Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  Master-da and Nirmal-da were eating. He looked again carefully. They were chewing on the green skins of watermelons. With a start he realized, it was the bits they had thrown away … Master-da was eating their eto. It was sinful. Not their eto! Master-da shouldn’t have contaminated himself so. Surreptitiously he touched both his earlobes, pleading silently for forgiveness. The thirst; it is all in the mind, he told himself. Shutting his eyes, he forced himself to think of the banana shoots he had chewed on yesterday. They were cool and green. The outer layers could be peeled away like an onion and who would have guessed that the inner pith held so much fluid? His head rested on his knees and he straightened up in a hurry … his nose was far too close to his armpits for his own comfort. It was good that Ma could not see him now.

  There had been a scuffle. Shanti and Hemendu7 were clambering up the slope.

  ‘Krishna had seen them first … two naked villagers … they had nothing but their gamchhas on. They were behind a tree, looking at us and whispering.’ Hemendu was gasping. ‘Krishna pointed them out to me. I did not think. I ran and jumped on the two of them. Shanti was close behind me and he leapt on top of them too. We gave them a good shaking … we could have broken a couple of their bones … they were so unbelievably skinny. They were crying, cringing … said they hadn’t meant to disturb us, they were here to collect firewood … the children had not eaten since yesterday.’

  ‘They looked completely harmless,’ Shanti added. He was looking flustered. ‘I asked them who had sent them and if they had any news of the rebels. I said we were a police party searching for the vidrohis. But the moment we loosened our hold they moved with such speed that they tumbled down the hillside as if their lives depended on it. I called out to them, offering a reward if they could bring news of the fools, but they were just intent on getting away.’

  Nearly everybody had gathered around and was listening attentively. They had let the cowherd go the day before, but that was because it had been late afternoon and they would have been vacating Badulla Hill within a matter of hours … at least, long before he could go and report to a police station, had he so wished. But this incident had taken place too early in the day. It was the extreme poverty of these villagers that was to be feared. This is what the enemy preyed upon. Of course, these could also turn out to be just ordinary villagers who would go home and mind their own business or … A serious debate was taking place inside Suresh’s head.

  Master-da put an end to his train of thoughts. ‘No matter how poor, the enemy’s spies are our enemies. They should have been tied up.’ He remained thoughtful for a moment and then said, ‘It is a bad omen, not that a revolutionary should fear Saturdays and Tuesdays, but I think it is best we gear up.’

  Loka-da turned to the groups and the boys sat down in little circles with the group leaders. The muskets and firearms were re-cleaned, rechecked and lubricated until the machinery worked perfectly. All screws, nuts and bolts were tightened, checked and rechecked. They went through the motions of the drills, revised the principles of throwing hand grenades and readjusted their uniforms. Would the date with destiny take place here or would it be tonight in Chattogram?

  Loka-da addressed the boys. The Students’ Union leader had always made the most of his gift for capturing the attention of the young ones. ‘Soldiers of the revolution,’ he began, ‘I smell battle in the air. Our chance to vanquish this Dushshashan has come. There is no alternative but to win this battle if we do not wish to be remembered as the laughing stock. Remind yourselves: the moment and circumstance of our deaths had been determined in the very instant that we drew our first breath …’

  The pep talk was cut short. The lookouts had spotted something. Subodh Roy’s keen eyes had not missed the movement on the hill on the far side. A man appeared to be waving something … his shirt most probably. Mona – Monoranjan – had seen him too and pointed him out to the leaders. Suresh looked at the sky. It was approximately two o’clock. Would destiny still wait to meet them in the city?

  HEM GUPTA, 22 APRIL

  The taxi rattled over the six miles of kutcha road that led back from Jharjharia Bot-tali towards Chittagong. Sub-inspector Hem Gupta and Sub-inspector Mohidar Ali were hurrying back. Between them sat a nervous-looking villager who would testify that the news sent in by Sub-inspector Fazlur Rehman of the Panchalaish Thana around noon was correct. The man had more to add. The extra information was being verified right at that moment by Sub-inspector Abdur Rahim.

  By 3.30 p.m. they were in Mr Johnson’s room. The police superintendent was standing, the villager cowering and Hem Gupta trying to lend him courage through a vice-like grip on the scrawny arm. It was not every day that a simple villager came face-to-face with a full-blown Englishman.

  ‘Dekho, hum bahut khush hua tumhara upar.’

  ‘The English babu is very happy with you,’ Hem Gupta whispered encouragingly into the man’s ear. ‘He will give you a big reward.’

  ‘Agar tumhara pata such hua tumko sarkar bahut inam dega.’ Saying this Mr Johnson reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten rupee note and thrust it into the man’s hands and sprang back. He was trying not to stand too close to him for fear of intimidating him further. The man, overcome by a bout of shivering, was unable to look at the amount he had just received.

  ‘You will get even more when the government reward comes.’

  A weak smile fluttered on his lips, but still unable to raise his eyes, he whispered, ‘Jo hukum … whatever the orders.’

  Mr Johnson indicated that he be made to sit down. Hem Gupta led him to a bench. A peon rushed in with some water. In a while, he was calmer.

  Overcoming his initial excitement, Mr Johnson adopted a kinder tone and tried looking him in the eye. ‘Tum jo dekha sab such such batao … tell us truthfully what it was that you saw exactly.’

  The man was ready to swoon but Johnson put up his hand. ‘Jhoot mut bolo aur zyada bhi mut bolo … don’t tell us lies and tell us no more than what you actually saw. Abhi batao.’

  The man spoke a mix of Hindi and the Chittagong dialect. ‘Ai aar hamara bandhu mili abhi dekha hitara pahar mey boitey hai … A friend and I saw them sitting on a hill.’

  ‘How many? Kitna?’

  ‘Ponchas shaat manoosh hoga, sahib.’

  ‘Fifty or sixty.’ Hem Gupta translated, helpfully.

  ‘Sabka paas banduk hai?’

  ‘Banduk …?’ Hem Gupta pointed towards his own firearm.

  ‘Haath mey aachhey aar ek jagah mey dhal korey rakha.’

  ‘They are armed, sir.’ Hem Gupta confirmed.

  ‘Tumhara pura pata hai aur koi aadmi doosri jagah mey chhipa nahi hai … Are you sure there are no other groups hidden in the vicinity?’

  ‘Indi oondi dekha magar chokhey nahi para … I looked around but did not see anyone else.’ The man was feeling more relaxed now. His eyes never left the Englishman’s face and his smile widened until his teeth hung out.

  The sahib reached out and patted him, taking care not to let more than just the tips of his fingers to come in contact with his skin. ‘Theek hai. Tum police kay saat jao. Ghabrao mut. Theek jagah sahib log ko deekha dena.’

  What a day it had been for this pathetic creature beside him, thought Hem Gupta as he made his way to Chowdhury Hat to keep Colonel Smith and the DIG informed … a chance encounter that appeared to be a close shave with certain death was turning out to be a lucrative proposition. Ten rupees … it was unlikely that he had seen such an amount in a long time. But it was the police that could boast of the real windfall, for if anyone knew the lie of the land better, it was this creature.

  ANANTA LAL SINGH, 22 APRIL

  Ananda sat, his lips held tightly between his teeth. Ananta scraped away at the upper lip with a razor, depriving Ananda of the silken fuzz that had been so carefully nurtured these last couple of months and admired in every glass pane or strip of mirror that came his way.

  ‘Aashbey aashbey, baba … it will come back thicker and luxurious.�
��

  The youngster pretended not to care.

  ‘The trouble with you,’ said Ananta, ‘is this baby-soft peaches-andcream complexion. Now remember that you are younger than you actually are … you are a school student and my sister’s son, and I am a motor-car broker. Stand up now; I will tie your dhuti for you.’

  Ananta wound the yards of the soft fabric skilfully around Ananda’s waist securing it tightly. It would not come off while running and most of all it wouldn’t reveal the two loaded pistols at the waist.

  ‘Now no one knows they are there and neither do you. Your face must reflect what you are … a simple harmless boy unaware of the ways of the world.’

  He plied a comb, coaxing a new parting out of Ananda’s hair and stepped back to take in the effect.

  Ganesh-da had, in the meantime, denuded his own face and taken to doing the same to Jibon’s. A more youthful rounded face, burdened by large spectacles emerged. His new identity was that of a clerk, one who had begun working only the other day.

  ‘Makhon rey, you have remained as soft as the butter your mother named you after,’ Ananta-da teased, as he turned his attentions to Jibon. ‘Ganesh has volunteered to be your kaka and he is a businessman. Now, the two of you walk up and down this room.’

  Ananda and Jibon looked up surprised.

  ‘Yes. Yes … perform,’ said Ananta. ‘I want to see if you can walk comfortably … and not scurry like two fugitives. I will have a bad back and will shuffle slightly … not too much though. All right then, let us recite our names, our father’s names and the names of our villages.’

  He ran his hand along the ledge of a window and examined the dirt on his fingers.

  ‘The art of war,’ he said, streaking this new acquisition along the back of his neck and behind his ears, ‘is the art of deception.’

  JOHN YOUNIE, 22 APRIL

  ‘The insurgents have been spotted. They are five miles away.’ The cry rang through the Circuit House. The enemy was advancing on the city. The taxis were ready at the gates.

  John left for the club as soon as he had seen the troopers off. The women and children were being herded in and a division of the Assam Bengal Railway Rifles was taking up position around the premises. The band struck up a cheery tune as mothers and nursemaids soothed the little ones. Mrs Johnson, the police superintendent’s wife, bustled around, organizing with a firm hand. She was a big, high-bosomed woman, with a round healthy face and a mass of curls that peeped from under her hat. Hers was a commanding presence and with Mrs Taitt by her side, the two women ensured that everyone kept calm and the children were fed. The English memsahib’s adaptability! But thank God, Wilkinson had warned him against bringing the family.

  A car brought Wilkinson and Johnson in from the Panchalaish Thana. It had been some years since he had last met with Wilkinson. Tall and lean, he had always cut a fine figure, one that he had worn with a faintly apologetic air. But today, the harrowed expression and the hollows beneath the eyes caught at John’s heart. He shook his hand silently and led him to a chair. Wilkinson, he had learnt, had not returned home since the night of the raid.

  ‘Three trucks and ten taxis have left via Ranger Road,’ said Johnson. ‘They tend to call it Rajpath nowadays.’

  John pictured the route in his head … left turn onto the Bayezid Bostami Road and they would enter the hills.

  ‘The reserve force should be boarding the train this very minute.’ The hands on Johnson’s wristwatch were poised to strike 4.30. ‘They will be in Jalalabad in another twenty-five minutes.

  ‘Taitt!’ A flicker of exasperation flitted across Wilkinson’s face. ‘The man is outright obnoxious. But I was firm with him. He has to bring them back; dead or alive, but bring them back he must.’

  ‘And he was ready with his usual answer: “I know those Bengali kuttas; I will break their teeth today,”’ said Johnson wearily. ‘But I was having none of his cocky attitude. Clean up before you come back, I told him.’

  The gist of it, John gathered, was that the rebels were isolated on the top of a small hill called Jalalabad. Captain Taitt, the AFI adjutant was to lead from the front. His forces, which included the troopers, were to split into three. One unit of fifty men would crawl up the hillside, either without being seen or under the fire cover provided by their comrades, and force a surrender. Colonel Dallas Smith and Mr Farmer would take up positions to the north-east and south-west of the hill respectively, remain out of direct line of vision and prevent the rebels from escaping.

  SURESH DE, 22 APRIL

  For the past two-and-a-half hours, the revolutionaries had waited for a move. Eyes scanning the horizon and a sense of excitement bubbling over.

  ‘Ambika-da.’ Nirmal-da made his voice audible for all the others to listen. ‘Ambika-da, now that we will probably die, does it not make you crave for a cup of hot tea and a plate of sizzling chops and cutlets?’

  It made everyone laugh.

  ‘I think my boys are more ravenous for a taste of battle than a taste of cutlets.’

  ‘What are you saying, Ambika-da?’ Bidhu-da called out. ‘I could eat my cutlet and fight.’

  The boys were sitting around in their groups.8 There were eight of them, each with its own leader. The first and second were to take charge of the front line and it was the job of the third and fourth to support the first two. The fifth and sixth were positioned a little higher on the slope and were posted as lookouts. The seventh and the eighth remained on the highest part of the hill, keeping guard on all directions, ready to rush to the aid of whichever side was attacked first.

  Now and then, a snatch of conversation caught Suresh’s ear. There was an excited chatter taking place in low voices. He knew most of his compatriots by now at least by name.

  ‘Is there any possibility of taking the city after wandering about the hills for four days? The enemy would have secured it by now.’

  Madhusudan’s voice was grave. ‘Why dwell on mistakes? Raise the flag of valour on the graves of these very mistakes.’

  Sahayram and Moti huddled together. They were classmates from the Collegiate School and had appeared for their matriculation examinations. Moti had Mihir Bose’s father’s rifle with him. Mihir had come and handed it over to him but had failed to show up. What could have happened to him and what would he say to his father? What would the police do to them?

  Subodh Roy sauntered in to join the group.

  ‘Worthless talk,’ he said smugly. ‘Of course the owner will be tortured.’ Subodh had been asked for his father’s rifle on the morning of 18 April and had removed it with a duplicate key. He had handed it over to Ganesh Ghosh by lunchtime. In the evening, he had reported to the Congress office and had discovered that he was in a group of seven, deputed to carry haversacks with cartridges, a tin of oil and a dagger.9

  ‘Haldighati,’ said someone. ‘We are writing the script for a second Haldighati today. The British will outnumber us five to a man.’

  But Tripura’s group was sitting in absolute silence. Deboprasadda had his lips pursed. Tegra had traced a message for them with his finger in the dry dust: DEATH.

  A train was passing by. The faint chuff-chuff was growing louder and soon puffs of black smoke rose above the trees. The Nazir Hat branch line passed close to the hill. Then it stopped. And Suresh’s heart thumped. The screeching of the brakes was audible enough. Why was it stopping when there was no station here? In fact there was no station, big or small until Chowdhury Hat, which was about two miles away? The meaning was not lost on him. It was close to five o’clock. The moment of reckoning had arrived.

  A strange calm had descended on Master-da. He had been sitting a little apart from the rest. He looked across towards Loka-da who got up, from where he had been sitting with Bidhu-da, Naresh-da, Ambika-da and Nirmal-da, and ran to him. Suresh saw Master-da place an arm around his shoulders.

  LOKENATH BAL, 22 APRIL

  ‘Boloon. What is it, Master-da?’

  ‘You can appreciate my p
osition at this moment. At this most important juncture when we have to prove ourselves, Ananta and Ganesh are lost to us. I had counted on them to get us through these situations.’ He turned to look Lokenath in the eye. ‘But a new hope has arisen within me. I have you. And I know what I am saying … the responsibility that should have been shared by three people is now all yours. None of us,’ he said indicating the top leadership, ‘have what it takes. The lives of these boys, the honour of this venture depends entirely on you.’

  It was something that Lokenath had been expecting all along: this long picnic in the hills could not have ended in any other way. And for a long time now he had suspected that the two military commanders had somehow slipped away. I will not lose, he told himself, and nor will there be a question of retreat. ‘Master-da,’ he said, ‘give me your blessing.’ Lokenath bent to take the dust of the older man’s feet.

  Master-da placed a hand on his head. ‘Infuse our troops with your qualities – the sharpness of your mind, the belief in the power of your body. Show India the way to independence.’

  A single sharp command was all it took to send his boys running to take up their respective positions. Lokenath, Master-da, Ambikada and Nirmal-da remained at the highest point in the centre. In addition, fifty pairs of eyes scanned the base of the hill.

  ‘Remember,’ Lokenath called out, ‘even the best strategy in the world will find it impossible to overcome determination.’

  Then they saw them: shapes in the distance taking little running jumps and crouching amongst the paddy. Then nothing. And then another blur of movement. Naresh was the first to verbalize it: ‘Many, many soldiers running towards us in broad daylight. They are either too confident or they think we are engrossed in playing cards.’

  Or, thought Lokenath, their commander is afraid of the dark. He wants to wind up before any surprises can be thrown at him.

  Ambika-da, who was concentrating on the numbers said, ‘Looks like a trap for tigers.’