Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  The cold logic that was so apparent to both Phutu and himself had been lost on Ganesh and Master-da. Hadn’t the Ram Krishna episode taught them enough?

  Makhon’s Essex had drawn up outside.

  ‘Move,’ said Master-da. ‘The explosion must have been heard for miles.’

  ‘Wait! Wait!’ Bon Bihari hurried his five workers and ran to the adjacent field. He settled down with his flute and in next to no time a singing competition had begun in right earnest. His boys posted themselves on the road diverting the passers-by, leading them cheerfully by the arm to take a few minutes to encourage the participants. Master-da stood outside the Congress office, a smile on his face, sending the more reluctant of the lot back to the field. ‘Two minutes of your precious time … it’s for the children,’ he said.

  Very carefully, keeping him shielded from view, Ardhendu was brought out and laid on the back seat of the Essex. Beneath the seat, on a mattress on the floor, was Phutu.

  ‘Keep driving. Do not stop,’ whispered Ganesh as he left with the Baby Austin. ‘I will meet you by 5 p.m. with a can of petrol.’

  Ananta had been driving now for hours, keeping to the quieter part of the town. Five o’clock was approaching. There was still no sign of Ganesh. As he drove along the big road in front of the Rail Class Quarters, he spied Subodh Choudhury cycling down. The boy responded to the horn signal and as he peeped into the car his mouth fell open in horror.

  Waving to Ananta to wait for him, he sprinted home and returned with two dhutis and two bed sheets. These were strung between the driver’s and the passenger’s seats and all around the windows, as was common in the cars that carried ladies from the aristocratic Muslim families who observed purdah. ‘I will put just a little surma in your eyes, Ananta-da,’ he said. ‘Those who don’t know you will assume you are Muslim and the rest will not know the difference. Drive up and down this road, I will be back with a can of petrol.’

  He had been driving non-stop since he had begun. It was now six o’clock and there was still no sign of Ganesh. At last Ananta spied the Baby Austin waiting under a tree. Ganesh handed over a can of petrol. ‘Still no shelter. Keep driving.’

  Eight p.m. Still no news. No shelter had been arranged. Ananta was becoming increasingly nervous. The moans from the back seat were occasionally interspersed with a scream. The sounds worked like a balm on Ananta’s heart. But it raced when the two passengers were quiet. He stepped on the accelerator skirting past a group of villagers walking along the road. It was getting dark now.

  The Baby Austin appeared. ‘Go to Lokenath’s home in Patharghata. I will bring doctor babu.’ It was 10 p.m.

  Ananta parked the car flush with the door. Lokenath, Tegra, Naresh and Bidhu were waiting. Ardhendu was removed. Then it was Phutu’s turn. The seat had been raised and holding the edges of the mattress, the boys pulled him out taking him inside. Phutu lay as limp as a rag doll, his body cold and clammy. Bidhu placed his ear to Phutu’s chest as Tegra ran to bring some water.

  Jagada Babu arrived. He gave some injections and left Naresh and Bidhu with a couple of ampoules of Coramine. As he turned to leave, he pondered for a second. He needed to get something off his chest. ‘Look … it has been obstacle after obstacle. Give up the road you have chosen. Perhaps God does not will it.’

  ‘It is God’s way of testing us, doctor babu,’ said Lokenath politely leading him to the door. ‘Bless us so that we can accomplish what we have set out to do.’

  Ganesh placed his hand on Jagada Babu’s arm gently. He had to drop him back home and Ananta needed to get going. Phutu and Ardhendu would have to be moved to their individual shelters.

  The movie house – Lotus – stood on Fairy Hill, to the south of the courthouse, a little lower down on the slope. On the same hill, to the east stood the post office. Ten youths lazed in the seats. The movie was about to begin. Talkies were as yet a novelty and they could be seen only in Kolkata. Ananta and his boys were out as they usually were, enjoying life, eating at restaurants, competing loudly at every music concert. His up-to-no-good reputation had escalated lately to ‘a bit strange … given to using Snow and face powder’. It tickled him immensely.

  A nudge. A figure on the aisle gestured and a whisper passed around. The movie had begun to roll. The group left in twos and threes so as not to attract attention.

  ‘Activity in DIB sub-inspector Rohini Bhowmik’s house.’ The party watchers keeping track had sent a runner.

  ‘Post guards on the roads that lead to Ardhendu’s shelter and Phutu’s,’ said Ananta as he set off at a run. Three newly sharpened swords had been stored in Ganesh’s shop and all evidence of having tested guncotton would have to be got rid off at once. His boys set to work. Ganesh’s shop had been cleaned out when word arrived that the police force was taking the route that led to Ardhendu’s shelter. The Baby Austin was pressed into service and Ardhendu taken for a drive. Ananta kept to the streets until confirmed news arrived: the police were raiding a different house. Ardhendu could safely be dropped back and 8 April had passed off without any untoward incident.

  Parking the car near Parade Square, Ananta made his way to Ananda and Debu’s house. Ganesh had been there all evening, getting an early start to the night’s work that lay ahead. The boys’ study room had been converted into a laboratory.

  The past couple of days had been a whirlwind of activity: irate parents, bewildered boys waiting to be counselled. Madhav Babu, a comparing clerk at the district judge’s court, had filed an official police complaint against his son: Fakir Chandra Sen had stopped attending school since January and had stolen nearly eight to ten times from his mother, the amount adding up to nearly Rs 300/-; was associating with Ganesh Ghosh, Ananta Lal Singh and Rajat Sen and, or so Madhav Babu assumed, had made the money over to them.

  Ananta checked the buckets of water in the room. They were full. Ganesh worked at one end of the table mixing carefully and lightly half an ounce of potash-chlorash and ammon picrate crystals on a two-inch by two-inch pasteboard. Once it was done, it was kept aside in a dry glass beaker before he got up to bring the next half-ounce from the stock room.

  Phutu had pulled out his books as soon as the pain had become bearable. He had sent for Ganesh and made him read from them: When picric acid is made from sulphuric acid and nitric acid, traces of sulphuric acid are left behind along with the picric acid powder. When ammonium carbonate and picric acid are boiled with water to make ammon picrate crystals, the sulphuric acid is converted into tiny lumps of sulphur. It had been a revelation. Yellow sulphur is indistinguishable from ammon picrate crystals. And everybody knew that the explosive masala used to stuff fireworks was a mixture of sulphur and potash-chlorash.

  Debu peeped in cautiously. The boys had been expressly told to stay away from the lab. He had returned from Kolkata, having escorted Pratul Babu to Chattogram earlier that day – a day devoted to Pratul Babu: driving him around; talking theoretically about the options available, for Ganesh had, a long time ago, promised never to go into action without including him in the plans. But today, when the man had actually been offered the chance, he had discovered responsibilities. He could not commit without first discussing the details with his party in Kolkata. Thank goodness, thought Ananta to himself, no details had been disclosed.

  ‘The boy has settled in,’ said Debu from the door. He had accepted Fakir’s charge without question, without pressing for details. ‘He will double up with Gobindo-da and remain out of sight.’

  ‘Wish you’d sort this out for me.’ Ganesh pushed across an envelope.

  Debu stood uncertain for a moment; then came in and pulled out the letter. ‘It has been brought to my notice,’ he read rapidly, his words running into each other, ‘by the guardians of a number of members of the institution that their wards do not attend schools and colleges, do not obey their guardians, do not even stay home at night and sometimes do such things which are against principles of morality. Some of the guardians directly accused me and the institutio
n for the present state of affairs with regard to their wards. Personally, and as president of the institution, I am not prepared to accept the above accusations. Although I have every sympathy for physical culture, I have no sympathy for indiscipline, disobedience to parents and guardians and leaving present schools and colleges before such time as may be absolutely necessary for the interest of the country, or until educational institutions have been established on national needs. I do therefore ask you to call a general meeting at an early date to explain my position and, if need be, to tender my resignation which of course I shall do with a very heavy heart.’

  ‘Suresh Babu’s resignation?’ said Ananta reaching for it. ‘Here.’ He folded the note and leaning forward, stuffed it into Ganesh’s apron pocket. ‘That’s where it belongs.’

  The wink and a toss of the head told Debu the conversation was over. Ganesh emptied his freshly mixed powder into the glass beaker with immense concentration and proceeded to clean the table. Underneath that moustache it was difficult to figure out what his lips were up to. The half-formed smile on Debu’s face widened into a grin and he left.

  Suresh Bandopadhyay, the respectable elderly businessman who had started a gymnasium in 1927 with great hopes of guiding and helping the youth and had appointed Ganesh secretary, was more than a little peeved. Unfortunately, they did not have the luxury of time now to comfort him.

  There was enough powder in the beaker to fill a shell. Ananta placed one in the grasp of a vice fitted on to the table, counted out the requisite number of screws and settled down with a magnifying lens and a tiny brush. Meticulous cleaning was required. Not a trace of powder could be left on the screws. They worked in silence. It had been decided that no more youngsters would be permitted to try their hand at manufacturing explosives and there was no time to make TNT powder. They would fill ten shells with the ammon picrate and potash-chlorash mixture and the rest with smokeless gunpowder that the British used. It was time to put on their body shields. A sheet of tin had been hammered and moulded to cover the chest, arm and face. Two pinholes had been left. Carefully, they inserted the screws into the cork holders in the shell. A wrench was attached to the head of one screw and a long rope to its handle. Ganesh and Ananta took up positions outside the room, hiding behind the wall. They held the rope in their hands and twisted it carefully until it turned the handle of the wrench. Each screw would be tightened individually.

  The Gupta house was just right for this kind of work, situated as it was on the top of the tila, with the study room about 30 feet away from the main house. The densely wooded hills behind had served them well, having been used for experimenting with time fuses – ones that would explode in five seconds and others that would take seven. There the boys had been taught the art of throwing bombs. The explosions could not be heard beyond a limited range. Those that did get to hear could not figure out where it came from.

  Ananta had gotten off at Himangshu’s house while Ganesh took the Baby Austin away. He would not be returning before two or three hours. He settled down to listen to Himangshu’s report. The boy had been on duty, keeping watch on Inspector Sharada Bhattacharya’s house. Together they went through his notes.

  ‘His men have contacted Sarada Seel. Sub-inspector Rohini Bhowmik had brought him to the house.’

  Ananta nodded. He had been aware of it. Phutu had warned him earlier and he had had a talk with the boy. They were all aware that Sarada’s family struggled with poverty. They were trying to break him, he had warned. They would offer financial help, free tuitions, etc. The boy had steeled himself, and Ananta had interviewed him again after the visit to the inspector’s house. The boy had succeeded in standing his ground. But boys reacted differently. Monoranjan Sen, whom he had personally recruited … in fact his first recruit after he had come out of jail, had flown into a rage. He had come to him demanding a revolver to shoot his father with. The man he had loved and worshipped all his life had approached him with the inspector’s proposal: Money in return for all he knew. Mona had left home, threatening to return and pump a couple of bullets into his old and frail father. Ananta had hung on to him all day until he had calmed down.

  ‘The inspector has contacted the purut moshai of Kali Bari.’

  Of that too he was aware. The Kali Bari priest’s sons Ashutosh and Bhabatosh Bhattacharya had joined them. Bhabatosh, who was in class eight, had reported to him that the inspector had suddenly discovered that they were related and had invited them to lunch on Sunday. Ananta had briefed the boy. Now he made a mental note to wait at Ganesh’s shop on Sunday afternoon. He would place Jibon Ghoshal, whose house faced the temple, on duty and catch Bhabatosh the moment the family returned. A debriefing would then take place in Ganesh’s shop.

  ‘I need to take you off duty,’ he said to Himangshu. ‘Oh!’ he said lightly, ‘the police would also have noticed that you have been spotted around the inspector’s home these last few days. So back to school with you,’ he laughed.

  The Baby Austin was tooting outside. Ganesh had returned earlier than expected.

  ‘One of our guards is reporting movement on the route to Chor-Chaktai.’

  Ananta got in, patting his waist to reassure himself that the revolver was with him.

  ‘He has no clue as to the importance of Chor-Chaktai but has mercifully observed the movement and reported … I hope on time.’

  Ganesh was driving towards the home of a young worker, who had to be picked up. ‘Police,’ they mouthed and the lad jumped into the back seat without a question.

  The car bumped its way through the fields leaving Patharghata behind. A quarter-mile of bumpy track still lay before them beyond which was a beel that marked the extreme edge of Chattogram – Chor-Chaktai. The lad jumped out and ran on ahead while Ganesh turned the car around. The engine was left running. Agonizing minutes ticked by before the worker was spotted helping Phutu across the uneven ground. He was struggling – there was simply no other word for it; his body a grotesque mesh of swollen tissue.

  ‘But this is the life of a revolutionary.’ Ananta heard Ganesh murmur. It was four in the afternoon and the April sun blazed down cruelly.

  Phutu was in the car. He did not respond to their words. His breath came raspy and thin. Ganesh stepped on the accelerator. The worker was dropped off and the Baby Austin sped towards Ananda and Debu’s home. ‘Where is the choice?’ he said though no question had been asked of him.

  ‘But we can’t make him walk up.’

  ‘Just watch,’ he said.

  Though the motorable road ended at the base of the tila it was possible to push the car at least halfway up. But Ganesh stepped on the accelerator a good way ahead of the tila and the car shot all the way up through the garden of the British padre, leaving the lady of the house hysterical with rage, coming to a stop inside the Gupta compound. Phutu nipped out and disappeared into the study before Mashima and Jyotsna-di could come running out onto the verandah, shocked at the sight of a car within their gates. But they were their favourite young men and the ladies did not subject them to too much questioning.

  Guards took up position immediately. Boys loitered in front of the Government College and along the path that led up the tila. They would be able to spot the police long before they approached the base. Phutu would be given enough time to disappear into the jungle behind the house.

  In two days time, shelters had been arranged in the villages for both Ardhendu and Phutu. Ananta took Phutu to the Abdur Rehman Kheyaghat at midnight. The boy, Shankar, was waiting. He came nervously up to Ananta and placing his mouth right next to his ear said, ‘Dui thaiya dui anna – two rupees two annas.’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ Ananta barked as he backed away a little. ‘Your behaviour reeks of illicit affairs! What are you so nervous about? Here, you are in charge of Phutu now. Go pay the boatman whatever you have agreed upon.’

  He sat in the car watching. Relief washed over him as he saw the boatman pull strongly at the oars. Soon they had become a speck
across the Karnaphuli. A smile played over his lips. Dui thaiya dui anna … this would go down as legend. Ei kheyechey! … again dui thaiya dui anna would become his response every time someone would begin to display signs of nervousness.

  Raucous laughter spilled out on to the street. The area that served as the shop in Ganesh’s house was filled with first-rankers. Boys came and went. Cycles zipped in and out. Cups of tea flowed as did poetry: lines laced with questions and the impromptu responses they generated. Cigarettes, beedis, alcohol were strictly forbidden. They were to be used only as disguise aides.

  A tikka gharry clopped up to the door and Nirmal-da came in. He drew Ananta and Ganesh indoors. Surreptitiously, he shut all the doors and windows beaming all the while with a mysterious secret.

  ‘Dara, dara … wait,’ he said, ‘it is a good omen … a godsend.’ At last he was ready to part with his secret. ‘Pravin Dada, our very own, has returned. Bai-rey-bai,’ said Nirmal-da in his pronounced village accent and held on to Ananta’s arm, ‘my beloved brothers, let us all go and ask him to join us.’

  A quiver of thrill seeped through Ananta. Pravin-da had come back at long last. It could be nothing but providence.

  Nirmal-da was speaking with the earnestness of a simple revolutionary. ‘Come let us introduce him to Rajat, Mona, Tripura, Naresh and Bidhu. Let us lay our weapons at his feet. Surely, seeing our resources, he will join us.’

  Ananta tugged at Ganesh’s arm. Leaving the boys to their hoihoolor and ruckus, they walked out. Himangshu ran out to see them to the door. A man in white stood in the distance watching as the Baby Austin’s engine was started. Himangshu narrowed his eyes and levelled the stick in his hand at the watcher as if it were a gun. ‘Gudum,’ he said and then grinned like the devil. Ananta, watching in the rear-view mirror, burst into laughter. His heart was light and happy.

  Ambika-da was completely taken in by the idea. Ananta waited for Master-da to give it his nod. It did not matter if Pravin-da took over the military command from him. At least he would be there.