Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  ‘The show had been organized on the grounds of the Assam Bengal Railway Company. An absolute sea of humanity had assembled. Men, women and children jostled for space on the durries elbowing and manipulating themselves into better viewing positions. The stage, you would have seen many such, was a simple one with planks of wood arranged over a wooden frame. A painted cloth screen, stretched between two bamboo poles, was to serve as the backdrop and allowed the actors to smoke or change costumes hidden from public gaze.

  ‘It was getting uncomfortable. A little smiling old lady kneed me in the back and I extricated myself and moved to the edge. But one thought and one thought alone kept playing in my mind. The hartal. It had to succeed. Succeed not just for the liberation of India. Somewhere deep inside me I knew that I wanted it to succeed for Master-da. The show began and a hush descended upon the audience.

  ‘The actors took the stage by storm. What a sight it was – the colours, the costumes, the make-up, the dramatic inflections of the actor’s voices … the dialogues rang loud and clear through the grounds. The audience sat spellbound, unable to move a muscle. There were tense, action-packed sequences interspersed with pretty song-and-dance interludes that added a bit of light relief. Then an idea flashed through my head.’

  ‘Bujhli? You understand?’ Ganesh-da raised an eyebrow at Ananda. ‘Ananta had a brainwave.’

  Repressing the retort that rose to his lips, Ananta-da continued. ‘I couldn’t remain still after that. I was shaking with excitement. The people around me probably put it down to emotion, for a hair-raising scene was about to begin. The hero, a prince, was on the verge of being sacrificed as the goddess Kali looked on, her eyes bloodshot, her tongue the most unnatural shade of red against the blue paint that coated her body. A scimitar flashed overhead and the audience drew in a sharp breath. The executioner paused for effect and prepared to bring down the scimitar to the words, Jai Ma Kali. He had barely gotten past the word “Jai” when all hell broke loose. The executioner lost his balance and fell over the prince. Kali gathered her skirts and ran. And I, Ananta Lal Singh had taken the centre stage.’

  Ananda gasped in delight.

  ‘You should have seen me,’ chuckled Ananta-da. ‘I was in top form, in command of all the eloquence at my disposal. In Gandhiji’s name I reminded them of their duty to our nation. “Go home,” I said to them. “Stop the show and go home. The hartal tomorrow has to be a success.”

  ‘It was unbelievable. After the initial shock they all began shouting. The grounds were reverberating with cries of Bande Mataram, Allah ho Akbar and Gandhi-ji ki jai. I couldn’t believe my ears and before my very eyes that massive crowd simply melted away.’ Ananta looked triumphantly at Ananda.

  ‘An honest appeal made from the heart is worth its weight in gold,’ observed Ganesh-da.

  ‘And what did Master-da have to say?’

  Ananta-da stole a sideways look at Ganesh-da. ‘He giggled like a schoolboy.’

  ‘He is a good sport.’ Ganesh-da added. ‘He was embarrassed that he could not ride a bicycle. Ananta and I decided to teach him.’

  The thought of Ananta-da holding the front end of the cycle and Ganesh-da the rear end and the pair letting a wobbling Master-da loose on the ground was funny. ‘And where has he been all these years?’ Ananda demanded. He was still unable to ask directly about the vision that had been a part of his life – that of a young superwoman; resplendent in black with the long streak of red that flashed from the centre of her head down to her forehead. The fact that her icily splendid features were softening gradually to resemble Ma’s was discomfiting. But it was not his place to ask about the personal lives of grown-ups.

  ‘Well, for about two years they moved him from jail to jail until they figured that it was too dangerous to keep him here in Bengal. Finally, he was shipped off to a jail as far away from Chattogram as possible. After all, catching him had turned out to be a major challenge. For most of us it had been a long stretch in jail. We had barely been released for a month or so when we were rounded up again on 1 October 1924 under the secret ordinance and held until 1928. Master-da alone had eluded this second arrest.’

  ‘We had simply waited in the comfort of our homes to be chauffeured back to jail,’ laughed Ganesh-da. Though he said nothing about his previous internment, Ananda had heard of the 1923 Maniktala bomb conspiracy case3 … the one that Swadesh had hinted at the other day at the club. But they had found no proof and had let him go.

  ‘No, Nirmal-da too had given them the slip.’ Ananta-da corrected. ‘He got caught4 in July the next year. A few months after his arrest the police received a tip-off from a small-time arms dealer in Kolkata. He had made a sale of a small quantity of explosive material. The lead was followed up and there was a surprise raid on a house in Shobha Bazaar.5 But of Master-da there was no sign. He had slipped down the drainpipe from the second floor of the building.’

  ‘Our superhero did not manage to actually take flight and landed instead with a rather heavy thump,’ said Ganesh-da. ‘He was extremely fortunate to have escaped with just a wrenched knee and not a broken leg. He managed to limp away and hide himself near the Ganga’s ghat. After a couple of hours, once the coast was clear, he made his way to Shyam Bazaar to a relative’s house. But the poor cousin was petrified and pleaded to be spared.’

  ‘Despite the agony he was in, I don’t think the cousin even let him cross his threshold. And it wasn’t unreasonable if you come to think of it, for men with families have their own responsibilities. Anyway a friend living in Maniktala received word and came to the rescue. After he recovered, Master-da spent his time moving about in disguise contacting workers of different revolutionary groups trying to get them to unite. That was until he was caught and taken to Medinipur Jail.’

  ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, Master-da was too hot to handle here in Bengal,’ said Ganesh-da. ‘He was transported to Ratnagiri Jail near Bombay and then to Belgaon. That was probably the furthest and the most secure jail the British could think of. Niranjan was being moved around with him. I got to hear a first-hand account as a result. They had had a great time amongst the Marathis and when they were being readied to move to Belgaon, the other prisoners bid them a very emotional farewell – the raja-babus were going away, they said. Master-da took care to meet every last man in jail before leaving. A car had been arranged, for the authorities were greatly apprehensive that Master-da’s journey would attract great crowds. They left before dawn and travelled through the Western Ghats. Niranjan claims he will never forget the view – the high peaks, the waterfalls and the ravines set against the morning mist, not to mention the deer and the peacocks that abound in the area. Our Chattogram has low hills but the Western Ghats, I am told, are spectacular.

  ‘By afternoon they had reached the village of Shakharpa. It was a chance to stretch their legs. A police van and a truck had followed them. The British police inspector, accompanying them, was a pleasant sort of person – a thorough gentleman – having moved only recently from the army to the reserve police force. He chatted comfortably with them and did not fuss when the villagers gathered around. Master-da was in his element. It made no difference to him that the villagers spoke no Bengali. A few tentative words of Hindi and a smattering of Marathi, picked up during the stay in Ratnagiri, and they got along like a house on fire. Word soon spread that Master-da was the swadeshi the local papers had been talking about and a schoolteacher at that. Little Konkani children broke through the crowds greeting him with folded hands. Niranjan, they took to be Deshpriya Jatindra Mohan Sengupta and had to be corrected, but then they insisted that he must be a close relative. The police stood around beaming. They quite clearly considered it an honour to be escorting them. The village postmaster took them to his office and the village headman invited them to his house for lunch. The sleepy little Konkan village had been jolted awake.

  ‘The meal itself was an experience. Two places had been set and the women stood ready to wait on them. Women in those pa
rts enjoy a near equal relationship with their men and do not hide behind veils or purdahs. And the food! The spread was so lavish that it was embarrassing. The headman sheepishly explained to Niranjan and Master-da that most homes had sent a little something for the swadeshis.’

  Ganesh-da’s face held a strange faraway kind of look. ‘I think Master-da draws his sustenance from the fellow feeling displayed by the masses.’ He laughed. ‘Niranjan too commented on the glow that had appeared on his face. I guess he is a bit of a romantic at heart; wrote regularly to Amiya-Boudi, Niranjan’s wife, while in jail, never letting her spirits flag; constantly spouted Rabindranath’s verses – something he does even today. I think Master-da loves Rabindranath to a fault. But that got on Niranjan’s nerves at times. The two were used to taking their daily walks while in Ratnagiri Jail trekking up a hillock, within the precincts, from where the great expanse of the Arabian Sea was visible. On one such afternoon, as the poet’s words threatened to overcome Master-da’s emotions, the look on Niranjan’s face struck him dumb. It made them both choke with laughter. “Love of poetry will not kill the revolution, Niranjan,” Master-da then assured him. “The poet is inextricably entwined with our lives.”’

  Ananda’s unspoken question went unanswered.

  RAM KRISHNA BISWAS

  It was Saturday. Ram Krishna could not wait for school to get over. Phutu-da would be waiting at Koroldanga. Today the path posed no problems. He remembered it well. Following him were the Sens – Sachin, Horen and Khoka. Ram Krishna led the way, leaping over the boulders and the puddles with ease, ignoring the nettle as it brushed against his bare legs. The day was bathed in the weak golden rays of the sun and the cold December wind swirled deliciously.

  Neither was Phutu-da alone. A quick round of introductions was made. Apurva Sen – or Bhola, as he was referred to, the one with the beautiful voice – had come from Dhalghat. He had brought with him Ajit Biswas whom everyone knew as a quiet, calm and dependable lad. And there was a new boy from Saroatali – Ardhendu Dutt.

  A hole had been dug in the ground in which a crackling fire had got going. A clay pot hung over it steaming.

  ‘Today,’ announced Phutu-da, ‘we shall celebrate. We shall have a bon-bhojon – a feast in the woods. The day is just perfect for a picnic.’

  The boys sat in a circle and Sachin and Khoka began a round of recitation, choosing the verses of Rabindranath that Master-da loved. Soon everyone was engrossed and all thoughts of hunger had been driven from their minds until Phutu-da got up to give the pot a stir.

  A stack of enormous and sturdy lotus leaves, washed and cleaned, stood on one side. Phutu-da had thought of everything. The boys got up and grabbed a pair each. They were a rich dark green and felt like velvet. One was to serve as the seat and the other the platter. The food was served. The rice was a little sticky and smelt a bit smoky – the bottom layer having been rescued just in time. Over it was ladled generous helpings of a steaming carp and vegetable stew. A squeeze of lemon juice was added to every plate and shiny green chillies placed by the side. Could it have compared with a mother’s practised hand? The verdict was unanimous. It could not have been better.

  The band of young revolutionaries turned their attentions to Horen. Horen Sen, the only son of a mother that knew nothing but ahimsa, worshipped the doctrine of love which demanded complete surrender to the dark-skinned flute bearer – Lord Krishna.

  ‘The story of the poet Nobeen Sen …’ he began. Then quoting from Kobi Nobeen Chandra Sen’s writings, he said: ‘“An ominous darkness looms before India. Dependency and atrocities are now our constant companions.”’ Horen cleared his throat, and continued, ‘The people of Bharatvarsh are helpless, steeped in poverty and humiliation. The poet Nobeen Chandra Sen who belonged to our Master-da’s village of Noapara had done extremely well for himself in life. As a young man, he had been appointed magistrate but did that keep him from feeling for his people? He poured his soul into his autobiography Aamar Jibon – My Life. Of Nobeen Babu’s literary talents there was never a doubt but while reviewing Aamar Jibon, Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay wrote in the Kartik edition of the Bongodarshan: “When Nobeen Babu’s soul cries for the country, then he calls a spade a spade. If the wail of agony can drown out all other sounds, if the fear of torture cannot overcome the desire to speak freely, if anger can be expressed like Sage Durvasa’s, then this describes Nobeen Babu.” The man who had composed “Bande Mataram” had described Kobi Nobeen Chandra Sen to the T.

  ‘But in this dependent country could the foreign rulers boast of an open mind? Could they accept criticism? Could they refrain from dragging a good man’s name in mud? What did Aamar Jibon speak of? The poet describes the pain of being dependent. He writes with great sorrow that the laws prevailing in England are not applied by the British in India. Why, even a common murderer in England is informed of the charges against him and is permitted to speak in his defence! But are the Indian deputies of the British government of India permitted such privileges? Are they informed of the nature of complaint made against them by secret demi-officials in whom the magistrates and the commissioners of the empire repose such blind trust? Are they given the luxury to defend themselves at court? Why is it that mere suspicion of harbouring softer feelings for one’s country and countrymen invites harsh punishments?

  ‘Had Nobeen Babu been born in an independent country he would have received much acclaim. But unfortunately, it was humiliation that lay in store for him. Was Nobeen Babu the only victim of such injustice? Has such an incidence never taken place before? Then tell me, why was Lokmanya Bal Gangadhar Tilak jailed in 1897? It was because he had arrived at the same conclusion and had voiced his opinion in his newspaper Kesari earlier that year: “Our first duty is to put to proper use this new knowledge of English. The people must be made aware of the law and of their rights. They must know the ways and means of lodging a protest and yet remain within the limits imposed by the law.” The words had driven the white man mad. Nobeen Chandra Sen and Tilak are not the only examples. Many of the Indian intelligentsia have suffered. The country has come to such a point that there is no option but to remember Vivekananda’s words: “To rock the foundation of the British Empire, the young minds will have to awaken and be filled with love for their country.” He believes that the worth of men is far more than all the wealth of the country. Vivekananda says that the country needs strong people to come forward, not just people with strong sinews but ones cast in steel.

  ‘Do not forget we have been born to die. Repeat after me: Bharat’s well-being is my well-being and repeat day and night – Oh Gaurinath! Make a man out of me, O mother take away my fears and my weaknesses.’

  Before the applause could begin Ram Krishna raised his hand to speak.

  ‘Philosophy is fine, provided it yields results. Our capabilities will be proven only when we put them to the test. As for the character of the nation … why, it reflects our individual characters! It is but natural that the powerful will subdue the weak. There is no point in blaming the British. But what is it that we must do now? We have to make ourselves stronger than the enemy we face. We have to beat them at their own game.’

  Rifle in hand, the band of budding revolutionaries moved about the small hills during the weekends. Their targets ranged from the wild deer, duck, to jungle fowl. The strong sun beat down upon them darkening their arms and faces and the sweat trickled freely, but they did not mind. Not a thought did they spare for the exhaustion that assailed them. They ran their prey down and did not flinch from the distasteful task of skinning the meat. They quenched their thirst at the clear streams that abounded, and at the end of the day looked forward to a feast of mutton curry and rice. While it cooked, they made sport of setting green coconuts afloat amidst the wild waters of the streams and used them as targets.

  The orchard on Koroldanga hill had been turned into a centre for revolutionary activities. A secret shooting range and an akhara for physical exercise were set up. Here the twists and turns o
f ju-jitsu were taught and the mysteries behind the finesse of professional swimmers and boxers revealed. Pistols, revolvers and rifles yielded their secrets and the revolutionaries learnt to dismantle, clean and reassemble their weapons.

  Under Phutu-da’s guidance the youngsters’ lives took on a new meaning. A newsletter Purbachol Patrika was conceptualized and published. Ram Krishna became its chief editor.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA

  The edge of the mattress sank a little as a comfortable presence lowered itself by Ananda’s side. He turned without waking, adjusting himself slightly. His head found its place without guidance on to Monorama Devi’s lap. Ma liked to sit quietly and listen to their soft snoring. Her fingers curled themselves into his hair.

  She leant across to stroke Dada’s cheek. It fitted smoothly into the curve of her hand. She remained in that position, not taking her eyes or her hand off his face. Then suddenly touching the rim of her eye, as if to wipe away a tear, she reached out again to mark the corner of Dada’s forehead with her kohl and added a quick dab to Ananda’s as well. She had got Baba to take them to a photographer’s studio, earlier that week. In the years to come, Ananda would think back to this moment and see what she had seen: Ananda growing so fast that his legs would soon be pressed against the wooden end of the bed; Dada – everything a Bengali mother’s heart could wish for: the mop of dark curls, lotus-bud eyes fringed with thick eyelashes, the fine straight bridge of the nose, a beautifully shaped mouth and the gentle curve of that cheek untouched as yet by the prickly tokens of manhood.