Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  There was a continuous motion about them: bullets bringing in a rush of hot air, in which swirled fragments of wood and bark. A youngster, within Lokenath’s line of vision convulsed and lay still.

  ‘Orey, tor ki holo rey?’

  ‘Lokenath-da, I am hit.’ He was a handsome well-built youth, one that did not fall prey to fear easily.

  ‘Pick up your musket. Fire up your revolutionary spirit. It’s nothing but a piece of wood.’ Lokenath’s reassurance worked like magic. It no longer mattered whether they got off the hill alive – that machine gun on the north-east hill had to be put out. ‘Fire. Fire. Fire. Do not stop firing. Silence that gun.’ Lokenath dragged himself closer to the edge. The flash of the machine gun had grown smaller. It had moved out of the musket range.

  A bullet sliced through Binod Bihari Dutt’s scapula. He was soaked instantly in blood. But Binod did not die. He continued firing. Let life go if it had to be done but that enemy machine gun had to be put out …

  ‘Ambika-da has fallen … we want revenge.’ He craned his head backwards for a glimpse. Ardhendu who had moved up was immediately behind him. He lay clutching his abdomen and through his fingers, Lokenath saw the unmistakable sheen of bowels. The bandages and the sticking plaster, the raw burn wounds, the gleam of intestines. Bile rose in Lokenath’s throat. His chest was near bursting … if only he could have had a sip of water. The water carriers were all empty by now.

  ‘Loka-da, I have a green mango.’ Quick Silver Pulin, who lay beside him, chin glued to his musket, called out. Pulin’s admiration for him was no secret. Being held in awe was the one thing all youth leaders took in their stride. Lokenath shook his head. ‘Hold onto it. We will share it.’

  The machine gun paused. The cartridge belt was being changed. It was time to put that mango to use. He turned his head and called out to Pulin. The boy arched his back and froze in the act, caught in the sudden burst of fire. Lokenath stared in horror as the convulsing form struck the ground and a mangled hand reached out to him. For the first time that evening the tears came streaming down. Laying his musket aside he dragged himself across. With great care, so that Pulin would feel no pain, he opened the bloodied fist. Making no attempt to wipe it clean, Lokenath looked directly into the young boy’s eyes as he bit into the precious mango.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 22 APRIL

  ‘Four third-class tickets; Number 3, Up Mail.’

  Two bright spots of colour rose to Ananda’s cheeks as he paid for the tickets to Laksham Junction. The request for tickets to Kumilla had brought the stationmaster to the window. He had stared, as the clerk curtly announced that there was no provision for tickets from Bhatiari to Kumilla. One would have to buy a ticket all the way to Laksham. It was close to eight. The train was at the platform. Ananda nodded, keeping his gaze level and held out the money. It was his pale skin that was attracting this unwarranted attention. Turning, he hurried towards the platform trying not to break into a run.

  Ananta-da and Ganesh-da took in the near-empty compartment at a glance and decided to settle down somewhere in the middle. Drawing their shawls about their faces, they appeared to drift off to sleep as the train clacked over the rails. Ananda kept an eye on the doors at both ends. Asvini Ghose – the nameplate had been pinned onto the uniform – the stationmaster had left him decidedly uncomfortable.

  The dark of the night rushed by, interspersed by the little lights of the villages as the train gathered speed. He was very alive to the changes in pace, glancing nervously as it slowed at the little stations, letting in the calls of the vendors. Miles sped by. The image of the stationmaster faded.

  SURESH DE, 22 APRIL

  Something loomed beside him, pressing down on his chest; his throat felt dry; his eyes refused to focus in the cocoon of haze that surrounded him. All he remembered was the pain. And the familiar smell of gunpowder.

  His name was being called. The voice faded.

  He was lying on the earth, now suddenly and violently awake, heart thudding, ears ringing. His face was burning and there was that jabbing pain again. Against a ringing silence, his name was being called.

  Twigs were being snapped, thorns being torn from his clothes.

  ‘Shaapey bor … Blessings in a curse!’ the words came clearly through. He was being dragged. He rolled over, unresisting. His name was being called repeatedly. Now there was Shanti Nag’s face framed by the starriest sky he could ever remember. It was coming back now.

  ‘Get up, we need to get to a safe place.’

  It was out of the question. Movement was out of the question. ‘Shoot me.’ Suresh mouthed the words with difficulty, pointing towards his chest with … not with his right hand for that seemed to have disappeared … parted company quite painlessly.

  Shanti sat unmoving. Was he not aware that a noose hung about his neck? A white man’s blood was on his hands. But now he had his arms firmly about Suresh’s chest, dragging him to a clearing on the slope. Suresh was rolling down the hill, sometimes slowly with Shanti protecting his face, his hand guiding the motion and sometimes almost as if he was out of control. They had reached the bottom of the hill. He was lying against the trunk of a great tree.

  Panic was setting in. He could smell it in the air. There was nobody in sight: Master-da, Loka-da, the rest of them. It was reasonable for Shanti to panic, for he was not from Chattogram. He would be completely lost now. So was Suresh, except that he didn’t care. Shanti had gone off. He could hear him calling. He could hear the desperation in his voice. Comprehension seeped in. They had given him up for dead and had gone. Only Shanti had remained behind and had got delayed, trying to carry him downhill … that explained the thorny bush … they had obviously tumbled. Now he too had gone.

  Shanti was back. He was holding his water carrier to Suresh’s lips. The water was fresh and cool and it seemed to flow directly into his limbs, invigorating them with the strength he had never thought would come back. Suresh pulled himself up into a sitting posture. He could have sworn that Shanti’s eyes were about to pop. The water had worked wonders.

  ‘The British have gone.’

  For Suresh, at that moment, it mattered little.

  ‘Master-da, Lokenath-da – they have all gone. We need to go.’

  With Shanti’s arms supporting him, he stood up. His right arm and hand, they were all there – hanging heavy and lifeless, swathed in cotton and bandages.

  ‘I have signalled with my flash light, even climbed up a tree and called. But there is no response. I found a pool, it had a little stream running into it, I followed it for a bit but there was nobody there.’ Shanti was beginning to gabble. The relief in his voice evident: now that there was someone to talk to.

  They took a couple of steps. The dressing was soaked through with blood. Shanti added more bandages over the layers.

  ‘There must be heavy patrolling in the area. We need to be getting along. Hold this.’

  He positioned the musket butt under Suresh’s left shoulder. Through all this, Shanti had clung to his musket. The revolvers? he wondered idly. A glance told him that they hung both at his waist and Shanti’s. With Shanti’s arm around his waist, Suresh was suddenly overcome by the urge to get away from the area as quickly as possible. It was so dark that visibility was limited to a couple of feet. And with the area completely unknown, what if they came across someone … the blood and the dirt, the weapons, the injury …

  They walked for a while and then Shanti broke the silence. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you will use this arm again.’

  ‘What happened in the end?’

  ‘The machine gun suddenly stopped firing and about ten or fifteen minutes later we heard a whistle, their train was leaving. It was exactly eight o’clock. It was incredible. We’ve won, Suresh! But so many are dead … ten are dead. We examined all of them again and again. There was so much of blood; the ground had turned to slush at places. Master-da asked us to collect all the firearms and shoot those we thought would not make it
through the night. All those lessons in first aid and I could not help any of them. I checked again and again to see if they were breathing … But there was something different about you. I could not leave you behind … Ambika-da is still alive but they could not bring him down. He was conscious enough to tell Master-da to remove the money from his pocket. Motilal Kanungo was breathing but not responding. Subodh Roy had been keeping an eye on him since he was shot, gave him the last of his water hoping to ease his pain, hoping to see him dead before we left but … And Ardhendu Dastidar … his abdomen has been blown open but he had been firing till the last. Master-da left a revolver with him in case of … well in case some wild animals came by. Lokenath-da called us all. He asked us to fall in and pay our respects to the dead. Then we turned to leave. Binod Choudhury 12 – he has a neck wound, and Binod Bihari Dutt – they both had to be helped. I went back to take one last look at you.’

  They had been walking for some time now, restricting the use of the flashlight to a minimum. A large hill loomed up ahead. They were back where they had started.

  JOHN YOUNIE

  It was soon after dark that the jubilant planters returned. Johnson and Wilkinson had left to do the rounds of the thanas where news was expected. The ladies crowded around, silent with expectation, as Alexander Burnett came by to reassure them that all was well. John Younie gathered the impression that they had been accompanied by some forty Gurkhas. The atmosphere in the club turned festive with much cheering – Mrs Johnson’s voice carrying through the room.

  ‘The Mussalman led us up a mile-long sandy-bottomed ravine leading into the hills. He pointed to a low range of hills about 300 yards away and said they were up there. Scarcely had he spoken, when a perfect hail of bullets whistled over our heads.’ He paused for effect. ‘We lost no time in taking cover and replying. To get within more effective range, we crept up the nalla and opened fire again at roughly 200 yards. The rebels could be clearly seen moving about in the scrub jungle … easy targets, but it was then that we discovered that in our hurry we had left the tripod for our Hotchkiss machine gun behind.’

  There was a cry of dismay and a loud sniff from Mrs J as Burnett hastened to make amends. Young Mrs Taitt stared at the carpet with her lips pursed.

  ‘An attempt was made to hold the gun in position by hand but the heat of the barrel stopped us from doing so for more than a few rounds at a time. After maintaining heavy fire for nearly an hour, we decided to advance – which without the cover of machine gunfire was risky, but we managed to cross the stretch of open dhan khet and occupy the insurgents’ positions. They had retreated further into the hills but we had them at closer range now and a steady battle was kept up until dusk when it was decided to withdraw and return to Chittagong. A force of the Eastern Frontier Rifles, 200 strong, was to assist us, but they failed to show up.13 We couldn’t wait for them, for we had to be back for our patrolling duties and besides, it was pointless to try and follow them into the jungle.’ Burnett clicked his tongue ‘… a splendid opportunity missed as they were cornered in a bottlenecked valley with one outlet to the sea.’

  John pushed past the ladies and went up to shake Burnett’s hand. ‘Should have been able to pursue the operation to a more satisfactory conclusion but … no fault of the SVLH. You lot have done an excellent job.’

  The two men stepped out onto the verandah.

  ‘The rebels appear to have been drilling for months under the guise of athletic associations under the supervision of a Sikh,14 reputed to be an expert in frontier warfare and a deserter from the army. Captain Taitt was of the opinion that had they been armed with. 303 rifles and ammunition, nothing could have prevented their occupying Chittagong and terrorizing the whole district. But,’ Alexander flashed a cheeky grin as he turned to leave. ‘Their shooting must have been pretty wild as our total number of casualties consists of one man shot through the wrist.’

  A great pity, thought John. From the descriptions it seemed apparent that the tila had been selected and arranged as a fortified ammunition dump for months without being detected … if only there had been a sufficient force, they could have completely surrounded the little tila and the entire hornet’s nest could have been exterminated. Where had Dallas Smith and his hundred disappeared to … and all that talk of bringing in aeroplanes, regulars and a detachment of Gurkhas from Shillong? As far as he could see, it was all talk. Why the hell couldn’t they bring down a couple of hundred Gurkhas from Shillong; after all, they were the fellows who were in the Abor15 show and were used to this kind of jungle fighting. Three is to one … the army manual’s instructions were pretty clear on this point: take on one enemy company with three of your own. Why had they then sent seventy men against the hundred raiders?16 The show is being managed with a surprising lack of ineffectiveness, if not ineptitude. The gang will now succeed in making their escape and some may try to double back and commit some outrage here.

  He settled down in an armchair, having resolved to keep the families company that night. There was something to say for them. For the rebels, or rather the schoolboys and their master, had achieved complete success in their objectives in the town and then, undeterred by the unexpected arrival on the scene of a Lewis gun, did not forthwith proceed to scatter into hiding but marched off into the hills, still a united disciplined force, one which, as soon as the forces of authority came in touch with them, had made a united and determined effort to annihilate them.

  The correct facts would take time to be uncovered but meanwhile the planters appeared to have thoroughly enjoyed the little skirmish. They would get paid of course … he made a quick mental calculation, deducting the money order charges and the annual SVLH membership subscription. It would leave them with nine rupees of the original fourteen in hand. The government had it in for all of them these days …

  FOURTEEN

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 23 APRIL, FENI STATION

  ‘Cha Cha Heni Heni.’

  The calls were floating in now. Ananda was dimly aware of the lights flashing onto his face. It was well past midnight – probably one o’ clock; they were pulling up at Feni station. They were nearly sixty miles from Chattogram now.

  The train came to a halt. Ananda sat up. The rest were still dozing or appeared fast asleep.

  ‘Bhatiari to Laksham, Bhatiari to Laksham.’

  Two police officers and about ten constables had boarded the train checking tickets at random. All sleep vanished in seconds though Ananta-da and Ganesh-da continued to doze. They adjusted their positions to more comfortable ones but Ananda knew they had repositioned their weapons. He exchanged a quick glance with Makhon and quickly made sure that he could pull out his own in an instant if required. The police party was coming closer. His heart beating wildly, he wondered what Ananta-da and Ganesh-da were planning to do. Would they try and fool the police or would they begin shooting straight away? Neither of them was making any eye contact … what were they thinking?

  ‘Bhatiari to Laksham?’

  Ananta-da yawned and produced the tickets.

  The sipahis had rifles slung over their shoulders and batons in their hands.

  Sub-inspector Jatindra Mohan Rai examined them and handed them to the Inspector Abdul Mohammad Fazal Wasid. They were looking at the ticket numbers.

  ‘Name?’ The havaldar barked.

  ‘Mahim Chandra Sen,’ Ananta-da identified himself. ‘My nephew,’ he pointed to Ananda.

  Ganesh-da and Makhon identified themselves as the Guhas. ‘Family business,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Guhas and Sens? Boddi and Kayast?’ The sub-inspector smirked. ‘Can’t be related.’

  ‘Where to? Kumilla? Then why the tickets to Laksham? Home address?’

  ‘Abhaya Ashram Feni Bazaar.’ Ananta-da said weakly.

  ‘Never seen you there … been there six months.’ The sub-inspector took a sudden decision. ‘Off,’ he said. ‘Off the train now.’

  Ganesh-da fell at the inspector’s feet. ‘Daroga Babu,’ he whimpered. �
��We have done nothing wrong. We have not withheld any information. It is all a mistake. Saar, if you order it … they will listen. Have pity on us; we fear the police.’

  It was clear the inspector felt sympathetic. He glanced at the subinspector who in turn shot the havaldar a look.

  ‘Look,’ began the inspector, ‘I don’t really want to harass you but we all work for a living. If the Bhatiari stationmaster had not sent us a telegram and the ticket numbers given to the guard not matched, we would not have been forced into this unpleasant task. Come. Don’t worry. We will take a statement – a jabaan-bandi – and let you go.’

  ANANTA LAL SINGH, 23 APRIL, FENI STATION

  How had the stationmaster guessed? Was every traveller supposed to know that tickets from Bhatiari to Kumilla were not sold? Or was it Ananda’s face? It did belong to the refined upper class, but then again, would such a boy be associated with terrorists? Ananta lurched as he stepped down. There were several helping hands … amongst them those of J.B. Ferera’s. The name plate blazed before his eyes.

  ‘Oh! You are an Anglo. Great piece of work …’ Ananta muttered to himself as he shot a silent look, pregnant with suffering, in the guard’s direction. He was the one that had kept an eye on their compartment and pointed it out to the police. ‘And your colleague … what a super little sleuth … but obviously not as clever as he thinks he is for the police are still chatting away with us instead of gunning us down.’

  Ananta walked hunched over like a sick old man, his head trembling ever so slightly. They were being led away from the engine. This train was blocking the escape route to the north. A barbed-wire fence ran alongside the platform blocking the southern side. Making a run for it would mean running along the tracks and getting gunned down in the process. They had walked the complete length of the train. A coughing fit forced him to the ground and in those few moments he had loosened the automatic pistol and the Webley revolver at his waist. Ananda and Makhon helped him up and requested for some water. They were so scared; it was showing on their faces. How could boys like these be a part of a dreaded gang? Jatin Babu, the sub-inspector, was all kindness. He was Haran’s – Shourindra Mohan Choudhury’s – mama; had he any clue that his nephew had been a part of the teams that disrupted the rail lines on the night of 18 April?