But Master-da’s words startled everybody. ‘I agree with you. The responsibility must rest with the one that is most able. But I will not agree to disclose everything to him just to be able to attract him. Despite his prolonged absence, have we fallen short anywhere? True, we need to increase our strengths, so let us call him this evening and try to understand him. But our plans are not to be disclosed. Let us tell him an imaginary one and test him first.’
The evening meeting resulted in strange disclosures. Pravin-da had much to say. ‘You need to work closely with Jugantar under Subhas’s leadership and support the Congress. The time has long gone when little groups can take uncoordinated action on their own.’
It was blindingly clear. He had been sent by the police to get a feel of what this group was up to; his mission: pour oil over stormy seas. How could they have been so foolish? Had he not become a family man since the last time they met? And here they had been on the verge of disclosing their plans. Their plans that would surely have earned him large amounts of money.
It was Master-da who had saved the day. On 10 April 1930, they would have all been walking cheerfully up the garden path had it not been for Master-da. Ananta lay in bed that night. He had to see Master-da again.
Master-da was lying down for a bit, as he usually did in the afternoon, when Ananta burst upon him.
‘Ki hey? Baipaar ki?’ Master-da was startled. This was not the usual hour for Ananta to visit him. ‘Any news?’
‘I have to talk to you on a very serious issue.’
It did not have the desired effect on Master-da. He continued to lie as he was waving his hand indicating that Ananta should sit. Ananta pulled a chair up.
‘I want to discuss my own feelings.’
Master-da nodded.
‘Master-da, why is it that I cannot come to you and say that we are ready once and for all? Why is it that there are always ends left to be tied up? Am I not ready to fix my last day upon this earth?’ He had become alive to the vacillations of his mind. The youngsters were raring to go. They had not yet formed strong attachments in life. But he? Was it he, a seasoned revolutionary used to fame and notoriety, who was unwilling to let life go? ‘Would it not be nicer, Master-da, to spend a few more days rounding up lads; working up their feelings? Just enjoying the hold one has over the youth?’
Master-da was sitting up already. He had not uttered a word until now. ‘It is good to hear your words. They’ve made me do a bit of soul-searching. The delays are due to a subconscious desire to live.’
‘Let us fix the date and delay no more.’
‘Tomorrow is Saturday. Call a meeting and decide.’
They sat in silence. The date would be fixed within twenty-four hours.
‘How do you feel now, Master-da?’
He smiled. He did not look at him. ‘Everything will get over so soon. Then … then … I cannot explain it. All our work will be done. We will never know what the outcome was … where the future would lead this country … life is so sweet. But to donate it for one’s country … even sweeter.’
Master-da, Nirmal-da and Ambika-da were ready and waiting when Ananta and Ganesh walked into the Congress office. He had not told Ganesh about his conversation with Master-da. He had wanted to see what was there in his heart.
Ganesh sat down and opened a chart. It was a mobilization chart that he had corrected and redrawn several times over. It was the compilation of many thoughts, scribbles on bits of note paper, drawings and discussions. This final chart had been painstakingly printed at a secret press. The five men poured over it discussing every detail.
Then Ganesh folded the chart up announcing, ‘This will be burnt the night before the action but now we have to fix the date and the time. The final arrangements cannot be made until then.’ Ambika-da and Nirmal-da nodded in agreement.
Someone suggested Thursday, 17 April. But Ananta was uncomfortable. Since his childhood nothing had gone right on a Thursday for him. ‘I suggest it be moved to Friday which is my lucky day.’
No one protested for everybody knew Ananta and his superstitions.
‘It’s a good day,’ said Master-da immediately. ‘18 April 1930 – Good Friday. The day the Irish held their Easter Revolution.’
Five days to the day. Ananta’s heart raced. Every beat was henceforth numbered.
NINE
ANANTA LAL SINGH, 18 APRIL 1930, 5.30 A.M.
Ananta tossed in his bed: a rhythmic chant pounding itself again and again within his head:
Udayer pothey shooni kaar baani?
Bhoy nai orey bhoy nai
Nissheshey praan jey koribey daan
Khoy nai taar khoy nai
On the path that leads to the rising sun, whose words is it that I hear?
No fear, there is no fear
One who can donate his life, holding nothing back
For him there is nothing to lose.
The poet1 would not let him sleep. The eastern sky had not yet begun to redden but the day would end differently … in a deluge of red. Ananta went to stand by the window, watching the first pinkstained rays catch the far reaches of the sky. It seemed to last longer than usual … finally there it was – the tip of the red sun peeping at him over the horizon, granting him, as it were, the last audience. He drew in a deep breath, bringing to mind the sixty-four comrades who had sworn to be by his side at this sandhi of his life.
The sun emerged in all its fullness, in all its glory, looking down at his sixty-four. He spoke for each of them: ‘We swear to die. British imperialists, this day there will be no forgiveness for you, no introductions, no illusions of compassion, no mercy. Let the fires of hate and vengeance light up. The agents of British imperialism must pay for the massacre at the Jallianwala Bagh. Ma-go, give us strength and physical ability and the courage to kill the enemy.’
It was 6 a.m. There were many jobs for the day. The clock would have to be obeyed faithfully. Ananta checked the pistol at his waist, opened the door carefully and walked down the driveway to where the Baby Austin stood. He loved his little car. She was his team’s ‘Emden’ and they changed her body paint, tyres, number plate off and on, just as the German cruiser had changed its colour, position and number of funnels. Like the Allies, the Chattogram police had been kept guessing.
The car sped through Chattogram’s little roads, wound past the hill where the commissioner’s bungalow stood and entered a narrow lane. Ananta parked her carefully and made his way to a tiny straw hut. He knocked thrice in a row. On a little cot, like every other day, sat Master-da – calm and serious.
‘You look agitated?’ Master-da observed.
‘A couple of hours are all that is left. I am keeping my mind ready.’
‘Do you remember the conviction with which you had told me that you would succeed in bringing back the rail company’s money? Tell me are you as convinced today?’
In these last two months Master-da had asked him this question at least ten times.
‘Why, Master-da? We will occupy the city. There is no power that can stop us now.’
Master-da’s eyes glowed with a strange fire. He clasped Ananta’s hand and spoke as if to himself, ‘And what if there is a traitor in the ranks?’
This was the greatest of the biplob’s enemies. The history of revolution is filled with treachery. The best – Joteen Mookerjee, Rash Bihari Basu, Vishnu Ganesh Pingle – had found their plans blighted in the bud.
‘I think we have managed to set the police off on a different path.’ Ananta reassured him. The rally planned for 17 April had gone off as scheduled.
‘Are you absolutely convinced that there is no traitor amongst us?’
What an exquisite question. Outside the five of them no one was privy to the whole plan. If there was a traitor, how much damage could he possibly do besides give away three of four names and the particular operation that he was to take part in? But was that really Master-da’s question?
‘No, I have no reason to suspect any of our boys a
nd I keep as sharp an eye upon each member of the central committee as they keep on me.’
Master-da pumped Ananta’s hand vigorously and accompanied him to the door. ‘When will they deliver the new car?’
‘Around 9 a.m. I will go with Ambika-da.’
They exchanged smiles.
Seven a.m. and Ananta strode in through Ganesh’s door. ‘Hello, marshal!’
Ganesh extended a hand and led him to the table. A sketch map of Chattogram city covered most of it. Drawing up two chairs, they seated themselves and reached out for the red and blue coloured pencils. The map had already been marked extensively – the attack sites; the routes. It looked so different today. They stared at it, awestruck.
‘Two years of preparation, so many rehearsals and today the curtains will rise.’ Ananta was the first to break the silence.
‘And let Nemesis retribute justice with wrath and retaliation.’
They went over the details one last time and then applied a match to the sheet.
Eight a.m. It was time for Lokenath Bal to come. The door opened and he walked in. Glowing skin, determination shining through, fair of speech, a beautifully well-built body, powerful arms ever ready to rise against injustice. A broad smile played on his face. He shook Ananta and Ganesh by the hand. ‘There is not to reason why, there is but to do or die.’ Lokenath, like all Bengali leaders, loved quoting poetry. ‘Everything is ready. From my side everything will be on time.’ Then he laughed, ‘All for one and one for all.’
Leaving Lokenath with Ganesh, Ananta drove towards Nizam Paltan. Here he would need to be especially careful. The little houses were interspersed with narrow lanes. Any of these could have the police crouching in wait. Loosening the pistol at his waist, Ananta walked down the lane to the bamboo-and-straw hut at the end. Nirmal-da lived here alone.
Face gleaming with anticipation; he beckoned to Ananta to take a seat.
‘So Nirmal-da,’ Ananta laughed. ‘Any chance of being a late-lateef today?’
‘Forgive me, forgive me. No, brother, no. I will not be late ever again. You will see I will be there exactly on time.’
Ananta was embarrassed. Today was not the right day to be witty and in any case since that time of the railway robbery, Nirmal-da had used his own example while instructing youngsters on punctuality. Changing the topic they went over the day’s programme. As Ananta rose to leave, Nirmal-da said, ‘Remind the youth that it is all about Organization, Audacity and Death.’
‘Be daring, be still more daring, be daring always,’ Ananta added as rejoinder.
Now he would have to race back to Ganesh’s shop where Ambikada would be waiting. A gleaming Chevrolet was waiting for them at the J.N. Choudhury Company’s Chevrolet showroom next to Ganesh’s cloth shop. Who was it? … Either Mahendra Choudhury or Nitai who had, barely two or three days ago, brought nearly 1,200 to 1,400 rupees from home. It had been just enough for the first instalment. Sri Bireshwar Bhattacharya, who was a judge at the session’s court, had agreed to stand guarantor.
The car was registered in Ambika-da’s name. Ananta stepped on the accelerator. It was smooth. One barely got an indication of speed except when one happened to glance at the speedometer. The car sped towards Nizam Paltan – now at full speed, now screeching to a halt … she was perfect.
‘Take the pitch-tala road towards Pahartali.’
The car hummed along the road, surfaced with coal tar and pulled up in front of the AFI armoury. A gigantic armed Pathan stood guard.
‘Ambika-da, just imagine our new car in front of an armoured tank!’
‘And against machine guns and cannon, our fourteen pistols and revolvers and one dozen 0.12 bore guns.’
The two laughed. ‘Ambika-da, after killing the traitor, Naren Gossain, Kanai Lal went laughing to the gallows. And through his death, the fire of revolution spread. Tonight our boys will begin the writing of a new history.’
Ganesh and Nirmal-da would be making their rounds, meeting with every group. Was everyone physically and mentally well, he wondered. Their weapons, instruments and cars … were they ready according to plan? From morning to evening, things would have to be done with clock-like precision. Various group commanders would keep in touch with Ganesh, giving in their final reports. The slightest change was to be reported immediately.
Ananta had nothing to do with it. He turned the Chevrolet towards the city, dropped Ambika-da at the Congress office and then sped off towards Ganesh’s house. There was Naresh on his bicycle. ‘Naresh! Two questions.’
He came up to the window.
‘Is everything okay? Have you personally checked every weapon in every hideout?’
‘All done.’ He grinned.
‘Second, how is the morale in your group?’
Naresh used the thumbs up signal. ‘They are betting on who will sacrifice his life first.’
Perhaps he had really nothing to ask of Naresh, but speaking with him bolstered his own courage.
‘Remember Naresh, laying down our lives will never go waste. Today, we seek retribution for centuries of atyachar. We need strength, courage and morale. Make sure no one breaks down in the end. Tell them no daya, maya; not even a spot of koruna. We want cruel revenge. For Khudiram and Kanai Lal. For the women and children killed at Jallianwala Bagh.’
There was a spark in Naresh’s eyes … one that would send the empire up in flames. He was ready.
He was at the base of the tila on which Ananda’s house stood. It was 11 a.m. A group was waiting – Makhon, Rajat, Tegra, Ananda, Himangshu and Bidhu. They leapt up on seeing the new car: their car, their companion, their secret weapon. It was love at first sight. Some trailed their hands along the gleaming curves, some slipped inside luxuriating in the feel of the leather seats, others fiddled with the knobs. The pride on their faces raised Ananta’s own morale. Ananda slipped into the driver’s seat. He was to take it on a trial run, but instead of starting the engine he sat looking mildly puzzled.
‘Wait,’ he said and ran out. The startled group gazed after him. Within minutes he was back, running and leaping down the slope, his pillow tucked beneath his arm. Grinning sheepishly, he arranged it on the driver’s seat and settled himself on top. ‘Let’s go,’ he cocked his head at Ananta.
By now Tripura would have handed two synchronized watches to each group. He had been testing them for the last week. Saroj Bhattacharya, who was responsible for distributing the leaflets, knew where they had been hidden. But the contents remained unknown to him. The team that was to help him knew nothing of the hiding place or of the contents. The last thing on his agenda was to meet the teams before going home for lunch.
It was 1 p.m. The family had become used to the strange new indiscipline which appeared to have taken over Ananta’s life – bathing when he wanted, catching a bite off and on, sleeping irregular hours. The zeal had gone out of the exercise schedule of late … it was as if a kind of lethargy had seeped in ever since the police crackdown on the supporters of Gandhi-ji. The first member of the family to come across him usually took charge of his pistol and revolver, be it Ma, Didi or Dada though it was Dada’s self-appointed task to clean and lubricate the weapons. There would be little or no words exchanged. Boudi spoke little but knew what was required the moment the cloth bag was pressed into her hands. It was she who put out the cartridges in the sun and kept count. Baba and Ma had been away for several months, visiting the house on the riverbank at Double Mooring, as the doctor had prescribed it for Ma. Ananta headed towards the bathroom.
Didi was in the dining room. She looked him up and down, taking in the wet hair and fresh clothes. She returned to arranging the individual bowls of gravy, like satellites sharing the same orbit around Ananta’s thala.
‘We are ready.’
‘For what?’ She did not look up.
‘Chattogram’s British rule is coming to an end. Today their samadhi will be created. The IRA will occupy the city today.’
She looked up for a fraction of a second.
Ananta could read her mind. These last couple of months had come as a disappointment. And then the rumours of the powdered faces; the bottles of Snow; the money wasted on restaurants and at the movie hall; Ganesh’s repeated visits … what did they add up to?
‘Didi, it is difficult to believe, but tonight Chattogram will fly the flag of independence in place of the Union Jack.’
Then it hit her. ‘I will come along.’
‘Na, that cannot happen. We are not taking our sisters along with us. This is work for the brothers. The sisters will come forward later.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘I will go to Master-da.’
Didi felt he was the one pushing her away.
‘No one will be able to meet Master-da today.’ The words made her crumple. ‘But he has sent a letter for you.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I am still eating!’
‘Where is it?’ She was using her most patient tone.
‘In the moneybag.’
She brought it back; her eyes already moist from the blow to her ego. Ananta reached out and scanned the sheet of paper.
Didi,
Tonight we will go away. Today is our dying day. Perhaps we will never meet again. The revolution will lead us on to an unknown and new path today. The flag that we will leave behind with you … take care of it. The moshaal that we are lighting with the fire of revolution … let it not die out.
I congratulate you as a revolutionary.
Master-da.
She had been left out.
‘Ask Master-da … compared to all the beloved brothers what is it that I lack? Just bodily strength? Doesn’t he know that I am the Chattogram Balika Vibhag trainer? Boxing, knife throwing, Japani kusti, where have I fallen short? Can I not drive a car, shoot; are pistols and revolvers unknown to me? Master-da knows only too well that my bullet never misses its mark. Why this injustice? Is it just because I have been born a woman?’
How could Ananta even begin to confess that the training required for actual warfare had not been imparted to the sisters; that this decision had been taken right at the beginning? It would have broken her heart completely. She got up and left. Boudi came in to clear the thala. Ananta rinsed his mouth and took the pistol from Dada. ‘Plan to leave this very night with Ma and Baba. Go away to the village. After the first round is over tonight, the British will unleash all their brutes. If they cannot get us, they will attack our homes. Master-da also feels the same way.’
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 18