‘Now tell me who is the enemy of mankind?’ Master-da called for attention.
‘The British.’
‘Not just ordinary enemies, they are capable of unmanning mankind … like the magician Rasputin who held the Russian monarchy in a web of illusion … like the one Mir Jafar, the wazir of Murshidabad, found himself in. In AD 1857 the fakir1 was reduced to a joke, the dervish turned into a monster; first Nanda Kumar was made a maharaja, then cheated and hanged; Wajid Ali Shah was deprived of his kingdom and banished to Kolkata, reduced to a nawab merely on paper. Can you find cleverer people?’
‘In 1914, India was roped into a war that was not ours.’ Nirmal-da took the stage. ‘Without our consent we were forced into taking part. Bikaner’s maharaja Ganga Singh, Sir James Meston, the Lieutenant Governor of the United Provinces of Agra and Oudh and Bengal’s Sir Satyendra Prasanna Sinha took part in England’s war conference and these British toadies promised aid on behalf of all of India. The common man was caught in the conspiracy and was forced to provide fifteen lakh soldiers. In 1917, 150 crore rupees and in 1918, sixtyseven crore rupees were donated to the British cause. Then the huge expenses of the war and the costs of feeding and maintaining the troops became the responsibility of the British government of India, and this dependent country was forced into accepting the orders. Food and raw materials were sent out in such quantities that the country was on the verge of declaring famine.
‘Let me tell you about Annie Besant’s offer of Home Rule. She was one shrewd politician. All the parties fell into her trap: Congress, Muslim League, even Bal Gangadhar Tilak, Lala Lajpat Rai and Surendranath Banerjee. The only ones that saw through it were Poona’s Veer Savarkar and the Bengal revolutionaries. They said we don’t need Home Rule, we do not want dominion status – we want complete independence. As the idea caught on, the Sikhs in Singapore declared independence and kept Singapore independent for seven days. Iraq came forward to help India and the Indian soldiers in Iraq formed a volunteer army. Raja Mahendra Pratap took the help of the Afghan Amir to help create an independent government on the border of India and Afghanistan.’ Nirmal-da drew a breath. His eyes had sought every face, making eye contact with each one, judging the effect of his words.
‘The revolution spread from Gauhati to Lahore: in 1907, Shyam Krishnavarma helped Hem Chandra Kanungo to go to Paris to learn the art of bomb making; Deputy Governor General Fraser’s train was attacked; an attempt made on the life of Allen the magistrate in Dhaka; Joteen Mookerjee – Bagha Joteen – worked at smuggling in arms from Germany; newspapers like Common Wills, New India, Tilak’s Kesari and the Maratha carried inflammatory news. And with the World War raging, the British feared that their golden goose had begun to flap its wings. To calm India, they promised Home Rule as soon as the War had ended. People here fell for it and the Congress and Muslim League were awash with rainbow-coloured dreams. Mahatma Gandhi rushed to the villages on a recruitment drive for British armies fighting abroad. But the Bengal revolutionaries were not fooled and the British tried to rein them in by bringing in the Bharat Raksha Rule.2 Many were sent to jail. But at the end of the war the grand reward was the Jallianwala Bagh massacre on 13 April 1919.
‘None of the promises had been kept. Instead, the Montague– Chelmsford Reform was imposed upon India. Jinnah too was disgusted. The British armed themselves with sophisticated weapons, for the Indian Arms Act was applicable to the Indians alone and not to foreigners. After the War ended, Dr Satya Pal began protesting against the version of the promised Home Rule that had been granted and a peaceful assembly was organized to protest the arrest of Kitchlew and Satya Pal without a trial. Some 20,000 people, including women and children, had gathered in the garden called Jallianwala Bagh close to the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Brigadier General Reginald Dyer, an Irishman born in Simla, brought the police and blocked the garden’s only exit. Without warning, the machine guns began to fire and continued until all ammunition had been exhausted. Around 1,650 rounds were fired. People tried to escape by jumping into a well. Some 400 people died on the spot and more than 1,500 were injured.’3
Suresh had the words down pat. Ram Krishna-da had given him enough lessons in history. Where was he now, wondered Suresh. Here he was, in the middle of the revolution, abandoned by his mentor.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 20 APRIL AFTERNOON
‘They will bring many sipahis from outside and then they will burn Chattogram down to ashes. Tokhon moja bujhbey babu-ra.’ The speaker directed a contemptuous jet of spittle at the ground.
‘What are you saying, Mirza? You think they care? They don’t fear for their lives.’
The conversation was amusing but it held no relevant content. Ananda sipped at his tea. The afternoon had been spent wandering the hills in search of as many paan-beedi shops as possible in the hope of picking up information from snatches of conversation. Their dhutis arranged in the formal malkocha pleats and shirt pockets stuffed with pencils and paper, they were agents out gathering information. Ananta-da and Ganesh-da played the role to perfection but Ananda was aware of the looks that he and Makhon drew. It was their obvious youth and city looks that went against them.
‘Aapnara kara? Who are you?’ The question was suddenly being directed at them.
‘From the city … looking for the vidrohis … if you have information, the government will pay well.’
It bought a quick end to the chatter. Then a giggle: ‘Saar, how will their news reach us? Who knows where they have gone?’
‘Saar, what is the news in the city? Has the paltan arrived?’ But a whisper had begun making the rounds, ‘… look like swadeshis.’
‘On its way.’ Ananta-da paid up.
As he walked past, a seedy fellow sucking his tea noisily through his front teeth grinned up at Ananda. ‘Hoshiyar thakben … be on your guard.’
No one seemed to talk of having spotted a large group. Surely, the army could not be more than five to seven miles away from the city. It was well past lunch now and they had abandoned the Bayezid Bostami Road and were headed back towards the city. It was a blistering hot day with not a pond in sight. Makhon and he had not spoken all afternoon, trying to conserve the moisture in their throats but already the choking strands were winding themselves about the tonsils refusing to yield to the efforts at swallowing.
Ganesh and Ananta-da settled down for a little rest by the side of the railway tracks. They must be within half a mile of the Panchalaish Railway Station and two to three miles from the police lines, guessed Ananda. His throat was really parched now … not a pond, a tube well or even a farmer’s hut in the vicinity … but in the distance, he could spy a melon patch. He stood pointing, waving, hoping someone would own up to be the proprietor. A Muslim youth stood up from amongst a group of labourers. He loped across and returned with a large fruit. The payment was made and Ananta-da used a pocket knife to slice into the crisp pink flesh. The juice was cool and refreshing. Ananda and Makhon set up a little game to see who could spit the seeds the farthest. The farmer squatted beside them, watching the competition.
‘Bau.’ He spoke startling them. ‘Over there.’
A hundred uniformed men, rifles held in the High Port Arms position, bayonets gleaming, were marching briskly towards them.
‘Run, bau. They are catching Hindus.’
It was too late. Any sudden movement would attract attention. Ganesh-da appeared not to have heard and Ananta-da gazed at the soldiers with open-mouthed fascination. Then abruptly, while still some thirty yards away, the soldiers turned left in the direction of the hills. The watermelons were consumed leisurely.
Reinforcements. The hills would be a safer bet. But Ananta-da and Ganesh-da got up and took a turn towards the city. They had to go back, realized Ananda. Where else would Master-da send word? It would have to be to his house or to Sati-da’s. The appearance of the soldiers seemed to have caused a change. A heckler followed at a safe distance. His occasional taunts were drawing a crowd.
‘Swadeshis
… or dacoits on the run?’
‘Gorment reward. Big gorment reward!’
Ananta-da and Ganesh-da quickened their pace.
LOKENATH BAL, 20 APRIL NIGHT
It was past seven. Fakir4 had failed to return. Bidhu, who had been pacing up and down until some time back, was sitting quietly. It was strange for him to be so silent … his wild sense of humour failed to come to his rescue. It had been Dr Bidhu who had introduced and vouched for Fakir. Had the boy betrayed them? Had he gone to the police? His father must have caught him and turned him in. After all, he had remained in hiding at Debu and Ananda’s house ever since his father had lodged the police complaint. Now in hindsight it appeared to have been the worst decision Ambika-da could have taken under the circumstances. Would Fakir break down under police interrogation?
They could not afford to spend another minute on the hill. The boys trooped downhill in silence. The mood had changed. They sat quietly by the side of a pond and ate the handful of flat rice moistened with curds. The nod was given and they prepared to march again.
‘Why are we wandering about in the jungles and hills with no rest, no food, no bathing … what is this all about?’ Naresh, Bidhu, Rajat, Debu and Tripura posed the question together. It had been on Lokenath’s mind all these days but this lot had become the first to articulate it.
‘What is our plan? What is our objective? We are moving further and further away from the city … We want to face the enemy. We want battle.’
The youngsters crowded around, eager to listen to the explanations. ‘Juddho chayee.’ There was mutiny in the air. They had all begun to question this flight to the north.
Master-da looked grave. Ordering the boys back into position, Lokenath went to confer with Master-da, Nirmal-da and Ambika-da. He personally was all for turning back and facing the enemy. With or without Ananta-da and Ganesh-da, they would forge ahead and do their best.
The decision to turn back was taken. It was already past midnight.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 20 APRIL NIGHT
It was dusk by the time they reached Parade Square. Ananda cast an anxious look towards the path that wound up the hill … he could tell the exact number of steps that would take him to his doorstep but the way home had now been barred. Baba! An involuntary shudder shook his frame. What had they done with him …? The morning’s misery returned to hit him with full force. Ma, Chhor-di, Chotkun – they were alone up there. No, surely Baba would have found a way to get back … there would be nothing more than detention at home. They had left the lonely stretch that went past the Government College and were on the road that circled DC Hill. Where were all the street lights and where, for that matter, was the British army? The city should have been crawling with soldiers. Ananta-da and Ganesh-da stood, gazing open-mouthed: the beautiful winding drive shaded by tall banyans, the majestic bungalow right up at the top … it all lay in darkness. The commissioner’s bungalow had been abandoned. Not even the servants had cared to stay.
Comprehension felt like a cold, wet slap. The city had been abandoned, for not enough reinforcements had arrived. Where was Master-da with the main army? The city was theirs for the taking.
Nandan Kanan lay across the road. This was a thickly populated, garrulous middle-class area where Ananta-da and Ganesh-da’s names were a byword. But there was not a soul around. The streets were deserted, every door tightly shut and all lights put out. Sati-da’s house stood grim and dark. But dim lights flickered through the cracks of a window next door. There were people inside … about thirty of them. What was going on, wondered Ananda. They would all have to be from the neighbourhood, for there were no carriages or cars parked outside. Could Sati-da be in there? What if an agent was in there and recognized one of them? Makhon was given the nod and he slipped in like a cat.
Sati-da came out beaming. He was all congratulations, embracing each one, pumping their arms, gushing praises: all Chattogram was bursting with pride – the biggest thing since 1857 – pujas were being organized, prayers being offered to every household deity … but no, he had not received word from Master-da … and oh! Wait. Sati-da ran home and returned with a cloth bag that he pressed into Ganesh-da’s hands … some money … 200 rupees … every last paisa he had in the house.
It was a little before eight o’clock when they left Sati-da’s home and walked the two miles through the city centre towards Rajat-da’s. There was no one at the gates of the IB inspector’s house in Kotwali … no one around to stop and question the young men wandering around.
They were in Rajat-da’s backyard now … how would Binodini Mashima react? She who had been a tower of strength until now, would she have successfully held up against Ranjan Meshomoshai’s undoubted anger at the betrayal? All of Rajat-da’s siblings had been in on the secret … Meshomoshai had been the only one left without an inkling. That a part of the conspiracy had been hatched in his home, against his employers; that his family had not taken his permission; that he had come to know only when the news broke and he discovered his rifle missing; his son gone – even though, to tell the truth, the last bit had turned out as much of a surprise for Mashima, for she had not been certain as to what exactly was coming. Surely, no man could take kindly to such revelations. Ananda hoped that Rajat-da had taken the rifle with him and not left it behind at the AFI armoury or the police lines. And he crossed his fingers, praying that Ranjan Meshomoshai had not charged off to make a report the moment he discovered the two missing. Makhon had gone in through the back door. Why was he taking so long? Had Meshomoshai caught him? Was Mashima not at home? A head appeared. A hand waved.
‘Take your shoes off.’ Ananta-da whispered.
Ananda tiptoed in. Mashima stood at the head of the stairs with a lamp, her finger pressed to her lips. She pointed to Rajat-da’s room. It was one that Ananda was familiar with – one over which the revolutionaries felt a proprietary sense of ownership. It looked startlingly empty. The cupboards were bare … all personal effects had been removed. Mashima had been expecting guests!
She was back, slightly out of breath, having carried the loaded tray up the stairs. Mashima had never permitted the servants in whenever a meeting had been in progress. Ananda touched her feet … they all touched her feet one by one and she cupped each chin and the top of each head tenderly. Then she sat down, handed out the plates of food and listened intently to the story as they ate. Makhon had already relieved her of her worst fears: Rajat-da had survived the action on 18 April; that except for Himangshu there had been no casualties that day and that Rajat-da was with the main group.
‘Stay here as long as you want but remain unseen and unheard,’ she warned. ‘Not even the children will be told or be allowed upstairs.’ She smiled through her pain. ‘They have been on their guard since the day their dada disappeared.’
SURESH DE, 21 APRIL, BADULLA HILL
A sharp nudge woke Suresh. The sun was streaming down. Suresh sat up and yawned. Most of the boys were up, but he could easily have slept through the day.
‘Go wash your face. It’s past eight now.’ Pundit-da was stretching his limbs.
Dragging himself to his feet, Suresh went to join the others – a small stream had been traced to its source and everybody was taking turns at scrubbing their faces and splashing the cool water onto their sore limbs. The eastern side of the hill was a gentle, easy climb; of course they had to choose the steep forbidding face to clamber up in the wee hours of the morning – such was their luck. Suresh returned to where the boys were reassembling and sat down cross-legged, his body limp and drained.
‘Where are the watermelons?’ Ambika-da’s question stopped him in mid-yawn.
The watermelons? Oh! The memory of that last climb returned – falling down repeatedly, clutching at clumps of grass which gave way without warning, tumbling over each other. It had been great fun. But, he grimaced, the watermelons had gone.
‘Strange.’ Ambika-da’s voice was on edge. ‘How did you manage it? And now what will you eat? How will
you preserve your strength?’
‘We thought the arms were more important than watermelons.’ A meek reply was heard.
‘And I think both are important.’ Ambika-da’s voice bordered on the hysterical.
‘Ambika-da,’ Nirmal-da’s voice was placating. ‘… such young boys … wandering since three days without food or water … now isn’t it an achievement that they succeeded in climbing the hill? Bolo to … if they walked all the way with the melons and died … who would be eating the melons now?’
Ambika-da forced a humourless smile.
Naresh Ray, who had been sitting silently until then, got up to announce that his group had not left their melons behind and there were ten that could be shared. Ambika-da was all praise. Nirmal Lala was asked to divide them equally. Nirmal busied himself with his knife with Madhusudan Dutt helping him keep count.
Nirmal5 was perhaps the youngest amongst them … Bidhu Sen said he had introduced him two months before the planned action, that he was a class eight student at the Cox’s Bazar High School who had run off by himself to meet Master-da at Chattogram. Nirmal had lived with him for a few days and sensed there was something afoot. Abdaar – that was the way he could get around Master-da, for the one thing he could count on was his charming and sweet little face. Master-da had been suitably amused.
How long has it been since you joined?
Two months.
What class?
Eighth.
How old are you?
Fourteen.
Baba, this is the age for you to work at your studies.
Master-da had not relented.
Nirmal had rushed back to Cox’s Bazar and into Bidhu’s arms insane with grief. Take me with you, he had pleaded. Bidhu had advised another meeting with Master-da but had been amazed when he learnt that Nirmal had called his classmates and handed out his books … they made expensive gifts for one who came from a middleclass family like his! But the most surprising thing of all was that he had handed over his little suitcase, the one that he had treasured all his life. He had then left for Chattogram saying that he was leaving Cox’s Bazar for good.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 26