Chittagong Summer of 1930

by Manoshi Bhattacharya

  ‘It will do.’

  Two vests, so threadbare that they barely held together, were tucked in at the waist where the lungi was knotted. But try as they might, the revolvers could not be hidden.

  ‘Leave them with me, babu, I will keep them safe for you.’ He had removed the soiled dressings from Suresh’s arm and had replaced them with some torn cloth.

  Two Muslim village lads left before the cock crowed. The last hour had been spent in prayer until the chosen Koranic verses could be recited fluently. Suresh turned to take one last look at his host.

  ‘You are one of us now,’ he whispered.

  ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 23 APRIL

  Ananda kept his arm firmly around Makhon’s waist. He had begun to lean heavily against him, tiring him out in the process. They had been walking now for several hours and had entered the dense forests of the hill tracts. In their excitement, they had lost count of the number of times they had fallen down and dragged themselves through barbedwire fences. Through the night, every time he had brushed against Ganesh-da, he had felt the heat his body gave off and smelt the fever on his breath. On the other hand, Makhon, who clung to him, had grown colder and clammier and his teeth had chattered in bouts. With dawn breaking, Ananda took in, for the first time, the appearances of his companions. Ganesh-da, puffy and flushed, with red-rimmed eyes. His face was speckled with what looked like mosquito bites. Makhon had gone a nasty leaden colour. Gruesome blood clots had congealed about his head, streaking his forehead and neck. The boy appeared on the verge of collapse. It made him forget the thirst that clawed at his throat.

  They made their way slowly till they came across a little pond. The first mouthful of the amber-coloured water made his stomach contract. Then he noticed the rotting vegetation. There was little choice; it would have to do. Drinking in great gulps he filled his belly before washing his face and hands and sank to the ground beside Makhon. Ganesh-da sat, examining his arms thoughtfully. Little blisters filled with a cloudy grey fluid had appeared on top of some of the lesions. Little black crusts had begun to form on some, but between them a fresh crop had made its appearance. They didn’t hold his attention for long and soon he was chivvying them up the slopes.

  The daylight was growing stronger and they climbed steadily for the next three hours. In all, they would have been a good fourteen or fifteen miles away from Feni and now all of them were struggling. They could go no further … the decision was a unanimous one. If they did not find some food quickly enough, the only choice left would be to lie down and let their bodies rot in the wilderness.

  A movement caught their eye. They were being watched. A woodcutter crouched in the undergrowth. Ganesh-da approached him, asking for help. He pointed to a group of huts nestled in the woods.

  The chief was finding it difficult to tear his eyes off Makhon. At last he spoke … it was a dialect of Bengali. ‘Dakaat na ki?’

  ‘No not dacoits … just harmless villagers … lost travellers.’ Ganesh-da hastened to reassure him. Pointing towards Jibon, he had indicated that he needed help. ‘Tripped against the roots of a tree … very hurt.’ The pox that covered Ganesh-da’s body somehow lent credence to his tale.

  They were asked to sit down and instructions issued to a manservant. In a while a thala piled high with steaming hot rice … the grains thick and coarse … three semi-ripe bananas and a pot of water was placed before them.

  Ananda and Makhon watched as Ganesh-da mashed the bananas with his fingers and used it to help roll portions of rice into balls and popped them deftly into his mouth. They followed, pretending it was nothing new and it turned out to be a fine meal – one for which they were profusely grateful. Leaving the little hamlet, they decided to abandon the Kumilla plan and go to Kolkata instead. But they would need to make a visit to Sylhet first, for that was where Ananda’s mashi, his mother’s sister, Sumati Majumdar, lived. They could always depend on her to lend them enough money to get to Kolkata.

  HEM GUPTA, 23 APRIL

  Fifty men from the Eastern Frontier Rifles took their position at the base of the hill while Sub-inspector Hem Gupta and his men approached the Jalalabad Hill from the back. There seemed to be no sign of activity but it was wise to take cover behind bushes and make a quick run for the next one further up the slope. The hill had been completely wrecked. Who would have said it had not been a giant plough at work through the night? The trees that had continued to stand looked pale as ghosts, with their bark all flayed off.

  There was a faint sound. The men froze, their weapons poised. There it was again – a faint moaning. Hem Gupta emerged from his cover, spotted a wounded youth lying at the edge and rushed to his side. He appeared to have been shot through the back and the bullet had probably passed through the abdomen, for he was drenched in blood. He was asking for water. The sub-inspector held his bottle to his lips.

  ‘Who are you? What is your name?’

  ‘Ardhendu Shekhar Dastidar.’

  The youth’s body bore wounds, some of which were raw and some partially healed. He would have to be moved to hospital soon if he was to be taken alive. Ten bodies lay along the slopes. The soil had turned dark where they lay. Some of the bodies were so badly mutilated and torn up that they were unrecognizable. Hem Gupta realized that he had been unconsciously trying to fit the forms into the one that haunted him. Was he relieved that none of the bodies resembled that of Rajat the footballer? He was amongst those that were being watched … perhaps he had got away. Hem Gupta was surprised by his own emotions. Did he really care? He was being called … another one was alive … groaning only when roused. Once he managed to mumble his name … Motilal Kanungo. An all-clear signal was made: the area was safe.

  The armoured train had arrived. Dr Weldon, DIG Farmer, Col Dallas Smith, Mr Lewis, and several others came up the slope. The top brass was disappointed. They had hoped to take more revolutionaries alive. After the battle against the presumed 100 raiders, a tiny bunch of dead bodies was in fact a liability – one that would whip up a frenzy of emotions and patriotic fervour. The bodies could not be taken back to the city or handed over to the families.

  Dr Weldon and his team examined Ardhendu Dastidar, gave him some first aid and removed him to the armoured train. Motilal Kanungo was pronounced beyond help. He was given a shot of morphia to ease the pain until his heart gave out. The rest were declared dead.

  Hem Gupta began the strip-search, examining the contents of their pockets and bags. Some of the dead had been well known local lads … some he had never set eyes upon. Here was Hari Gopal – the youngest of the Bal household, constantly courting trouble … where was that brother of his, that youth icon? Hem Gupta felt a tug in his heart. Hari Gopal Bal – Tegra – look at him now, so young, so vulnerable, so innocent in a simple cotton shirt and dhuti, hair tousled, face smudged with earth. What was he doing among this bunch of boys in khaki playing at being soldiers? A couple of faces looked familiar … Chattogram was a small town. He stopped by one that was very familiar: Pulin Bikash Ghose. A brief impression of a fleeing form and the faint echo of a laugh … he shook his head as if trying to dispel the emotions rising within. This was madness, taking on an empire’s forces! Beyond a doubt, this was Ananta Lal Singh’s band. Here lay another youngster, perhaps even younger than Hari Gopal – this one he had never seen before. What were the ringleaders up to now? These unknown faces had obviously been recruited from outside Chattogram, ones that the police would never have known existed. Some of the bodies were so mangled that identification was going to prove near impossible. Now, here was a well-known face: Dr Bidhu Bhushan Bhattacharya, the gold medallist of the Chattogram Medical College. What a waste of a life. Beside him lay his best friend and college mate, Dr Naresh Ray, with his wealthy background, pampered upbringing, medical degree … The constables had pulled out a sheet of paper from Naresh Ray’s pocket. The contents were sufficient to freeze the marrow of every white man standing there.

  It was a map of the European Club … barely 300 yards
from the police lines, that lovely little clubhouse with its krishnachura-shaded driveway, the one that the elite amongst the whites frequented … perfect to the last detail. It had been breached, its sanctity violated.

  He watched the shadows chase across Mr Farmer’s face. The details in Naresh Ray’s map were too graphic for comfort. Every entrance and exit was marked, with additional notes; the almirahs and their positions had been carefully noted; the exact arrangement of the billiards table and the chairs … Could it be possible that there was a traitor amongst the staff? Were revolutionaries moving undetected in areas meant for Europeans only?

  Another piece of paper had been found. It held a handwritten message: If anybody tells you that an act of armed resistance even if offered by ten men only, even if offered by men armed with stones, any and every such man who tells that such an act of resistance is premature, imprudent or dangerous shall at once be spurned and spat at; for remark you thus and recollect that somehow somewhere, and by somebody, a beginning must be made and that the first act of resistance is always and shall always be premature, imprudent, unwise and dangerous.

  ‘Lalor. James Finton Lalor.’ Mr Lewis murmured. ‘The Irish revolutionary … handwriting to go for analysis.’

  It was near noon when Mr Johnson arrived with a photographer and a fingerprinting expert. He rushed to the side of the only one who could remotely be called alive. Motilal was jerked into consciousness. A statement had to be got out of him before he died. But he was too far gone. They bent over him, trying to catch the meaning of his groans.

  ‘Ananta Lal Singh said that not enough Englishmen have been killed.’

  LOKENATH BAL, 23 APRIL

  ‘Loka-da, khetey hobey … we have to eat.’

  It was typical of Ranadhir to come to the point directly. Lokenath looked wearily at the exhausted band. Apathy had got the better of them. The sun was high and yet none of them had bothered to move to the shade. Die like a man: his last words to the little one spoken less than twelve hours ago. It was time to follow his own advice and be a man. There were lives he was still responsible for.

  Ranadhir crouched by his side, scrutinizing his face. ‘If we don’t eat we will lose all our strength.’ The boy spoke earnestly.

  ‘Tai … Is that so?’ A smile eased its way through the creases on his forehead. The boy was no older than Tegra. Kobiraj Jayanta Dasgupta had a flourishing practice prescribing traditional Indian drugs. Here was his little son … the matriculation exams were over … did he hope to become a doctor, following in his father’s footsteps? It appeared to be the family’s chosen profession, for his cousin was already a captain in the Indian Medical Service.

  ‘Cholo.’ Kali Chakraborty, alias Pundit, having struggled to his feet, held out an arm. He pulled him to his feet. Had it not been for him, they would never have found their way amongst the maze of hills. They had lost Master-da and his group sometime during the night. Rajat waved cheekily at him and turned on his side. The morning light; the hunger pangs – nothing troubled him. Nor did Debu or Mona stir.

  Lokenath’s muscles protested as he gingerly set foot on the sloping path. The gravel slipped beneath the boot soles, forcing him to break into a run. A narrow footpath snaked past the hill. He crouched down by Pundit’s side taking cover behind the trunk of a great tree, revolvers held ready. Minutes ticked by but not a soul came by. The sunlit mango groves, striped with light and shade, lay still and quiet. Lokenath peered down the lane lined with tall ancient trees. The light rain of the previous night had washed the dust off and the leaves glistened black and green. The fruit had begun to plump and ripen.

  ‘Neither man nor beast in sight.’ Lokenath was annoyed. He sat down heavily and loosened the strings of his boot.

  ‘Shhh.’ Pundit warned and pointed. In the distance, a lone figure had materialized. He was walking purposefully down the lane, unaware that two khaki-clad figures waited to pounce on him.

  ‘Forgive me, brother. I did not mean to scare you. Just come with us up this hill. We need your help.’

  Prodded by the revolvers, the man acquiesced reluctantly. How would he react to the sight of a bunch of armed youths, all dressed for battle? Lokenath maintained a firm grip on the man’s arm. ‘We are lost … we are swadeshis.’ He kept up a conversation, trying to comfort the man. Seeing them, the boys rushed up. Despite their bizarre battle-stained appearance, the morning light revealed pleasantfaced young lads.

  ‘We have not eaten for a long while now. You will have to exchange clothes with one of us and give us directions to the local haat.’

  Without a word, the man stripped off his vest and lungi and clambered into the shirt and shorts that Pundit handed over to him. The news of the battle had been doing its rounds since the previous evening: The swadeshis had declared war.

  ANANTA LAL SINGH, 23 APRIL

  His eyelids refused to open against the glare of the sun. His body was stiff and sore and his throat parched. The blue sky reeled above him and little white flashes streaked behind his eyelids. Eight o’clock, he guessed. The useless weapons, the panic, the mad dash for the hills … it was all coming back.

  He was amazed he had fallen asleep at all. Disconsolately, he examined the blisters on his feet. The wound in the leg had stopped oozing, but a sense of isolation was creeping in. The others had gone. The weapons were now no more than a burden. And if he was caught, the police would boast of having apprehended an armed and dangerous revolutionary. Buoyed by his own sense of humour he began to draft the new script for the day. The clothing and the weapons would have to go. Burying them in a pit under a bush, he stood up a new man. The mud and blood were gone. He was stark naked except for a filthy strip wound around his middle, tucked into which was a twenty-rupee note – the last of his money. An idiot: that was to be his new identity – naked and crazed, giggling and gesturing, weeping or chattering.

  He made his way downhill through the jungles, play-acting all the while regardless of whether anyone was in sight. There were times when he was struck dumb and times when he lost his hearing. Rice fields, farmlands, more jungles and stretches of land lying fallow … the thirst was upon him now and his head had begun to spin. He had come upon a barren stretch with not a tree in sight. Should he collapse now, this blazing sun would suck the fluids from his body; he, Ananta Lal Singh, would lie here forever – a shrivelled mummy, his life’s work undone. The thought sent a surge through his limbs. The wild grass that he was trying to chew barely wet his tongue; he searched among the blades for juicier stalks. A partially eaten green mango lay in a clump of grass. There was no mango tree in the vicinity. Someone must have tossed it here … it was eto but the uneaten portion was turgid and fresh, triggering a flow of saliva. Without further thought, he chewed on the unformed flesh sucking frantically at the seed. The skin gave way to the bitter insides.

  The sour tartness wet the insides of his mouth and throat. Smacking his lips he walked on, careful not to venture too close to the road … the Trunk Road. A lone woman tilled her land in the distance. Ananta approached her whining and grovelling – a crazy mute and obviously thirsty. She came forward with a small watermelon, probably her own lunch, and held her vessel of water over his cupped hands. Ananta demolished the melon as he watched her at work. Should he confide in her? A couple of men were making their way towards the field. Thinking the better of it, he left in a hurry.

  It was past noon. The sun blazed down mercilessly and now some urchins had begun to tail him. They tittered and flung stones. The deaf and dumb act proved a real handicap. Some bigger boys joined in. Ananta could only cringe in response. He could not shout, nor call for help. Even a mock charge had the possibility of giving away his sanity. Tears welled up as a large stone found its mark. Was there not one child among this lot that would even try and protest? They followed him for nearly a mile before tiring of the game. Relieved, he dropped to his knees at the first pool of water that appeared. It was putrid.

  He was close to the railway tracks no
w. It was the new line that had been laid from Feni to Bilonia. He continued to follow it. A large house on the bank of a dighi appeared in the distance. His tormentors had driven all thoughts of food from his mind, but now the pangs of hunger had returned with a vengeance.

  A high wall enclosed a large compound. Voices could be heard, possibly a group of young children. Ananta squatted by the side of the dighi. The embankment had been bricked and plastered, probably by the owner of the big house. It was obviously a private reservoir. He finished drinking and then made his way to the house. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. There were no adults in sight, only a group of four or five startled boys. They came forward to investigate, and suddenly out of nowhere there were nearly fifteen of them, taunting, leering, pulling faces. Ananta’s heart lurched: not the same monster again. He pointed to his mouth and to his stomach. It only produced jeers. Some ordered him to leave outright. Ananta held his head pretending that he was dizzy and sank to the ground. It touched not one chord of sympathy. They did not have the courage to approach him but aimed punches and kicks from a distance. But surely, the racket they were creating would produce an adult – one who would either show a little mercy or drive him away.

  ‘Ki korchhish … what are you doing? Why do you harass him?’ A young girl, one really no more than a child, pushed her way to the front. Her eyes, large and wary, remained fixed on his face. He touched his lips with all his fingertips as if putting an invisible ball of food in. She remained mesmerized for a few minutes before pushing her way back through the throng. Her appearance had been effective, for a silence now hung over the yard. She was back with some food bundled in a banana leaf but was too afraid to come any closer. She put it down and moved away, waving her hands, indicating that he pick it up and leave. This wide-eyed child was a vision in her simple cotton sari, her hair hanging in braids – a picture of compassion, an epitome of all the wonderful maternal instincts that go into the making of a woman. Some of the boys yelled out the instructions and Ananta picked up the bundle and limped his way to the banks of the dighi. The children were following him, as was the little girl. She maintained a safe distance. The bundle held a generous helping of rice, dal and vegetables cooked with medium-sized prawns. Neither pulao nor mutton curry, nothing could have made a more sumptuous meal. He gobbled down the food sometimes using his left hand and at times his right. The children doubled up with laughter. Sometimes he pretended to examine the food as if trying to decide what to eat next stealing all the while quiet glances at the girl whose mood alternated between sombre to childish delight, infected by the devilish glee of her companions.