Two cars sped past towards Pahartali.12 Neither stopped. Next came the sound of a terrible pounding; then the sound of two cars coming from the direction of Pahartali. The raiders were rushing past him to intercept them. There was shouting, some more firing and then a tremendous crash that deafened the night. The sound had come from the direction of the armoury.
A cyclist whistling down the road stopped; stood his cycle up against the wall of Sergeant Blackburn’s bungalow and sauntered in.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
It was 10.10 p.m. Ambika-da’s and Naresh’s teams should be returning any moment. Ananta looked anxiously at his watch. The team at the AFI needed reinforcement … he would leave as soon as the Chevrolet arrived. He glanced once more down the length of the designated approach road. Powerful torchlight beams swung along every approach. Near the bend in the road that came past the waterworks compound, a lone figure was spotted. It was striding up the road towards the police line tila.
‘Hands up. Halt. Who comes there?’
The figure stood stock-still and raised its arms.
‘I am Swadesh Roy.’
Ananta staggered. The one they had humiliated was here. Why had he come? But keeping Swadesh standing there just for questioning … a stray bullet could take his life any moment, for many of the boys were still shooting into the sky at random. But they made the decision for him. The first hush that had descended upon them was replaced within seconds by shrieks of happiness.
‘Swadesh has come, Swadesh has come. Swadesh Roy Ki Jai! Bande Mataram!’
There were boys racing down the slope; shouts of joy; whoops of delight. They were bringing him up. Ganesh was there right in front, arms open; now thumping him vigorously on the back; boys milling about; Swadesh looking overwhelmed. He had a musket in one hand and a bag of cartridges in the other. Confused, he stared at the revolver being held out. He looked from one hand to the other. Ananta walked up and drew him into his arms. There was a lump in his throat; it wouldn’t let him speak. Instead he pulled out one of his revolvers and pressed it into his hands. He had made a mistake. Naresh and Debu had pressed for Swadesh’s recruitment but he had refused as a matter of policy. There were to be no recruitments whatsoever during the last six months.
‘Ki korchhilish etokhun?’ Ganesh’s voice was gentle as he drew him away. ‘Playing your sitar?’
Swadesh looked embarrassed. The sitar was his outlet when his mind was in turmoil; Ganesh knew that. Swadesh would have heard the firing and the cheering for he lived close to the police lines. The strings would have fallen silent as he took his decision and walked out of the family hearth.
MORSEHEAD
Sergeant Morsehead had heard five or six reports in quick succession coming from the direction of the AFI armoury and two more shots immediately afterwards. From the distance he could make out khaki clad figures moving about, flashing torches. Some kind of exercise, he wondered. Captain Taitt appeared to be bending over a prostrate form on the verandah. Morsehead cycled down the road to the main gate of the armoury compound, near the Drill Hall, and propping his cycle up against the wall of Sergeant Blackburn’s bungalow, walked towards the armoury. Captain Taitt pointed his revolver at him.
A soldier aimed a musket or a rifle and shone a powerful torch on him. ‘Hands up.’
‘Don’t be a silly ass.’ Morsehead wasn’t in the mood.
‘Hands up.’
‘Alright, they are up. What’s the matter?’ He was still some seven yards away from them.
‘That is one of them. Shoot.’ Captain Taitt’s English had an unmistakable Bengali overtone.
It took a fraction of a second for Morsehead to duck and run as two shots came at him simultaneously. He came into the line of sight once again at the gate and narrowly missed being shot. Not stopping to pick up his cycle he ran along the road. That man, the one that looked like Captain Taitt, he knew him by sight … it was Lokenath Bal.
He was running. He was at Piccadilly Circus. A car screeched to a stop. Captain Carter, the master of a BI ship, helped him in.
‘Natives,’ he gasped. ‘… they have the AFI armoury.’
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
The Chevrolet sped through the darkness. There was complete silence inside the car. Like him, the rest of his passengers, barring Ambika-da, had no clue as to what was coming next. He had sensed their surprise as Ambika-da wagged his finger and waved him towards the Paltan grounds. So they were not going back to the Congress office to make a report to Master-da. Revolutionaries never ask questions and Ananda wasn’t about to break the rule. But the questions loomed large.
The Ferari tank was coming up. Ambika-da was leaning forward into the windshield, eyes peeled. His own senses were being strained to the limit, his ears aching to pick up sounds. There it was: gunshots. His mind was still grappling with the alternatives when a faint cry caught his ear. Everyone had heard it. The car erupted with cheers of joy.
‘Swadhin Bharat Ki Jai!’
Ananda stepped on the accelerator.
‘Halt! Put off the light.’ A voice called from the top.
Joyously Ananda leant against the horn and shouted with the others at the top of his voice: ‘Bande Mataram! Inquilab Zindabad! Samrajyabad Dhongsho Hok!’
‘Proceed!’ The sentry called out.
The car rolled in and was greeted by joyous shouts.
‘Has the Telephone Bhavan been destroyed?’ Master-da was right in front.
‘Burnt to ashes by now.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘No one. No one on either side.’
Master-da hugged Ambika-da. ‘Khoob anondo hochchhey.’
Not just Master-da’s. Happiness shone on every face. Muskets, bags of cartridges and revolvers were being handed out. Himangshu and Dada took them aside for instructions. Then they were shown their positions. Ananda gazed around, looking at the faces that were present: Tegra, Moti, Sahayram were amongst the known faces but most were completely unknown. Fakir Sen, the village boy who had camped in his study since 8 April, smiled shyly at him. Rajatda, Naresh-da, Lokenath-da, Makhon, Bidhu-da … they were conspicuous by their absence.
It was the Baby Austin signalling. The end of the road that went past the waterworks turned left as it went out of sight. Ananda was unable to take his eyes off the bend. Then he saw them – five figures pushing a car. The horn sounded responding to the sentry’s challenge. But where were the slogans? Some of the boys were running down the slope to greet them cheering, shouting ‘Bande Mataram!’ There was no response from the other side. Naresh-da, Bidhu-da, Tripura, Amarendra and Monoranjan were labouring up the hill, their faces grim and dark. Master-da waited by the edge.
‘Why, Naresh? Why are you all so quiet? What has happened to you?’
‘We have failed, Master-da.’
The words unleashed a storm in every mind.
‘I do not understand. Tell me. What happened?’
‘We went according to plan and entered through the many doors and windows. But the hall was empty. We rushed to the next room. That too was empty. We searched room by room. Not one sahib was to be found. A few boys and bearers were present. They started screaming in fear. I calmed them down and got to know that the sahibs had gone home at eight o’clock. It is Good Friday today.’ Naresh-da winced as he spoke. His voice was sad. ‘Master-da, we could not take our revenge upon the British imperialists.’
Master-da stroked his back. ‘Don’t let it upset you. The city is within our grasp. Revenge we will have.’
Ganesh-da and Ananta-da surrounded them. So this was the crack team that had failed. Ananda wondered what it was all about.
H.R. WILKINSON
He was being shaken awake. There was a message from the police superintendent. He had only just dozed off … this was all terribly unseemly. The manservant stood on his toes to drape the light cotton dressing gown over his shoulders. He brushed aside the gauzy fabric of the mosquito net that still clung to him coyly, unwilling to let go.
‘Ten thirty, sahib.’
It wasn’t all that unreasonable an hour … he had been the one to turn in early. Too early for Johnson perhaps … but his was not a home where people called in casually for a late nightcap. The district magistrate’s reputation as a man of few words was well established.
The police superintendent had not come. Instead, waiting for him were two men: Sub-inspector Pratul Chandra Barua who had been sent by Johnson to inform him that the police line armoury that lay surrounded by the constables’ barracks had been attacked by revolutionaries, and Mahendra De, a peon from the Telephone-Telegraph Bhavan, who carried a message from Mr Scott informing him that the telephone exchange had been burnt down by a gang of insurgents.
It sounded incredible. Wilkinson ran to get dressed, calling out instructions. Within minutes, they had crossed the Tiger Pass road that cut through the densely wooded hills towards Pahartali. Johnson, he hoped, would already be there; the armoury would have to be secured. The car was being flagged down. A group of Englishmen stood on the road near Piccadilly junction. Wilkinson recognized District Judge Lodge, Mr Wighton, Mr Farrell and Captain Taitt, the adjutant of the auxiliary force of the Assam Bengal Railways. Their wives stood to one side.
‘The ladies … take them to Mr Bliss’s bungalow.’13 Wilkinson was mortified, for Taitt’s account was hair-raising. He had been to Johnson’s home but the police superintendent had already left.
J.R. JOHNSON
Police Superintendent J.R. Johnson and J.C. Farmer, deputy inspector general of Bakarganj Range had given the AFI armoury a fraction of a glance as their cars zipped by. What they had seen was enough. There seemed to be no wisdom in stopping. Running before them, headed towards Pahartali, were three Europeans. Sergeant Blackburn turned out to be one of the AFI headquarters staff.
… In bed sir … 10.30 p.m. … cries of Bande Mataram. From verandah I see 5–6 motor cars … 30–40 men, torches, firing … alerted the barracks … told each man must try do best sir … This Sub-inspector Pratul Chandra Barua my assistant …14 Sub-inspector Sanjiv Chandra Nag’s garbled version of natives having occupied the police lines had irritated the two officers who had settled down to their drinks hoping to call it an early night. A native wedding party! Johnson had been quick to dismiss it but the discovery of the dead telephone lines had lent some credence to the tale. It threatened to ruin a perfectly good beginning to a long weekend. Having dispatched messengers to Mr H.R. Wilkinson, the district magistrate and collector; the chief civilian authority in Chittagong, Mr Lewis; the assistant superintendent of police, and Captain Taitt, they had decided to check out the more sensitive of the two armouries first.
‘The Pahartali subsidiary AFI armoury … who keeps the keys?’
Blackburn had the answer. He led them to Mr Barraclough’s residence. The gunner was roused from sleep and sent with Blackburn to open up the armoury while Johnson went on to alert the Pahartali residents – Messrs Francis, Thomas, West, Provan and Tyers, and then headed back to the subsidiary armoury to draw arms.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
‘Halt.’
The sentry’s cry jerked Ananta out of his reverie. A man in uniform was walking towards them. Ambika-da’s and Naresh’s teams had already arrived. He was due to leave and help Nirmal-da and Lokenath.
‘Halt. Who are you?’ Ten guns were levelled at the man who continued to walk towards them.
‘Kali. I am Kali Kinkar De.’
‘Where was he coming from? Shouldn’t he have been leading one of the smaller teams at the police lines?’ Ananta had spoken his thoughts out loud.
‘I had sent him.’ Master-da explained. ‘Saroj Bhattacharya had already handed the pamphlets out to the distribution teams and they would have started on the dot at eight o’clock. I sent Kali to warn Khirod Mahajan, Prafulla Mallick and Ardhendu Guha.’
So Kali had been cycling around, coordinating with the three distribution teams all this while. He came up the hill ignoring the cheers and the slogans and stood before Master-da, his head bowed. ‘Master-da, I have not failed you, nor have I seized this opportunity to betray the cause or stay away from action. I am sorry I could not be back in time to play my part here.’ The words poured out and in them there was anger and sorrow.
Ananta was shocked. Kali was one of the most trusted workers … he would not have required emotional blackmail to get him to do his duty. ‘Really,’ he muttered in a barely audible voice, ‘Master-da, your embracing him now will not erase these wounds … and ones caused by words from your lips.’
Where was Ganesh? He was nowhere to be seen. It was necessary to leave for the AFI headquarters right away. Ananta strode into the guardroom. Ganesh was sitting by himself, slumped against the wall. Ananta bent over to touch his shoulder. His face was flushed, his brow burning. He said nothing. He seemed ashamed.
‘It’s the excitement. Rest a bit, you will feel better. I am leaving for the AFI armoury.’
He would have himself loved to have curled up in a corner for a few minutes. His shoulders were aching and his legs felt wobbly. The overenthusiastic activities of the day were telling on him now. It should have been a day of rest that preceded a night such as this one. But go he would have to, for Nirmal-da and Lokenath had only a small team by their side … but then so was the size of the enemy they were up against. The sahibs who lived in the pretty cottages that dotted the hills on that side were all armed but they would take time to organize themselves.
‘Who is coming with me?’ Ananta called. Tegra was the first to jump into the Chevrolet followed by Himangshu and Monoranjan. ‘That’s it; only three will go.’ As the car rolled down the lonely stretch that ran past the clubhouse, the three youths, intoxicated by the events of the day, cheered at the top of their voices.
‘Shhh.’ He warned as he switched off the headlights. Who was now in control of the AFI, he wondered. Had the team succeeded … they could open fire at them by mistake. He stuck to the shadows and when about 100 yards away, he stopped. It looked as if the armoury had been taken. Sounding the horn brought back a cheerful battle cry in return. The sahibs sitting down to dinner in their homes on Batali Hill could scarcely have missed it.
Lokenath’s voice called out in English, ‘Who comes there?’
‘General Singh and party.’
‘A few men from the enemy camp are hiding along the main road. Take the side track and join us.’
Leaving the car on the road outside the main gate, they made their way down the slope, across the field towards the armoury.
‘You are late.’
‘Only by forty minutes.’
‘A whole hour.’ Lokenath was in no mood for arguments.
Ananta did not argue. He should have come earlier … by delaying, he had exposed this team to tremendous risk. There had been no need for him to wait for Naresh or Ambika-da’s return. Others could have handled all that. Sheepishly he looked about the armoury. ‘Heartiest Congratulations. You have done well.’
‘We’ve got arms all right but not a single cartridge.’
He was dumbfounded. No cartridges? There were boxes that went with every firearm?
Lokenath held up belts, pouches and haversacks and grimaced.
‘Are you sure? Has every nook and corner of the armoury been searched?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Nirmal-da was wringing his hands. ‘What will happen now? So many arms; none of any use!’
Ananta had begun pacing the length of the verandah in agitation. A locked door at the southern end caught his eye.
‘Why have you not broken into that room yet? Open it immediately.’
Hammers descended within seconds. The room was filled with old trunks. A couple of blows and the lids flew open. Wrapped in newspapers were cups, plates and cutlery.
‘Four hundred magazine rifles, five Lewis guns … and we cannot use even one of them,’ Ananta groaned inwardly.
‘The other operations … did they go according to plan?’ Nirmalda was trying t
o take stock of the situation.
‘Everything went according to plan except that it is Good Friday today and the sahibs went home early.’
‘The luck of the devil is with them; any casualty on our side?’
‘None.’
‘And the enemy?’
‘Just one.’
They had stepped down from the verandah and were walking across the field towards the road. Cars were going by, headed towards Pahartali. The sentries were calling out to each: halt; turn around; go back. The ones that didn’t comply were shot at. A driver slumped over his wheel as his car rolled backwards down the hill, hit a stationary car and turned turtle.
‘Let us leave,’ said Ananta. ‘Take what we have. Burn the rest.’
‘Take all the revolvers and muskets. Break the rest.’ Lokenath called.
The hammer blows began to fall and within a few minutes Lokenath called again. ‘Set the armoury on fire.’
Six tins of petrol were emptied. Everyone moved away. Subodh Choudhury and Rajat Sen flung a blazing moshaal neatly into the building. Before their eyes the flames encompassed the armoury.
Lokenath drove the Dodge down to the main gate where the Chevrolet was parked. As they left the AFI compound the war cry was sounded. The flames were jumping up in an attempt to reach the sky. Every now and then a blast would take place. Bodies lay scattered. Some six or seven cars stood around uselessly.
Blinding headlights some thirty yards away stopped them on their tracks.
‘Halt. Who goes there?’
‘Friend.’ The accent was decidedly English.
‘Fire.’
Three muskets fired and while they were reloading, Ananta ran towards the car. The district magistrate’s Chevrolet KA 3538 had not gone unrecognized. The driver was still in the front seat, having miraculously escaped the two bullets that went through his side of the windshield. An orderly15 lay dead in the back seat right behind the driver. Mr Wilkinson’s double-barrelled rifle and a box of cartridges lay by his side. But the magistrate was nowhere to be seen. A second car16 with its windshield shattered stood behind; its driver was dead, as were its two European passengers.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 22