Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  Getting to be quite a middle-aged man, she had observed. And now as a father of three daughters, he couldn’t agree more.

  LOKENATH BAL

  The afternoon of 18 April was a particularly pleasant day and many holidaymakers were out to enjoy the long weekend. Young babus, sons of wealthy men … it was evident by their outfits … walked up and down the stand looking at the taxis. The drivers called out, jostling amongst themselves: Where did the babus wish to go? Lokenath inspected the taxis. A car was selected.

  ‘Kya naam?’

  ‘Ahmadur Rehman, sahib. You can call me Ahmad.’4

  ‘Naya gari?’ Subodh Choudhury walked around, admiring the shiny new black Dodge. The driver smiled, a little shy all of a sudden. Taxi number 21929 was his pride and joy.

  ‘My friends and I need a car for the evening. Come by sundown.’

  Ahmad reported on time at the house in Patharghata. He did not seem particularly disconcerted by the fact that the babus by now were all dressed in khaki. Chittagonians had become used to seeing the Hindu youth play-acting at being soldiers, and on the lookout for people they could help.

  ‘Lo-o-ong drive.’ Makhon stressed on the ‘Long’. ‘Let’s go for a really long drive.’

  ‘Bhatiari tak … chalega?’

  ‘Bahut dur. It’s too far, babu-ji.’

  Rajat winked rubbing his thumb and forefinger. It was settled. Nirmal-da got into the back seat and the youngsters piled in, chatting happily. Rajat sat next to the driver and set up a running conversation.

  ‘Kon gram? And at home? … Children?’

  The tarred road whizzed past beneath the wheels and soon it was the countryside that was flashing by. Above, soft puffs of clouds floated against the darkening blue of the sky.

  ‘Foy Sagar!’ Makhon pointed to the right. All heads turned and the car swerved dangerously to the right, setting up a fit of giggles. It did not matter that day, for they had the road to themselves.

  The dark shape of the hills loomed to the right, and flat calm of the bay stretched out to the left. A village appeared. It had not a soul in sight.

  ‘Fakirhat.’ The driver informed them.

  ‘What comes next?’

  ‘Faujdarhat.’

  They were climbing now through a wooded area interspersed with paddy fields.

  ‘Ahmad-ji, stop please.’

  The car rolled to a stop and the three passengers at the back stepped out to stretch their legs. The driver pulled out a beedi and took a quick look at Rajat. He nodded. They sat companionably for a while. The others were coming back. The driver put out his beedi and waited for them to get back in. They did not. Instead, they crowded around his door.

  ‘Get out.’

  The driver glanced over his shoulder, puzzled. The mouth of a pistol pointed at him. Rajat wore an apologetic smile on his face. Before the matter could sink in, powerful arms were reaching in pulling him out. Each of his soft-spoken, genteel passengers held pistols in their hands.

  Lokenath dragged him into the paddy fields and pinned him down. A wad of cotton was pressed to his nose and the bottle of chloroform emptied.5 As the man lost consciousness, they tied his legs together and his hands behind his back. Some soft cloth was wrapped around his head and face and kept in position by the rope. Lokenath looked for a suitable place where he would not be discovered easily and yet would remain out of harm’s way.

  ANANTA LAL SINGH

  It was 7 p.m. On the road behind the Assam Bengal Railway office, a Chevrolet and a Baby Austin drew up side by side.

  ‘Hello, marshal.’ Ganesh craned his neck out of the window. He was in uniform, much like the one Ananta wore, except that he held a baton in his hand instead of wearing a sword at the waist, for he was the GOC and therefore a field marshal. He twirled his moustache for effect. His eyes, thought Ananta, were unusually bright.

  But the news was bad: neither car had been fully repaired. The boys had been reporting every hour and then every fifteen minutes and despite goading the mechanics to hurry, not even one was close to being ready. A taxi would have to fill the gap but the teams were to move into position at 7.30.

  ‘Move the zero hour to 10 p.m.’

  Ganesh’s thoughts synchronized perfectly with Ananta’s. But it meant that sixty-four armed youths; dressed in uniform; ready to go would have to sit and twiddle their thumbs for another two hours. It also meant that Lokenath would have to wait around with the stolen taxi.

  The teams would have to be informed. The two cars sped down to where Naresh was waiting. The Baby Austin was handed over; the new time intimated and the two marshals drove off. The road that led to the Assam Bengal Railway’s general building dipped between two hills, ran along the side of the Nizam Paltan field and then split into two.

  There were no municipality street lights here. The stars glittered overhead. It was a clear night and the trees cast long shadows onto the roads. On one side was a hill, on the top of which stood a sahib’s bungalow. While still half a mile from the armoury, they heard the sound of a Dodge starting its engine. As it closed in, Ananta drew in a sharp breath. By the driver’s side in full-dress uniform sat a British officer, his white skin gleaming pale under the headlight beam. The car drew up alongside and the young lieutenant at the wheel stepped out; opened the door for his captain and brought his white-gloved hand smartly to the peak of his cap with a click of his heel. From the rear emerged Nirmal-da, Rajat Sen and Subodh Choudhury – each one dressed according to rank.

  ‘All has gone well at our end. Now tell us your news.’ Lokenath was in no mood for small talk.

  ‘All is well, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘The cars that were to go to the police lines are not available. We have to arrange for one right away. We need two more hours.’

  Nirmal-da became very agitated. A delay now? The small groups carrying the manila ropes, ladders, tins of petrol had already walked through the Nizam Paltan field and had taken up position near the AFI armoury. There was very little time. The others would have to be informed in a hurry. He took responsibility of informing some of the teams.

  Ananta swung past Dr Jagada Biswas’s home. But he had gone out, taking his car with him. Driving at top speed, Ananta dropped Ganesh off at the shop. He would send out despatch riders on cycles, while Ananta rushed to inform Master-da at the Congress office. He was maintaining contact with all the smaller teams.

  ‘You are going to acquire a car now? We are all over the city dressed like this … two hours now? What if the first driver regains consciousness?’

  ‘Even if he does he will not have time to report the matter. By then we would have struck. As for our boys moving around in uniform, the police are used to seeing us like this.’ Ananta called over his shoulder. He was already rushing out, for Ambika-da would be waiting by now, with his instruments and petrol tins, at the designated spot close to the telephone office. And Ananda, who should have had the car by 7.50 p.m., was waiting at home to load the sledgehammers. The scheduled time of attack had been 8.05 p.m.

  Ananda was waiting on the slope. He was surprised to see Ananta alone, for a second car was supposed to have followed.

  ‘How will you go back?’

  ‘Last-minute change of plans. Another car has to be arranged. The scheduled time for you now is 9.55 p.m.’

  He ran up the wide steps cut into the hillside behind Ananda. The boy would need help with bringing down the sledgehammers that had been stowed away in his study. But he stopped himself in time. Another ten or twelve steps and he would be in the uthon.

  ‘Ananta!’

  Too late. He had been caught. Mashima’s voice floated down. She must have been watching.

  ‘Ananta, come up. Hurry.’ It was an imperious command; one that could not be ignored.

  Jyotsna-di (Ananda’s Chhor-di) and Mashima stared. They had seen him in khaki many times but today their faces registered sheer horror.

  ‘Ananta, Khoka said he was going away on holida
y for seven days. He left wearing khaki. Where did he go?’

  Ananta felt the panic rise within him. ‘Is that so? Debu did not tell me anything. Why, I met him only this morning.’

  Chhor-di’s eyes bored their way through his head, through the falsehoods being conjured up.

  ‘As he touched my feet he said, “Ma, don’t worry, Chotkun is with you.” He left without eating … today!’

  It was Chotkun’s birthday. The realization struck him like a bolt from the blue. The evidence was all around: the little lights in the bushes; Chhor-di’s and Mashima’s silk saris, their hair piled high on their heads. There must be guests within … the boys must have called her aside and made their little announcements.

  ‘Tell me, Ananta, I can’t take it any more, where did my Khoka go?’

  Mashima would just have to wipe her tears and put on a façade for the sake of her guests. She would have to urge them to eat; perhaps another slice of cake, she would have to say sweetly … and hers were the best in Chattogram … knowing that her two eldest sons were leaving home perhaps never to return … she could cook and bake, all she wanted, in the days to come, but it would be in the knowledge that they would never taste her food again. A grand speech was taking shape in his head: Brave mother, heap blessings on your sons’ heads; wish us all well … may we return victorious.

  Instead he said, ‘When he has said he will return in seven days why do you doubt him? I will find out. I will let you know tomorrow.’

  He could see that she did not believe a single word. And how could she? Here he was standing dressed to the gills, all ready to pick up the younger son who had done nothing but moon about the house all evening, dressed in khaki.

  ‘And Tun, where is he going? Why is he dressed in khaki and you, why have you come here dressed like this? Why did Tun say he would not be returning home tonight? Tell me, tell me the truth, is there any danger to your lives?’ She was breaking down now.

  Chhor-di turned on him aggressively, ‘This is very unfair, you know. Two sons? From one family? Where are you taking them? Have you spared but a single glance at the faces of the parents?’

  What could he say? Both brothers had discussed the issue and had let it be known that they were going to take part in the action. But this was quicksand; opening his mouth meant sinking in even deeper.

  ‘Tun is still very young Ananta. At least leave him for me.’ The tears were pouring freely now.

  ‘Ananta-da, it’s getting late. Come quickly.’ Ananda called from down below.

  ‘Mashima, Chhor-di, ebar aashi.’ Ananta was down the steps in a flash.

  The sorrow that was welling up deep within her soul clung to him and her words rang in his ears. ‘Ananta, at least one, leave just one behind for me.’

  Ananda was waiting in the car. ‘What?’ he laughed. ‘Tears in your eyes? Do you not have to arrange for a car within two hours?’

  In an instant he had jerked Ananta back to his senses. Together they recited Ananda’s favourite lines from Kazi Nazrul:

  Durgam giri, kantar moru, dustar pararbar

  Longhitey hobey ratri nishithey jatrira hushiyar

  High mountains, endless deserts, uncontrollable seas

  Cross you will have to in the dead of the night, oh traveller be alert.

  Silently in his heart Ananta swore: There shall be no Alps.

  They raced to the telephone office to update Ambika-da. The news did not upset him. ‘It will be all right,’ he said.

  Himangshu had to be picked up. He was waiting on the road that led to Ganesh’s house.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Andu, we have to adapt constantly to the situation. It would be foolish to assume that it’s going to be smooth sailing.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is to be done now?’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Ananta got off at Ganesh’s shop, handing the car over to Ananda. ‘Drop Andu to the taxi stand at Lal Dighi before you join Ambika-da. Andu, bring back a taxi no matter what the cost, what the implications. There are no taxis to be had here … they are all booked for the Nikhil Bongo Karnaphuli Muslim Conference.’

  ‘Oh, of course he will do it. Ki rey, Andu? Won’t you be able to do it?’

  Himangshu pulled a face at him in response.

  ‘Remember,’ said Ananta, ‘impossible is a word found in the dictionary of fools.’

  The five doors to the showroom that led in from the street shut every night by eight o’clock. Tonight it was no different. The showroom lights had been put out but one door, the one to the extreme right had been left open. It led to another door which opened into the main house. Haripada Mahajan stood guard today. Ananta strode in. Ganesh, Debu and Saroj Guha sat looking glum. Five double-barrelled rifles and 200 cartridges lay on the bed.

  ‘Not working?’ Ananta tried his hand. The cartridges would not fit.

  ‘Who got these?

  ‘Madhusudan; this one is Makhon’s; Ranadhir’s; Lokenath borrowed this one from Dhiren6 and this one belongs to Krishna’s kaka.’7

  It was demoralizing … as it was, there weren’t enough firearms to go around in the first place and now five were going waste. The bores had never been tested for fear of alarming the guardians, who would have then heightened security. And it was impossible to differentiate between a 0.16 and 0.12 by sight alone. All cartridges that had been bought were of 0.12 bore.

  It had been nearly half an hour since Himangshu had left. Ananta went out to peer into the darkness again. Every time the headlights of a car flashed by, it would raise their hopes … surely, Himangshu would manage something.

  The door opened. Swadesh Roy stood in the room looking shell-shocked. Haripada had chosen that very moment to go for a drink of water. This was a calamity. Ananta could barely conceal the irritation on his face. He caught Ganesh’s eye motioning towards the verandah.

  ‘He usually comes at this time to chat with me … he knows I am by myself at this time of the day,’ hissed Ganesh. He clearly thought Ananta was overreacting.

  It was true. After all, what had he done wrong? Naresh and Debu were among the set of boys that he laughed and joked around with, and all of a sudden, he was being perceived as a nuisance. And yet here he was, staring at the rifles. ‘Let’s tie him up. He may be a police agent.’

  Ganesh made no answer.

  ‘Since I am not wanted here I might as well leave.’ Swadesh made a move towards the door. Haripada stood hanging his head in shame.

  ‘Quick, let’s get him now.’ Ananta was making hurried mental calculations: What if Swadesh went to Kotwali straightaway? No, he could not do that. He would have to get in touch with his police contact first. That man would want to meet him in person and get all the details. Then he would inform the senior police officers and then they would issue orders. By then the operation would have taken place. It was alright, Swadesh could go. He turned to Haripada. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. Learn from it.’

  There was no time to feel relieved, as Himangshu was not back yet. Could he not find even a horse cart? The operation had already been delayed by two hours. They would have to leave by 9.30 sharp; then another half an hour to get into position … all the other teams would be waiting. They would have to leave even if Himangshu did not make it.

  ‘Pick up the stuff. We will march down.’

  Just then a light flashed and disappeared. The bend on the road was responsible but no Himangshu appeared. The mind raced with all kinds of probabilities. The lights appeared again. It had to be just another car … it came to a stop. Himangshu was walking in. There was not a moment to lose.

  ‘Call the driver in.’

  ‘The babus want to discuss the money with you. Come in. They want to hire the car for the night.’

  The driver came in. Ananta sized him up. He was a little younger than him. Two boys had moved quickly, blocking the doorway behind him. Taken aback, the man hesitated but then his gaze fell on the revolvers pointing to
wards him. Pressing a finger to his lips, Ananta motioned to him to remain silent. Pointing the revolver away, he began to swing it idly as he spoke using the Chattogram dialect.

  ‘What is this you are looking at?’

  All the driver could manage to say was, ‘Haw, bau, haw, bau … yes, babu, yes, babu.’

  ‘Arrey chinish ni? Ain kon? Aar naam janis ni? … Have you not recognized me? Who am I? Don’t you know my name? Have you not heard of Ananta Singh?’

  No matter what the question, all he said was ‘haw bau’. He was turning pale, his arms hung uselessly by his side and his legs trembled. He was hyperventilating. He was going to fall any moment now.

  ‘You have nothing to fear. We are not going to hurt you. You are our brother and I am sorry that I am troubling you like this. If we had known you better and could trust you, we would not be treating you like this.’

  ‘Haw, bau.’

  ‘Look brother, we are going for a dacoity and we need your car. But we cannot leave you in case you go to the police. That is why we have to tie you up. You understand, don’t you? Please put your hands out … When we return we will let you go. You will get your car back. But do not leave until then. We are leaving a guard behind. If you move or make a noise he will shoot you.’

  ‘Haw, bau.’

  ‘Lie down now.’ The man was ready to drop to the floor when Debu pulled out a woven reed madur for him. Everyone trooped out silently and piled into the waiting car … there was no guard being left behind.

  Ananta got into the driver’s seat of the Chevrolet Tourer and cursed silently. Could Himangshu not have found a more ramshackle one than this? Where was the key? There was no key. Ananta went back inside.

  ‘Where is the key?’ he asked the bound and trussed-up man.

  ‘Nai … the two wires … just join them.’ 8

  It was already 9.30. Though it coughed to life, the car still had plenty of attitude left: the clutch, brake, gear and accelerator, each with their own peculiarities. Driving fast was out of the question. At least it is a car, Ananta comforted himself. As long as it took them to the police line guardroom by 10 o’clock, they would be okay. The streets were dark, lined with tall leafy trees. Not all of Chattogram had electric lights. The ordinary citizen refrained from staying out late. Within moments, the city, barring the white man that partied late, would be fast asleep. Street lights were limited to the areas frequented by the British but they were dim. If he could stand on top of one of the hills now and look down, it would seem as if a great dark python had caught the hills in its coils.