Chittagong Summer of 1930

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Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 28

by Manoshi Bhattacharya


  Could he, as he made his way to work that morning, have predicted that the day held such potential? He had found Sub-inspector Hem Gupta at the station with a flag, a few pieces of ammunition and a black badge. He had found them on the Nagarkhana Hill and was reporting the matter at the Hatazari Thana. Nagarkhana was a part of the range that extended northwards from the police lines to Hatazari and it meant that all the hills would have to be combed. Gaffur had, in a duty-watch kind of way, discarded his uniform, wound a lungi about his waist, planted a fez on his head, lined his eyes with surma, and set out. Making his way southwards, he had been strolling along in the hills a little to the west of the Chowdhury Hat railway station.

  Mr Johnson’s gaze had not wavered off his face.

  ‘I was climbing the Badulla Pahar saar, when I see a sock, a little burnt. I also find two badges; tiny flags like the ones swadeshis use. Near the top I find watermelon shells … some not fully eaten. I didn’t go any further. As I was coming down I meet peasant cutting grass while his cows drink at stream.’ He wagged his head. ‘Four-thirty in the afternoon saar. Waji-ud-din was his name, saar. He said be careful because fifty to sixty babus in the area … some in khaki shirts and shorts, some in white dhutis and shirts and rifles in a big pile. They had asked him what he was doing and he said he was looking for his cattle. He asked them what are you doing and they said they come from Calcutta for shikaar. He said all looked Hindu.’

  Abdul Gaffur’s voice was steady but there was a quivering deep inside. This information would spell great things for him.

  Mr Johnson had already swung into action; messages were being sent out. The telephones had started ringing. Within a matter of minutes they were all there – District Magistrate Wilkinson, Deputy Inspector General Farmer, Colonel Dallas Smith, the assistant superintendents of police, Mr Shooter and Mr Lewis, Captain Robinson, the commander of the Surma Valley Light Horse and Captain Taitt.

  Mr Farmer and Mr Lewis were all for leaving right away but the colonel disagreed. ‘It is unknown territory, one that the rebels know like the back of their hands and we have lost the opportunity of an attack at dusk. My advice would be to take them by surprise before dawn. Go by the manual: a company from the Eastern Frontier Rifles and one, Robinson, of yours; a Vickers section and four of the AFI’s Lewis gun sections? By ten tonight, gentlemen!’

  Word was sent to Dr Weldon to remain ready.

  Mr Johnson turned to Abdul Gaffur and Siddique Dewan. They were to take a car immediately back to Chowdhury Hat and keep watch on Badulla Hill until the military train arrived.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 21 APRIL NIGHT, DINESH’S HOUSE

  Ananda turned one last time. Binodini Mashima and Ranjan Meshomoshai were still at the door. He lifted his arm to wave and quickly looked away. After the second raid that afternoon, fortunately the police had targeted the house next door, they had all come to the conclusion that it was no longer a safe place to stay. Meshomoshai had given them money and his blessings. Mashima had wept openly.

  ‘Perhaps we will never meet again in this lifetime … or see Rajat again … who knows if there is a life after this … but we will pray that in the next life we will have your company again.’ They would be out of sight once they took the bend in the road, the one that would lead them to Firingee Bazaar. The city was crawling with soldiers, Meshomoshai had warned. Armed vehicles patrolled every street. He had not verbalized it, but each of the young men had understood that the targets that had once figured on their plans would be virtually unapproachable and they would, from now on, have to stick to the lesser used lanes, the narrow gullies and the shadows.

  Ganesh-da had suggested a friend’s name. Dinesh Chakraborty was also a member though Ananda had never met him. Ananta-da led the way: towards the jetty, past the Double Mooring station, skirting the banks of the Deba Lake and through a field of paddy that looked upon the Rail Class Quarters. He felt a hand press down on his shoulder and he sank to his knees, crouching down amongst the stalks. Jibon made his way across, nimble as a cat. Ten o’clock. The little colony was fast asleep. Jibon reappeared. Dinesh was with him. ‘I will open the kitchen door. Be very quiet; it is one of Dada’s nights off.’

  Dinesh’s dada was a junior employee in the railways and had been allotted a house. Taking his shoes off, Ananda crept in behind the others. No coughing, he kept telling himself and in the process, he scarcely breathed. The little, two bed-roomed house was centred around a courtyard, with a toilet on one side and a kitchen on the other.

  The night would have to be passed in the kitchen … certainly not the best room in the house, for it was filthy. A warm clammy wall of air invited Ananda to cut through its thickness. The brothers did not believe in cooking and rarely ventured in. It was absolutely bare except for a pot of water that Dinesh thoughtfully left behind, before closing the door behind him. Some rather outsized mosquitoes buzzed noisily into action. The click of a latch sounded; a key turned in its lock. Dinesh, on the pretence of having used the toilet, had slipped back into bed.

  No fan. Not even a tiny opening. Ananda scratched at the weals appearing rapidly all over his body. The thin cotton shirt did little to protect him. Until nine. He would have to endure this till nine in the morning … until Dinesh’s dada left for work.

  THIRTEEN

  ALEXANDER BURNETT, 22 APRIL MORNING, BADULLA HILL

  Four a.m.: The military train pulled up at Chowdhury Hat. The machine guns were being positioned on the hills that looked down upon Badulla Pahar. Under the cover of continuous machine gunfire, a platoon of thirty Indian soldiers led by their Indian non-commissioned officers, were to advance up the hill and force the rebels out of hiding. In a pincer movement, Colonel Smith and Mr Farmer would close in with their two companies.

  Badulla Pahar was captured at dawn. Then all hell broke loose. There was no one there. All that remained of the recent occupation were five jammed police muskets, ball cartridges, one police revolver, couple of blank cartridges and the remnants of a khichuri meal. They had given them the slip. Blackened their faces with ash. This untrained band of schoolboys!

  Word was sent to the Hatazari police station in the north and Panchalaish Thana in the south. Scouts needed to be sent out immediately. Colonel Dallas Smith decided to remain near the site, setting up camp at Jharjharia Bot-tali while Mr Farmer returned with his men to the city. All roads leading in from the north needed watching. The entrances to the Imperial Bank, jail, and government and railway treasury buildings had to be sealed.

  Alexander wondered how the good colonel would word his report once the initial anger had faded. Would he admit that the bunch of schoolboys had had the last laugh?

  LOKENATH BAL, 22 APRIL MORNING, JALALABAD

  ‘I know you are confused. I too cannot begin to think as to what might have befallen Amarendra and Diptimedha. But frustrations are a part of every endeavour.’ Master-da addressed the boys. The sky was beginning to lighten and the little habitations in the distance had begun to show signs of life. The boys had been on the march since nine o’clock the previous night but the going had been slow. The khichuri sat heavy on their stomachs after a near fast of two days. Many had to stop several times during the march and had felt too sick to continue.

  ‘You are tired. And so am I.’ Master-da was in fact the only one who appeared completely unaffected. He moved with ease, whereas the others picked their way painfully and carefully in the dark, loaded as they were with their bags of ammunition and muskets, feeling with each step for that loose pebble, the root or a snake hole.

  It was near dawn. Under no circumstances would they be making it to the city. In the distance, villagers had already begun moving about, vessels of water in hand, ready for the ritual jungle visits. A low hill stood right in front. It would have to do.

  Quenching their thirst in a freshwater pool that lay at the base of the hill, Lokenath led the way up the slope. There were not enough trees, not as many as he would have liked. He stood surveying the area, disappoint
ment etched deep on his face: the hill was too small and a railway track running from south-west to the east skirted the base of the hill about half a mile away. There were two other hills that were higher. Would making a dash for one of them be worth it? But there were more people about now: farmers carrying their ploughs, herding their cattle … it would be too risky; fifty-eight of them and carrying muskets … no, too risky. The boys were already sprawling on the ground.

  A few unripe watermelons had been spotted and stolen. Masterda and Nirmal-da were slicing them but today there would not be enough to go round.1 Tonight, Lokenath consoled himself, tonight will be the night.

  JOHN YOUNIE, 22 APRIL, CIRCUIT HOUSE, CHITTAGONG

  The platform was crowded, mostly by squads of troops squatting on piles of kitbags and smoking. A liaison officer, sent by Wilkinson, whisked his suitcases into a waiting car.

  ‘With the troopers in there, I’d reckon the Circuit House’s about the safest place in town right now,’ said the LO.

  They were driving down the wide metalled road with the kutcha edge that skirted the Paltan Maidan. Shade trees lined it on both sides and lime-washed stones marked the culvert crossings over monsoon ditches that led into the compounds of the bungalows. In all, a welllaid British station. The pretty red-roofed Circuit House lay at the northern end of the green patch; he had been billeted there once before. A motor truck with six armed men passed them by.

  ‘Them planters,’ the LO jerked his head. ‘Patrolling the city since Sunday; two hours on and one hour off – night and day! Banks, post office, docks.’2

  The broad gravel drive curved through a compound darkened and cooled by trees. The colonnaded facade looked a dazzling white. A grizzled old bearer, white-uniformed, sashed and turbanned, came forward to lift the bags and beckoned to him. John followed him through the passages. Many of the wooden doors to the rooms had been left open as if the occupants had rushed off in a hurry.

  But through the screen doors he caught sight of what was his worst nightmare: men in uniform sleeping with rifles chained to their wrists.

  Slipping the old bearer a coin, John waved him away. The latch on the top of the screen door was just within his reach. Locking both sets of doors, he sat back heavily into a chair, conscious of the sudden cold sweat that had drenched his shirt. What he had just witnessed was a scene straight out of Peshawar, where blood feuds were the norm; where lived the treacherous and cruel Pathans; where Pax Britannica had given way to the barbarism of the Middle Ages. Soldiers, throughout the Khyber, slept with rifles chained to their wrists, for a British army rifle could fetch at least Rs 500/- across the border. 3 An involuntary shudder racked his frame. Little good had the practice achieved, for the Pathan night thief simply severed the wrist to which the chain was attached. What had driven the litigation-loving Bengali to turn his gentle green valley into a pocket edition of hell?

  He had not been permitted into Chittagong until Colonel Dallas Smith had arrived with a 100 Gurkhas of the Eastern Frontier Rifles from Dacca. His boat had been carefully searched and the train that brought him in from Chandpur carried a military escort. But the family had not been granted permission to leave Barisal.

  The old bearer was back, knocking at the door. He had a tray from which he took things and laid a single plate on a small table in the centre of the room. Then he produced the final item: a breakfast menu card stuck on a silver-plated stand.

  ‘Sahib,’ he said and waited patiently.

  A knock at the door. A very pink, stout little man peered at him. ‘Johnson,’ he extended his hand.

  John rose to greet the police superintendent.

  ‘I hope you are being looked after all right,’ he said, a trifle apologetically.

  John assured him he was. ‘Is it as bad as what I see?’

  Johnson dropped into a chair. He leaned forward, his face strangely animated, ‘This is the most amazing coup possible!4 A raiding party … about 100 strong … I must say the whole show was most marvellously organized down to the minute details. The attack commenced at 9.15, with one gang taking the police lines completely by surprise and another finding the Auxiliary Force armoury in a state of even greater unpreparedness. Wilkinson, Lodge and two others, alarmed by the firing at the police lines, rushed there in a car – all unarmed. They thought it was a riot over a marriage procession or something of that sort. They were fired at – four bullets piercing the windscreen and several the radiator. As they had no weapons there was nothing for them to do but to leg it for all they were worth. They got away in time to warn the people at the small armouries down at the jetties – apparently forgotten or overlooked by the raiders.’

  ‘So they are using the AF rifles?’

  Johnson shook his head. He looked up at the bearer. ‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘No, not one was removed. They didn’t have the time to get at the ammunition … but they gutted both armouries … Criminal unpreparedness on the part of the AFI … two retired Punjabi sepoys on guard – a couple of decrepit ancients … Farrell, the sergeant major, was sitting, having dinner … went out to see what was happening and was shot dead. On their tail … been sighted once late last evening but Dallas seems to have lost them.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment and added, ‘We had them closely watched since Colson’s visit in March. In fact, on 2nd April, I had revised the system. The movements of the suspects and all those capable of terrorist activities were being tabulated and the watchers were being supervised day and night. In fact the Baby Austin used in the raid was being closely watched. I had instructed that the plan be followed until 23rd April, but no watch was to be kept from 13th to 18th April to lull the suspects into thinking that the watch had been withdrawn. I had hoped,’ Johnson winced as he said it, ‘that it would induce them to give some clear indication about their intentions.’5

  Wilkinson, the only other reliable source had far too much on his hands to sit down and make newcomers wise to things past and present. The club on the Pioneer Hill, across the street from the Circuit House, was rife with garbled accounts of the local gup and wild rumours. But one thing was certain: the large oil installations were safe.6 It was clear that the affair had come as a shock to the government which had responded forthwith, promulgating an ordinance, reintroducing powers of detention. The state of uncertainty and disorganization that prevailed made him glad that Dorothy had stayed on at Donovan’s. It would have driven her to fits, well not for her own sake but for the kiddies.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 22 APRIL

  Maybe he had dozed off momentarily but Ananda was awake as soon as the door opened. He squinted painfully up at Dinesh, who stood silhouetted against the bright sunlight.

  ‘Tell me.’ His voice seemed to boom after the silence of the night. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘A bath.’ Ganesh-da said, languidly stretching his arms, refusing to get up from his semi-reclining position.

  ‘Tea and toast,’ said Ananta-da.

  The dhabas – little hotels in the neighbourhood – did a brisk business, making most of the bachelor status of their clients. The hot, sweet drink made Ananda feel human again. At last, the others were beginning to make sense. A city in the grip of the army … what could possibly be done with it? How could they harass the British and their army? The revolution’s army had not yet entered the city … were they planning on a base in the hills and guerrilla-styled attacks? If that was indeed the plan, then Ananta-da, Ganesh-da and Lokenath-da – the three most known faces – needed to remove themselves to Kolkata. The idea that generated the most excitement was the new plan being discussed – take a British official hostage … maybe the Bengal laat sahib, perhaps the chief secretary or the chief presidency magistrate, and hold him in a house, one that had been mined. There would be guards with electric switches and revolvers and a ransom note: Leave Bharat or your officer dies.

  Dinesh went out to buy lunch. Ananda slept a little. It had been decided they would leave for Kolkata in the evening. Dinesh was to bring a change of clothes, oil,
soap, a safety razor, an umbrella, a ghoti – a brass water pot – and a hurricane lantern. All the articles had to look old and used; Ananta-da had stressed the fact again and again.

  SURESH DE, 22 APRIL, 11 A.M., JALALABAD

  The heat of the morning seemed to make every living thing wilt. By the time the discussions had come to a close, the hillside was close to burning up. This had to be the worst April that he could remember. Suresh winced and put his blistered fingers into his mouth. The musket barrel was hot; he would have to remember not to touch the metallic portions. Worst possible hill to have chosen … forget about streams, there is not even a puddle, he was grumbling silently to himself, when he spied Pundit-da’s group. They were eating. Gross! A hiccup of disgust rose to his throat. Subodh Bal was actually laughing. They were sitting around in a circle – Saroj, Bon Bihari, Aswini and Sitaram. Pundit-da’s four-day-old underwear, which had carried the remnants of yesterday’s unsalted khichuri, formed the centre piece. A few others sauntered across to join them. Pundit-da was waving out to him. ‘Sadhu rey … Come, Sadhu, come.’ Suresh flashed him a grin but did not budge.

  It was time for the second group of lookouts to take up their positions. Subodh left the khichuri circle and shading his brow with his hand took position behind a bush. Hemendu Dastidar, Madhusudan Dutt, Krishna Choudhury, Shanti Nag and Noni Deb went to their positions.

  Suresh returned to his brooding. His saliva was turning into thick strands caking at the corner of his mouth. What would Ma be doing now? What would she say if she could see her Sadhu this way? He scraped a fingernail along the edges of his eyes. She would not have left the temple precincts these last four days, even if they closed the door on her. He could see her, her long hair open and uncombed, lying on the ground beating her breasts. If he had been starving these last couple of days, he could be more than certain that not a morsel had passed her lips. So deep was he in his picture, that he saw the priest close a door, shutting out the light that streamed from the inner sanctum and a darkness envelope both him and his mother.

 

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