Ananda paused outside the door in surprise.
‘No more than a boy! The poor child.’ Ananda had never heard Thakur-Ma speak with such vehemence. ‘Such shoddy conditions. No way to treat the son of a gentleman.’
‘Common criminals are fed better. These boys are not thieves or murderers. Why, even the thieves and murderers have privileges so long as their skin is white!’ Ananda was shocked to hear Ma’s voice. ‘And Lahore Jail … an establishment like that? Surely, the conditions ought to be better. No, they do it on purpose. I am sure the rations make their way home to the memsahib’s kitchens.’
Jatin Das continued to hog the limelight for a while. There would be news of his welfare every now and then. And then, barely a month after the arrest came the news: Jatin and his comrades had refused all food; the prison fare was intolerable; they were going to fight for the rights of political prisoners. A fast unto death had begun.
Even Baba could not hide his admiration. This was Jatin’s second hunger strike. ‘Twenty days!’ said Baba. ‘He had gone without food for twenty days when in the Mymensingh Jail. The jail superintendent had had to apologise personally.’
The state of his health, whether he appeared cheerful or depressed at court, details of his growing emaciation … people had begun discussing it on the streets. Then, on the thirteenth day there was a hush. Jatin Das had collapsed. He had been rushed to the jail hospital and was fighting for his life. Something had gone very wrong. He had appeared reasonably fit during the hearing earlier that day.
‘They were trying to force-feed him.’ Bidhu-da explained. ‘They forced him to the ground, ran a rubber tube down his nose and were pouring in the milk oblivious to the fact that the tube had entered the trachea instead of the food pipe. Drowned him quite literally. With all those heavyweights pinning him down there was no question of recognizing the damage until it was too late.’
A sudden vivid scene flashed through Ananda’s mind. Jail. He shook himself, trying to get rid of the vision. A kind of quiet had enveloped everyone at home. Ma tiptoed about and spoke in a near whisper as if Jatin lay in the next room.
But Jatin did not die. He survived that episode and the jail authorities heaved a sigh of relief. But the pneumonia that was inevitable took charge of his already wasted frame. Jatin continued to refuse all medication and nourishment. The medical authorities were helpless. Soon there were others. The beds in the jail hospital were filling up rapidly. The jail authorities advised release. The police insisted it was possible only on bail. A well-wisher went ahead and paid up. But Jatin refused. His fight was against the conditions in jail; the denial of a political prisoner’s legitimate rights and not an attempt to get out of jail or the case instituted against him. The court proceedings had to be adjourned. A sense of gloom pervaded the whole country. A race towards death had begun.
‘Horror stories! Pouring in.’ He was making his way with Ananta-da past the police quarters. A youngster called Kishore had swallowed red chilli powder. His throat was so swollen that it was impossible to push the feeding tube down. Ananda had thought about it all day.
‘There are some that swallow flies to induce vomits as soon as the feeding is over,’ Ananta-da was saying. ‘The authorities are furious. They have denied the prisoners water.’ But Ananda was not listening. Himangshu, who had been missing from school the last few days, was sitting by himself beneath a tree. Ananda raised his hand, about to give voice to an Oiii! Andu! when Ananta-da jerked him by the arm.
‘If they have to drink, it will have to be milk,’ he said maintaining a strong grip.
The look in his eye prevented Ananda from asking questions.
Political prisoners everywhere had begun hunger strikes protesting against the conditions in Lahore Jail. It caused a stir worldwide. Attention was focused on the conditions of the Indian jails. At home, people sat glued to their radios for news of Jatin. But Jatin was past caring. He had not heeded to Bhagat Singh’s pleas to give up the fast. He could no longer talk or hear.
Elections in Chattogram were due on 21 September 1929. The chosen representatives would go to Kolkata to vote in the BPCC elections due in November. Campaigning had taken on a fevered pitch. But the elections brought with them their own political muck. Paid goons and hired hoodlums tracking the elections, made their way in. In the middle of it all Master-da called for a public meeting. The agenda was to demand the release of Jatin Das. Students turned out en masse. A few speakers had finished their addresses when a telegram arrived: JATIN DAS DEAD. 13 September 1929. Dead after sixty-three days of fasting. He had won his battle against the empire. Chattogram was thunderstruck. All words vapourized and a hush descended. It was as if they were in the presence of the dead. Consciences revolted against the low whispering that was seeping in from the periphery of the crowd, and yet the words found their way into every ear: Subhas Bose had sent Jatin’s brother Rs 600/- to have the body brought down to Kolkata; eighty eminent Punjab Congressmen and volunteers were to accompany the body to the railway station; shops in Lahore had downed shutters in protest.
Jatin’s body reached Kolkata on 15 September. Six lakh people waited at Howrah and the funeral procession wound its way down the streets. Flowers were showered by the kilogram and posters proclaimed grimly: Let my son be like Jatin Das.1
In Chattogram, the mood was dark. A procession was organized. Flagged off from J.M. Sen Hall, it wound through Andarkilla, Teri Bazaar, Khatunganj, Firingee Bazaar and Sadarghat, making its way back to the starting point. A photograph of Jatin Das and a few banners were on display. Slogans were shouted all the way. Masses thronged the streets and picked up the buzzwords.
‘Veer Jatindranath Ki Jai! Glory to brave Jatindranath!’
‘He trampled fear with both his feet and his shackles call out to all!’
‘Bande Mataram! Allah ho Akbar!’
The Municipal School boys joined in late. The principal had refused to give them the day off. The gates had been shut. But Tripura – Lieutenant Tripura – had forced his way out of his classroom and had called out to his mates. ‘Brothers come out or else we will be insulting a martyr. As long as there is breath in my body, I cannot permit this to happen.’
The boys had hurtled past the angry teachers and spilled out onto the street.
‘Jatindranath’s memory is going to pave the way for the destruction of the British government!’ called Lokenath-da.
Ananta-da had as usual taken centre stage. ‘Our blood is boiling over. The floodgates of tolerance have been broken!’
‘May Jatindranath’s blood flow through our veins and give birth to a thousand Jatindranaths.’ Ganesh-da lent his voice. ‘May the hearts of the tyrants cower with fear!’
The dam had broken; the outpouring of grief unprecedented. The anger, observed Ananda, had changed shade.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
Within hours the Chattogram police had received instructions from Kolkata. The party detectives issued a warning that a twenty-fourhour watch was being instituted: each of the ex-detenues had been assigned one plain-clothes constable by day and two by night. A police inspector was to personally supervise the operation. The police had also become aware that some workers were forcing their parents into making heavy donations; that revolutionaries had been spotted moving about in Chattogram sometimes in regular shirts and dhutis, at times in khaki or Western wear and at other times in disguise. With elections looming, there was little time to pay attention to the warnings.
Six days went by in a flash. The counting had begun. The doors of the Town Hall were closed tight. By late evening the results were out: Master-da, Charu Babu, Ambika-da, Nirmal-da and Ganesh had made it. Master-da called for a private meeting and the youngsters were asked to go home. But within half an hour the doors of the Town Hall had been broken down and goondas swarmed the building.
Unintelligible shrieks echoing in the closed space; the sounds of furniture breaking; the smell of sweat and alcohol. The others were by his side. Ananta couldn’t
hear them or for that matter himself. Perhaps they were all screaming. Knuckles flashing in the air; broken furniture flying across the room; the salt taste of blood in his mouth. A cry at the door; Nirmal-da’s tall form running out into the night; the sight of Master-da’s face streaked with blood; the room bristling with crowds one moment, now suddenly emptied. It all happened at once.
‘Let’s take Master-da back to the Congress Office.’ Ganesh’s voice broke through the blur.
‘Lock the doors.’ Master-da said. He looked unsteady. Ganesh held him firmly by the arm.
‘What sent them packing like that?’
‘Somebody … not sure who … has been stabbed. Nirmal-da has gone to investigate.’
They walked slowly with Master-da in between. There was not a tikka gharry in sight. The streets were deserted.
A crowd had assembled before the Congress office. They had seen them coming. A cry went up. Blood. They wanted blood. It was their very own Volunteer Vahini. Sharpened lengths of bamboo; legs broken off tables and chairs were being wielded by every hand. Voices. Words. They came at him rapidly. He groped amongst them to filter the story: Sukhendu had been stabbed. Sukhendu Bikash Dutt of the Collegiate School. A group of boys, on their way home, had entered a dark alley, when they had suddenly been attacked from behind. The goons had turned tail leaving Sukhendu on the ground. When they turned him over, they had seen the knife wedged into his spine. The boy was alive but his legs were paralysed.
More words were coming at Ananta. His own were going wasted. But then there was a sudden silence. They were listening. Listening to Master-da.
‘Will all our energies be spent in fighting members of the Congress?’ he was saying. ‘And shall we let the British sit back and watch happily?’
Master-da’s bleeding forehead had riveted their attention.
‘Go home now!’ His voice was calm but it could not be ignored.
Nobody moved. Then Naresh held up his hand. ‘Everyone deposit your weapons.’ Aside he said, ‘Sukhendu is being moved to the Government General Hospital.’
Nirmal-da and Bidhu were managing that end. Within the next few hours the Chattogram doctors decided to move Sukhendu to Carmichael Hospital in Kolkata. Nirmal-da, Ambika-da and Ganesh, it was decided, would accompany him. They would stay on to vote at the BPCC elections. Ananta turned to Master-da, his eyes wide and pleading.
He needed money immediately. He would be in Kolkata in two days’ time. In his statement, Sukhendu had named ten of his attackers. Ananta had been informed that he would receive summons to bear witness but now he did not have the time to stick around in Chattogram.
He needed to meet Saroj immediately. Saroj Kanti Guha was not from as wealthy a family as Jibon Ghoshal, Sripati Choudhury or Haripada Mahajan but at that point in time he was at an advantage. The family was to leave by boat early the next day for their village home where his sister’s wedding ceremony was to take place. The jewellers would have delivered by now. Handing Saroj a cloth bag full of heavy metal locks and keys, Ananta said, ‘Be sure to remove about Rs 200/- worth of jewellery.’ Saroj did not need to be told more. He would replace the stolen jewellery weight for weight with junk metal.
Ananta was in Anukul-da’s house, in Kolkata, the next day. ‘I need to buy a revolver.’
‘You have the money?’
In fact, Saroj in his earnestness had removed close to Rs 1,000/- worth of jewellery. Later that day, Ananta held in his hands the first revolver that he had bought in his life. Buckling the leather holder against his skin, he pulled his vest over it tucking it into the waist of his dhuti. The long shirt that was worn loose hid every shred of evidence. He made his way to Belgachhia Medical College where Sukhendu lay awaiting death.
Subhas Bose was at the bedside. Ananta would have to bide his time. The Congressman came to see Sukhendu twice a day. ‘We need him out of the way.’ Ananta whispered to Ganesh.
At last he was alone with Sukhendu. The boy had lain unmoving in bed for days. Ananta knelt by his side and laid his hand on the forehead. Ananda, Tegra, Himangshu, Sahayram, Moti … this boy was their classmate. Sukhendu turned his tired eyes to look at him. He was a quiet boy, a hard worker, one that rarely spoke. Ananta reached out for the hands and placed the revolver in them. He watched the eyes light up. The fingers traced the silken outlines of the sleek little weapon.
He had been right. It was the dream of every young revolutionary – to hold a weapon in his hands. ‘I promise you, Sukhendu,’ he whispered. ‘We will be successful.’
Sukhendu died a few days later and Subhas Bose came tearing down to the hospital. He was amongst the pall-bearers and walked barefoot all the way to the crematorium.
Blood for blood. The slogan was being raised again and again.
‘My grief over Sukhendu’s death is no less than yours but party infighting is just what the British want,’ Master-da reiterated over and over again. Sukhendu had died earlier than expected. The train was bringing them back to Chattogram.
Ganesh remained strangely silent through the journey. Ananta could read his mind. He wanted revenge: for Sukhendu; for Jatin; for every Indian that suffered.
He had not met Ganesh in days. Leaning the cycle outside the shop, he looked around. It was curiously empty. None of the youngsters were around; the chiks had not been rolled up for the day and the showroom was dark. Ananta went through to the inner room. Sunlight slanted in, past the curtains and cast a triangular wedge of light on the cotton mattress on the floor. Ganesh was there sitting with his back to the wall. Ananta went into the kitchen and set the pan to boil. He knew where the tea leaves and sugar were kept. There seemed to be no milk. They would make do without it.
He set the cups down and settled on the mattress, resting his back against the wall.
‘No more dacoities,’ Ganesh said quietly. ‘The funds will have to come from our homes and we will no longer try to source weapons from abroad. A few will do. We will use them to capture the weapons in the government armouries. We will make our own bombs. Team building … we will concentrate on building our teams.’ His eyes brightened as he turned to face Ananta. ‘Murder,’ he said. ‘Massacre the Europeans but keep the murder of Indian officers to a minimum. Lead by example.’
Ananta sat quietly elated as Ganesh went on to elaborate. The plan. It was fantastic. Till the last moment ‘the team’ would be together. They would fight together and die together. There would be no betrayals, no secrets, and no fear of being taken prisoner.
Ananta rose. He would be back.
Master-da had been brought to Ganesh’s shop. He heard them out. ‘If we can establish a revolutionary government in even one zila we would have shown India the way.’
His voice was grave. ‘I believe in the two of you,’ he said.
Ananta reached out to take Master-da’s and Ganesh’s hands piling them over each other. ‘On this day, 15 October 1929, we make this pledge. It is no longer do or die. We will DO AND DIE.’
FIVE
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
Ananda searched the rooms. Master-da was nowhere to be found. The Congress office looked deserted. But the chairs had been arranged as if a meeting had just taken place. Ardhendu-da had probably gone for his classes. He had joined the Homeopathic College since a big row with his father had forced him to leave home. Poor Ardhendu-da. He had been very depressed since. Dastidar Babu had not come to terms with his son’s choice. They were both swadeshis but Dastidar Babu was a strict follower of the ahimsa way. Or perhaps Ardhendu-da had gone to the Ramkrishna Mission for a bit of solace. He had been volunteering with their relief work for many years now. How long, wondered Ananda, would he be able to continue his studies without financial aid from his father?
‘Ah Ananda!’ Master-da was bringing in a large vessel of steaming khichuri.
Ananda sprang to his side and helped him lower the vessel. ‘You were cooking!’
A naughty smile played about Master-da’s face. ‘Do you see me living in my baba’s
hotel?’ He wiped the sweat off his face with the gamchha that was slung over his right shoulder. ‘I am just an underpaid Congress worker; so overworked that I am forced to live in the office day and night.’
It made Ananda grin sheepishly. He was used to the luxuries of the Gupta Hotel with Ma and Thakur-Ma catering to his every whim. ‘You held a meeting last night?’ He changed the topic.
‘Meeting? No, no a court really. Not here but at the National Medical School hostel. Bidhu had brought in a culprit to be tried.
Ananda’s eyes widened. ****. The expletive went unvoiced. He had missed all the fun.
‘What had he done?’
‘Or rather, what was he about to do? Bidhu had recognized him from an earlier encounter … he is notorious that one … and now Bidhu had caught him loitering outside the girls’ school. The goon wanted to know if Bidhu was a policeman.’
Ananda could picture Bidhu-da holding the fellow by the neck. Police? He would have said. I am bigger than the police. In a couple of moves Bidhu-da would have had him on the ground.
‘It was a sight,’ laughed Master-da. ‘A swadeshi adalat was set up with a great deal of fanfare. The hoodlum had already been frightened out of his wits. He could only make some feeble protests. A chair was set aside for the judge and a medical student officiated. It was all very proper. The prosecutor asked him his name, his father’s name and accused him of lurking outside the Chittagong Khastagir Balika Vidyalaya with MALAFIDE intentions. The poor fellow fell at the judge’s feet blubbering and swearing that he would give up his wicked ways. As punishment he was made to rub his nose on the ground.’
Ananda had missed something all right. It was a known fact that of late the mere mention of Surjya Sen’s party sent shivers down the spines of the city hoodlums.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 9