The moment Nirmal-da finished, Krishna Choudhury, who was sitting way behind everyone else, sprang to his feet and stood with his arms crossed as in Vivekananda’s famous pose. ‘A dependant country’s sole cry is for independence. We revolutionaries will terrorize the British and install Mother India in a temple of gold …’
He was not allowed to finish, for Tegra and Mona made an appearance, faces fresh and glowing, wet hair slicking down. Where had they been? They handed over their water carriers which were filled to the brim and emptied their haversacks on to the ground: a pile of little mangoes – the green and tart kind that caused an involuntary crinkling of the eyes and filled the mouth with a rush of saliva.
‘They are growing all over … and there was bel … overhanging the pool.’
‘No one saw us going down or even when we were swimming … we made sure.’
The water carriers were being passed eagerly from hand to hand and glee was written all over the faces of the two rascals. Who could have the heart to scold them now?
‘There are no herdsmen about …’ Tegra panting from the climb reached out for the water carrier as it passed by, and peeped into it. There were a few drops left, and in that light-hearted moment of triumph, he raised the bottle to his lips without noticing Pulin’s outstretched arms. A powerful arm gripped his hand and a stony cold voice spoke in his ear.
‘Are you not ashamed? You have had your fill many times over and this boy who has sworn to die by your side has not had even a drop?’
Could Lokenath-da, Tegra’s Shona Bhai, have humiliated him more? The blood drained from his face as Pulin grabbed eagerly at the chance to moisten his throat. Tegra was reduced to a mass of shame, a culprit caught in the act … why had he not thought of a comrade-in-arms?
‘It would have been better had I just died.’
Did Tegra just say that? The words had been muttered under his breath but they had not gone unheard. Suresh caught Kali De’s9 eye: Hajaar hok … he is Loka-da’s own little brother … the words remained unspoken between them.
‘Not to worry. Not to worry. Tonight I am going to organize dinner for my boys.’
‘What else do we need? When Ambika-da is with us we don’t have to fear. He will make sure we eat tonight.’ Nirmal-da was trying to lighten the atmosphere and it worked. But Tegra added in a sombre voice, ‘Food we will probably eat but what about the war? When will we fight?’
It was a direct question.
Ambika-da tried to evade it. He laughed lightly. ‘Look at our boys. They yearn more for a fight than for food. Fight we will, but to keep ourselves fit we have to eat. Just dying will not do. We have to kill as well.’
Bidhu Bhattacharya, the Chattogram Medical College topper and gold-medallist came to the rescue. In his Kumilla dialect he said, keeping his face poker straight, ‘Haw, morum jokhon, tokhon khaiya daiya moron-ee bhalo. Ambika-da koichey, maira moroner bhalo laagi. Byass moroner age khamutto taago marumotto … yes, when I die it should be on a full tummy. Ambika-da says I am happy to die … but before I do so I would like to eat well.’
The subtle changes in Bidhu-da’s voice, the expressions that had to be caught just in time, the measured laughter and the studied silence turned the mood. Everybody laughed. But there was one voice missing. It was Tegra’s. His soft words did not go unheard, ‘Mereyi morbo … tobey shobaar aagey morbo … Khabar jutuk na jutuk chayee shudhu juddho …I will die only after I have done with the killing but I will win the race. Food or no food, all we want is battle.’
The Nagarkhana Hill upon which they stood heard every word. The words bounced off the rocks and were picked up by the gentle breeze. They echoed again and again. ‘Juddho chayee.’
Suddenly the group was activated. Gone were the thoughts of hunger, thirst and fatigue. The evening was descending fast. There was still no news of the scout.
At about 8.30 the order was given: The boys were to climb down the slope in twos. We must look like a line of ants, thought Suresh. Rajat Sen moved in front slashing at the bushes, clearing the way. He had powerful arms and was probably the strongest in the group besides Lokenath-da. A muster was ordered at the bottom: fifty-eight were present. Then began a march towards the north, scrambling through forests, over rocks and boulders. The muskets and the revolvers needed some getting used to and the boys walked carefully, trying to avoid the snake-like roots that were wont to sneak up around ankles and trip up unsuspecting hikers. With all the weight they were carrying, it would mean a nasty sprain or a broken ankle.
They would have walked nearly half a mile when the lights of the Bayezid Bostami Dargah became visible. It was the one place guaranteed to be crowded, for both Hindus and Muslims worshipped there. A whispered order to be silent passed through the line. Ambikada turned off the path. They would not be drinking from the dargah’s pond, realized Suresh. The famous pond was said to be over a thousand years old and home to the sacred tortoises and fish that lived on the puffed rice and bananas offered by the devotees. They would have to maintain a safe distance from it as well. They had reached a secluded spot. Ambika-da indicated they settle down.
‘There is a second water source a little distance away,’ the whisper ran down the line.
The boys were organizing themselves into small groups to go drink and wash up. Ambika-da, Master-da, Nirmal-da and Lokenath-da sat huddled together. Suresh sat by their side but could not keep himself from nodding off.
‘Be ready, be ready.’ Ambika-da was moving around, between the boys.
Amarendra Nandi asked for the last time, ‘Does anyone else want to go to the pukur? … Anybody wants a drink?’
Some grunted sleepily. Some got up and went with him.
Bayezid Bostami was left behind. They continued their trek northwards.
‘Is anyone here from Fatehabad?’ Ambika-da’s question was passed to the rear.
One of the village lads responded. It was Fakir Sen.10
‘Do you know Lailar Haat?’
The boy nodded.
ANANTA LAL SINGH, 19 APRIL NIGHT
Ananta cast a hopeful glance at headmaster Aswini Kumar Bhattacharya’s house. Ganesh, Makhon and he had reached Double Mooring in the afternoon and had walked along the railway line. Now that they were on the outskirts of the city, they thought it prudent to stay away from the main road and had moved onto the dirt track that led past the Collegiate School.
They peered past the gate. It would be a stroke of luck if Aswini Babu spotted them, for Ananta was certain that the fiery headmaster, even though he viewed him with a jaundiced eye, would be tremendously proud … and the news that several of his students – the stars of his school – Makhon, Ananda, Debu, Sahayram, Moti, Rajat and Mihir – were associated with the cause would probably gladden his heart. It was Makhon’s presence that was making him feel bolder. It wasn’t fully dark yet and surely someone would notice them and call them in. He craned his neck, checking out every nook and cranny. There was no one in the garden, nor was there anyone having tea on the verandah. A cup of tea, some biscuits! That, in the headmaster’s words, would have just hit the spot. But the windows were shut tight.
The dirt track led them to the main road that took them past the Police Club, westward across the city to Sadarghat. The stretch of road was completely bereft of people. No matter which road they turned into they found it deserted. The British had gone and their Indian subordinates were lying low until orders were received.
They were below the hill where Himangshu and Ananda had been dropped off. That part seemed a little blurred to him now. He had been tired … that was all he could remember … so tired that he had not even turned around to say goodbye. A number of questions had begun to creep in. This was war. Why had he not shot Himangshu? When Ardhendu and Tarakeshwar had been burnt he had actually made such a suggestion. He would never live it down and would be grateful, a thousand times over, to Ganesh and Master-da who had stayed his hand that day. But would it be possible for anyone under these circumstances to
have Himangshu treated and kept hidden? He wondered why he had sped off like that. Tiredness? Could he blame it on exhaustion? On Ganesh’s fever? The faces, fifty-eight young faces, peering through the headlights … making way, without a question, for the car that was driving off … He would kick himself the rest of his life. It was his fault and his fault alone that they had been torn apart from the main body.
They were climbing the slope now keeping watch on every entrance to side lanes. If there was a message, it would be waiting in Ananda and Debu’s home. Master-da must have planned to bring the army in by night. The area appeared undisturbed. Then why was his heart beating a tattoo against his ribs? He had never felt so frightened before … not even yesterday at the police lines. What was he so scared of? True, Himangshu had not come to mind until now … nor had reality hit him with full force – an operation that could have been a piece of cake had been botched. The day had been wasted … but that wasn’t the problem; he knew it as soon as the house came into view.
‘Ananta, at least one, leave just one behind for me.’
The words hung in the air, searing through his brain.
LOKENATH BAL, 19 APRIL NIGHT
Lokenath knocked softly on the shutters. It was nearly 2 a.m. in the morning. The shops of Lailar Haat had long closed and the people had all gone home. But a dim light flickered in one window. It would go out any moment. He knocked again. Not daring to bang harder, he kept up a soft persistent knocking. The shopkeeper was fast asleep. There was no response.
‘Dukan-wallah! Dukan-wallah!’
Finally the sounds of stirring. The door opened a crack. An eye peeped out and a frightened gaze swept over the five of them. Nirmalda kept Fakir hidden behind him.
‘Don’t worry. We are guards from the Panchalaish Thana.11 We want to buy some food.’
The mud; the crumpled uniforms; the unshaven appearance. The man stared and then withdrew. The door was opened.
Lokenath stepped in. It was a bread shop but there wasn’t enough bread to feed all the boys. ‘What about biscuits?’ he asked. ‘Give us all you have.’
‘Siddique, Siddique.’ The shopkeeper tapped on a door at the back. ‘Bring two baskets and wake Sagid.’
Two little boys emerged, groggy with sleep and helped pack the biscuits and bakarkhani bread into two large baskets. The shop had been cleaned out at a princely sum of seventeen rupees. Lokenath handed over the money and shook his head in refusal at the two Ahmed brothers who offered to carry the baskets to wherever the babus desired.
The main group had settled in a shoopoori garden near a freshwater pond. A quick meal and it was time to march. The area was too close to the Choudhury Haat station.
Half a mile across a field towards the hills, labouring under the weight of the unaccustomed baggage, the load began telling on the youths.
‘But they have been exercising regularly … they are tough,’ Lokenath told himself.
No other pond had come their way but the primary concern now was to get to a safe location before dawn streaked the eastern sky. The hill with the steep face was still another half a mile away. The sounds of retching broke in on his thoughts. He had been aware that the boys had been chewing upon the green vines.
Pulin was on the ground. Writhing. Bidhu was making him stick his finger down his throat.
‘He drank some of the lubricant.’ Naresh said fanning him with some paper.
‘Remember you are a revolutionary, Pulin. You cannot give up.’ Lokenath spoke gently.
‘Vomit, Pulin.’ Bidhu was exhorting him.
There was little else that even two doctors could do in this wilderness. ‘Your mama stays at Fatehabad doesn’t he? Shall we take you to his home?’12
Pulin’s eyes flew open. The words had come as a blow.
TWELVE
ANANTA LAL SINGH, 20 APRIL MORNING
The sunlight inched up to his face and Ananta woke with his heart thudding. Why hadn’t they been roused earlier? Had the army not come in during the night? They had all promised to keep watch and wake them the moment news came in. His companions lay fast asleep, their revolvers under their pillows. So the army had not come. His thoughts returned to the events of the previous night. His fears had been unfounded and through a fog of congratulations and blessings – Jogendramohan Meshomoshai’s bear hugs, Monorama Mashima raining kisses and tears on every cheek, Chotkun bouncing up and down, Chhor-di’s glowing face, Ananda’s no-nonsense Thakur-Ma’s blessings and Gobindo-da’s open mouthed gaze, Ananta had spotted a happy and relaxed Ananda standing way behind, allowing them their share of limelight. He had mouthed Himangshu’s name and Ananda had mimed that things were being taken care of, that Sukhendu Dastidar had been put in charge. They had had their dinner and gone off to sleep in Ananda’s room.
Chhor-di rushed off to make tea as Ananta took a seat at the dining table. By the time the others came in, the kitchen had been galvanized into action. Aromas drifted in little clouds past the kitchen door, in accompaniment to the clinks and clatters and the sizzles. Chhor-di and Mashima would take more than a couple of minutes; the time could be put to better use. The revolvers and pistols were placed on the table and opened up. Gobindo-da hurried in with little bowls of kerosene oil and some rags which, after some dithering, were set down at the centre of the table. The look on his face said that he would have preferred if they had done their cleaning on the floor but, on a day such as this, even he held his peace. They had begun winding up, for Mashima had begun to pour out the cups of tea. Chhor-di could be seen moving towards the door balancing plates of luchis, all creamy gold and puffed.
‘Maaa! Aashchhey!’
It was the scream of a child terrified beyond words.
The hair stood up along the back of the neck. A faint sour taste broke out at the back of the tongue.
At eight or nine, Chotkun was an extremely reliable little fellow and since early that morning, he had been on guard. From his vantage point he could scan nearly 200 yards of the approach road. Once the police had parked their cars, they would have another 100 yards to climb. But why were they coming here? Surely, they had enough evidence to know that Debu and Ananda would not be hanging around home. The revolvers were far from done, but snatching them up, Ananta led the others out of the back door and into the hills that formed the backdrop of the house. ‘Keep walking,’ he urged Ananda who was throwing anxious glances backwards. Ananda’s worries were echoing in his own heart, but surely, not even the police would do anything to women and children, for Meshomoshai was not at home; in fact, they hadn’t seen him that morning, for he had left early.
Ganesh had his arm around Ananda’s shoulders. It was ten o’clock now and they had been waiting for nearly an hour at a spot half a mile from the house. Surely, it was safe enough now to check that all was well. They crept in silently through the back door and a single glance was enough to realize that something tremendous had taken place. Mashima and Chhor-di, through their tears, seemed aghast that they had come back.
‘You have to go away … run go into hiding. Baba kay arrest korechhey …’ the words were tumbling out of Mashima. ‘… they found Himangshu’s prescription and medicines in his pocket. Ja. Ja. Don’t stay a minute longer … Aamar praan bhora aashirbaad kintu tora choley ja … go away,’ she sobbed.
‘Maaa!’ Chotkun was distressed to see his mother break down. ‘Chhor-di!’ he appealed but found he was being ignored. ‘Dada ra to juddho korbey … they are going to war so that we can be free.’ He was a little boy, scared and confused. He hugged his mother shaking her to bring her back to her senses. ‘Why are you crying, Ma? Chhordi, tui keno kaadchhis?’
Ananta bent to touch Mashima’s feet but she reached past him to grab at Ananda. She clutched his head to her trembling breast as if she would never let go. All self-control had been washed away. A flood of tears broke down every defence. Chhor-di was sobbing openly as Mashima covered every inch of Ananda’s face with kisses running her hands over his head, neck and chest and ba
ck as if conjuring up an invisible shield.
‘Ma, why are you worrying so much? I have your blessing. I will be safe.’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘My golden mother, I am so proud to have a mother like you. Will you not smile for me?’
Mashima drew him into a protective embrace and said fiercely to Ananta and Ganesh. ‘You … You, are responsible for Khoka and Tun,’ she began sobbing again. ‘I bless you all. Tomra bechey thako … may you live.’ Abruptly, she held Ananda a little way off so she could look him in the eye: ‘Tell Khoka I am not angry with him … tell him your mother is a fortunate woman to have borne sons like you.’ Her gaze had returned to him and her voice was stern. ‘It is you … you are responsible for whatever good or bad may happen to my Khoka and Tun.’
They took the dust from Mashima and Chhor-di’s feet and applied it to the heads. It was time to go.
Good, bad … in the end it is all the same for us, thought Ananta as he raised his arm in farewell.
SURESH DE, 20 APRIL MORNING
The morning routine of snatching a couple of hours of sleep and then rechecking the weapons had been completed. It was around noon when Ambika-da called Fakir Sen to his side. ‘Go carefully home and see if you can gather some news of the city. Have the trains started moving? Have reinforcements arrived?’
Tegra jumped up. He would go with Fakir to Fatehabad, but a quick frown on Ambika-da’s face shushed him.
Counting out five rupees, Ambika-da handed them over to Fakir. ‘Be back by four in the afternoon and try bringing back some watermelons.’
‘And some salt.’ Tegra called out.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 25