Everyone seemed to have gone off to Kolkata. Nirmal-da, Ambikada and Ganesh-da were busy with the BPCC elections and the rest were there ostensibly to be helpful. Ananta-da had returned briefly with Lokenath-da, Naresh-da and Tripura to attend the court hearing on 23 October and then they had all gone off again. Ananta-da had been sentenced to four months of rigorous imprisonment but he had six months time to report to jail. The rest had been let off with a fine.
Ardhendu-da would soon be back from college. Master-da busied himself, setting out the thalas on the floor.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
Mr Peters’s villa lay deep within a coconut grove. It was approached by a drive lined by tall shady gulmohars. The rich elderly Anglo-Indian owned a rice mill. The entrance to the drive was guarded by two columns on which were perched a pair of white winged lions that stared scornfully down at Ananta and Anukul-da as they made their way in. The house was immense, surrounded by acres of green lawn. Ananta followed Anukul-da up the steps of the colonnaded portico. A length of silken rope hung by the door and when this was pulled, a bell jangled somewhere inside. The massive wooden doors flew open and there stood a bearer, resplendent in a white-and-gold uniform. He bowed slightly and indicated the way in. His gloves, noticed Ananta, were spotless. He led them down a long corridor into a great gloomy room and pointed to the sofas. Ananta sat uncomfortably staring at the walls that were lined from ceiling to floor with bookshelves. Anukul-da was more at ease. He frequented the house often.
‘Will offering more money help?’ Ananta whispered for the nth time. Unlicensed weapons were hard to come by, for the smugglers had all been raided – making them extremely wary.
‘Peyey boshbey,’ Anukul-da whispered back. ‘It will send the black market spiralling and in the end you will be feeding their greed.’ He had taken Ananta a few days ago to the fakir who lived in Nabik basti behind Dr Bidhan Roy’s home. They had touched the old man’s feet and handed over the money. The fakir had reached into a handi and brought out two revolvers. As they left, he had said, ‘Let me know in time.’ But Anukul-da had expressly warned Ananta never to go back there again.
Mr Peters came into the room. He was a tall, powerful man with a great jutting hawk nose, sweeping flamboyant white moustache and a mane of white hair.
‘Babu,’ he nodded. ‘Welcome.’ He sat down and without preamble handed over a beautiful case which held a Belgian revolver. There were two boxes of cartridges of different bores.
In Anukul-da’s presence, Ananta was unwilling to open his mouth. They left, thanking the elderly man and returned home. The next day, he cycled down to the villa without telling Anukul-da. ‘Mr Peters,’ he said cautiously, ‘I must have cartridges for the Belgian revolver.’
The old man remained solemn for a few minutes and then scratched his chin.
‘I will pay you Rs 2/- per cartridge,’ volunteered Ananta.
‘Well, babu,’ he said. ‘Come back day after tomorrow please. I must give you those cartridges.’
Anukul-da wasn’t offended. In fact he accompanied Ananta and carried a bottle of Johnny Walker for the old man.
It was an issue of trust. Revolutionaries feared that the dealers could turn into police informers. In their turn, the dealers worried about walking into traps set by police agents posing as revolutionaries. Yakub, the Muslim shippie, insisted on changing the meeting place every time. He would drive down in a large private vehicle and pretend to go about his business during which time the parcel lying at the foot of the passenger seat would have to be removed.
SURESH DE
‘Come,’ Master-da called. Eat a little before you go.’
Suresh had kept himself out of sight. But Master-da had known all along that he was there. He came often, ever since Pundit-da had introduced him. The atmosphere around Master-da was intoxicating. The boy nipped out from behind the cupboard and sat down. Masterda ladled out the steaming khichuri.
‘Now, Suresh,’ he said, ‘remember all that glitters is not gold. A costume can turn you into a king on a stage but not make a man out of you. Vidyasagar Mohashoy made a name for himself not because of what he wore. On the outside he was like an Ude-thakur.’
Suresh lowered his eyes in shame. Master-da had caught him out: he had been unable to take his eyes off Ananda Gupta from that first day he had laid eyes on him. It was the other reason that the Congress office attracted him so. Rajat Sen, Ananda, even the boy that was murdered – Sukhendu – he loved the way they spoke, their sense of style … these were the fashionable youth of Chattogram. But he had never worked up the courage to speak to them.
‘I want you to stop coming to the Congress office. Ram Krishna will take over your training.’ Master-da said, as he swept his hand around his thala, scooping up the last morsels. ‘He will be waiting for you.’
Suresh was new to Chattogram, having moved only a couple of months ago from Dhaka. He would make his way to Patharghata that very afternoon, he decided. Ram Krishna lived there in his sister’s house. Her husband, Kali Prasanna Choudhury, a promising young government servant with a bright future, had opened his home to his young brother-in-law, hoping to see the rather intelligent youth graduate and follow in his footsteps.
Suresh presented himself at the door. Ram Krishna-da came down from the second floor, where he lived and seemed pleased with his new charge. Suresh, on the other hand, was smitten at first glance: a calm gentle face and a voice that was soft and pleasant. He could have been allotted no better mentor … a glow arose within him as if lit by the presence of a divine being.
‘Come early tomorrow morning,’ Ram Krishna-da said, slipping him a little roll of paper. ‘Read this every day.’
Suresh unrolled the little piece as he walked back. It read:
Daily routine:
Leave your bed by 5 a.m.
Sit outside and contemplate on the vastness of the universe.
Give up daydreaming and fickleness.
Concentrate 100 per cent on every task no matter how simple it may be.
Finish every task in the amount of time allotted.
Success will come to him who aims high and follows the
right path.
Spend the day in preparing your mind.
Criticize yourself every morning.
Good behaviour, good principles, good intentions – if these are lacking, you will become unhappy.
Give up prejudice.
Remain alert always.
Use your commonsense.
Give women the kind of respect you will give your mother.
Never share your bed with anybody.
Read the Gita daily.
Get rid of fear, anger and worries.
This meeting had gone off far better than the first meeting with Master-da. Master-da had given him a fraction of a glance and mumbled, Janani Janmabhumishcha swargadapi gariyasi … Mother and the motherland are greater than even heaven … remember these words always. And with that, he had gone back to his work. Today once again Suresh had felt that powerful magnetism that he associated with Master-da. It had emanated from Ram Krishna-da’s body, enveloping him in a cloak of tranquillity. What was it, he wondered. The kind of power perhaps that Thakur Sri Ramkrishna used, to draw a worthy man like Naren Dutt to himself? The same power Sri Ma had used on the unbelieving playwright Girish Ghose?
Suresh spent a restless night and was up early the next day. He was at Ram Krishna-da’s doorstep before dawn. Ram Krishna-da was ready and waiting. ‘It is good to be an early riser,’ he said. ‘Nature is calm at this time and helps you concentrate.’ Together they set off. They walked along a small road towards the Karnaphuli. ‘Suresh, now that you have received the life of a man, do not waste it in sleeping, eating and chatting. Do not forget the worth of being born a man,’ Ram Krishna-da handed him another slip of paper. ‘Read this every morning. It will inspire you.’ It had a long mantra which made his head buzz. He would have to figure it out later.
They had reached a small straw hut.
Ram Krishna-da went in, beckoning to him to follow. A swami-ji greeted them. He sat amidst piles of books. They were all for sale at three annas each. The boys browsed through them. It was peaceful inside, with the hum of the Karnaphuli, right outside the door.
‘Sit,’ said the swami-ji. The boys sat on either side of him. He closed his eyes and sang. Then he placed his hand on both their heads. ‘If you farm this life well you will reap in gold.’
Ram Krishna chose three books and paid for them. Handing them to Suresh, he said, ‘Read these with care. Come and meet me again in a week’s time.’
A week later, even before the crows could caw, he was at Ram Krishna-da’s doorstep.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
Jibon had not come by for several days. Ananda went down to the Ghoshal house. Mashima sat him down in the living room. Jibon was indisposed. He couldn’t come out to meet him. Mashima’s face was strained, her eyes puffy. She sat by Ananda’s side as he ate the sweets he was offered. As he got up to leave, she stroked his head in an absent kind of way. He wondered what had changed. Was it childhood that was coming to an end? Did it have to mean the severance of old friendships?
Mumbling something about not feeling well, Ananda went to bed without dinner. Ma and Thakur-Ma hovered anxiously around, constantly laying their hands on his brow. Even in his sleep he could feel the coolness of Ma’s hands. He drifted off. She was sitting beside him again. A hand nudged him, then shook him slightly. It was Dada. He was sitting by his side.
‘Makhon got into big trouble at home. It will be a while before they let him out.’
‘Oh.’
‘He forged his father’s signature and removed eighteen hundred rupees from his account. But the bank manager called his father to check if Jibon had got home safely with the money. Now they won’t let him out of the house. And his examinations are due. They are too embarrassed. It’s understandable. His parents have even visited Ananta-da and Ganesh-da, pleading with them to drop him from the team.’
Of late Dada’s aloof attitude had also got to him. He wanted to snap back and tell him to mind his own business.
‘They insist he is too young and weak from the time he had the typhoid. Ananta-da used to spend a lot of time by his bedside during that time. They reminded him of all that, hoping to appeal to his tender feelings.’
‘Oh.’
Deboprasad paused. Ananda felt his older brother was once again on the verge of breaking some news. He had felt it several times before that year but Dada had always drawn back. He could see his face despite the fact that he was not looking at him. The eyes would be narrowed and if he decided to speak it would be with a deliberate slowness as if expecting him to read his lips.
‘Baba and Ma. They need you here. I have to go. You understand that.’
This had been it. Tears prickled behind Ananda’s closed eyelids. He turned on his side pretending not to have heard. Deboprasad Gupta would get to go, would get to follow his heart. It was not about Ma and Baba. They had Chotkun, didn’t they? But it hardly seemed worth voicing it. It was never about him … it was never about what Ananda wanted or hoped for.
Dada continued to sit by his side.
SURESH DE
‘You know, Suresh, I read China’s history last night. Listen: China is the largest country in the world. Not just largest; it was once the leading nation in terms of education, civilization, science and wisdom … like Bharat. It predates Christ by 300 years. The Qin dynasty, they built the great wall that continues to be one of the great wonders even today. The day this great country came into contact with the Europeans, it began to decline. It became poor; drugged with opium. Suffering had become a way of life and their women … they had been left with little respect. When Sun Yat Sen came forward, he travelled from one end of the country to the other, reminding people of what China had once been. He made them aware of how far they had fallen. And he advised them to take their future into their own hands. His magnetic personality drew the people, and together they won independence for their country in 1912. Life did an about turn and the people prospered. Corruption was driven out. This mental revolution did not remain limited to China. The Chinese settled in India changed as well. They cut their hair, threw away their opium boxes and released their women from the centuries-old iron shoes. But all this did not happen in one day and not without its fair share of difficulties.’
By the time he finished, the sun had risen. ‘Show me what you have written.’
Suresh was embarrassed. ‘I couldn’t … there was no time.’
Ram Krishna-da looked displeased. ‘I never encourage laziness. If you are not thorough, you will be caught in loopholes.’
Suresh could have just disappeared into the ground. He had fallen short in the eyes of his idol. He plodded through muddy fields, skipping across little streams; keeping up with Ram Krishna-da who walked briskly ahead talking all the while: it was a monologue on Vivekananda. By the time he finished they had reached Chaktai.
‘Will you be able to do it, Suresh? Convert yourself into a Vivekananda?’
For once, Suresh knew no answer was expected out of him.
‘Do you realize we look at Bharat through the eyes of the white man … and that is why we look down upon our dharma, karma and shikkha-dikkha, the traditional wisdom and knowledge handed down to us. We must begin to think independently once again. The revolutionary cannot ask others for help. He has to help himself. Swami Vivekananda, though he was educated in the manner of the Europeans, managed to pull himself out of the binds they had placed and learnt to think for himself. No one will gift us independence. We have to ready ourselves to pay the correct price. Vivekananda has said: “May the world learn of this great ideal, may it be rid of corruption. Do not think of yourself as weak or sad. O all powerful. Rise. Awake. You think of yourself as a sinner … it is not worthy of you. Tell the world this. Tell yourself this. Look how it will reward you. See how, as if in a flash of lightning, everything will be revealed.”’
Ram Krishna-da was a Vivekananda fan. It had been Master-da who had first told him about Vivekananda in such detail. And he worshipped Master-da’s word.
They had turned around and begun walking again, taking the winding road, the one that led to Fairy Hill. There was no one about but them.
‘You know, Suresh, this is the best part of life. The young mind can be moulded like clay and the impressions that it will take on now will last a lifetime. Whatever you strive to become now, you will achieve. Struggle, struggle, struggle … that itself can achieve a lot.’
They had reached the top of the hill. Ram Krishna-da stood in silence, overcome by the beauty of the dawn. It was his first visit there. Suresh pointed out the sights: to the south at the bottom of the hill stood the Municipal School where he studied; to the north, on a higher hill, nestled amongst the green trees was the district magistrate sahib’s bungalow; to the east lay Andarkilla and the waters of the Lal Dighi. Most of Fairy Hill was occupied by the magnificent courthouse buildings from where cases were tried and verdicts read out.
Ram Krishna-da walked around slowly. He had become very quiet.
‘One day all this will belong to us,’ he said softly.
Tock! Suresh jerked awake. The hands of the clock pointed to 5 a.m. He had gone to bed telling himself that he would rise at 5 and go to Patharghata. He had woken on time without the help of an alarm.
His dada, Shri Satish Chandra De, habitually left every morning, walking stick in hand, for the banks of the Lal Dighi. The household would be pleased that Suresh was developing good habits. It was a cold winter morning, still pitch dark. Wrapping a warm chador about himself he set out. He could have passed for someone responding to the call of the Nishi – the spirit of the night. It was not the Nishi but the country that had called out to him.
Ram Krishna-da was in the middle of doing push-ups when Suresh came upon him. He was pleased to see him so early. ‘It promises to be a lovely morning. And now that you are here I can see that i
t will be a wonderful day.’
‘I was up last night and I have written a piece.’
Ram Krishna-da took the paper from his hand. ‘You have a flair for writing and you think clearly. But you mix the pure form of Bengali with the colloquial.’ He pursed his lips. ‘That spoils the effect.’ He read it again carefully; took out a pen and scratched out bits with red ink. He made some notes by the side and returned it to Suresh. ‘Have you brought your swimming trunks?’
The boys made their way towards Lal Dighi. Most children in Bengal are natural swimmers. Perhaps they lack in grace and style but they can all make their way swiftly across the water. But to be of use to a revolutionary, these skills would have to be honed. Prafulla Babu waited to give lessons. He demonstrated the many commonly made mistakes and new styles that ought to be kept in mind: How do the fish swim against the current? By following a diagonal path! How to keep afloat for long hours? How to keep your head above water and how would you escape from a man-eating marine creature? It was a cold morning but the boys churned the Lal Dighi’s waters till afternoon. When they clambered out, Chandra Shekhar-da announced an eight mile race in the Karnaphuli.
They jumped into the river the next day and floated in the manner prescribed. The current was strong and Suresh felt himself being pulled along like a bit of straw. Then, at the signal, they struck out. For two hours they swam steadily in one direction until Prafulla Babu raised his arm. Suresh saw him mouth the word ghurni – whirlpool. Not an inch of this river was unknown to this man. The boys turned back. The shore had by now filled with spectators.
The swell had begun to make itself felt. ‘Switch to breaststroke. Keep your heads above the water.’ Ram Krishna-da was in a sampan calling out encouragement. He leant over periodically and pushed lozenges into the mouths of the swimmers. Finally, he hauled Suresh onto the boat and draped a blanket around him.
Prafulla Babu, Biren De and a few others, whom Suresh did not recognize, continued to swim. By the time they reached the shore, the electric street lights had come on. Sadarghat was aglow. The crowds on the shore were going wild, congratulating those that actually finished.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 10