Master-da was in agreement. ‘Jalalabad today is no less than a diamond mine.’
The soldiers had crossed the paddy field and had merged into the green of the jungle below.
Rajat who was at the highest point, called out in a loud whisper. ‘Here they come.’
They could be seen now, darting up the slope in short bursts, taking cover behind the bushes. They were clearly visible now – short, stocky men with broad chests and powerful arms carrying rifles. Through the branches and leaves planted on the helmets one could see the faces. A Gurkha regiment had sent its men.
Conscious of his rising heartbeat, Lokenath realized that the eastern portion of the hill had been completely surrounded. A sudden commotion behind him made him turn his head. Master-da had been just in time to stop ten boys from bolting. ‘Now is not the time,’ he said. ‘Leave the hill now and you will throw yourselves directly into their path.’ He raised his voice, ‘General Bal! Take charge!’
‘Take positions … extended line … lie down … ready … do not fire until the command is given. The battle will begin in minutes. Let us remind ourselves of the treachery of Clive, the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, the 200 years of inhuman British rule. There is no mercy, no feelings, no forgiveness. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; we want blood. We will fight bravely and embrace death … abichalito chittey driro hastey shotrukey kothin aaghat korbo, we will break their morale … their defeat is assured … long live revolution.’
The army chanted in one voice, ‘Jibon mrityu payer bhritto chitto bhabonahin.’ It was a low rumble that echoed through the hill past every tree and fluttered amongst their leaves.
SURESH DE, 22 APRIL, 5.30 P.M.
A trink sounded. The enemy had fitted their bayonets.
‘Nearly halfway up now.’ Naresh-da’s voice could be heard.
‘Halt!’ The word boomed across the slopes. It produced a visible effect on the crouching soldiers. Lokenath-da’s voice was deep and powerful, one that would outrival any British drill sergeant’s voice. ‘Fire! Volley Fire!’
Suresh had been chafing all this while, with his finger on the trigger and his eye on his chosen target, for this command. The musket roared. The recoil hit him sharply along the ribs, but despite the smoke that had welled up at its mouth, he had the distinct thrill of having got his man. Volley after volley was being fired. Like him, the others had been waiting for this moment. The Gurkha army was beginning to fall apart before his eyes. Not easy to stand on a slope and fire upwards is it? He sniggered as the words flitted through his head. A Gurkha turned and ran. He ignited a stampede.
‘Fire! Fire! Fire! There is no forgiveness. Destroy them all.’
Within seconds, the organized ascent had fallen into disarray. Some soldiers lay, making no attempt to move; others ran screaming for their lives, abandoning their weapons. The seconds slowed down, elongating as if with a fascination for detail. Limping, trailing their useless limbs, the enemy tumbled downwards making its way through the hail of bullets; some not even bothering to pick themselves up until they were back within the cover of the undergrowth.
Around him, the hilltop erupted with cries of triumph; pride and hate mingled into one voice: ‘Ingrez die … down with the British … Long live revolution … Bande Mataram!’
Suresh had rushed with the others to the eastern edge of the hill, holding up his rifle, shaking it furiously as if it were a spear, hurling abuses. ‘Why don’t you fight, you British dogs? Shame on you, you British brigands, tyrants, traitors! Why are your white masters hiding? You scoundrels. You rascals. Murderers. Bloodsuckers. Down with you … you dogs. To hell with you!’ The words rolled off his tongue with ease.
He could see the last of them at the far end of the paddy field jumping into the nalla where the officers waited. Heads bobbed up and down about him trying to throw the voices as far into the distance as possible. The words ‘dogs’ and ‘British’ were being enunciated with particular care. Some hugged each other. Someone began to sing ‘Bolo beer cheero unnato maumo sheer’ and though many joined in, it was a tuneless effort.
‘Look at them,’ said Nirmal-da. ‘Such powerful bodies, days of wrestling and bodybuilding invested in them, ultra-modern weapons, war experience and …’ He turned to Ambika-da hugging him, ‘our boys beat them.’
A bugle sounded. It drew everybody’s attention, for it was the most quavering tuneless piece they had ever heard. All eyes were drawn to the nalla in the distance. And though it was nearing sunset, three Tommies were distinctly visible beside the bugler. The body language was unmistakable: the cringing bugler, the gesticulating Tommie, the soldiers picking themselves up and limping across. They were taking up their positions again.
‘Taitt.’ Suresh heard Loka-da mutter.
There was some action beginning again. More men were in the formation this time. The bugle and drums sounded and the Gurkha war cry rent the air: ‘Chaloho, Baroho, Maar!’ A blaze of rapid fire and they emerged from the drain taking the rice field on the double.
‘Positions!’ Loka-da called.
Suresh lay down and took aim. Not even a span of five to seven minutes had passed since the last gun battle had ended. A British officer was running along with the front line, a second was gesticulating wildly at those in the middle. ‘Swine. Rascal,’ The words floated up to the hilltop. A third brought up the rear. Nearly a whole company was attempting to run up the hill, under the cover of gunfire from the nalla. The eastern sky was a deep shade of red and the glitter of the bayonets hypnotizing.
‘Aashchhey.’
The call from the front line broke the spell. Master-da came up to the edge to take a look. ‘Shiny weapons,’ he said, ‘are useful for inducing fear, but have little use in war. Remember, they are in the hands of mercenaries who are aware that they are fighting a battle that is not their own … a battle against their own people.’
The soldiers were entering the musket range. Loka-da’s voice rang out. ‘Fire!’
Suresh saw a line of Gurkhas go down on one knee. They took aim and their guns flashed.
‘Fire!’ Loka-da called again. A burst of musket fire followed Lokada’s command. ‘Load! Fire!’
Return fire came up the slope again. The slopes of green Jalalabad echoed with the sound of muskets and exploding grenades.
But from their vantage point on top of the hill, concealed behind bushes, it was clear that it was their bullets that were scoring. Finding it impossible to advance, the enemy turned back again. Master-da raised the battle cry: ‘Bande Mataram!’ It was taken up by all who heard him.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 22 APRIL, 6.30 P.M.
Four villagers made their way down the Trunk Road, battered old umbrellas in hand and beddings rolled up in shataranjis. They were walking quickly, for it was already sundown and they had a long eight miles ahead if they were to catch the eight o’clock train from Bhatiari station. A youngster walked ahead, a hurricane lamp, as yet unlit, swinging from his hand.
An elderly figure straggling behind, sank to the ground wheezing. The youngster who had been walking ahead turned back anxiously. The lantern was lit and after a few minutes of rest, they got up again.
A bus stood by the side of the road, its khaki-clad occupants taking a tea break. They patrolled the Trunk Road, the tarmac and the dirt portions, all ninety miles of it up to Chandpur. Few lorries or buses plied this route during the day and by night it was more or less deserted.
As the four travellers approached the bus, the strains of the youngster’s song floated on ahead on the night air: ‘Krishno kalo tomal kalo tai to tomal bhalo.’ The Chattogram lilt lent its own comforting charm to this all-time favourite. They stopped for a bit before the bus. One held up the lantern and the elderly man craned his neck forward, a beedi trembling at his lips. Another held out the one that he had been smoking. The sallow stubbly cheeks, illuminated in the yellow light, sucked away until a glow appeared at the end. Satisfied, he drew in a lungful, holding onto it, eyes closed in blis
s till the others nudged him on.
The singing was picked up again and Ananda’s soulful tune lingered on the warm night breeze long after he was gone.
SURESH DE, 22 APRIL, JALALABAD
The red had gone out of the sky. It was past 6.30 and they were still waiting anxiously for the next move. Fifteen minutes passed in deafening silence. Then the bugle sounded in the nalla and the soldiers at the bottom of the hill fired a couple of rounds. All that was visible was the smoke that indicated the position of the soldiers. The revolutionaries aimed their muskets and fired back and instantly all hell broke loose. A gunner standing high up on the south-east hill found what he was looking for – musket smoke. The machine gun fired a round upon Jalalabad.
‘Enemy on the south-east hill. Aim. Ten rounds rapid fire.’
Twenty to twenty-five muskets fired back and the machine gun responded with a hail of bullets. A second machine gun on the northeast hill kicked into action. Branches flew about; pieces of bark shaved off by the onslaught came whizzing through the air. Trees grew pale by the minute, as bark was whittled off at high speed.
‘No more firing.’ Loka-da called in a low voice. ‘All eyes focus on the hills. Look for movement. Fire only when you see movement.’ He turned to Master-da. ‘You need to take responsibility for the northeast side. The boys must remain alert … really alert. Nirmal-da, take charge of the south-east side. Remember, they are all hungry and very thirsty. They cannot lose their concentration now.’
The magazine belt10 must have been taken off and a fresh one installed, for the gun on the south-east hill began to fire again. The bullets were ripping into Jalalabad, slashing it to shreds, tearing up clumps of earth where they struck. It was impossible to move. A mist hung low over the hill, one that smelt of pungent gunpowder, and the earth thundered below him. How long could they continue? Now a third machine gun, located in the nalla below, pounded into action.
‘Do not move … do not raise your heads … their bullets are going waste … they will not hit you if you do not move.’ Loka-da’s voice came in every time there was a pause.
For Suresh in the front line, even the slightest motion was impossible. The musket barrel was growing really hot … it was impossible to touch it, let alone take aim. He had managed to pull off his shirt. That helped to hold the musket steady. Now the cartridge could no longer be forced into the chamber. He had fired no more that ten rounds since the last time he had cleaned it, but despite the smokeless black powder that was being used, it had jammed again. He would have to wait until the barrel cooled. But then again, did he dare sit up? The slightest movement seemed to be attracting gunfire. These police muskets were simply not meant for prolonged firing, he sighed.
‘Keep up a controlled firing … take turns in firing … enough to let them know we are still around.’ Loka-da’s voice could be heard.
‘Else,’ Suresh completed Loka-da’s meaning in his head, ‘they will come up for that bayonet charge.’ He was looking directly at the south-east hill. The mouth of the machine gun glowed through the mist every time it fired.
Behind the front line, the boys were taking turns. While one cleaned his musket, the other fired. He rested his head on the ground. It had been a while since his musket had packed up. There was now practically no return fire from their side. Someone shouted at him to pass him the tin of kerosene oil. It lay by his side along with the cleaning rod and the steel puff. It was of little use to him now that he was frozen in this position. He rolled the tin backwards. The endless hail of bullets was disorienting. The only things that registered were the periodic silences but of them he had lost count
‘Mushkil aashan!’ The triumphant cry broke through. The voice was Nirmal-da’s. He guessed he was behind a bush somewhere. Something moved beside him – a figure in white dragging himself on his chest. It was Master-da holding out a freshly cleaned musket. The cartridge slid in and Suresh took aim ignoring the movement in his peripheral vision. Master-da was moving away, rapidly snaking his way across. That single red glow on the opposite hill had a mesmerizing effect. It had grown in size, looming over them.
Someone stepped across him. Tegra who had been on his right was now to his left. Horror and fascination kept his eyes glued to the small figure as it jumped up, took aim, fired and flung itself back on the ground. Tegra inched forward on his chest, jumped up and took aim again. He was still standing, when a cluster of bullets hit him. One moment he was silhouetted against the night sky, his white dhuti fluttering about his legs, and in the next he was a heap on the ground. He heard him call out, ‘Master-da, bidai. Shona Bhai, aami chollam … tora chaliye ja. Britishder kachhey matha neechu korbi na.’
‘Tora chaliye ja.’ Tegra’s last words to Loka-da, to his Shona Bhai. His words had been drowned in the gunfire but everyone had seen him fall. They knew he had bidden them farewell and encouraged them to carry on.
‘Tegra has fallen … long live Tegra … long live revolution.’
Suresh turned his head to the right, to where Tegra had been. The place was occupied by Probhash Bal. But Probhash lay facing the sky, clutching his musket to his chest. There was that quick wriggling motion again and Master-da was prying the dead fingers off the weapon.
‘Here’ Suresh heard him say. ‘Put it to good use.’
‘The lever is jammed.’ The voice was Bon Bihari’s. Then a click; it had slid into place. The blood that had seeped in from Probhash’s wounds was probably working as lubricant.
It must be well past an hour since the machine guns had taken over. Suresh got up on his knees and crawled ahead for a better view. There was Bidhu-da – Bidhu Bhattacharya – he could see him now. He was standing up and firing. He moved past Tripura Sen, who had taken cover behind a bush. He was badly wounded but still firing away.
‘Keep going … it’s not too long now,’ Suresh heard him call out. Fellow revolutionaries he could not identify lay unmoving. These last 15 – 20 minutes seemed to be claiming more lives than before. The mouth of the machine gun glowed. A shadowy figure beside it could just be made out. Suresh went down on one knee and took careful aim. The figure appeared again, outlined against the red glow.
Bidhu-da’s voice came floating across. He was still laughing.
‘Arrey! Aar koto haadaabi … how many will you pump into me. Why not fire at my chest?’
LOKENATH BAL, 22 APRIL, JALALABAD
‘Shona Bhai!’ Lokenath had not failed to hear that cry. The battle was at such a pitch that it was impossible to get up. So much as even raising one’s head got one shot, but the initial nervousness had long passed and his commands were going unheeded. Irritation and anguish flooded through him. The little one was dying, the one for whom Ma had pleaded and wept, the one who had deceived her at that last moment by changing out of uniform and then jumping out of the window when her back was turned. He could see her now smiling down at her lusty infant, clicking her tongue … it was the only sound that soothed the baby. He could remember that – imitating his mother; peering at the new little brother through the veil of hair that cascaded down from his mother’s head. It was because of the clicking sound that they called him Tegra. Lokenath brushed away burning tears that had appeared unbidden. ‘There is no Shona Bhai here,’ he muttered. ‘Learn to die like a man.’
Tripura had been hit. He had been firing away like a madman at one point and now he lay still. And now there was Deboprasad Gupta ducking behind trees, dropping to his knees. Fifteen steps! He had taken nearly fifteen steps to make it to Tripura’s side. Lokenath watched in disbelief as Debu knelt, unbuttoned the battle jacket and gazed at the shattered chest with tears rolling down his face. Buttoning the jacket up, Debu stood up to give his friend a soldier’s salute and made his way carefully back. It was a side to him that Lokenath had never guessed existed. Ambika-da sent word round. No more slogans to the dead … it only gave away information.
A lull in the fighting once again. Two hours had gone by since the battle had begun and vision had been r
educed to grey blurred shapes. Nothing seemed to be happening and then the bugle sounded. The British were retreating. He waited, too stunned to believe it. But then came the sound … a train letting off steam … it was pulling out.
The hillside erupted with joy: Bande Mataram! Down with the British! Down with imperialism! It was unbelievable. The British had retreated.
A machine gun11 on the north-east hill began to fire. It began to deliver the most fearsome round of all. The hillside was being torn up. Great clods of earth blew up into dust before his eyes.
‘I am hit! I am hit!’ The young voice belonged to fourteen-yearold Nirmal Lala who had jumped up the moment the bullet struck. All eyes were on him instantly. ‘Lie down, lie down.’ He lay down obediently. ‘Bande Mataram,’ Lokenath heard him say. Saroj Kanti Guha who lay right beside him was too shocked to move but Debu was up yet again. Through the haze of dust and smoke, Lokenath saw Debu crawl towards Nirmal. He was the youngest amongst the revolutionaries, younger than Tegra, a village boy he knew nothing about. Debu cradled his head on his lap murmuring soft comforting words, running his hands over his forehead and on his chest. Lokenath turned to his musket again. Did Nirmal register Debu’s comforting presence, he wondered. Could Debu make up for the mother who was not by his side in these last moments?
With Nirmal’s death, a kind of madness set in. Binod Bihari Dutt flung aside his musket and leapt up with his revolver. He was pacing before the others, ‘There is no forgiveness, no forgiveness; we want blood, we want blood!’
Kali Kinkar De, whose position was beside him, kept pleading for him to lie down. It had no effect until Lokenath barked at him in a cold voice. ‘Lie down right now and take your position. There is no place for madness on a battlefield.’
Bidhu’s malarkey had ceased to be funny. ‘Haadaaichey etokhuney haadaaichey … They have pierced me, they have pierced me … Naresh chollam … tomarey receive korum … waiting to receive you.’ Naresh went crazy. He jumped up only to become the next victim.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 30