‘And this was …?’
‘On 25 June 1925. Gandhi was waiting for me when I arrived. Das repeated the conditions under which the meeting was going to be conducted and remained present throughout. We made no notes but I recorded the conversation later for the secret files.12 I waited for him to broach the topic but he wouldn’t start. So I began with the fact that Das had shown me the draft. He then started off at considerable length expressing great grief at the death of the Deshbandhu.’
‘Chittaranjan Das?’13
Sir Charles nodded. ‘The Indian word for patriot – friend of the nation. I think Gandhi believed it was a feeling shared by all sections of the community including the government and the European community. He thought it was an opportunity to seize on to try and bring together the various parties in the province under the shadow of a personal sense of grief. He then proceeded to enunciate his absolute adherence to the policy of non-violence and his detestation for assassination as a political weapon.
‘He next proceeded to assure me with great emphasis that in the last three months of C.R. Das’s life, he had been in close contact with him and the Deshbandhu had become an adherent to the policy of non-violence. He said very frankly that he made no reference to any views that C.R. Das might have held on the subject previously and nor did he propose to discuss the exigencies that caused him to switch off the policy of non-violence.
‘I replied that on this issue we were on common ground but surely Mr Gandhi realized the fact that the Bengal revolutionary was a tough proposition to tackle. They were as thoroughly convinced in the efficacy and righteousness of their cause and deeds as Gandhi was in his own cause. And that they had shown time and again that they were, as a whole, prepared to go through a great deal of hardship and suffering for their cause without any hope for reward. I said that C.R. Das had himself admitted that they were a difficult body to control even by him and, therefore, Gandhi would have to admit that it would be very difficult for him to exercise control – given that, in addition to the difficulties confronted by C.R. Das, he was not a native nor a resident of the province and was not likely to stay indefinitely. I then said to him that I understood his resolution to be an omnibus one, which made no exception. To that he replied in the affirmative.
‘I then said that I had read a certain correspondence which had been published early in the year in his own paper Young India between a Bengali revolutionary, whose name was not given, and Gandhi. At this point, Gandhi remarked that contrary to the usual custom amongst journalists, he accepted and published anonymous communications and had done so, he considered, with useful results. I said he would have to admit that the writer of the letter was a hard nut to crack and that Gandhi had failed to convert him. This he admitted. I reminded him that the revolutionary had asked Gandhi to retire from the political field because he had led the thousands of young men who had followed him during the last four years to nothing but absolute failure; that his philosophy was a philosophy of despair, and any progress that had been made on the road to swaraj had been made entirely by the acts of revolutionists. I also reminded him that his attempt at argument had only earned him a rebuff and with this too Gandhi was in full agreement. I then said, “For the sake of argument, if the writer of this letter were now in custody without trial, would you propose to release him?” To this Gandhi replied, “No.” I then said that in considering this question, the individual cases of the men held in custody must be considered on their merits. Gandhi said, “Yes,” but added that though he had failed to convert one revolutionary through the columns in his paper, he would not despair of converting him if personal touch could be established.’
Sir Stanley hid a smile. ‘I am prepared to concede the fact that if he could get an ardent revolutionist in close personal contact with himself for a considerable length of time and isolate him from his revolutionary confrères, he might probably succeed. Unfortunately, they are so numerous and scattered over such a wide area. But no; out of the question.’
‘My thoughts exactly. Gandhi went on to say that he would visit all the prisoners in the jails and have a talk with them. If they gave him their assurance, he was certain they would not revert to violence. But, I pointed out that some of them had previously given undertakings and broken them. Gandhi replied that they would look at it in a different light if they gave an assurance to him.’
Both men shook their heads in frustration.
‘The responsibility for detaining or releasing lies solely with the government,’ said Sir Stanley. ‘And it cannot transfer any portion of that responsibility to anyone, no matter how exalted his position. And Gandhi himself would find great difficulty in assessing each man unless he first knew his history. What the man had done in the past would determine what he is capable of in the future.’
‘Of course his reply turned to the sentimental side of the case and he insisted that he could override all the difficulties I had suggested. And besides, even when considering each case individually, the government was bound to consider the general state of the province from which the terrorist hailed. I asked him if he would admit that the failure of his non-cooperation programme gave a definite impetus to terrorist activity. He admitted it but insisted that his non-cooperation policy had failed because he had promised swaraj within a definite period, but the swaraj policy as such had not failed; for the swarajists laid down no such definite period.
‘Then he spoke at considerable length on the three things that particularly weighed on C.R. Das’s mind during the closing weeks of his life and he had no doubt that these had hastened his death: first the internment of prominent swarajists; the second, the case of the fakir – a grave error had been committed in allowing his burial in the New Market, and C.R. Das felt absolutely at a loss about the steps to take to rectify the error without alienating the sympathy of and possibly even using violence towards the Muslims; the third sorrow was the silence maintained by the Secretary of State for India about his gesture at Faridpore. C.R. Das kept waiting for the response until the last day of his life, so that could not have been as great a sorrow as the first two.
‘Gandhi was of the opinion that the internment had been done with a political end in view and that the police subordinates concocted false reports implicating prominent politicians in the terrorist movement. He also said that he had been unimpressed with the Rowlatt Committe report and had opposed its findings and deductions. I responded that had he read the evidence or been present during the sittings of the Rowlatt Comittee, he too would have signed the report. At this he laughed.
‘I asked whether he had gone through the literature on the subject by the revolutionists themselves. He said he had read some of it. I pointed out that nowhere in the writing had they urged that they and others arrested along with them were innocent, wrongly dealt with, or victims of police conspiracy. His answer was, “I can accept their statements as regards themselves but I cannot accept them regarding the others.”
‘Gandhi then proceeded to give me a long account of the trouble which had occurred in the Yervada Jail when he was incarcerated. I do not know the details, but understood from what he said that there was considerable trouble among the convicts; that he had suggested a manner of dealing with this which was unorthodox from the official point of view; that he pressed the point until the officials gave in and the trouble was allayed. I told him that I could not see the parallel between the trouble at Yervada and the trouble caused by terrorists in Bengal. He then proceeded to tell me of the revolutionists he had successfully converted in the past and the only name he could come up with was V. V. S. Ayyer, the one whose death has been recently reported in the papers.’
Sir Charles heaved a sigh and continued. ‘Then we got to the actual issue. I asked him if it would meet his views if the government considered afresh the cases of all the people held in custody without trial with a view to seeing how many could be released without taking undue risks and endangering the peace of the province. He said, “Yes, prov
ided the government said they were doing it at this particular juncture as a gesture in memory of C. R. Das.” I said the government would be bound by facts and not by sentiment but he repeated that he would attach great importance to this proviso.
‘Then he asked when the absolute recalcitrants were likely to be released. I said nobody would be kept in custody a day longer than was considered absolutely necessary; that those in jail would be removed at the earliest and placed under less rigorous control such as home or foreign domicile. The absolute recalcitrants, I imagined, would be released when the soil was arid and the seeds of terrorism, which they would try and sow, would have no chance of germinating. “But”, said Gandhi, “Would they not themselves take to bombs and revolvers?” I said there were different grades in the terrorist ranks: recruiters who train and equip the rank and file; the actual assassins were usually young men for assassination was a young man’s job. Gandhi said, “I see. So you will keep them in jail until they are too old to commit assassinations.” I told him that was not what I meant. The ones in jail now may not come under the assassin category. Gandhi said, “Then they are cowards and none would follow a coward.” I said this did not follow and then instanced the case of Biren Dutt Gupta who had shot Shamsul Alam in the Calcutta High Court and had been hanged for the crime.
‘I told him that Biren had narrated to me and subsequently to the chief presidency magistrate the whole history: he did not know the victim personally, he had no personal knowledge as to whether Shamsul Alam was a good man or a bad man and that in killing him he had merely carried out the orders of his leader Joteen Mookerjee whom he described as a divine man. I asked Biren, “Why did Joteen Mookerjee not commit the crime himself?” To this the answer was: “He is the leader of the revolutionaries; it is not his job to commit assassinations himself and so risk his life which is far more valuable to the country than mine.” I said to Gandhi, “Yet no one in Bengal will call Joteen Mookerjee a coward.”
‘I then asked him a question: Did he believe that if the Deshbandhu were alive today, he would have advocated and welcomed a proposal such as this one? Gandhi said “yes”. I asked whether it was not a fact that C.R. Das could not control the revolutionary element in Faridpore; that he did not himself wish to press for an omnibus release, though this was urged on him with great force by the revolutionists; that during the interview C.R. Das had asked them if they were pressing for release of all these people on the ground that they were innocent? The reply had been: “Yes until they have been proved guilty”, on which C.R. Das had countered: “do you suggest that Sachin Sanyal is innocent?”’
‘I had read it in a journal and believed it to be true since it had not been challenged and Gandhi agreed that he had knowledge of the incidence. It was clear the Deshbandhu had himself apprehended trouble if all the terrorists were released at once.
‘Finally Gandhi said to me, “If I were to ask you as a friend whether you would like me to move this resolution, what would you say?” I said, “Most certainly not.” Gandhi replied, “Then I will not move it.” Later, S.R. Das told me that his own opinion was that Gandhi believed Subhas Bose had been interned for political reasons and he personally did not think that any releases which did not include Subhas Bose would satisfy him.’
Darkness had descended and the yellow light of the street lamps had come on. The two men made their way back to the Government House, immersed in thought.
THREE
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
That was pretty much it. Nothing spectacular took place for the next couple of months. It was really quite uncomfortable and Ananda found himself almost sneaking around. He actively avoided his classmates for fear that he would let slip the secret. Himangshu, he could not steer clear of, for the Sen house lay at the bottom of the hill on the way to school. The walks back and forth were carried out in near silence, the growing levels of discomfort becoming apparent.
The boys had become good at keeping track of ongoing politics. The Congress party in Bengal was struggling, with the differences between J.M. Sengupta and Subhas Chandra Bose coming to the fore. And though J.M. Sengupta was a Chattogram man and the one who had defended Master-da, Ambika-da and Ananta-da so ably in 1924, Master-da veered towards Subhas Bose. And Anushilan backed Sengupta. In February 1929, a Congress committee had formed in Chattogram with Mohim Chandra Das, a Sengupta man, as president and Master-da as secretary. In addition, a Youth Congress had been formed with Ganesh-da as secretary and a Students’ Union with Tegra’s dada – Lokenath-da – as secretary. The associations encouraged the building and promotion of gymnasiums and a grant of Rs 300/- was sanctioned, by the Chittagong Municipality, which was used to appoint Ananta-da as instructor to various clubs on a monthly salary of fifty rupees.
About two months after that initial conversation, Ananta-da called out to him after gym. Ananda could not but help notice the look on Himangshu’s face. Avoiding his eye he hurried to Anantada’s side.
‘You have to meet the top boss. Come to my place after school tomorrow. You know his name don’t you? Surjya Sen. We call him Master-da.’
The words sent a delicious thrill down Ananda’s spine. He felt the gooseflesh prickle over his arms and shoulders. Master-da. He was going to meet Master-da. The name was associated with not just revolution but with armed revolution. In times such as these, the word ‘revolution’ was ominous in itself and strong men paled at its mention – but ‘armed revolution’? Toying with the words was unthinkable. And bringing them to one’s lips? No, that was just not possible.
The British guarded their hold over India with an iron hand. Nothing would ever keep them from letting the goose and her golden eggs slip from their grasp. Should she make an attempt to flap her wings, the retaliation would be swift and brutal. So brutal that it would never be allowed to die from public memory. The common man would rather turn in his own blood than allow such a chastisement to be inflicted upon society. The exploits of Khudiram Bose, Kanailal Dutta and Bagha Joteen made for good reading, but the masses had paid for their actions.
Ananda spent the rest of the day quietly at home. Thoughts rushed in and out of his head. A hundred questions posed themselves to his young sense of responsibility, but a particularly disquieting one kept sneaking in. What would Master-da think of him? Of Ananda Prasad Gupta? He did not look like a runt. Ruefully, he flexed his arm. The mirror caught his eye. A short, slight figure stared back. Slowly it turned, bringing its hands ever so insidiously to the hips. Then suddenly, without warning both pistols flashed.
Ananda peeped past the door. His face was scrubbed and his hair parted neatly down one side. Ananta-da sat in the corner, chatting quietly with a middle-aged man. Ananda’s eyes swept the rest of the room. There was nobody else there. Perhaps he was early.
Ananta-da looked up. ‘Here he is.’ He motioned towards the chair he vacated as he rose and left the room saying, ‘This is Ananda.’
Leaving his shoes outside the door, Ananda went in feeling more than bewildered. This could not be Master-da. Where was Master-da? This man was nearly the same age as his father, a little shorter perhaps and with a receding hairline. Where was that muscular body that he had been trying to emulate? He transferred his attentions to the floor. The sheen of the rich red mosaic reflected a confused boy, whose eyes stared rigidly back at him. His toes, seemed to have grown extremely long. They were awkward and wriggly against the reflection of his face; his nails disgustingly neglected for weeks.
‘Ananda?’
The eyes could see right through him.
Ganesh-da couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Imagine my plight. Here I had talked endlessly about him to my friends in the Anushilan party. The opportunity to introduce them came when the ordinance under the Bharat Raksha Rule brought us all together at the Medinipur1 Central Jail. Master-da was the last to be brought in and the day he was arrested, there had been great excitement. I took Satish Pakrashi and Niranjan Sengupta to meet him. Master-da had been keen that the Jugantar party –
the one we are cooperating with – and the Anushilan party put their energies together for the cause. After the experience of the non-cooperation movement both parties had lost faith in Gandhi-ji’s ahimsa policy and were arriving at the conclusion that more needed to be done.
‘It seems Niranjan had ideas similar to yours.’ Ganesh-da looked at Ananda kindly. ‘And he is more my age than yours. I too felt I had let Niranjan down. I was almost apologetic. This was our Masterda? The wallflower? The one that shied away from addressing the public and refused to be chief guest at any gathering. What could I say? But I need not have troubled myself so for within days Niranjan had fallen under his spell and was calling him Master-da. Master-da is the brain behind the revolution. He leaves the fiery oration and the antics to the other. You won’t catch him making grand speeches or adorning the chairman’s seat on a dais with a chest loaded with garlands.’ Ganesh-da winked.
Ananta-da put on a look of mock hurt. He personally loved attention and what was so wrong with it anyway? ‘Not easy at all to resist Master-da. All I wanted to do was to win his approval.’ He burst out laughing. ‘We were preparing for the Congress’s non-cooperation movement. My boys and I had volunteered our services at the Congress Swaraj Sangh office. That was routine stuff – going from home to home collecting rice and money, supervising the food that was to be cooked for the masses that were gathering, maintaining discipline and looking after the arrangements for the processions. But that had not been enough for me. A hartal, I knew, was being planned.2 And that kept going round and round in my head. The masses had to feel involved to make the strike a success. Nothing came to mind and to give myself a break I went to watch a jatra.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 6