Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  Once he was done, the slices were handed out. But now there was nothing left for Nirmal. The poor boy looked extremely puzzled … he had done his math and counted the slices carefully. Madhusudan-da wore a look of incredulity. Did he make a mistake in counting? At twenty-seven6 he was amongst one of the elders in the group, an adult – in fact one with proper work experience, having worked as a contractor in the coal mines near Jamshedpur. He was an old party worker from Beedgram and knew the leaders well. And though he came from a zamindari background, he had opted to go and find work, for he had no wish to be dependent upon his family. He had surprised everyone by landing up seventeen days before the planned action and jumping into the fray as if he had never been away. How could he have got a simple task like counting watermelon slices wrong?

  But Ambika-da knew. He was up on his feet roaring with anger. ‘Who is responsible for this? Who has stolen a slice? Come forward. I expect you to own up.’

  ‘I did.’ It was Tegra.

  What could one do with him? Perpetually up to mischief?

  ‘Then you must be shot. Lokenath, he is your brother. Shoot him.’

  Loka-da’s exasperation with Tegra was reaching its limit. ‘Just because he is my brother does not mean he gets off lightly. Pronounce a judgement. If it is death, I will shoot him.’ His revolver was already in his hand.7

  This was great entertainment. But Tegra decided to complicate matters. Suddenly, he had pulled his shirt off and was standing before Ambika-da. ‘Look … I am laying my chest bare in front of you. Shoot.’

  Suresh could feel the muscles of his body tensing. A cold sense of dread was creeping in. Something was going terribly wrong … what had begun as a bit of levity … but Master-da was now standing between them. ‘Lokenath, put the revolver away.’ His voice was cold.

  Ambika-da was gabbling. ‘Arrey baba, you have become even angrier than me. Achchha … can I be angry with you? Can I ever let a bullet loose amongst you people? This is what you think of me, you naughty boy … you dushtu chheley … duronto bhaiti aamar?’ He flung his arms out and clasped Tegra’s rigid form to his breast. By now Tegra’s face was red and furious.

  ‘If indiscipline must be punished Lokenath, the capacity for telling the truth must also not go unrewarded.’ But Master-da was speaking to everybody.

  Suresh realized he had been holding his slice of water melon just below his open mouth all this while. He had not taken even one bite. The group resumed their eating. The only one that sat unmoving was Tegra. He was still in shock. Nirmal-da sat beside him stroking his back. The situation was resolved finally by Ambika-da himself.

  ‘I have done you a great injustice.’ His voice was loud enough for all to hear. ‘Will you not forgive me?’

  Tegra looked embarrassed.

  ‘Look,’ continued Ambika-da, ‘I have not eaten yet. Will you share my slice with me?’

  ANANTA LAL SINGH, 21 APRIL MORNING

  Ananta had woken early. He peered through a crack in the shutters, not daring to open them. The backyard looked undisturbed. Mashima was at the door. She came in with a tray of tea and tiptoed out again. Ananta nudged the others and turned to the tray. Mashima had arranged it as if it were a normal day. He removed the tea cosy and poured out steaming fragrant cupfuls and uncovered the plates of freshly fried luchis and spicy potatoes. His being flooded with guilt – here was Mashima brewing her finest tea for them; Lord alone knew how her own son was faring; for that matter all the young boys who had put their complete trust in him, swearing to follow him until death released them of the bond. They would have to be extremely careful with the cups and saucers; they could not afford to make the faintest ‘chink’. Ananda’s house had been raided the day before and though this house was secure due to Rajat’s father’s social standing, who knew he may well be the one to turn them in.

  ‘Eat up,’ he motioned to the others. Ganesh was picking at his food; the fever was draining him of his appetite, but this could turn out to be his last chance to eat a good meal. There was a soft knock at the door. Mashima came in to clear the plates.

  ‘Your Meshomoshai wants to meet you. Shall I bring him up?’

  The master of the household? The one whose hospitality they were enjoying? He was asking for permission?

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Ananta sprang to his feet. ‘Please. Please tell him his sons are waiting.’

  The four exchanged looks. It was not that they had not met Ranjan Meshomoshai more than several times before, but on all those occasions they had been merely Rajat’s friends, sons of men who were well known, good local lads pursuing their education with sincerity and no more than a few pleasantries had been exchanged. But, for the first time Meshomoshai would be meeting revolutionaries whose activities had spirited away his eldest son – a son for whom he had held great hopes … a son who he had learnt was a principal revolutionary only two days ago.

  Ranjan Meshomoshai came into the room. Ananta bent low to touch his feet but was gripped firmly by the arms and prevented from completing the ritual. The tight embrace that followed, however, cleared the momentary confusion that had sparked in his heart. Rajat’s father was a powerfully built man and there was little that Ananta could do but to submit. But he caught a glimpse of a face awash with tears, glowing with pride. Here was a fellow revolutionary, one he had not recognized earlier.

  Meshomoshai hugged each one in turn; and no, he would not let them touch his feet, for had they not proven themselves more than his equal? He had important news. The police had announced a bounty on the head of each of his guests: Ananta and Ganesh, dead or alive, were valued at Rs 5,000/- each and Ananda and Makhon at Rs 1,000/- each. But for now he could not wait to listen to the details of the armoury raid. His face shone with simple childlike pride, especially at the part that Rajat had played. His Rajat was an all-rounder – be it his studies, be it sport … everyone knew that Rajat was in demand even when the police officers held their football matches – a teenager so sought after. Did his friends know that Rajat was a natural artist … that the quick portrait he had once sketched of Stanley Jackson during a school visit had so impressed the laat sahib that he had been prompt in offering the boy admission into art school? And now this completely new side to his son was being revealed. Few excelled in all things martial and Rajat was one of them … boxing, shooting, horse riding, driving. Through the narration, Ranjan Lal Sen’s lips moved silently and Ananta knew that they were prayers, congratulatory exclamations and blessings all rolled into one.

  The door burst open. It was one of Rajat’s younger brothers. ‘Police,’ he hissed and tore down the stairs. In a flash, Ranjan Meshomoshai had pulled a table to the centre of the room and pointed to a small trapdoor which led to the attic. It had taken not more than a minute for Meshomoshai to push the table back into position and retire to his chamber. Ananda and Makhon were sent to the far corners, crouching beneath the sloping tin roof of the room, while Ananta and Ganesh sat on the trapdoor itself; their eyes glued to the cracks. Each one held their revolvers at ready.

  The sound of many people moving about: A search had already begun. The heavy tramp of boots was growing closer … they were coming up the stairs; this was it; once they were in the room how could they not help looking up.

  ‘This way please.’ Meshomoshai was leading them into the adjacent room? Poor man, this was his desperate attempt at delaying the inevitable by another minute or so.

  ‘Aapni aagey cholun … Remain in the front please.’

  Ananta knew the voice. It belonged to DIB Sachin Bhowmik who had retired from the 49 Bengal Regiment and had joined the police service. Meshomoshai was being pushed ahead as a measure of security. By choosing Rajat’s home, they had pushed Meshomoshai into a corner.

  They were going to come into this room any moment now … the door was kicked open and ten sipahis burst in, rifles held at ready. At the door stood Meshomoshai with Sergeant Kelly and Sachin Bhowmik crouching behind him, their revolvers digging into his back. Sweat ran in
streams down Ananta’s neck. This was the most humiliating scene that he had ever witnessed. Seconds ticked by … no one breathed. If the sipahis looked up, they would see the trapdoor. In case a gun battle took place, and even if they succeeded in sparing Meshomoshai, would the British spare him?

  Meshomoshai was speaking … in fact he appeared to be chatting comfortably. Whatever it was that he was saying, he was succeeding in holding everyone’s attention. The sipahis and officers relaxed their guard and turned to leave the room. Meshomoshai offered to see them to the door … he was playing his part with grace and elan … the ever eloquent lawyer was giving the performance of a lifetime.

  Chotkun’s scream of yesterday … and the quiet, whispered announcement of today: it meant only one thing – the police had caught on. They had crept up today so that none of the children on watch could spot them until it was too late

  SURESH DE, 21 APRIL, BADULLA PAHAR

  ‘We need two volunteers.’ Master-da, Nirmal-da and Ambika-da addressed the group. ‘Ones who are aware that the words pari nai … couldn’t do it … are not an option. We must get in touch with Ananta and Ganesh. This is our last chance. You cannot afford to say later that you tried but couldn’t do it.’

  This time the volunteers would have to be chosen carefully. Two messengers had failed to return. Master-da and Nirmal-da went around visiting every individual group. Finally, it was decided that Amarendra Nandi and Diptimedha Choudhury8 were the chosen ones. Master-da took them aside for a private conversation.

  There was a strange low rumble that was growing louder.

  ‘Air Raid! Air Raid!’ Sahayram Das’s, voice called out. ‘Take cover! Take cover!’ The aircraft flew low, circled and came back. The hillside resonated with the vibration. The aircraft moved away without bombing the area.9

  Amarendra and Diptimedha hurried up and changed into shirts and dhutis and tucked two revolvers in at their waists. Everyone called out, wishing them luck. Ten o’clock, and they had touched Master-da’s feet and set off at a run, for a bus to the city would pass through Fatikchari within the hour. Their instructions included going to the city which was some twelve to fourteen miles away; picking up information by listening to local gossip; meeting Ardhendu Guha and enlisting his help in gathering more information and locating Ananta-da and Ganesh-da; visiting the homes of Sashi Bhushan Sen, Ananda Gupta and Rajat Sen for more information and returning by seven in the evening.

  It was a superhuman task, thought Suresh, but if anyone could do it, it would have to be Amarendra … he was shrewd and he was tough like tempered steel, ritually tested by fire, hand-crafted, quite literally, by Ananta Lal Singh. There could not have been many who could have boasted of facing Amarendra in the ring and not being felled by one of his blows. In his hands, the lathi spun in a blur, deflecting all that came at him; and he could race up and down the stairs, balancing on stilts six feet long, leap across from one rooftop to another … yes … he had even seen him twist a steel rod seven feet long and three inches thick into a series of five loops … Amarendra, he remembered, had won that competition. Suresh lay down on a grassy patch beneath a tree and closed his eyes. Dipti, he had met only three days ago. It was his striking good looks that first came to mind … would have to be pretty smart too if Master-da had chosen him for the mission … a good team one would say …

  ‘Bah rey, Ambika-da! Where have your moustache and beard gone.’

  Ambika-da was striding up the slope, a bunch of bananas slung across his shoulders and an earthen pot of curds in each hand. He was looking pleased with himself. The clean-shaven, freshly bathed appearance gave him a completely new look … a smaller and a younger face … it was difficult to recognize him. ‘Lunch!’ he called. The voice was his all right. ‘Curds, flat rice and bananas … and …,’ he waited for the suspense to build up ‘hot khichuri for dinner!’

  The excitement was infectious. Ambika-da had been plagued by the fact that his boys were going hungry … rice … that is what they needed. He had contacted relatives and friends at Fatehabad, borrowed 100 rupees and had organized some party workers in the village to cook and bring the khichuri quietly once it was dark. But, for the time being the doi, cheerey and kola would have to do. But there was something else up his sleeve. He waited until the meal was over and then like a magician played up his audience. What could it be? Roshogolla? No. Cake? No. Sandesh ? Kebabs? No. He brandished it with a flourish: it was a copy of the Panchojanya. The boys milled around like a swarm of bees, pouring over his shoulders as he read out the day’s news: the city was crawling with soldiers after having been deserted for nearly two days; no news of an encounter with the rebels; no news of arrests. It meant Ananta Lal Singh and Ganesh Ghosh had neither been arrested, nor were they dead. It brought fresh hope to every heart … surely Amarendra would find them. Once together, they would make a formidable team. But the Panchojanya also revealed a darker truth: the enemy was no longer helpless; it should have been engaged earlier.

  ‘Master-da, you need to take a decision.’ Tripura Sen’s voice was sombre. ‘It will be unwise to wait any longer.’

  Tegra had accosted Nirmal-da. ‘Nirmal-da, how much longer for battle? I can’t take it any more … every moment I worry that we will be attacked. It will be tonight, won’t it? We will attack the enemy stronghold tonight … won’t we?’

  The boys were asked to gather in a semicircle. They sat crosslegged, muskets in hand.

  ‘Brothers all.’ Master-da began. ‘On 18 April, before we went to battle, we had worked ourselves up mentally for war. Ours was a death programme. Today we have to take an oath once again … Jibon mrityu payer bhritto, chitto bhabonahin10 … Life and death are underlings to be trod on while the mind is kept free from cares. I am asking everyone … now think before you speak … to ignore death and take on the powerful British army, accept death and fight. Is everyone really ready?’

  Before he could complete his question, fifty-five boys gripped their muskets tighter and answered in one voice: ‘We take the oath. We will fight the British. We will die. We want battle. We will kill the British and then die.’

  The words shook the hill and then there was silence. Master-da stood calm and steadfast. This part had been rehearsed many times before and though he knew that Master-da was pleased, Suresh wondered if he was absolutely certain. He sneaked a look at the other faces. Were they all as convinced? Master-da’s next words echoed his thoughts. He spoke slowly and deliberately.

  ‘I am happy to see the morale … none of us wants to turn back, that I know … but there is no end to the mental preparation required. That is why I must ask you to imagine what will happen. Fifty-five muskets unequally poised against an incredible force … the fear of dying, the pain and screams of the dying, the rain of machine gunfire, streams of blood everywhere, death is an absolute certainty … I am giving you a second chance. Study your minds carefully … if anyone feels uncertain, take a decision now. Once we make a move there will be no turning back. One person’s fears may at that time affect the others. Cowardice is more infectious than the bravest man’s influence.’

  The muskets rattled and all voices said, ‘We are ready.’

  Strange … Master-da was still pondering over something.

  Then he said, ‘I have two proposals: One, face the powerful enemy and the unequal situation and shed our blood for independence. Two, we go into hiding and when the suitable opportunity arrives, harass the enemy. Those who want to accept my second proposal do not hesitate. Go now and do your best to worry and injure the enemy.’

  No one moved.

  ‘Well then, ready for an immediate attack on the city. We need valour and courage like a lion … shahosh, bikrom and shingho bikrom.’

  A strategy had to be planned: which of the targets, keeping in mind that they were by now heavily guarded, in the city would be attacked; would they enter in small groups or all together; which of the routes would be used. This time everyone was privy to the plans.

  Loka
-da made an observation, ‘We need to know how the enemy has deployed its troops before we can deploy ours.’

  Eventually, it was decided that three teams consisting of fourteen members each and one with thirteen members would be led by Lokenath-da, Ambika-da, Nirmal-da and Master-da. The soldiers of the revolution had been so divided that each team was well matched.

  Two routes would be used to enter – one that went past the European Paltan Maidan, and the other past the Parade Ground. Two teams would march along each route, maintaining a distance but would remain close enough to rush to the other’s aid if the need arose.

  Two teams would attack the jail and two the Imperial Bank; at least one would be successful and then no matter what the results, they would congregate on Fairy Hill and fight to the last. It was to be a dramatic ending: the wake-up call that the nation needed.

  It was 3 p.m. They would have to wait until Amarendra and Diptimedha returned. The sun went down but there was no sign of the two. The khichuri arrived, still steaming, in a great vessel. But the banana leaves? Those had been forgotten. The aroma of ghee; the sight of the semi-liquid yellow mix of roasted mung bean dal and rice drove many to distraction, and they plunged their hands in only to withdraw them in a hurry and cool the scalded fingers in their mouths. Salt! The volunteers had forgotten to add salt … but it scarcely mattered, for never had khichuri tasted so good. Finally, it was the turn of the watchkeepers. They were the last to eat. Amarendra and Diptimedha had still not returned.

  21 APRIL, 8 P.M.

  ‘Saar. The raiders have been spotted saar.’

  The effect was just what Gaffur had desired. If only he could have met the DIG instead. But Sub-inspector Siddique Dewan had insisted on accompanying him from Hatazari to Chittagong, and since it was past eight, they had gone to the residence of the police superintendent, Mr Johnson. Gaffur had bottled all the information within himself until now.