried to the verandah in time to see Subah Khan in his red pugree open the door and Tim, the Sealyham, leap lightly on the footboard up onto the back seat and look back to make certain that the master was following before jumping onto the folded hood of the car. There was an air of expectancy. The gardeners had jumped to attention, hosepipes and rakes held discreetly away from view. There was hardly a trace of the limp as Mike went down the steps. He had his good days and his bad.

  Subah Khan slammed the doors shut and the Fiat6 began to roll down the deep-red sweep of the gravel drive which twisted its way between the lawns, until it was obscured by the tall casuarinas. It was a lovely, spacious expanse that went with the old houses and Number 2 Kyd Street dated from the time of Warren Hastings.7 The call came to her ears: the long-drawn cautionary word of command, followed by the sharp guttural orders, the stamping of boot heels and the slapping of rifle butts. They would be passing through the large iron gates now, Tim standing up in excitement, his tail wagging deceitfully. He was the master’s dog alone, though he also permitted the mistress and Subah Khan to pet him. But others, mistaking his laughing demeanour for friendliness, were quickly rewarded by a sharp bite. Her husband, sighed Kathleen to herself, was devoted to Tim and took him everywhere even though he was a dead giveaway. The morning breeze ruffled the pleats of her yellow patterned dress and she was suddenly conscious of the eyes that stared at her. They would not break out of position until she went back in.

  She made her way to the morning room, the dinner invitation still playing on her mind. Mike had sealed his own reputation. Since the day she had been married, she had come to hear the oft repeated consolation other wives offered their husbands in case of an unavoidable delay: It’s all right, the Tegarts are going. We can’t possibly be later than they are.

  It was only fair to say that her husband tried very hard to be on time but was usually genuinely delayed by work at the last moment; often by secret assignments which became impossible to explain. He was gregarious by nature and so loved to dance that he usually pushed their bedtime to anything between midnight and 4 a.m. But her Irish half still struggled with the need for punctuality. In vain would she extract promises to make that special-effort-for-next-time; for lateness was a sign of bad manners. But when next-time came, there was always that last-minute scramble and the breathless, unpunctual arrival.

  Kathleen sat at her writing table. The pigeonholes were docketed into sections: letters unanswered, letters to keep, household, estate, menus, miscellaneous, addresses. Hers was a precise and orderly nature. Today she sifted through the cards in her visitor’s box, as she sorted the day’s issues with the kha
nsama. In the old days, every married woman was expected to affix a not-at-home box to the gatepost when she was out. But the population had so increased since the early 1900s that the practice had been altered. It now remained available at all times. Being the wife of the commissioner of police was a responsibility, and the social side of life, though pleasurable, a duty. The bulk of the European population were expected to call on them, for after all, Mike was a member of the administration. And when they were not entertaining, they were out attending dinners or some other form of gaiety. Both made prodigious efforts to keep their appointments on time, but some curious chance always seemed to intervene. In the early days, before they were married, Mike was known as much for his reliability at work as for his streak of irresponsibility with regard to social affairs. Many a host, Kathleen had learnt, had, after patience had run out, rung him up to find him seated at his own dinner table. But the apology would be made with such commingling of contrition and drollery that he would always be forgiven.

  But it was a prominent Calcutta lady who had taught him a salutary lesson. She was in London at a time when Mike was on leave and had invited him to dinner. Lady X, as Mike referred to her mysteriously, was a dear and personal friend and he had accepted joyfully. But as he carried no diary, the engagement entirely slipped his mind until, at a subsequent chance meeting, he received a sound scolding. He could only grovel and express hope that forgiveness would be shown in the shape of a fresh invitation. The invitation, Mike said, duly arrived and this time he made no mistake. He was there on time; one amongst a considerable number of guests. Once the cocktails were disposed off, he marched in with the rest into the dining room but none of the cards round the table bore his name! Everyone sat down. He alone was left standing, beginning to feel rather hot and bothered.

  Turning to the hostess, he began diffidently, Lady X, you did ask me to dinner tonight, didn’t you?

  Yes, I did, Mike, she replied, but of course I never expected you would come.

  Kathleen drew out a leather-bound guest book from one of the drawers. It held a complete record of the year that told her at a glance, almost to the hour, which guests had been entertained; who had spent which night under her roof; where they had slept and what she had given them to eat. She loved this room with its light and air, looking out onto the lawns. It was one she had decorated herself, choosing every piece with care so that each chair, each vase, every fragile little item was in harmony with her. Reaching for a pencil, she ran through the items on the menu marking the ones that did not please her with little crosses. Theirs was a hectic lifestyle but, despite the lateness of the hour, Mike, a middle-aged thirty-eight-year-old, still managed to be up fresh and alert by 6.30 in the morning, ready for a walk or ride or a practice session on the roof. Kathleen breathed a word of prayer, pressing her hand lightly to her throat. She thanked the Lord for making him the way he was and giving him the ability and the temperament to endure the kind of strain his work called upon him. Alterations of cloud and sunshine in the summer sky: that was her Mike. David8 had once painted for her a picture of Mike at work: A Bengali officer had been reading from an article containing the crudest incitement to murder. Mike’s face was set as grimly as the day of judgement … and then without warning it had widened into a grin of irresistible drollery. The cornflower-blue eyes that had sparkled with indignation moments ago disappeared into his head as he threw it back and dissolved into laughter. A saucy piece of writing, he had summed it up before dismissing the bewildered officer.

  The sunlight came in through the window glancing off the thick ivory-coloured letter paper with its golden crest. Her neat slanting hand filled the sheet rapidly. The months between November and March were the busiest. Some six or seven hundred cards had been presented that season and though they had succeeded in having most of the callers over, a sizable number still remained. She added her signature to the end: K.F.T. Blotting the sheet carefully she tore it off and moved onto the next.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA

  Dada was settling down. He was now a final year intermediate student showing a definite inclination towards the sciences. Phutu-da – Tarakeshwar Dastidar – who had finished his intermediate and had been enrolled as a chemistry student in the same college, had taken him under his wing. He was soft-spoken and courteous and had an air of gentleness about him. Ma and Thakur-Ma had taken to him immediately and he had a calming influence over Baba. Although Baba and Dada still existed in different spheres within the same house, there was peace at last.

  Sometimes Phutu-da would hold chemistry demonstrations. Dada had brought home a couple of test tubes and a Bunsen burner. And Ananda had been allowed to invite Moti and Himangshu. The boys’ study room had been converted into a laboratory. The experiments were simple enough and the chemicals changed colour or form almost at Phutu-da’s command. That year, Jibon joined college as did Rajatda – Rajat Sen, the son of a family friend who joined the intermediate course at Chattogram College. Since the college stood at the base of their hill, they soon became a part of those that trooped in and out of the house. A boy new to Chattogram also visited sometimes. He was Phutu-da’s friend Ram Krishna Biswas.

  Sadarghat Club continued to flourish and it was no longer possible to keep track of the newcomers. But the Bal brothers never ceased to be the centre of attention, the latest entrant being Probhash, Tegra and Lokenath-da’s kaka’s son. It had been Kalipada Chakraborty – the Sanskrit scholar who was better known as Pundit-da – who had introduced him. And it had been Pundit-da who had also caught him smoking. The chastisement of Probhash Bal had been a great source of amusement. He was reminded of his great lineage: their surname was actually Bose but an ancestor had acquired the title Bal – the powerful one – for lore had it that he had once crushed a handful of mustard seeds and rubbed the oil on his skin before a bath.

  ‘Physical strength and mental strength must go hand in hand,’ rebuked Pundit-da.

  ‘I have to think,’ Probhash said, fiddling with the curls that dropped onto his forehead.

  ‘Think?’ cried Pundit-da and Ananta-da in unison. ‘A son of such a family needs to think?’

  ‘What if I give my word and then discover myself incapable of quitting?’

  Probhash earned his two days of reprieve. Ananta-da flicked Ananda on the ear and the pair made their way down to the river. A light drizzle had set in. They were walking as usual towards the Sadarghat Bridge discussing the news headlines for the day. Dual systems, reserved portfolios, economic development – these were part of the new post-war jargon that danced on every lip in Chittagong. Ananda read copiously and was proud of the knowledge he had acquired.

  Sitting by the river’s edge was Ganesh-da. Ananta-da nodded briefly at him. Ganesh-da smiled and motioned to him to sit. ‘Desher kaajey jog dibi?’

  The question was an abrupt one.

  ‘Will you help out with the nation’s work?’ Ananta-da repeated looking directly into Ananda’s eyes.

  He really meant it.

  Ananda gulped at the droplets that beaded over his face. His mouth had gone terribly dry.

  ‘Will a wooden spinning wheel win us independence?’ Ganesh-da clapped a hand on his back, his voice soft and gentle.

  Ananda had no answer.

  ‘How much money do we save by not buying British cloth?’

  ‘Eighty lakhs.’ The amount seemed ridiculously high in his head.

  Ananta-da and Ganesh-da made no comment.

  ‘The Howrah zila Congress president – Shri Sharat Chandra Chattopadhyay had made a speech at the Bongiyo Jubo Shommelon9,’ said Ananda with the modest air of one who, without undue ostentation, has no wish to hide his knowledge under a bushel. He had saved the little paper cutting and had memorized all of it. ‘He had pointed out that we were fighting a political battle for independence and not quibbling over business. The British machine-made fabric costs them some twenty lakhs and Britain actually makes some eighty lakhs out of us.’

  ‘The point is,’
said Ganesh-da, ‘that by just sitting at our spinning wheels all day long, we are not going to get swaraj. Even Gandhi-ji has figured out that not all his so-called followers are completely convinced about the ahimsa policy. Did he not have to put an end to his 1921 aandolan even though people readily abandoned schools and offices to support his theory? Tell me, do you know what prompted him to do so?’

  ‘The Chauri Chaura case. The emotions let loose in the aandolan workers in the Chauri Chaura village of Gorakhpur zila in the United Provinces, had overcome all thoughts of ahimsa and they had unleashed their fury upon the perceived centre of torture – the local jail – setting it on fire, killing some twenty-one policemen and chowkidars.’

  ‘And why did that take place … wait I will tell you. It was because the British had run a veritable steamroller over the quiet and meek ahimsa aandolan workers all over the country. Every action must beget its just reaction. Can you now believe that non-cooperation and non-violence are the answers we are seeking? Will they help us fight the British government?’

  Ganesh-da’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Let me tell you once and for all that the Tory government is the cruellest government in the world. No one can beat them at the art of fashioning shackles. That is the only reason why we are being ruled by a country of traders.’

  He could feel the heat in his ears and the sudden panic within. Talking against the British government was inviting very serious trouble … and anti-Gandhian sentiments? No Indian ought to tolerate it. He glanced at Ananta-da, who smiled at him and said kindly, ‘Wagging our tails in an attempt to please may earn us scraps from the master’s table but not one amongst those scraps will be independence.’

  ‘The first thing to remember is the need for absolute secrecy. Don’t discuss any of this with anyone.’ Ganesh-da continued.

  The drizzle turned to rain. Ananta-da and Ganesh-da showed no signs of getting up or leaving the grey and turbulent Karnaphuli behind. A hundred questions whirled in Ananda’s mind. It would be a while before he would even begin to articulate his thoughts. But, wonder of wonders, he was in the revolution – he had a chance to change the destiny of this great country.