‘Where is he?’ Himangshu dragged Wilkinson’s driver out, shaking him like a rat. He was bleeding, unable to stand. Tegra offered to put a bullet through his head but the man was past talking.
‘Where were you taking him?’
A flashlight searched the car, went over the dead Jarasandha Barua’s body and then trained itself on Birman Thapa’s sweat-soaked uniform and pallid countenance.
‘Pahartali.’
‘Liar. He is a liar. Kill him.’
Thapa was gibbering like an idiot one moment and in the next he had slumped over. A shot had grazed his chest.
‘Stop.’ Ananta had forced his way in. ‘He is an Indian.’
Himangshu released his hold and Thapa rolled into a ditch.
It was time to return to the police lines. The AFI armoury was blazing away merrily with fire shooting into the sky like sparklers and descending in showers of shimmering stars. The trees and hills stood silhouetted against the crimson-and-gold backdrop. Chattogram’s sky was on fire.
J.R. JOHNSON
The AFI armoury was burning. The district magistrate’s car stood riddled with bullets but there was no sign of him or of the raiders. Johnson and Farmer decided on a quick recce of all the possible targets. They had with them two magazine rifles and Barraclough had drawn a Lewis gun for himself.
Finding the Imperial Bank and the Kotwali police station undisturbed, they drove down to the European Club garage. There were no sounds of firing. Johnson decided to abandon the cars and walk across the golf course.
An agitated Sanjiv Chandra Nag appeared out of the dark. ‘Mr Lewis,’ he said and pointed to the roof of the waterworks building.
‘… informed Kotwali, sir … according to your instruction. Came back 12.30 …’ he continued whispering breathlessly.
The officers headed in the direction he pointed them to.
‘… Abdul Azim Khan, Yogendra Chandra Das and deputy police superintendent … constables … two muskets, cartridges … heavy firing … refuge in village over there … keeping watch over anarchists.’ The breathless whispering faded into the distance. Johnson had waved him away.
Lewis and his orderly lay on their bellies keeping watch on the tila across the road. ‘There are a hundred or so up there,’ he said. ‘The firing is coming from the direction of the reserve office.’ With a pistol and a shotgun between the two of them they had rushed into the parade ground shouting: Don’t shoot, we are the police, whereupon the firing had become more intense. Having spent about three quarters of an hour in a ditch they had only just managed to crawl up onto the roof.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
At midnight two cars crept along the Pahartali road bumping over the broken patches approaching the European Club from the west and then turned onto the 200-yard stretch of wide, beautifully maintained strip of road that led to the police lines. It looked peaceful. Both cars dipped their headlights and sounded their horns. The sentry called out. They replied using the slogans. The hill top erupted with the cries of Bande Mataram.
Ananta walked up with the others occasionally giving lung to the war cries. His legs trembled. A strange new fatigue flooded his being. He was walking with a revolver in each hand. It needed the tiniest rock now to trip up the great Ananta Lal Singh. He laughed at the thought.
Master-da was waiting. Nirmal-da briefed him.
‘Not one?’
‘We failed in our research.’ The weight of the despair was sinking in now. It probably accounted for the fatigue. Ananta had personally taken responsibility for this part of the research … he and Ganesh.
Ganesh, who was standing right behind Master-da, looked as if he had been struck.
‘We failed, Ganesh.’17 Ananta turned wearily towards the guardroom.
The pamphlets would have all been distributed by now. The youth would be arriving by the droves in a couple of hours and there were no firearms to handout. No magazine rifles, no Lewis guns. The second stage of the operation had depended completely on the weapons captured from the enemy. The secret stash of weapons was meant only to see them through this first stage … and now all they had were sixty-four boys with outdated muskets and some revolvers. If only he could snatch a few moments of rest before the inevitable.
‘Ananta-da, we have caught a man. He was pretending to be a lunatic … he must be a police watcher. What do we do with him?’
Naresh appeared not to be affected by the magnitude of the disaster. But of course! None of them knew the plan and their dependence on the firearms in the AFI armoury. They were armed. They were raring to go.
‘Let’s take a look at him.’ Ananta followed him to the magazine section. A man18 sat hunched over, his hands clamped by a pair of handcuffs. What was it exactly that Naresh had in mind … kill him?
‘Thak,’ he said. ‘Once he identifies himself let him go.’
Naresh had filled him with new hope. So what if they did not find the cartridges … had they not left the armoury a blazing wreck? The enemy had no firearms either.
Light flashed. Lights streaking across the sky … towards them. A scream and the rapid staccato of gunfire. Ananta threw himself on the ground and crawled to take cover behind a choubachcha. Bullets rained down onto the field, onto the slope, striking the walls of the armoury, guardroom and magazine room. A Lewis gun was being fired from a relatively close range.
Ananta looked around anxiously. Everyone was on the ground lying side by side. The hilltop was cramped for space. The shots were coming in from the south-east.
‘Aim waterworks.’
When had they climbed up to the roof of the waterworks building? Where did the Lewis gun come from? It was not something one would keep at home … the tiny armoury at the Double Mooring Jetty had two. Ananta could have kicked himself.
Muskets thundered and slogans were raised.
You have to give it to them, thought Ananta. Here they were, in a corner but ready to take on armed rebels.
J.R. JOHNSON
‘Fire in short bursts.’
Johnson intended to make the most of the limited ammunition. But this evoked an intensive fire from the direction of the armoury and magazine. Though most of the bullets passed over their heads several came uncomfortably close.
‘Withdraw to the roof of the waterworks engineer’s bungalow.’
The firing began again. But the return fire and slogan shouting showed no signs of abating. The Lewis gun had emptied out a whole drum.19
‘They could be creeping up right now under the cover of a volley of fire,’ said Farmer.
The two magazine rifles had nearly emptied themselves out.
‘Keep us covered,’ said Johnson as he nodded to Barraclough to follow. He would be back with reinforcements.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA
The whistling of falling shells and the rumble of gunfire had gone. Breathe in breathe out, he gasped to himself. The eerie silence stung his ears. The shock was giving way to a heady sensation never experienced before. Without requiring a watch, he knew it had to be past two in the morning.
Master-da had called for attention. He was reading slowly and clearly.
‘Dear soldiers of the Revolution! The great task of revolution in India has fallen on the IRA. We in Chittagong have the honour to achieve this patriotic task fulfilling the aspirations of our nation. It is a matter of great glory that today our forces have seized the strongholds of the government in Chittagong. The enemy armoury has been captured; the central telephone exchange of the town has been destroyed, external telegraph communications have been snapped, railway lines have been removed and goods trains derailed; train communications have been cut off. The enemy force has been defeated. The oppressive foreign government has ceased to exist. The national flag is flying high. It is our duty to defend it with our life and blood.
‘The IRA declares today for universal information and recognition the end of predatory rule and control by the British imperial bandits on the Indian soil in Chittagong.
‘Chittagong is a tiny part of India, but it is hoped and expected that the achievement of today will inspire and impel our countrymen to do likewise everywhere in India and to free our entire motherland from the unholy clutches of the British bandits before long.
‘I, Surjya Sen, president of the IRA Chittagong Branch do hereby proclaim the existing council of the IRA in Chittagong to form itself into a provisional revolutionary government to carry out the following urgent tasks:
To defend and maintain the victory gained today,
To extend and intensify the armed struggle,
To suppress the enemy agent within,
To keep criminals and looters in check,
And to take further course of action, one that this provisional
government will decide later.
‘This provisional government expects and demands full allegiance, loyalty and active cooperation from every true son and daughter of Chittagong. And desires sympathy and active support from all the patriots and nationalists and from every person who has the well-being and liberation of India in his or her heart.
With full confidence in victory in our holy war of liberation!
No mercy to the British bandits.
Death to traitors and looters
Long live provisional revolutionary government.
Bande Mataram!’
The bugle was sounded and three rounds were fired and the slogan Bande Mataram raised thrice.
H.R. WILKINSON
That they had got away was nothing short of a miracle. Abandoning their cars and wounded colleagues they ran like never before. The white man’s life was at risk … their beautiful Chittagong had turned against them. The families would have to be moved and reinforcements brought in.
A train had rushed them to the port. The steamship ‘Halizones’ had docked for the night. Wilkinson hurried on board to send off the telegrams.
Captain Taitt was getting the jetty armoury opened. He would round up as many men as possible including those on board the ship and catch the train back.
ELEVEN
ALEXANDER BURNETT
The myriad noises of the Indian night – that elaborate orchestra – ceased, startled by their presence. The pony, a sure-footed young thing, picked her way unaided through the dark. An owl struck a poignant note, hooting from the branches above, and the crickets picked up again, cautiously at first, furnishing the undertone before rising to a crescendo that made every blade of grass and every tree sizzle.
Alexander’s sleepy brain tried to process all that had happened. His man Friday had pulled him out of bed and pushed a telegram into his hands. It contained a message from the OC, No. 2 Squadron, Surma Valley Light Horse, ordering all troopers to report to Silchar. While he had tried to fathom its meaning, he found himself being helped into his trousers and his uniform jacket – clothes that he rarely wore – and being ushered out unceremoniously. The pony had broken into a trot as soon as the syce had given him the leg-up, and the servant had come running from behind to thrust a rifle and a torch into his hands.
He switched on the flashlight and an immediate silence descended once again. The beam swung around, lighting up the little lane, as it wound through the leafy Kukicherra Tea Estate that stood in the shadow of the Lushai Hills. Now and then, there was a glint of silver in the distance. This was panther area, but Alexander took no notice, accustomed as he was to seeing tea leaves shine in the moonlight. The bullfrogs that had fallen silent picked up where they had left off and were soon accompanied by various unidentified gurgles, squeaks and shrieks. Wild jackals – the sheyaals – resumed the dulcet notes of their song. A hundred and fifty tomcats on the tiles would seem heavenly compared to this, thought Alexander as he turned the pony towards the neighbouring estate.
A car would be waiting by the broken bridge. It would take him through the fifty miles of country track to Silchar, which was the civil station of the Surma Valley in Assam. He would not make it before daylight. There was time enough to wake his friend and make him come along.
ANANTA LAL SINGH
‘What will our muskets achieve against their machine guns?’ Masterda was pacing up and down the verandah.
Why was he standing, wondered Ananta irritably; but then it suddenly dawned on him that so was he and so were several others.
Nirmal-da wrung his hands in despair. ‘Bhai-rey-bhai, their band is playing … they are mobilizing their forces.’
Between the pair of them they were irritating him. ‘What are you saying? What will they mobilize?’
‘Can you not hear? The band is playing? There it is again. Listen.’
‘You and your weird ideas. There is no telephone, telegraph or railway facility, the main armouries have been destroyed … it is impossible for them to mobilize any large force! Stop it.’ Ananta was close to yelling. It brought Ganesh out, but he had nothing to offer either. Master-da continued to mumble to himself. What was it … what was the answer that they wanted out of him? True, the enemy was outnumbered, but it was also true that they had a few machine guns. It made sense to leave the area immediately. ‘Pour the petrol,’ he called.
Himangshu and another youngster splashed the petrol on the walls of the guardroom, armoury and magazine room. Hammer blows began to fall. The last job was Himangshu’s. He had been especially trained for it.
‘Let the prisoner go. Destroy the Lewis guns. The rest of you go down the north-east side of the hill.’ Ananta barked out the orders as he went down the slope to start the Chevrolet. Ganesh’s fever was beginning to worry him. The hilltop burst into flames, as was expected, but the boys set up the most hideous of screaming matches possible. He looked up in time to see a flailing human torch drop to the ground and Bidhu and Naresh racing up the slope shrieking, ‘Roll, Himangshu, roll.’
He pressed on the accelerator and the car shot up the hill. How could this have happened? The boy must have splattered his clothes with the petrol. To give him his due, he was doing everything he was being told to do. The seconds lengthened before his eyes. Bidhu and Naresh were smothering the last of the flames with their bare hands. Himangshu was up and running towards him. He was in the back seat. Ganesh was suddenly beside him. Spontaneously, Ananta turned the steering wheel hard, making his way through the crowd of boys who moved aside, screwing their eyes against the beam of the headlights. He was driving cautiously, keeping a sharp lookout. Now he was creeping along the northern edge of the waterworks compound. He reached out to switch the headlights off but discovered he had already done so. The stretch of road was bad but it led towards the city where the next stage of the operations lay. No bullets came at them. The area seemed abandoned.
The car came to a stop at the bottom of the tila, close to where Himangshu lived and the boy sprang out without a word. Ananta was left with a brief impression of Ananda running after him. The primary thought in his head was to get a drink of water. He was dying of thirst. His home – they lived close to DC Hill – would be empty by now. Before the army arrived he needed that drink of water. Master-da, Nirmal-da and Ambika-da should be leading them as of this moment to Makleshwar Rahman’s for dinner.
There was not a soul on the streets. They drove through the main road. As expected, the house was empty. Jibon emerged out of the back of the car. He must have got in with Ananda and Himangshu. The rooms in the house were locked, but the kitchen was open. The three of them drank glass after glass of water. There was no food anywhere; not in the kitchen, not in the dining room. Exhausted, they sank down upon the steps of the kitchen.
Forty minutes went by. Where was the army? Why wasn’t the silence of Chattogram being shattered by cries of Bande Mataram and Inquilab Zindabad? Why weren’t the muskets announcing their presence? The agitation was beginning to grow. One of the reasons for the exhaustion was the cumbersome uniform and all the finery. It was time to get back into a shirt and a dhuti. Ananta broke the lock that hung from the bolt on the door of his room.
An hour had gone by. They would have
to look for the army. In seven minutes, they were back at the police lines. It was still a massive blaze with cartridges exploding every now and then. The boxes of gunpowder made a terrific noise. The blaze lit up the area. None of the boys were there. Hazarding a guess, they took the rough track that led to the north. It led out of the city. Keeping the headlights on, they crept carefully. Perhaps they had taken this track to seek shelter; they would surely signal.1 Four miles went by. There was nobody in sight. Had they taken another route and gone back to the city?
Ananta turned back towards the city. It was as deserted as before. He drove along the main road down Andarkilla’s Rajpath, the Basirhat police beat, jail, Kotwali, past Detective Police Deputy Inspector Sharada Babu’s house to Firingee Bazaar. Nothing.
They sat by the riverside, their heads swimming. The plan was falling apart. By now the revolutionary government should have been set up in the city. It was 4.30 in the morning … a few crows had begun to call. The jail had to be evacuated; the Imperial Bank captured …
It was no longer safe to remain in the city. Abandoning the car, a sampan was hired. It was on its way to Patenga, twelve miles away. Ananta looked out at his father’s second house as they passed Double Mooring: it was shrouded in darkness. The eastern sky turned red and the waters lapped red and gold. They would be safer off in an aatchala in the middle of rice fields.
The throne of Chattogram was lying vacant and the rulers had chosen bonobash – exile.
JOHN YOUNIE
‘Beware,’ whispered John. ‘He seems to be under the impression that I owe him a tin of sausages.’
Donovan was cooing over dark-eyed Mary, who regarded him suspiciously. ‘Her mother’s mouth and her father’s nose,’ he declared.
Elspet, in her perambulator, beamed up at Donovan. At little over four months, she was her plump smiling self with no stranger anxiety to cast a shadow over her sunny face. Helen was not to be seen as she had run off to explore with Chrissie, the dogs in tow.
‘Look at that, you blighter.’ Donovan dragged John by the arm to where his gladioli from Darjeeling were flourishing, encased in wire netting three feet high. ‘He has the nerve,’ he turned to Dorothy, ‘to boast that it was his garden that was the envy of the entire local and less competent horticulturists!’ The collector drew himself up and threw out his chest. ‘Now, my dear, I have it on very good authority – that is, my chaprassi’s word – that your husband visited my garden everyday to gaze enviously at the said gladioli.’
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 23