The point of fact was that Mike never once disguised himself as a Bengali. His features were strongly marked, he was tall and muscular, his eyes a deep blue and his tan had a warm, reddish tinge. His nose was well defined and almost aquiline in its shape. No matter what aid he might have brought to his disguise, he would have stood out had he tried to pass himself off as a Bengali. But at night, wearing a beard and a pugree, he could become anyone from a Sikh taxi driver to a Kabuli-wallah or a Pathan. He and Mr Lowman used the Pathan disguise on more than one occasion when they wished to watch the movements of a certain suspect or check a report given by an agent.
It had been a phase of Mike’s life that she had missed. He rarely used the disguises these days. It had been Lowman who had regaled her with the exploits of the early days. On one occasion, accompanied by two other policemen, they had set off. Raids were always carefully planned so as to ensure that the element of surprise was in their favour. The house in question was situated in a winding lane and surrounded by a wall too high to vault on to from the ground. Lowman had accordingly bent down to make a back, but for some reason Mike had sprung onto his shoulders before he was expecting it. The result was that they both had rolled in the dust, seized with a perverse and uncontrollable desire to laugh. The four of them had stood shaking with silent laughter, their hands clasped tightly over their mouths for more than several minutes before they had recovered their composure. That particular raid had continued to have a bizarre flavour about it. The absconder had been found in bed, rendered immobile with an attack of rheumatism; his guard, who was sleeping in the adjoining room, arrested in the act of pulling out a Mauser pistol from under his pillow; while the downstairs sentry had slept peacefully through it all, his pistol tucked beneath his pillow. But generally speaking, there was little relief in the grind of the counter-terrorist campaign.
Mike was coming up the driveway dressed in his usual khaki shirt and shorts, Tim at his heels.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 1930
An emergency meeting had been called at Collegiate School. It was assumed that the teams would be announced and everyone assigned their specific tasks. The first-rankers buzzed with excitement. The teams would have to remain in a state of readiness as the call could come at any given time. But it would be the leaders who would have to exercise the maximum caution. They could not afford even a single arrest. The police should not be able to catch anyone in possession of material that could even remotely be labelled as dangerous. Perhaps they would now be asked to spend their nights away from home and keep away from places that were being watched. But Master-da had a different agenda that day.
‘Deboprasad Gupta!’ he personally addressed the issue. ‘There have been complaints. Your IA final answer sheets were filled with rubbish.’
The invigilating officer had been startled, to say the least, to see the star pupil turn in doodles.
Dada managed a light laugh. ‘By the time the results are out I will no longer be there.’
‘This will not be tolerated.’ Master-da said sharply turning to where Ananda, Himangshu, Tegra, Moti, and Sahayram sat in a row. ‘Jibon and Tripura did well in the matriculation papers last year. Your lot still has three months to go. Like it or not, you will have to perform well.’
SURESH DE
‘Tomar kormo tumi koro Ma, lokey boley kori aami …’ Oh Mother, you keep working the strings and people think I am responsible.
Suresh left his room by 11.30 at night and made his way past the sahib’s dighi. The night was darker than any that he remembered, a night when none of flesh and blood would venture out. Giant shapes had come alive, stooping, waving, calling out to him. He stood gulping the cold air, trying to gather courage. Ghosts spirits … they do not exist. Do not think about them and they will disappear. These are nothing but the date and coconut palms. Suresh broke into a trot. He could pretend to be a horse with blinkers on. Surely, ghosts had no hold over the animal mind. As he turned into the burning grounds, he spied a familiar figure in the distance. Immediate relief washed over him and he slowed down to a dignified walk. Ram Krishna-da stood outside the temple of Shashan Kali – the form of the goddess that presides over the last rites – his figure just about visible in the dying glow of a little oil lamp. The purut would have left a while back. The dhoop had gone out but the fragrance lingered. The boys prostrated themselves before the image.
‘Who says God has no roop, no form? Let the unbelievers come and see my Mother now.’ Ram Krishna recited one of his own compositions: ‘Ma-go tor moner majhey sneher shaagor, tai to Ma tui jagat janani, Shokoley tokey Ma boley dakey, tobey tui keno mundomalini?’ … Oh, Mother, an ocean of love lies within your heart, you are the mother to all the world, then tell me why you garland yourself with human skulls?
A canal flowed past the shashan. It was full, the tide being high in the Karnaphuli. On its banks lay a half-eaten body being savaged by foxes and dogs. In the dark, the flap of vultures’ wings came to Suresh’s ears. Sometimes the birds let out an eerie cry and the dogs snarled, gnashing their teeth, while foxes threw back their heads and howled into the night. This was Kashi Mitra’s shashan. The boys made room for themselves under a small plant.
‘Suresh, do you not get frightened?’
‘At first yes, but now I am all right.’
‘Lajja, ghrina, bhoy … shame, hate and fear … if these remain, character cannot be built, one cannot become a man. Character building is a great achievement. Do you understand now? You know Suresh, when a man has a strong point or a talent, one must be loud in appreciating it. Virtue must be respected and that in itself is a virtue. The revolutionary needs strength of character. He needs to be a bhramachari. Then the atyachari’s daggers cannot scare him.
‘Look at Ma, Suresh. She holds in one hand a kharga for biplob. When the world is sunk in sin and law and order is neglected, when falsehood masquerades as truth, the great Mother kills the beasts and the demons, protecting the righteous. The other hand is held up in assurance – biplob’s other roop: shanti – peace and prosperity. Look at the curling tongue with which she drinks the blood of the demon Raktabeej – whose seed lay in his blood, giving birth to thousands of progeny from every drop spilt on the ground. Look at her, Suresh. The great Mother, who is unable to stop once she is out fighting for justice, is at heart a loving wife. It is her husband, Lord Shiva – that ascetic with his ash-covered body and matted unkempt hair bleached brown by years of neglect – who alone can control her. See him lie across her path. See also the devoted wife bite her tongue in shame for having allowed her foot to accidentally strike the sacred person of her lord and master.
‘Look at the pyre that burns away merrily, consuming the wealthy man’s arrogance, the great man’s pride and the learned man’s learning. Here everybody becomes equal. There is no discrimination here – between the rich and the poor, the idiot and the pundit, the Brahmin and the chandal.’
The jail bell sounded thrice. Chattogram Jail had announced the end of the silent hours.
‘You may come now, Suresh.’ Ram Krishna-da had talked the night away.
Suresh got up to leave. He would have to be home before he was missed. As he walked out of the gates he heard Ram Krishna-da’s voice:
Pakhi shob korey rob rati pohailo
Kanoney kusum koli shokoli phutilo
Poradhin Bharater mahanidra tutilo na.
Birds all twitter for the night is past
The flower buds in the garden have all bloomed
But dependent India does not stir from her deep sleep.
He turned for a last look. The first rays had lit up the plant beneath which Ram Krishna-da sat. It was a korobi. Its pink buds had opened out during the night, and as the gentle morning breeze stirred them, they dropped about him in a gentle shower.
SEVEN
ANANTA LAL SINGH
Ananta and Ganesh sat hidden in the bushes. They were keeping watch on the little changing room attached to the tennis grounds of the Paltan Maidan.
The whites had finished their sets and were sitting around sipping their lemonades, whiskies and tea. The pair waited patiently. The Europeans would not leave until the sky darkened.
The sky clouded over and a light drizzle began. The place cleared up. Even the bearers left. There was no one in sight. But in the distance, two figures had materialized. They were moving towards them but quickly stepped into the changing room and shut the doors. A dim light lit up the two windows but the rain that sluiced down the panes obscured all vision. Ananta and Ganesh waited for the downpour to begin in right earnest before making a run for it. They had seen all they needed to.
Master-da was alone in the Congress office.
‘Ganesh’s source is right.’
Ganesh’s friend, an assistant sub-inspector in the police, had sent word: a trusted first-ranker was meeting the deputy superintendent of police in secret.
Master-da absorbed the information calmly. ‘He will still be of use to us.’
SURESH DE
Walking barefoot was the norm for a boy from his background and Suresh thought nothing of it until the cobbles stung his feet. It was a blazing hot day! Hot enough to pop rice grains into crispies. Hurriedly, he leapt onto a patch of green by the road and stood cooling his scorched feet. Fury rose in waves as tears came unbidden to his eyes. Why had Ram Krishna-da chosen such a time … surely just to trouble him. And Patharghata was such a long way off. Today, he would have his answer. A mentor could not afford to be so careless. Then, without warning, Master-da’s words rang in his ears: The path of revolution is not strewn with flowers. The revolutionary will have to step on thorns and move ahead with bloody feet.
Suresh hopped from one foot to the other and then planted one tentatively on the road. ‘Rabindranath has said Poran diye bandhtey hobey setu … the bridge will have to be built with your life,’ he said loudly. It didn’t feel so bad, but then again the road would not reveal its true self until it reached a treacherous section with no relief in sight.
‘Poran diye bandhtey hobey setu, Biplobi pashan boi to noy, Poran diye …’ Suresh leapfrogged like a kola-bang keeping count of the number of grassy patches visible ahead. Biplobi pashan boi to noy … the revolutionary is nothing but hard rock. Sharat Chandra had said that in his Pather Dabi.
He was suddenly outside Ram Krishna-da’s doorstep. Surely, he had achieved a record of sorts. He would have to prise that answer now. Three knocks. The door opened a crack and an arm pulled him in. It was pitch dark. Ram Krishna-da had the doors and windows all shut and the floor covered with a sheet.
He was still blinking stupidly when Ram Krishna-da moved the sheet and went back to work. Tiny pieces of machinery glittered back at him. As his eyes adjusted, he realized that Ram Krishna-da was hunched over a sheet of paper with instructions. Before his eyes a beautiful automatic pistol emerged. Ram Krishna-da held it out. It was sleek. It was shiny. It was perfect. It was an honour that Ram Krishna-da was sharing this moment with him. But Ram Krishna-da had become busy again. The chamber clicked open and shut again.
‘Let’s put you to a test! Can you pull the trigger with your little finger?’
Suresh took it lovingly into his hands. ‘Please Ram Krishna-da, let me keep this for a few days.’
‘All in good time,’ he said, turning away.
Suresh sighed. The shefali, he knew, would not bloom until it was time for the pujas.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
On 22 February 1930, 200 boys armed with lathis and sharpened bamboo canes assembled outside the house of Karunamoy Dutt of Municipal School. The news sent Ganesh and Ananta running to the site.
‘Ei! Ei! What is all this about?’
The doors of the Dutt household were firmly shut but the crowd milled around on the lawns and the verandahs looking for a way in.
‘Hemendu and Gopal were beaten up.’ Tegra yelled, trying to make himself heard above the din.
‘Boys! Let us discuss this at the Kotwali,’ called Sub-inspector Siddique Dewan trying to sound reasonable even as sweat patches appeared on his shirt despite the coolness of the afternoon.
Ananta hauled Tegra aside by the collar. ‘Why are you here? Your school is not yet over.’
‘Yesterday Karunamoy put up a notice on the school board.’
‘On his school board or yours?’
‘His.’
‘So?’
‘It was for a debate.’
‘So?’
‘The topic was: The pen is mightier than the sword.’ The look on Tegra’s face was one of sheer incredulity. He wrested himself from Ananta’s grasp indignantly. ‘That notice was torn down and the second would have been too if Gopal Dastidar had not been prevented by Karunamoy and his friends!’ he said, adjusting his collar slowly and deliberately. ‘Nripa Gopal, Krishna Choudhury and Hemendu Dastidar had caught Karunamoy today on the way home and were thrashing him when his father ran up and stopped them. A complaint has been made to the headmaster,’ Tripura clarified. The two boys traded blank looks.
But they were misreading them. Nothing could have been clearer: anything an Anushilan boy did was good enough reason to declare war. The boys had been smarting for a good fight ever since Sukhendu had been attacked.
The crowd was paying little attention to the police. Siddique Dewan had sent word to the Kotwali for backup. The boys would have to be dispersed immediately.
But on 25 March 1930, Sub-inspector Abdul Azim began an investigation into the matter. A hunt for Tegra, Tripura and Bidhu was launched. They were nowhere to be found. The matter threw Ananta and Ganesh into absolute panic. Two months away from action … they could not afford any further trouble. Already, a cycle stolen from one of the team members and offered as evidence by the rival group had been forcibly reclaimed from the thana.
‘My own four months in jail are pending,’ said Ananta ruefully. It was true the boys had no clue about the proposed action, even though they had seen a decided move from mere bodybuilding and boxing at the gymnasiums to the secret lessons on bomb making, the art of firing revolvers and pistols, espionage and counter-espionage.
‘It’s time for a little natok … drama is the order of the day,’ said Ganesh. He sent for the boys.
Ananta sat glumly, unwilling to talk; his eyes were downcast as if ashamed to let anyone see the emotion within. Ganesh was angry. He strode up and down the length of the shop. ‘Do you know how many or what kind of weapons have been gathered? Though we have not revealed the details yet, you all know that we are getting ready to take action against the British government.’ Ganesh paced up and down, wringing his hands as if unable to find words. ‘But if you have no patience and are sure that our strength will not be getting dissipated, then here, take these.’ He suddenly handed over his revolver.
Ananta removed his and slid it across the table. ‘Go,’ he said unwilling to look Bidhu and Tripura in the eye. ‘Go take your revenge.’
As anticipated, in the sudden silence in which he found himself, the little speech splashed as loudly as a stone thrown into a placid pond on a summer night. After the ripples died away, a gamut of voices broke in. It was a while before the two of them could come out of their very emotional state.
‘Then turn yourselves in,’ said Ganesh fiercely. ‘You know Azim has been hunting for you. I am going to make the telephone call.’
He was due to turn himself in for his four-month conviction period. Master-da had called for an emergency meeting.
‘I could go into hiding right away,’ suggested Ananta. ‘If I serve my four months, we will have to postpone the action by another four or five months.’
Nirmal-da shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Think of something bhai! You and Ganesh … you have such fertile brains.’ But neither Ganesh nor Ananta could come up with anything.
‘Go into hiding?’ Master-da was doubtful. ‘With the police keeping such a strict watch on us, your going into hiding would indicate we were up to something. Going into action within the next couple of days is out of the
question. The only way out is for you to report for punishment and we could appeal in Kolkata. If the appeal is accepted, we can have you out on bail.’
‘If that doesn’t work, we will have to create a force, out of the firstrankers who have already been given their weapons and allotted their individual tasks, that will break into jail and rescue me.’
‘It will not come to that.’ Ambika-da spoke for the first time. ‘I will personally make sure your appeal comes through.’
‘How can you be so sure, Ambika Babu?’
‘I feel it in my bones,’ replied Ambika-da scowling with determination, the line of his jaw tensing beneath the thickness of his beard.
On 7 March 1930, Ananta presented himself at court and was sent to jail. Jail Superintendent Srigyan Chatterji, who was also civil surgeon in-charge of the government hospital and family physician to most families in Chattogram, was outraged. ‘This is impossible,’ he said many times. ‘I know the family, seen the boy since he was so high …Jail? A jail sentence?’ He tsk’ed his tongue several times. While he was in charge, he would never permit Ananta to dress in the kurta and underwear allotted to the common convict. The British system placed every Indian who was arrested under Division Three and made them dress the same, eat the same food, stand in a line, salute, etc. No, Ananta Lal Singh would not be treated as if he were a criminal or a common goonda off the streets. ‘Provisions will be made for you in your cell. You have the choice of cooking for yourself or having food delivered from your home.’
Ananta waited patiently. The first day went by, then the second and soon the third, fourth, fifth and sixth days came and went. There was no news. The seventh day, 14 March 1930, was Holi – a holiday. Surely, no news would come on that day. Ananta sat glumly. If Ambika-da had failed even then … he would have to wait till the offices opened before he got to know anything. At one o’clock, there was a call for him. The mukti aadesh-nama had come. In a flash, Ananta was at the jail gate. A grinning Lokenath was waiting with another ten or fifteen of their friends, fists bursting with abeer. And though Holi was a festival Ananta avoided, he had no choice. The boys were in a celebratory mood, and the coloured powder smeared his face and clothes, finding its way into his hair and down his shirt. He tried to make a run for it, laughing and twisting out of the way.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 14