Adjusting his head back on to his pillow, Ma got up to tuck the ends of the mosquito net tightly in again. Ananda’s eyes followed her. She had found a book hidden under Dada’s mattress. She turned it this way and that trying to catch the dim shaft of moonlight that cast silvery patterns on the wall. She held it for an eternity. A cool breeze blew the madhobilata’s fragrance into the room. She shivered; pulled the windowpanes shut and returned the book to its secret place.
Ananda stole out of bed and took the book from where his mother had left it. Squinting he tried to make out the words on the cover.
My Fight for Irish Freedom. The author was Dan Breen.
A pair of eyes bore into the back of Ananda’s neck. Dada had raised himself onto his elbow.
‘Master-da, Ambika-da and I were labelled as cowards.’ Ananta-da was leading Ananda and Jibon towards the Lotus theatre. Every time a war movie was screened, Ananta-da made it a point to see it. The mind too has to be prepared for what could lie in store, he would say. It had been a great relief when Jibon and Himangshu had disclosed they had been chosen as well. But Swadesh remained a problem. It was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the hurt so evident on his face. They had all been expressly warned to keep him away. His was a soft background – too many temptations; too luxurious a future; too many binds.
‘We had believed ahimsa to be a tactical move on Gandhi-ji’s part, one that would change to relentless struggle if the need arose. But the Congress stuck to it like a leech refusing to listen to reason. After two centuries of subjugation, was there even a memory of himsa that we were expected to learn the value of ahimsa? Their workers were being herded into jails and we were expected to lower our heads and comply. It was too much. True, their malicious whispers hurt for a while but then we had work to do.’
Every day after the exercise sessions, they would head towards Sadarghat Bridge to attend classes on boat racing, horse riding and even shooting. Sometimes secret meetings were held on the bridge while others continued with their lessons below. It was out in the open and yet the others would not catch on. But there were times when they assembled at the Congress office where Master-da and Ambikada shacked out, or at Ganesh-da’s or Ananta-da’s residence or late in the night within the hostel rooms attached to the National Medical School where Naresh-da and Bidhu-da were training to be doctors.
‘Have you heard of the Easter Rising?’ Ananta-da whispered above the music as he settled into his seat. Ananda and Jibon nodded.
‘Yes, yes, the teacher Pearse led the Irish Volunteers and seized the Dublin Post Office in 1916.’ Jibon could not tear his eyes away from the screen.
Ananta-da’s face registered the message and he retreated into his seat as Ananda dug Jibon in the ribs. He was a poor second to MGM’s screen idol.
The three days from 11 to 13 May 1929 were earmarked for the Congress Assembly, Youth Assembly and Student Women’s Assembly. It was to bring the likes of Subhas Chandra Bose, Deshpriya Jatindra Mohan Sengupta, Jyotish Ghose and Nripen Banerjee to Chattogram.
Months had gone into the preparations. Since March, Ananta-da, Ganesh-da, Lokenath-da, Ambika-da and Nirmal-da had been screening the hopefuls that had lined up to be recruited into the Volunteer Vahini. A hundred had been selected and since then, it had been march, march, march, with the new boots giving everybody hell.
‘Come on, come on, move it.’ Lokenath-da called from the rear as Naresh-da and Bidhu-da sprinted effortlessly alongside.
‘On your heels. Dig in your heels.’ The first couple of days were filled with mirth as they tried to match the rhythm being called.
‘Once again. Start out with your left foot … left foot, not the right. And swing those arms … up to the shoulder … No, the left arm swings out with the right leg … that was impossible … how on earth did you do that?’ The two doctors collapsed helpless with laughter.
Lokenath-da decided to intervene. ‘Sen. Over here.’
Tripura Sen came forward to demonstrate. He was a tall fifteen-year-old and had come from Dhaka to live with his maternal uncle and study at the Municipal School. Tripura was a natural. It didn’t come as a surprise when he was chosen to lead his company. Lieutenant Tripura. The name stuck.
‘Le-eft turn! At the double, qui-ick march! Left-right, left-right.’
The companies turned to jog along the periphery of the grounds.
It had come as a shock to most. They had been fit when they joined. What had happened over the last couple of days? As ribs heaved in agony, and muscles, hitherto unknown, made themselves felt, reflections began to creep in.
‘Faster, faster … one-two, one-two.’
The finish line was in sight. A part of Ananda believed that he would not make it alive. Blood was pounding in his ears. It was impossible to hear clearly.
‘Round again boys … once more round the track.’ Naresh-da smiled affectionately.
Had Ananda not known him so well he could have sworn it was the most evil of smiles.
There were boys, young hopefuls that hung around at the edge of the grounds watching. Among them was Himangshu. He had not been selected either. There was some mystery about the way the selections had taken place. It had not exactly been based on physical attributes.
RAMANI MAJUMDAR
The day dawned and the Volunteer Vahini dressed in starched khakigreen uniforms made of the homespun khaddar turned out to be a crowd-puller. Multitudes gathered. They pushed and jostled for a chance to get to the ropes that marked the boundary of the parade ground bordering J.M. Sen Hall.
A police contingent was in attendance and Sub-Inspector Ramani Majumdar scribbled little notes that he would enter into the police diary that evening: Chattogram lads put up an incredible show … stunning displays of physical prowess; Lokenath Bal stopped a motor car in motion with his bare hands; Ananta Lal Singh twisted iron rods into a ‘D’ and a ‘V’. Ganesh Ghosh was in command dressed in the uniform of a general. He chewed on the end of his pencil thoughtfully before adding: one similar to that worn by Bose in Calcutta five months ago! Flanked by Major Naresh Ray, Captain Ananta Lal Singh and Lieutenant Tripura Sen.
Ramani Majumdar walked along the halls, through the stalls examining the posters on display. Come young men, they cried out and quoted from Tagore: Shall the altar of the goddess of bondage remain forever standing?
The youth of Chittagong were being reminded of the youth movement taking place the world over. From their dormant states they were waking up like a rush of lava to sweep away the evils and usher in the golden age. The power of the youth had changed the fate of China and awakened new aspirations in the hearts of the Turks. Life had been infused into the decaying carcass of Russia. The posters continued: Today your unhappy motherland eagerly awaits the employment of the energy slumbering within you. Join at once the Chittagong Youth Association which is a meeting place of the servants of the country.
Chittagong Youth Association? Ramani Majumdar’s heart skipped a beat. Could this be the New Violence Party the police in Calcutta were issuing warnings about? His intuition told him it was something to be reported and kept track of. Paradhinatar Bedona … the pain of being dependent! The appeal of words was difficult to ignore. Aagey Desh porey nyay aar dharmo … First the country. Justice and principles come later. The placard had been put up on the central pandal.
He was on duty again the next day. It was only the second day and already the placard had been torn. The concluding part of the slogan was missing. Some twenty or twenty-five volunteers armed with lengths of strong bamboo had gathered. They were being led by Ananta Lal Singh, Lokenath Bal, Naresh Ray and Tripura Sen. On the last and final day, one Radhika Dutt, who lived across the road, filed an official complaint. He had been brutally assaulted. A case was registered under Section 147 of the IPC and scheduled to be heard on 23 October 1929.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
The Congress Assembly in Chattogram had brought a pleasant surprise for Ananta and Ganesh. Subhas Chandra Bose, who had
chaired the meetings, had sent word. There was to be a secret meeting. ‘Bring Tripura Sen,’ he had said.
The great man met with them in a secret vault at the Mahalaxmi Bank. The Chittagong show had impressed him, especially young Tripura.
‘But we have no intention of being an ornamental part of the Congress,’ Ananta and Ganesh confided. ‘The motto of non-violence is only a cover. We will continue to prepare for the youth revolution!’
Subhas Chandra Bose nodded his assent.
FOUR
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
Ananda settled onto the wooden bench beside Makhon – Jibon Ghoshal – and Ananta-da. The Bengali and British had this one habit in common, but whereas tea was welcome anytime for the Bengali, it was a late afternoon ceremony among the English. The little dhaba boy set down the cups with a clatter, spilling the hot fluid. Under Ananta-da’s watchful eye he whipped out an old gamchha and rubbed the table vigorously.
‘Ireland’s tragedy has served to drive home the need for unification of all extremist groups,’ said Ananta-da. ‘Not me,’ he shook his head piously as he touched the lobes of his ears. ‘These are words from the speech delivered by Eamon de Valera at New York in 1920: “We of Ireland and you of India must each of us endeavour both as separate people and in combination to rid ourselves of the vampire that is fattening on our blood, and we must never allow ourselves to forget what weapon it was by which Washington rid his country of the same vampire.”’
Ananda blew on the brown fluid and swished it around in his cup. Tegra had just breezed in. He squeezed himself in and signalled to the serving boy with a cocky wave of his hand. The child responded at once, grinning like an idiot. Tegra was his hero.
‘The concept of armed revolution first gained momentum here in Bengal,’ continued Ananta-da, ‘but over the decades no single cohesive establishment evolved. As a result, numerous little groups are struggling to come up with a working plan. The younger generation is impatient and eager. It cannot abide by the restraints advised by the seniors. Clashes are inevitable. Differences of opinion are forcing the leaders into reaching out to one another. It has brought your Ganeshda’s Anushilan friends Niranjan Sengupta, Pratul Bhattacharya and Binoy Rai to Chattogram. A much-needed strategy is being worked upon and it has been agreed that individual action has to give way to meticulous planning. The groups must fit in neatly like a cog and wheel. Anushilan and Jugantar – these are the only two parties of note in Bengal … there is a group called the Bengal Volunteers but they are far too loosely organized. But, though we outwardly identify with the Jugantar Party as opposed to Anushilan, and cooperate with the Congress, we are really on our own. Master-da is our leader and we plan our own operations.’
The dregs had gone cold. Ananda stopped swirling the tea in his cup and called for another. The afternoon had been earmarked for a session of firing practice. The range was at Rajat-da’s home. It stood at the southernmost edge of the city – a picturesque spot in the Firingee Bazaar area on the banks of the Karnaphuli. Tall leafy trees, with girths that spoke of their advanced years, shaded the sprawling lawns and the beautiful two-storeyed mansion. It had served them well and provided a secure place, far from prying eyes, to carry out weapons training. The other, was Ananda’s own home which had become the revolution’s northern centre.
A sheet of newspaper had been strung up amidst the branches. A Colt had been arranged and Ananta-da moved between the boys letting them have a feel of the unloaded revolver. They had learnt the basics and could identify the parts. Each one was taught to strip it down and clean it. The weather was warm and an inquisitive kokil cooed from the upper branches. Rajat-da’s eyes dwelt lovingly on the Colt’s sleek body. Tenderly he picked it up. ‘Isn’t she a beauty,’ he crooned and suddenly whipping it up, aimed it at the surprised bird peeping from behind the dark leaves. ‘Boom! … boom!’ he intoned jerking the hand upwards each time.
Ananta-da laughed. ‘Julu-da held this session for us … Juluda? He was amongst the group leaders when I first joined. Besides Master-da, there was Anurup Sen – also a teacher, Nagendranath Sen, that is Julu-da who had served as an NCO during the Great War, Ambika-da and Charu Bikash Dutt. Charu Babu left our group to join Anushilan, and sadly, Pramod, who had introduced me to Master-da, went with him.’
‘Julu-da went to war?’
‘Aah! Now that is another story.’ Ananta-da could see that he had them eating out of his hands. ‘The leaders had been given to believe that Home Rule would be awarded if the Indians helped the British. But once the Treaty of Versailles was signed, we received the Montague–Chelmsford Reforms instead – a lollipop! But getting back to our story, we chose for our first lesson not lovely surroundings such as these but Mr Twiddle’s bungalow!’
‘Mr Twiddle?’
Ananta-da nodded sagely. ‘Yes, a judge who lived out his days here in Chittagong. He had turned Hindu and, as per his last request, was cremated on the banks of the Lal Dighi. He had died ten years ago, but,’ Ananta-da shuddered deliciously, ‘his spirit had never left. No one dared venture near that lone bungalow on top of the hill.’
‘And for you that had to be the place to choose.’
Ananta-da bowed his head. ‘We were trying to figure out why Master-da and Julu-da had desired such secrecy. Chanting mantras, we marched into the bungalow. The shock was too much. It stank. It stank so badly that it would have driven out any spirit that dared try a hand at haunting. The place was overgrown. Cows, lame horses, dogs and foxes had moved in. Crows, kites and vultures nested inside and the ceiling was a mass of bats. The lesson began with handkerchiefs pressed to our noses but when Julu-da displayed the six revolvers and pistols all the smells vanished. All I could think about was how to procure more weapons.’ His eyebrows twitched up and down. ‘Visions of the visit to my mamar-bari floated before my eyes. My mother’s brother works at the palace of the maharaja of Tripura. Truly! What a palace! But what I could not get out of my mind was the sentries guarding the …?’
‘Armoury.’ The boys said in unison. They huddled in a tight circle about him.
‘I landed up at Agartala. Mama and mamima were only too pleased and plied me with food and planned various visits: to the maharaja’s pleasure garden, a hunting trip with the maharaja … But all I wanted to do was break into the armoury. Finally, I took Umesh, my cousin, into confidence. We spoke to my mama and got him to organize a visit. It was winter and we were dressed from head to foot in woollens. The great doors opened and I went giddy at the sight. Shining glass cases and their precious contents! Suppose I took one? Would anyone get to know? Master-da’s face hovered about me and he wagged his finger severely in my face. My uncle was walking ahead talking about each weapon. “Mama!” I said. “There are so many cartridges. Can I take one?” He laughed and said, “Go ahead. But, mind you, just a few.” He waited at the door while Umesh and I stuffed our pockets, our socks and even our shoes. What bore, what make … there was no time to think. As we left, we were both nervous. Every guard seemed to look at us suspiciously. But then Umesh was not only mama’s son he was also the Crown Prince’s best friend and riding partner. We got home without trouble. When we turned out our pockets, we had about a 1,000 between us. Then I roped in a distant relative who was a soldier. The day he was on guard duty at the armoury, twenty-five rifles and their bullets were removed, packed into gunny bags and sent to Chattogram via steamer. Master-da and Julu-da were ecstatic. Encouraged, I motivated Rakhal De, a friend of Master-da’s students – Sukumar Biswas and Dalil Rehman – to go and stay in my mama’s house. We planned to bring more rifles but then the leaders said no. A large firearm like a rifle would prove difficult to handle in a job like ours.’ Ananta-da tsk’ed mournfully. ‘The leaders were getting ready for a dacoity. They were busy collecting information: where was the target house located; how far was it from the police station; what kind of people lived close by; did anyone in the vicinity have a firearm; how far would one have to go before the money could be safely sent
on its way.’
Giving the gun a final rub with the oily rag, Ananta-da gave the sky a suspicious look and abruptly waved the boys on their way, completely deaf to the moans and entreaties that welled up around him.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 12 JUNE 1929
Bhagat Singh and Batukeshwar Dutt had been sentenced to transportation for life. They had thrown bombs into the Central Legislative Assembly on 8 April 1929. Harmless ones, but bombs nevertheless. It had made a good story and Ananda had followed the trial carefully. Bhagat Singh had meant to do nothing but call attention to the Indian question. But with the sentencing came the shocking news that another trial was to start, for Bhagat Singh had been implicated in the murder of Deputy Superintendent of Police J.P. Saunders. It had taken place the previous December soon after the death of Lala Lajpat Rai. Within days of this news, a bomb-manufacturing unit was uncovered in Lahore and news of another arrest was being flashed. A twenty-five-year-old Bengali from Kolkata had been picked up. He had been instructing Bhagat Singh’s group on the art of assembling bombs. It was Ganesh-da’s friend from college, Jatindranath Das – Jatin Das of the Anushilan Party, the one who had donned the major’s uniform at the forty-fourth session of the Indian National Congress.
Needless to say, an alert was sounded through the country. And Chattogram in its remote corner did not fail to feel the effects. Word was passed around: the police had added the names of those who participated in the Volunteer Vahini to the list of those under surveillance. Every member was cautioned. They were all being followed.
But it was Jatin’s arrest that was causing the sensation in Chattogram. He had been incarcerated at the Lahore Central Jail along with Bhagat Singh and a highly publicized trial had begun on 10 July 1929 at the Borstal Jail. True there were several others that were being tried in the Lahore Conspiracy Case, but it was Jatin’s name in the papers, on every lip, and it had, quite strangely, not bypassed the ladies of Parade Square.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 8