At 9.50 p.m. they were at the big Paltan field where the sahibs played golf. It would now take them another two to three minutes to reach their destination.
Paltan Maidan occupied roughly the centre of an equilateral triangle with the police lines located at the apex to the north; the AFI headquarters and armoury at its south-western corner on the road leading from Chittagong to Pahartali; and the telephone-telegraph office occupying the south-eastern corner right in the heart of the city. On the far side of the Paltan Maidan, on the road leading from the police lines to the AFI headquarters, very close to the police lines, was a lonely tila. Perched on top, surrounded by the flaming krishnachura trees, stood the beautiful European club.
But the life seemed to be spluttering out of the car’s rheumatic aching joints.
‘Heart-fail!’
It had revolted intuitively at the sight of Paltan Maidan. It refused to move. There was no time to think. The boys jumped out and began to push while Ananta remained at the wheel. It gurgled and came back to life. Everyone was jumping back in when Saroj announced he had lost his revolver. It had fallen out of its holster. Fortunately, the road was completely deserted but a car could come upon them any moment, for the zila administrators all lived on this side. As Saroj scrabbled in the dust, Ananta noticed a figure on the right side of the road. They were being watched. The man stood in the shadows cast by the great trees of an orchard. Everyone saw him … probably a police watcher on duty.
Impossible to create any trouble within the next five to ten minutes, thought Ananta as he drove slowly past, eyes straining to pierce the darkness.
His heart lurched. It was Swadesh Roy. So he had not gone to the police! Then was he not an agent? Too late now, thought Ananta as he drove away, dismissing the faint sense of guilt that was arising within. Swadesh had looked him straight in the eye.
TEN
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
Seven figures draped in chadors waited in a Chevrolet at the bottom of the Kata-Pahar Rasta to the north of the Telephone Bhavan hill. It was an area forbidden to the general population but was drivable, as opposed to the routinely used road, which was so steep that it had been cut into steps.
At the signal, Ananda pressed down hard upon the accelerator and the car flew across the Kata-Pahar Rasta as it cut its way between two hills. The forester’s bungalow stood on top of the hill to the north, looking across at the Telephone Bhavan. The car was parked in the shadows. Discarding their wrappings, the team emerged. The now khaki-clad figures raced up the hill, ducking to avoid the light that shone through the windows of Telegraph Deputy Superintendent Scott’s quarters to the telegraph building on the summit. Their target was a solitary room at its eastern end. Ambika-da took position where the verandah had been walled off while Ananda slipped in. Cause minimum hurt; the words had been drilled into their heads again and again. The operator was by himself sitting at his switchboard, his back towards the door. Ananda placed the mouth of his pistol against his back and said firmly, ‘Raise your hands please. There is no need to be scared. Come outside quickly.’ The man had begun trembling; he was in no position to make a sound. Ananda led him by the arm to one of the chairs1 on the verandah. ‘Quiet. Face the wall and keep your hands up. Don’t worry.’2
Ambika-da had some soft cloth soaked in chloroform ready. As the operator began to go under, Pundit-da stood guard and Ambika-da ran to take cover behind a pillar to keep watch over the southern verandah and the rooms, which would be full of nightduty workers in the telegraph section. The sounds of heavy hammers emanated from within the little room as Ananda, Biren De, Dwijen Dastidar, Niranjan Rai and Manindra Lal Guha pounded away at the switchboard and equipment.
‘No shouting. Remain seated. There is no fear.’ Ambika-da shouted across to the telegraph building. Not a soul stirred. They sat in their places paralysed. ‘Pour the petrol.’ Two minutes3 were up and Ambikada signalled the end. ‘All clear?’ he called again. Everyone had come out: the whistle was blown. Ambika-da struck a match and flung it neatly into the room. The office burst into flames.
‘Telegraph office!’4
The boys responded to the command but by then the doors had been locked. They crashed bodily into them and the doors gave way.
‘Hands up; remain still; no shouting; if you try to run I will shoot.’ Ambika-da kept his finger ready on the trigger.
The room was evacuated and the work of destruction began. The match was applied and the team raced downhill. They piled quietly into the car. The sky turned red with leaping flames. A shot sounded from Mr Scott’s window.5 The Kata-Pahar Rasta echoed with the sound of two shots. Ambika-da had fired back in the direction of the sound.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
It was 9.55 p.m. by Ananta’s watch. The car crept along the periphery of the waterworks compound. The headlights lit up the bend in the road. A figure stepped out of the shade of an enormous tree. Ananta switched off his lights and the car rolled to a stop. Master-da was a vision in white: a stiff khaddar Gandhi topee on the head; a long khaddar coat with shiny buttons; an Indian symbol, engraved onto a gleaming metal plate the size of a taka, on the right breast and the medal designed for the president of the IRA Chattogram Branch on the left; black velvet badges identifying all those taking part in the action that night on his chest and back; a white dhuti wound tightly with all pleats in place and white tennis shoes on his feet. Master-da gravely received the company’s salute and addressed Ganesh, ‘Shob theek? Everything all right?’
‘Theek.’
A quick update followed, and bidding Master-da farewell, the company set off.
Ananta’s mind tried to visualize all that was happening:
Ananda’s car is now moving down the Kata-Pahar Rasta.
The Dodge is driving into the AFIheadquarters. Nirmal-da would have left the car. He has led the rest of the team through the eastern corner of Paltan Maidan and is taking up position inside the AFIheadquarters.
A small team is waiting for the Baby Austin in the shadows of the trees. Baby Austin 24666 is moving slowly towards the club; it is slowing down now.
Five small teams are moving by foot right now, keeping to the shadows. The final leg of their 110 yards is at its end. They will take cover behind the hedges surrounding the police barracks and wait for Ganesh to give the signal.
The road ahead turned right towards the north, hugging the boundary of the waterworks compound. Ananta stopped. It was the closest they could get without being spotted. The tila to their left was the target. The top had been levelled to accommodate the police line armoury, magazine and guardroom. Fifty to sixty yards away, a guard paced up and down: plop arm position; rifle with bayonet in place against his shoulder; crossed cartridge belts; boot-patti, khaki uniform, pugree – the very symbol of British arrogance. He faced the waterworks and kept an eye on the entire length of the road.
‘Cut off safety.’
The bayonet winked wickedly, but the guardroom behind lay quiet and peaceful. The armed police contingent should be sleeping peacefully now.
‘All eyes on the sentry.’ They had to be up there before he could lower the rifle and point.
Keeping the pistols out of sight, Ganesh and Ananta took the slope at a run with Debu, Haripada, Saroj and Himangshu close behind. Five seconds and they were at the top; two bullets had been fired and the guard had fallen without a sound, his rifle still within his grasp. The pugree rolled to one side.
‘Hato! Bhago! Jaan Bachao. Gandhi-ji ka raj aa gaya!’
Yelling at the top of their voices and firing into the air, they ran into the guardroom. No guard should get a chance to pick up his rifle. But the words Gandhi-ji ka raj had had their desired impact, being words frequently used in the army and police barracks.
‘Inquilab Zindabad, Samrajyabad Dhongsho Hok … long live revolution, down with imperialism, up with revolution, biplob dirghojibi hok.’
Six voices rent the air, creating panic amongst the sleeping policemen. Slogans and gunshots r
everberated in the hills, echoing through the police lines. The guardroom6 emptied out before their eyes, with the men, still groggy with sleep, fleeing for their lives. The slogans brought the seven small teams out of hiding and they raced uphill. Five of them were placed on patrol duty. Powerful torches flashed up and down the fields and approach roads, as hammers began to fall upon the locks of the armoury and magazine doors. The sounds trapped within the circular range of hills magnified with every echo. Within minutes, the locks were shattered and the doors flung upon.
A hush fell over the onlookers. The flashlights revealed rows and rows of muskets; Colt and Webley revolvers all stacked neatly. One voice gave a whoop of delight and then everyone joined in. Some danced in joy, some jumped up and down shouting Bande Mataram and others hugged each other in sheer joy. They were soldiers at last.
‘Company fall in.’ Ganesh’s voice had a new spirit in it.
Two lines fell in.
Six youths, led by Tegra,7 ran back and forth, distributing the firearms. Most were given one musket and two revolvers each. Another four distributed cartridges from the magazine. Someone pushed a revolver into his hand and minutes later Ananta found a second one being offered to him. He took both. But in the holster was the nineshot pistol, the one that had helped capture the police lines. Ananta let it be. It would continue to occupy its rightful place.
Ganesh was calling for attention. He had found himself a raised platform. The boys stood some paces apart; muskets pointing upwards. Ganesh gave the first demonstration identifying the parts.
‘Press the lever and insert the cartridge into the chamber, press the lever again, ready the striking pin, spring to strike the cartridge cap, take aim, press the trigger and the musket will fire. Now load.’
With a click, the cartridges were loaded.
‘Aim.’
The muskets pointed upwards at an angle.
‘Fire.’
The shots rang out as one and the Dampara Hills shuddered. The manoeuvre was practised thrice. It went off without an accident. The days spent practising upon breech-loaders had been worth it.
Now Master-da took the centre stage. ‘Find the Union Jack. Burn it.’
The flag had been taken down for the night. It was retrieved and set on fire.
‘Raise our flag.’
The tricolour Swadesh Pataka was raised to the sound of the bugle and a fifty-gun salute. Three rounds were fired into the night sky and the echoes lingered for many minutes before fading away. The bugle sounded a second time and the hills resonated with Bande Mataram, Inquilab Zindabad, Samrajyabad Dhongsho Hok. The Indian Republican Army had drawn its first breath.
The cheers were sounded three times and Ganesh called out. ‘Take position.’
The boys surrounded the guardroom magazine and armoury.
‘Lie down and keep watch along the approaches.’
Nine minutes had ticked away since the first shot had been fired.
There was one more job to be done. An Indian sipahi,8 who was not the enemy, was lying dead. It was the white man who took advantage of the poverty of Indians to set them against their fellow men. Ananta, Debu, Haripada, Saroj and Himangshu fell in line behind Ganesh by the dead man’s side. Who was this man, wondered Ananta … a Hindu or a Muslim? What caste did he belong to? Would he have joined the cause had he known about it? Ganesh took the black velvet badge with the flags off his uniform and placed it on the dead man’s chest. He took a step backwards. At his command, the six saluted.
In the end what did jaat matter?
LOKENATH BAL
It was 10 p.m. A gleaming black Dodge drove in through the eastern gate, and leaving Sergeant Major J.W. Farrell’s quarters to the left, took a turn into the armoury compound. Phonindra Nandi, Shanti Nag, Nitaipada Ghose, Khirod Banerjee and Probhash Bal slipped in behind the car but stuck to the shadows. The headlights were switched off and the car came to a stop. An officer jumped out to hold the door open. The sentry watched, mildly surprised at this sudden inspection. The officer, his stars gleaming in the dark, was climbing briskly up to the verandah looking him straight in the eye. Two bodyguards followed; the adjutant had arrived. As the officer reached the last step, the soldier slapped the butt of his rifle and with a click of his heel presented arms.
Lokenath removed his hand from behind his back and fired. Two other shots rang out simultaneously. Both Nirmal-da and Rajat had fired into the night. The Pathan soldiers on duty fled without a thought for their fallen colleague. One ran towards the guardroom, but a bullet picked him out and he fell screaming in the field.9
‘Bande Mataram, Inquilab Zindabad, Samrajyabad Dhongsho Hok!’ The slogans ripped through the still of the silent hours.
Lokenath walked rapidly around. The AFI armoury was a long single-storeyed building with covered verandahs along the north, west and south.
‘Kon hai? Kya mangta hai?’ Sergeant Major Farrell called from his verandah, dabbing a table napkin on his mouth.
‘Fire. Shoot him’
Two shots rang out. Shanti Nag’s breech-loader found its mark. Farrell tumbled into his garden, but the powerfully built man that he was, he managed to drag himself on his belly to where his car stood parked. He was down but he wasn’t out. ‘Darling,’ he called in a low voice to his wife. ‘Ring the police.’
The words had not gone unheard.
‘Charge.’
Picking up the rifles stacked on the armoury verandah, the boys ran across, the bayonets poised for the kill.
‘Cruel. That is cruel.’
‘Not a hundredth of what you British have made us suffer.’
The eyes glazed over, the shock and disbelief imprinted in them forever.
‘Madam, go back inside. You will be safe.’ Lokenath had been watching from afar and had seen Mrs Farrell rush out. She was now standing over her dead husband’s body, helpless and vulnerable. This woman ought to die like her Indian sisters at the Jallianwala Bagh … the voice in his head murmured, but instead he cried out to the steward10 who hovered in the background, ‘Take her in.’ It was a sign of weakness. He turned his mind to the work at hand.
The abandoned rifles stacked on the verandah were. 303 bore with ten shots. They had bayonets fitted but no cartridges. The guards had worn the cartridge belts on their persons and now they were all gone. A nuisance. Subodh brought out the heavy ropes and tied them to the handles of the armoury door. The other ends were fixed to the Dodge. Makhon stepped on the accelerator. A jerk and the doors gave way. But within was a second set of bolted iron doors – ones that opened inwards. Two enormous locks dangled before them and through the gap, stacks of ten-shot rifles11 were visible. On the floor, beneath each rifle was a box of cartridges. Lokenath gave Rajat a nod and the two charged, their heavy powerful bodies crashing sideways into the iron. The doors burst open and Lokenath and Rajat found themselves sprawling on the floor.
‘Halt!’ The sentry’s cry came to Lokenath’s ears and he rushed out. A couple of foreigners had been attracted by the sound of firing. White faces near the gate leered at them through the dark.
‘Halt!’ Lokenath thundered.
‘Halt?’ one of the men staggered forward. He was obviously drunk and bent on investigating. ‘Halt? You Bengali kutta …you dog? Halt?’
‘Fire!’ called Lokenath. He had recognized the voice of the AFI’s adjutant, Captain Taitt. Get the bombs. Ready? Follow me. Chaaarge!’
The wine evaporated in an instant and the men melted away in the dark.
Nirmal-da was going through the contents of the armoury. Everything was as it should have been. In addition to the rifles and revolvers there were five Lewis guns … once again of 0.303 bore. He turned to Lokenath, his face glowing with contentment.
But as they knelt to open the boxes they reeled in shock.
CULLEN
The Anglo-Indian railway officers and their families had been partying till late. Still groggy with rum, Sergeant Blackburn hailed a taxi outside Pahartali Club. Mr Cullen
leant out of the rear window waving to him to get into the front. He was being propped upright by the two shippies who had entered harbour earlier that day.
Blackburn smiled apologetically. ‘The AFI headquarters please.’ His bungalow lay just within the headquarters gate. The pleasant fumes within the car formed a cocktail of their own …
‘Nighty night,’ sang Mr Cullen, as Blackburn got off near the gate. But Blackburn did not respond. A flashlight on the armoury verandah had caught his attention. Something was different.
‘Wait,’ he said breathlessly as he ran in.
‘Any help?’ called the shippies.
Seven or eight khaki-clad figures moved about on the verandah.
‘Who is there?’
A shot sang past his ear in response.
‘Naik Baghdad Shah.’ Blackburn called again.
It elicited more gunshots. An electric torchlight was moving rapidly across the compound towards him.
‘Run!’ he called out to his companions as he bolted down the road.
As his companions took flight, Mr Cullen struggled to get out of the seat. Five or six bullets flew past his head and he lost balance. He was on the ground and rolling. Then he came to a stop beneath a hedge. A torch was being flashed over his body; the sound of a revolver going off and a shudder of agony. A bullet lodged itself in his left hip. His limbs flailed uncontrollably but then he managed to lie still. Play dead, he breathed to himself.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 21