By January 1925, time had come for Lord Lytton to present the Bill to the Bengal Legislative Council. In spite of the viceroy’s and the governor’s announcements of the reasons for its introduction, many Indian politicians seemed to believe that the police reports of terrorist activities were wildly exaggerated and that the ordinance had been instituted to strangle political agitation. Accusations and charges of planting evidence ran rife. The stock allegation of duplicity and dishonesty had always been a sore point with him and more so since the bombing of Deputy Superintendent Basanta Kumar Chatterji’s home at Mussalmanpara. It had been in November 1914, shortly after the War had broken out, when they had all assembled in Chatterji’s house. Chatterji was an efficient and popular officer with great influence over the younger generation. The meeting had been in progress when two bombs exploded in the premises. The officers had rushed to investigate: a head constable on guard outside had been killed; two constables and a relative of Chatterji, who had been inside the house, severely injured. An injured youth had been found lying on the street with a. 380 Webley revolver beside him. It appeared that the second bomb, intended for the people inside the house, had hit a bar on the window and had exploded backwards. A phial of phosphorous and a used Mauser pistol cartridge were discovered. The youth had been taken to hospital where he underwent surgery. He turned out to be one Nagen Sengupta, a bright young student at Calcutta University and a ward of the court. The brothers of the Oxford Mission that had raised him would not believe a word the police had to say and vouched for him. According to them, he was of sterling character. The case against him came to be known as the Mussalmanpara Bomb Case and had been tried by a tribunal of three high court judges.
Nagen had pleaded that he had been a casual passer-by, who had been injured in the blast and knew nothing about the revolver lying beside him and it had been assumed that it had been planted there by the police. The youth had been unanimously acquitted and one of the judges had taken it upon himself to make caustic comments about the police. Among those that used the occasion to heap slander upon the police were a couple of glib Europeans who remained outside the arena. Sir Charles would never forget or cease to rage about it; short of having a magistrate or a judge on the spot who would himself discover an assailant in the act of throwing a bomb and carrying a basketful of ammunition, there seemed to be no way that the police could succeed in bringing home guilt. But a development had taken place by the time Lord Lytton was to make his speech. Nagen Sengupta had, in the intervening years, reformed and turned into a sincere and practising Christian. The governor had met with him; got him to admit his guilt publicly without having to give away his former colleagues; and the admission had been incorporated in the governor’s speech of address to the Legislative Council. The police had at long last been vindicated. But the bombshell had turned out to be a damp squib, making not a mark on the emotions of the listeners. And why should it have, thought Sir Charles bitterly. The listeners had all along been aware of the true state of affairs. The bill had been rejected by a majority of nine votes and in the end Lord Lytton had been compelled to use his special powers to turn the BCLA Act into law.
And neither had it come as a surprise to him when the same body continually refused to accede to any of his desires, be it improving housing and living conditions for the rank and file in the police or installing mosquito netting for his men. It had all been turned down on the argument that they, like the rest of their brethren, were used to living in unhygienic conditions.
Sadly, the brave Basanta Kumar Chatterji, who had smilingly refused an early retirement despite the constant danger to his life, had been shot in 1916, as he cycled back from work accompanied by a guard. A group of young men armed with Mausers had taken them by surprise. Chatterji had not taken Sir Charles’s advice to rest on his well-earned laurels. It had proved to be a heart-wrenching time. As the then deputy inspector general in charge of the Intelligence Branch, he had led the funeral under heavy security cover lest the terrorists saw it as a plum opportunity to dispatch the entire branch once and for all. On his appointment as police commissioner in 1923, he had addressed all his officers and offered honourable retirement to the ones that were marked. Not one had agreed to leave his side. Poor Bhupen,4 who made that warm speech when the knighthood5 was announced in 1926, had shared his gallant namesake’s fate within a matter of months. He had been interviewing political prisoners at Alipore Jail, when he had been set on by a gang of men armed with an iron crowbar and brutally done to death. The loss of his trusted colleagues and friends had been a big blow to Sir Charles – a personal loss, the memory of which still caused great distress.
Too often he had been criticized for recruiting too few Bengalis to the ranks, but that was because few at that level passed the fairly stiff medical examination and physical requirements. The Bengali, he mused, tends to run to brains rather than brawn and does not take kindly to the discipline and order of a hard life; at the same time, he lacks neither courage nor ability, and shines in the higher ranks.
‘A very, very close watch! Increase the number of watchers in the districts,’ he said.
EIGHT
ANANTA LAL SINGH
A number of locations had been raided, including the shelter in which Ram Krishna had been kept. Quite strangely, none of the homes belonging to the first-rankers had been violated. Why? Did they have no evidence or was it yet another ploy? After a few days, Ananta and Ganesh decided they should move back home. Confidence. That is what they needed, in order to brazen their way out of every situation.
Precious days had been wasted. A major task remained. There were seventeen iron shells, cast under Dada’s supervision at the AB Railway workshop, waiting to be filled with explosive powder. Now that Ram Krishna was out of action, the percussion caps were no longer a possibility. Ananta and Ganesh sent for Phutu. There was not enough time left, imported fuses would have to be used instead. Phutu was set to work filtering picric acid.
It was decided that one of the inner rooms in the Congress office would be converted into a lab and Ardhendu Dastidar, who lived there now with Master-da and Ambika-da, would help.
‘You will keep in mind that you are working with extremely volatile acids.’ Ganesh warned.
Phutu had done the task before. He had just got a bachelor’s degree in chemistry. They went over the steps: nitric acid and sulphuric acid were to be mixed in equal proportions. A powder would settle at the bottom of the beaker. This would be boiled up with ammonium carbonate and lots of water. The ammonium picrate crystals formed would be filtered and dried carefully. They would then be pounded in a mortar with potash-chlorash, to form the powerful explosive that would go into the iron shells.
The police were getting surprisingly frisky. A number of watchers in white uniform loitered about, keeping their sights on all young men and scribbling on little paper pads.
‘Ei shaala!’ Ananta called out to one of them. The man came bounding up like a good little boy. ‘Ki rey? Why are you loitering around? Don’t you have anything better to do?’ Ananta’s size was daunting. ‘Why are you following me like an idiot? You want a good hiding? You want me to report you and have you sacked?’
‘Babu, forgive me, babu. You know it’s a responsibility towards the mouths waiting at home to be fed. We are poor, babu.’
The increased manpower was noticeable. And they were constantly being ragged and threatened by the Chattogram youth.
‘Since 12 March, Gandhi-ji has begun his satyagraha. Subhas Bose has still not taken a decision on breaking the Salt Law in Bengal. But I think we, in Chattogram, should prepare ourselves to join in.’ Masterda had called for a meeting in the first week of April. It included the youth that maintained contact with the DSP.
A cheer broke out. Most of the boys were thirsting for some action.
‘It is a shame,’ he continued, ‘a matter of deep regret that Chattogram, the pioneer of the independence movement since 1921, should remain behind in the struggle.�
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‘In Kolkata,’ Ganesh stood up, his voice rising amidst the cheering, ‘disobedience of laws, other than the Salt Law, has already begun. The law on sedition is being openly flouted. We should also commence disobedience without delay.’
‘Ganesh, the public must be prepared … given time to prepare,’ interrupted Master-da. ‘We cannot rush into this. We want satyagrahi soldiers. We will also want people to come forward with donations.’
Ganesh held his hand up for silence. ‘We will allot responsibilities. Picketing? Who are the volunteers?’
A number of voices clamoured for attention.
‘A show of hands please,’ said Ganesh, as Ambika-da made quick notes.
‘Banners. Painting of banners? Whose house will be used?’ He made a quick note of how much money would be required for the cloth, the paper and the paint.
‘Putting up posters? … Master-da, we need pamphlets to be distributed. The public should also be given the chance to participate. I will have them printed, instructing the general public keen on volunteering to meet Ambika-da and me on 21 April 1930.’
Master-da nodded. ‘You can begin with the words: Chattalbashider Prati – To the residents of Chattogram.’ He turned to the boys. ‘Before you jump up and volunteer, know in your hearts that if the police are able to lay their hands on you it will mean jail!’
‘We need volunteers for distribution.’ Ganesh looked around.
The young man, who was the police agent, had not been given a task as yet, despite his enthusiasm. This time he was picked as one of those who would be distributing the leaflets on 17 April.
The summons came on 5 April. Ananta, Ganesh and Bidhu were to report to the police station. A hurried conference was held in Ganesh’s shop.
‘We will carry our revolvers strapped to our bodies under our shirts. We will have to make a quick getaway in case things get nasty.’
‘Naresh and I will come along with you,’ said Lokenath.
Ananta saw Makhon shoot him a look pleading not be sent home. ‘And if they ask us about Ram Krishna? We cannot pretend we have no clue?’
‘I can.’ Ananta shrugged it off. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Well,’ said Ganesh reasonably. ‘I will say that I know who he is and can point him out if they hold an identification parade. But more than that?’ He upturned his hands.
The interview at the station went off smoothly and as they left, a thought struck Lokenath.
‘Shall we pay Sharada Babu, the DIB Inspector, a visit? He is looking forward to a promotion, isn’t he?’ The boys grinned. Dead men do not look forward to promotions. They would explain it delicately to Sharada Bhattacharya: harassing and deliberately picking on this group of friends would not be advisable.
Ganesh’s shop, the one opened by his father, served as the field headquarters. Bipin Bihari Ghose, who had been senior station master in charge of the prestigious Double Mooring station, had taken part in the 1921 Assam Bengal Railway strike. He had been a fiery orator, one who had decided to give up government service and set up a cloth shop in Sadarghat close to the Kali Bari, minutes away from the local police station. The big room that opened onto the street served as the showroom while the five rooms at the back were utilized by the family. Ganesh and his older brother, the doctor, managed the shop stocking only local weaves. When Ganesh’s brother joined government service and was posted to Assam, he took their elderly parents with him, which left Ganesh managing the whole show. The shop had turned into the local headquarters where plans were discussed and new recruits taught the art of firing revolvers. Right under the nose of the police – that was where they were safest.
The meeting with Subodh Choudhury had gone well. The first-rankers had been given their responsibilities. There were targets that had to be studied. Every last detail needed to be gathered and an eye kept on the target until the zero hour. Ananta and Ganesh ensured that even the first-rankers were kept in the dark about each others’ tasks, by meeting each one separately. They had all been forbidden from disclosing their duties to one another. Subodh lived in the Rail Class Quarters and passed the Auxiliary Forces of India Armoury every day. But his field of study had included not just that armoury but also the one at Double Mooring. Ananta’s dada, Nand Lal Singh, worked at the AB Railway workshop. He was privy to what went on inside. But the responsibility of the main armoury at the police lines, Ananta and Ganesh had reserved for themselves. After three days of aimless hanging around, they had chanced upon the news that the sub-inspector in charge of the police lines was one Sanjiv Chandra Nag and his son studied in the eighth standard of the Kali Maji School. A worker was deputed to work on him with recruitment in mind and then bring the child for an interview. But recruitment was the last thing Ananta and Ganesh had in mind. The child was thrilled to have received a call and impressed by the burden of secrecy. He was completely under the influence of the idea of revolution. Proudly, Line Babu’s son took his new friends and mentors on a guided trip of the lines. Not one but several.
They were keeping up with their timetable. Pleased with the day’s proceedings, Ananta made his way back home for lunch. A cycle stood by the wall occupying the place meant for his own. Leaning his cycle by its side, he peered cautiously about. There was no one in the drawing room. As far as he could see, even the courtyard looked clear. He stepped in cautiously, scanning the courtyard, when his eyes were arrested by the sight of Didi standing at the entrance to the room she used for training her students. Tension was coiled into her body. She looked ready to spring. Looking past her, Ananta spotted a girl, her sari wrapped tightly around her youthful form, her raised arm descending through the air as if to strike the young man before her. In the wink of an eye she was bent over double, her arm twisted behind her back, her body curved helplessly into that of her intended victim.
Ananta strode away, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, clearing his throat in displeasure. The girl was far too attractive. The couple made an extremely handsome pair.
Boudi was serving him lunch when Didi marched in defiantly.
‘You have broken your word.’ Ananta snapped, before she could get a word in. ‘I had sent Saroj to train you alone. From tomorrow, he will not be available.’
Her constant complaint had been that he never helped out with the girls’ training activities, but now she had axed her own foot. Baba nodded in approval. He was proud of the principles the Chittagong youth held dear.
It had been a good lunch. The rice and fish sat heavy on his stomach, sending delicious tendrils of sleep through his body. Ananta had stretched out on his bed for a glorious afternoon siesta when Boudi shook him awake. A boy waited at the door. The matter was urgent. Dragging his reluctant body, he made his way to the door, ready to bite off a head if given a chance.
‘Explosion. Congress office.’ The dilated pupils stood out in the large light-brown eyes. The terror in them exploded a reaction within Ananta. Phutu and Ardhendu! They were the only two. But they were working with such tiny amounts: mixing fifty grams of picric acid with half that amount of potash. Neither of them were smokers.
‘Not even the blows of a hammer can make it explode. Who lit the stove?’ Ananta’s voice bordered on a scream.
‘All that I don’t know.’ The boy was holding on to his nerves. ‘All I know is that you had better come quickly.’
The Baby Austin was racing towards Ganesh’s shop.
‘The mortar is in smithereens,’ the youth filled him in. ‘Both Phutu-da and Ardhendu were flung some five to six cubits away.’
Ganesh’s face was unable to register emotions. Here they were in the first week of April and …
‘Drive to Makhon’s,’ he said.
Ananta leant on the horn. The boy ran out at the first toot. ‘Bring your new Essex to the Congress office,’ called Ganesh as the Baby Austin moved off.
Thick smoke issued from the windows of the Congress office. Ananta ran through into the inner room. It was a shocking sight. The sickeni
ng smell of burnt flesh. Master-da, Bon Bihari Dutt and some of the others had dragged Phutu and Ardhendu to a room where the smoke was less. They had emptied out the first-aid kit and were squeezing tubes of Borafex.
Ardhendu took a few awkward steps, collapsed and made an attempt to pull himself up again. Burns covered his face and chest. Phutu who lay on the floor unmoving was suddenly caught in the throes of rigor. Chunks of flesh had been blown away. Bits of bone glimmered sickly and white.
‘Ananta-da!’
It was Phutu. Ananta forced himself to go over to his side.
‘Shoot me. Ananta-da, only you can do it.’ The words came with effort. ‘I can’t stand it.’
Ananta stumbled out of the room. ‘I think I had better shoot them right away.’
‘Stop, stop. This is rubbish.’ Ganesh screamed.
Master-da laid a hand on both their shoulders. ‘Troubles will come. We have to deal with them and move on.’
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 16