They took some time at the water fountain. On the tracks beyond the one on which the Number 3, Up Mail stood, was another train – its engine headed towards Chattogram. It was full of armed Gurkha soldiers.1 There was no hope of escape.
They were being marched into the Assistant Stationmaster Pulin Bihari Majumdar’s room. The little room choked with people – the police, two ticket collectors Prafulla Pathak and Abdul Hakim and the signaller Lal Mia; nobody wanted to miss out on the action.
The inspector took the assistant stationmaster’s chair right beside the entrance door and sat with his back to the window. The subinspector perched on the table in front, his legs dangling, with Ganesh, Makhon, Ananda, Ananta and a constable cooped up between him and a set of almirahs that lined the wall at the back. The constables that could not fit in the room milled about on the outside crowding the door, peering through the window. Ganesh was asked to open up the bedding, which he did. He then requested to be allowed to go and relieve himself. The good-natured inspector instructed the havaldar and two constables to take him out.
‘Koi, baba?’ Ananta whined. ‘You have checked all our baggage; now finish with the jabaan-bandi.’
The inspector looked faintly embarrassed. ‘A body search is part of our routine. Let us get over with it and you can go.’
A constable stepped up. Makhon was right in front, close to the door. It was now or never; better dead than be taken alive. DANGEROUS AND ARMED CHITTAGONG REVOLUTIONARIES ARRESTED. The headlines flashed before him. The constable’s hands were reaching out for Makhon’s waist; all eyes riveted on them; the moment that every magician waits for. It was over in a fraction of a second: the constable behind him had been shot in the thigh; he was up on the table growling jaan bachao … run for your lives; another constable shot in the leg; the light put out by a third bullet, the tiny room miraculously emptying. The one thing that had registered, through the gunpowder fumes, was the sight of Ananda running out with the crowd. Could there be a policeman waiting for him by the door? Ananta took a flying leap from the table to a spot outside the door. The sub-inspector was standing about five arm-lengths to his left, his face frozen in alarm. Was he about to shoot? There was no time to think. Ananta fired the pistol and ran. He had lost sight of Ananda.
The person he was following seemed to be headed towards the tracks leading eastwards. It didn’t seem to be either Ananda or Makhon. Was it just another railway employee fleeing in panic? There were agitated people coming up behind him: more employees or the police? Ananta made a quick diversion to the south. In his panic he had forgotten the barbed wire fence that ran along the length of the station.
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 23 APRIL
Ananda was running, the blood pounding in his ears, each ragged breath burning its way through his chest and nostrils. There was shouting … they were chasing him. Where was he? And where were the others? The comfort of tarmac beneath his feet … he had wandered onto the Trunk Road. Mica glistened up at him through the dark; miles of dark stretched on either side … standing paddy, he guessed. He must be quite far from the station now … there were no more voices following him. One voice penetrated, through the buzz that the new silence had induced. It was Makhon’s.
‘Wait.’ He called again. How long had he been following him?
Makhon ran up the last few steps and sat down heavily. ‘Can’t any more.’ There was a shiver in his voice.
Ananda’s hands felt wet. He let go of Makhon’s arm and turned his flashlight on. There was blood. Too much, he thought. Makhon was bleeding copiously; it poured down his forehead, streaking his face, down his neck, soaking his shirt; he was so pale, so cold. Gingerly Ananda parted his hair and recoiled in horror. A laceration extended all the way down his scalp, the edges curling outwards, revealing the pale pink gleam of tissues and the sickening white of bone. He waited to catch his breath.
‘But how?’
‘A lathi … the constable behind the almirah.’
The almirah? But Makhon had been closest to the door and amongst the first to leave the room, even before the smell of gunpowder had set off that coughing fit. Ananda was rubbing Makhon’s hands now and alternately trying to press his handkerchief down on the wound and jumping away as if it were hot coals. His hand grew gradually steadier and Makhon calmer.
With Makhon leaning against him Ananda led the way to a pool of water. The blood was washed away and the head bound as best as possible. They sat down for some time. It was difficult to gauge direction in the dark. Had they been running towards Kumilla or were they closer to Chattogram now? There were no lights, no signs of habitation close by. Nor were there any signs of either Ganesh-da or Ananta-da. Had they managed to escape? Were they alive?
‘What constable? What almirah?’
‘I heard a shot behind me and ran out. But Ananta-da had been left behind inside. He would need backup. I thought there would be a crossfire situation and we would end up shooting ourselves so I ran back inside and took cover behind the almirah. The light had gone out. I did not see the constable on the floor, hiding behind the almirah. As I crouched he hit me on the head … twice … and grabbed one of my revolvers. But I ran out before he could shoot me.’
Ananda hugged his friend in relief. Makhon was lucky to have got away alive. He had thought of the others, while he, Ananda, had fled in panic.
It was nearly 3 a.m. now, they guessed. That they were on the Feni Trunk Road was obvious. They set off in the direction they hoped was east.
Shadows seemed to jump out, as if cohorts of policemen lay in hiding, waiting for two young lads to come their way. They pressed down as gently as possible with each step, for the sounds of their own feet transformed themselves into several footfalls. Lone soldiers appearing to be on guard turned out to be innocuous palms. The boys watched and dodged their way down the road.
What if Ananta-da and Ganesh-da were somewhere close by? How would they even know that Ananda Prasad Gupta and Jibon Ghoshal had gone by? Calling them by name would be giving themselves away. Sing; that was the answer; sing as loudly as possible; surely their voices would not go unrecognized.
Ananda and Makhon walked quickly down the road belting out the verses, at the top of their lungs, without a thought for melody. The eastern sky was taking on a lighter hue; it would be dawn soon. There had been no time to plan, for they had walked most of the night, hoping to catch up with Ganesh-da or Ananta-da. They would have to take to the hills soon.
It was light enough now to make out the figure of a man some 200 yards in front. He was walking away from them briskly but who could be out at this hour? Nervously, they peeped over their shoulders. Police parties were known to do this. The man up ahead seemed to slow his pace. The boys slowed down watching him intently. Then, in what seemed to be a deliberate attempt to close the gap, the man sat down by the side of the road. He got up after a while and began to walk again. The boys shadowed him, always maintaining a safe distance. He would soon turn off on to a side road. They would have to be careful until then.
The man settled down under a tree. His chador was draped over his head and shoulders, his face completely covered. It was quite obvious now he was waiting for them to go past and that was when he would begin to tail them.
The boys exchanged glances. The man appeared to be resting, pretending as if he didn’t realize that they stood so close.
‘Hands up.’
Fingers were ready on the triggers, the revolvers pointing directly at the man’s chest.
The apparition raised its arms without protest.
‘Who are you?’
‘Srijukto – The honourable – Ganesh Ghosh.’ The form convulsed with laughter.
The boys all but literally dove into his chest. Ganesh-da’s body burned with fever.
Ananda turned angrily on him. ‘And where have you been all this while? How did you get out of the station?’
‘A neat little getaway.’ He laughed. ‘I kept insisting that I could not defile the station c
ompound but they would not take me beyond the tracks. I had to finally squat there itself. The havaldar and the sipahis were trying to look away discreetly when I heard the shots. The next thing they knew was that they were staring down the mouths of two revolvers. They knew what was best for them … and you?’ He was looking at Makhon’s bandaged head.
Makhon stalled as if he were trying to think of the best way to explain. The story did not sound as great as the first time round. ‘It was pretty foolish of me,’ he agreed.
ANANTA LAL SINGH, 23 APRIL
The barbed wire clung tenaciously and his hands were of little use, for both held weapons. A good hard yank succeeded in freeing most of the clothing. Sticky warmth trickled down a leg, but clamouring for attention was the gate – the gate used by the third-class passengers; it had stood right beside him all this while, waiting to be opened. In no more than a couple of seconds Ananta was outside the station compound, striding towards the dimly outlined residential area. Never in his life had he experienced the kind of energy that coursed through his veins at this very moment. There was a sensation of soaring within, that promised to lend him wings. His stomach churned without warning. His feet were slipping, sliding in wet mud. His arms jerked helplessly; it was impossible to maintain his balance, with both his hands occupied as they were: fingers at the ready on the triggers.
The injustice of it all was too much to bear, for it had been no more than two seconds ago that he was standing entangled in barbed wire. And now he was up to his neck in slush, hands raised above his head. He had completely missed the freshly built hut by the side of the road and the pit that had been dug to help churn sticky mud for the plaster. Could anyone have transited from such emotional highs to depths as low as this, in such little time? Ananta flailed his arms against the strong suction maintained by the thick mud.
Fortunately, there was no one to see him as he crawled out – a spectre emerging from its miry lair. The one thing he was certain of by now was that there was nobody chasing him. He made his way back through the fields to the railway track. He was now about 300 yards away from the station. It did not look as if there was much happening there. Perhaps the others had got away safely.
Crossing the tracks, he made off towards the north. He would have to reach the hills by first light. There was no dearth of water, for the fields were criss-crossed by irrigation channels. He crossed them all, splashing his way through muddy pools, running streams and wide canals. He had walked most of the night. It was perhaps safe to stop now. Sitting down beside a pool he washed the mud that caked his torso and limbs and bound a wound that bled persistently. The firearms needed to be cleaned. That was more important. The little 0.450-bore pistol could fire nine times in one go but one shot had already been used on the sub-inspector and of the six that had been in the revolver, five had already been fired. He rummaged through the bag of spares but there was nothing there, for he had divided the ammunition between Ananda and Makhon. So now he was dependent on the pistol. Carefully, he began cleaning it out. There was something wrong; his blood began to run cold; the ejector spring had broken.
AMBIKA CHAKRABORTY, 23 APRIL, JALALABAD
It was the moaning that first broke through his consciousness. A light rain pattering down had roused him. The night was icy cold, pitch dark and the silence hard on the ears. His eyelids would not open. He struggled with them, scraping at the congealed blood that glued them together. He was lying out in the open. Was the battle over? There was that moan again. Someone was in pain. The memories came rushing back. Surjya Babu had knelt by his side and wished him goodbye. He had said that he was leaving with the boys. Did he remember to give the money to Surjya Babu? His hand went to his shirt pocket. It was empty. He had about 100 to 150 rupees in there. He must have. Where were all the British soldiers? Why hadn’t they taken him away or killed him? Where was the revolver? He had a distinct memory of a voice that told him that there was a revolver and a musket being left behind for him. Subodh … It had been Subodh Roy’s voice. Or was it Bon Bihari’s? It was too much to remember. The boy had seemed unwilling to let him be.
Ah! Here was the revolver. Ambika groped at it with his fingers but why was he not able to raise his arm? He was too weak; his arm had become very heavy … oho, someone had bandaged it with great care. He would have to leave quickly now. As he struggled to sit up, the darkness that surrounded him was set into motion. It whirled about him like cyclone, threatening to tear his head from its moorings. Ambika clutched at his face. What was this? A hard object stuck to the middle of his forehead? He squeezed the skin around it and tugged gently. There, it was out. His forehead had begun streaming. He wiped his eye and examined the object. It was a bullet.
That sound, the moan. Somebody was alive. Where was the voice coming from?
‘Ambika-da,’ it said. ‘Ambika-da, are you alive?’ The voice belonged to Ardhendu Dastidar. Ambika struggled to his feet. His head was reeling; his body shaking violently; but he needed to be on his feet.
‘Yes. Yes. I am alive. Where are you? How are you? Get up … try to get up. We have to get off the hill.’
Ardhendu appeared, dragging himself with the help of his musket. The tall slight figure was bent over, clutching his abdomen. He was bare-bodied. They moved to the north-east edge of the hill. The distance, not even ten yards, took them all of fifteen minutes and with it all of the boy’s strength. He fell crashing to the ground. ‘Ambika-da,’ he gasped, ‘I cannot go further … my body will not let me.’
Ambika stood for a few moments. If he tried to kneel beside Ardhendu, it was unlikely that he would stand up again.
‘Go, Ambika-da.’ Ardhendu pleaded. ‘Tell Master-da that I remember his words … liberty or death.’
His heart was on the point of bursting. His lips trembling, he whispered, ‘Bhai, I will tell Master-da about you … May you live long … Long live the revolution.’
He stretched a leg out to place his foot on the slope … but his head would not help balance his body. He began to roll. The gravel was loose and treacherous, hastening his descent and ripping into his clothes and flesh. Jalalabad: a mother. Upon her breast many of those that had become closer than brothers had found a place to rest their heads. She would surely have place for him – for one more child too tired to keep his eyes open.
A small bush spread out its branches and its thorns reached out to him. He had stopped rolling. He lay quietly, examining the situation. His body was quite whole … not smashed to bits as he had expected. But he was still some distance from the base. In an hour it would be light … there was still time for escape. He could not risk standing up again on such a steep slope. It would be better to drag himself on his chest.
SURESH DE, 23 APRIL
It was the tightness in his chest that would not let the air in … Suresh became aware that he had been running. The sight of Jalalabad Hill had struck terror in his heart. How like a demoness she had drawn them back, lusting after the share of blood she had been cheated of. He did not know how and for how long, but he had managed to keep up with Shanti.
The dense woods were becoming sparse now, glimpses of the sky more frequent. Soon the ground beneath their feet began to harden. He heaved a sigh of relief; they had ventured onto a well-used path. Far into the distance, lights appeared. They twinkled like a small cluster of stars. It was Shanti’s belief that it was there that they would be safe. Keeping the lights in sight, the boys kept moving.
It was a small village, still fast asleep. They crept down the little lanes. The poorest of the poor appeared to live there – people who could only afford a little thresh for their roofs and were barely capable of covering themselves. Who amongst them could afford to be sympathetic? Did they care that the British that ruled the land fed off them or know that their fellow Indians, who were better off than they were, could only bring them trouble?
Keenly aware of their appearance, Suresh and Shanti looked for a hut on the outskirts. Two strangers in bloodied khaki carrying fou
r revolvers and a musket would be enough to drive anybody hysterical. They would have to contain the panic before it spread through the village. If reason did not work, force would have to.
The owner responded to the repeated knocking and stood transfixed. His mouth was opening slowly as an uncontrollable scream was welling up from within when a sharp rebuke from Shanti jerked him back to his senses. Suresh started immediately on an entreating note: their lives depended on him; he had nothing to fear. Would he not save the lives of two swadeshis on the run? It seemed like ages before the man moved a muscle. All this while he had remained partially concealed behind the door. He now held it open, still not having said a word.
Shanti helped Suresh to the floor, as the owner lit an oil lamp and cleared a little space for them. He sat on his haunches staring at them. Now it seemed that he was stunned at his good fortune: heroes at his doorstep. Abruptly he rose, brought a clay pot from a corner and set it before them. It had the remainders of the rice he had cooked the previous day and soaked in water. Shanti reached out for some of the fermenting mixture and placed it into Suresh’s mouth. It was the first mouthful that he tasted since that last khichuri meal on Badulla Hill. The panta-bhaat was amrit. The man was not finished yet. He brought out a handful of dried fish. The two boys ate their fill, but in their hearts they knew that man had emptied his complete stock of food. He would go hungry that day. The oil in the little lamp had burned off, and their eyes would not remain open but their host was still full of questions.
He was shaking them awake. It was a little before dawn. They would have to go. A change of clothes was desperately required but all their host had to offer was the lungi that he wore every year on Id. It was well worn but whole. This he handed to Shanti. There was nothing else barring the frayed lungi that he had on. He sat glumly as Suresh stared at him with beseeching eyes. Anything would do. He had to get out of that blood-stained uniform. After some agonizing moments, the man brought another clay pot from the corner. It held his stash of tatters – the ones he was saving to make a kantha.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 32