The meal over, he made his way down the road play-acting for the benefit of those that followed. He turned to look back one last time. She was still there amongst the rest of them.2
HEM GUPTA, 23 APRIL, JALALABAD
Not enough Englishmen had been killed?
Hem Gupta stared at the DIG in disbelief. Did he actually draw so much of meaning from those agonized sounds? He personally had not been able to make anything out of it. The only time Motilal appeared to be making any sense was when he tried to indicate his unwillingness to respond … could the boy, even in this agony, still enjoy such a macabre sense of humour? The British officers conferred amongst themselves while he stood to one side awaiting orders.
The photographer set about his work, first taking pictures of individual corpses, then with their shirts pulled up exposing the injuries. The dead were then lined up and photographed in groups of three.
The AB Railway was sending in the firewood. Hem Gupta was to oversee the digging of a pit which would then be layered with wood. Individual pyres out in the open would mean risking a forest fire. These boys were Hindus, like himself. They would be leaving the world without the benefit of prayers, without the knowledge of their families. Most of the afternoon had been spent in making an inventory of items that had been seized: forty-three police muskets, bags of cartridges that had not been fired, empties that had been collected from the site, revolver cartridges, a pistol with an ivory handle and a sword. A document had been retrieved from Tripura Sen’s pocket, from which it was apparent that they had modelled their revolution along the lines of the Easter Revolution in Ireland.
It was late evening before the bodies were placed in the pit. More wood was added and the petrol cans emptied. The lead actors of the British war effort bared their heads, and the Gurkhas stood to attention – the mouth of their rifle barrels positioned on the left toe, both hands on the rifle butt, chins down, staring steadfastly at their buttons. The darkening sky turned a dull red with the crackling blaze and Hem Gupta held his head low. Not every eye, he suspected, was dry. He could feel the photographer’s eyes boring through his skull. He knew. It was an inkling that bound them, one that would trouble them the rest of their lives: Motilal Kanungo’s heart had still been beating as he was dragged into the pit.
AMBIKA CHAKRABORTY, 23 APRIL
Booming commands in English voices, the tramp of many feet – the armed police had moved about him all day. Crouching under a bush, too terrified to even turn on his side, Ambika had had to manually peel his eyelids apart to view the goings-on on the hilltop. The Indian constables had waved the white flag, signalling that it was safe for the British to ascend. He hoped the boy, Ardhendu, had succeeded in hiding from them.
A red glow on the hilltop was growing into a blaze. A funeral pyre! Great orange tongues reached up, licking the darkening horizon, showering golden sparks into the forest below. Blood had been spilled for the great mother: Ambika clung to the earth in prayer.
The leaves rustled behind him and dry twigs snapped. A man in khaki was headed his way. He stopped at the sight of the revolver aimed at his chest.
‘Drop the spear.’
The weapon fell clattering from his hands.
‘Forgive me.’ Ambika apologized. ‘I will not shoot you. You are my brother, not my enemy.’ He put away the revolver. ‘The British are the enemy – yours and mine. You are my brother.’
The chowkidar stood rooted to the spot.
‘A friend of mine is very badly injured. Please go look for him.’ Ambika held out a fistful of coins. ‘The police will have gone by now.’ His fingers trembled open. ‘He must be somewhere on that slope.’ The man knelt and closed Ambika’s fingers about the coins and held his hand. ‘I am a poor Muslim. I work because I am a slave to my stomach but I cannot take your money. I will look for your friend.’
‘But before you go, help me move to another spot.’ The man grasped him by the waist and hoisted him to his feet. They lurched slowly to the bank of the khal. ‘I will be back in half an hour,’ he said and leaping nimbly across the uneven ground, disappeared from view.
Ambika dragged himself to his feet and stumbled across to a banana grove. From here he would be able to keep watch. Would the man return alone? Half an hour, then an hour went by. He pulled out his revolver. It would have to serve him in case the man brought the police along. But the cartridges had all been fired. There was no sense in taking any further risk. He reached for a banana leaf and wrapping the revolver securely in it, lowered himself into the waters of the khal. The water was surprisingly cold for the time of the year, or perhaps it appeared so because of the amount of blood he had lost. But the khals and rivulets were as much home to him as the hill tracts of Chittagong. Darkness had set in. With the revolver raised above the surface of the water, he made his way to the far bank. Hoisting himself up, he discarded his blood-stained clothes. Fatehabad, a village he knew like the back of his hand, was a few miles away.
It was close to 8 p.m. when he pushed Dr Bagla Chakraborty’s door open. The good doctor turned ashen at the sight of the nearnaked man. He had recognized him instantly even though the beard and moustache had gone. So he had heard all the news! Ambika was certain that the 5,000-rupee reward on his head had had tongues wagging in the village.
‘Look, Ambika Babu,’ the doctor took a firm stand. ‘I am a family man. If the police get to know, there will be no end to my troubles. Pray forgive me … you may please come’.3
‘There are no police on my trail as of the moment but I desperately need some first aid, after which I will leave immediately.’
The rear door had swung open. Doctor Chakraborty’s brother had walked in. ‘Ambika-da!’ he gasped. Turning to the doctor, he made up his mind for him. ‘Dada, you stitch him up; I am going to get some clothes … don’t worry Ambika-da,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I have some money saved.’
ANANDA PRASAD GUPTA, 23 APRIL
Sounds of singing and the beating of a drum could be heard. The village that lay across the field was decorated with lights. Lanterns hung from trees. The tune, the beat – a devotional song; it was a kirtan in progress.
They had spent the day resting in the forest and had moved out when it became dark and had, since then, been following the railway tracks, hoping to cover the eight miles that would take them to the nearest railway station. Every house that came along the way had been approached. Most had turned them away, barring the master of one house who had generously poured a little flat rice into the shirt fronts that they held bunched up. The station was still many miles away.
Where there was a puja, there would be proshaad … everyone was entitled to food from which the gods themselves had partaken. Ganesh-da craned his neck and was looking about. Realizing what he was looking for, Ananda kept an eye out for someone who looked like the local heavyweight, someone they could entreat to give them some proshaad. The villagers were all caught up in the ecstasy of the moment. Some were dancing to the beat of the khol, some sat deep in meditation. No one seemed in a hurry to end the revelry and the proshaad would not be shared until then.
‘Where is the puja?’ whispered Makhon. ‘If it is over, they can begin handing out the proshaad to those who want to leave.’
Ganesh-da was making his way towards an elderly man. He appeared to be in charge. A polite request was made. He gave no indication of having heard. Ganesh-da waited for a while and then asked again. Ananda tried his luck. The local honcho appeared to have no time for strangers. But this was also probably their last chance to eat.
‘Dada! Dada!’
The plaintive voices eventually caught his notice but the look he flashed had no sympathy or kindness. An arrogant suspicious face, thought Ananda – probably suffers from bad moods all hours of the day … rather like that notorious pundit of ‘Hing Ting Chhat’.
‘Babu ra … you babus, where are you from?’
Despite their ragged and dishevelled condition, they had been addressed as babu. Ganesh
-da fabricated a fascinating account of their supposed birthplace.
‘What brings you here?’
A polite answer was given but it resulted in a stream of questions. It was clear the interrogation would be a never-ending one. For a while Ganesh-da fielded the questions with dexterity but it had to be brought to an end. Digging for worms should not, after all, bring one face-to-face with a snake. Ganesh-da reminded him of the principal purpose. Could they please have some proshaad and be allowed to continue on their way?
The irritation on the man’s face was evident. Why this demand for proshaad even before the kirtan had ended? ‘But you have not answered my question. What is your profession?’
‘We work as washermen,’ said Ganesh-da.
His eyes flashed dark with suspicion. The men he had thought of as gentlemen had turned out to be washermen. A crowd had gathered. Who are these men? Where are they from? The questions seemed to fly at them. That the simple act of asking for proshaad would throw them into such a situation had been inconceivable. The sweat began pouring down Ananda’s neck. The crowd was increasing as were the numbers of questions. Perhaps they had taken them to be bahurupias or dakaats.
‘OK, tell us which way is north?’
What was this? Until now they had been coming up with completely imaginary answers. How could they answer a question such as this one? The elements were against them. The sky was overcast and in the dark east, west, north and south had all merged into one.
‘Which way is north? Why are you quiet? Answer me.’ The interrogator leant towards Ananda, intent on making a discovery.
Not answering the question would look bad and guesswork could prove dangerous. Why had they entered this village at all? Ananda began to curse himself. The proshaad that now lay in store could prevent them from leaving with their bones intact. Suddenly, for no good reason he pointed to one side. Even as he raised his hand he knew he had pointed to the wrong side. The suspicion harboured by the interrogators spread like lightning through the crowd. The murmuring became ominous.
Ganesh-da seized control. Fury playing on his face, he barked at the crowd. ‘Are we thieves or dacoits? You have started talking like lawyers. We come from a village far away. Is it possible to figure out directions in a new place? Let us have you in our village on a night as dark as this and I’ll see how many answers you come up with.’ Turning on his heel, he stormed away walking rapidly to increase the distance from the crowd. Ananda and Makhon lost no time in following suit. Looking nervously over his shoulder, Ananda was relieved to see that Ganesh-da’s outburst had had its desired effect. He let out a sigh. Never would he go, seeking an easy meal amongst a crowd.
The night had deepened. They had passed several villages. The sound of travellers’ footsteps did not go unnoticed in regions like this. It brought the villagers out of their doors.
‘Who are you? Name? Which village? … Where are you going?’
Questions were thrown at them all along the way. These were people who would not let any unknown person pass without first satisfying their curiosity.
They had reached the station. It was nearly ten o’clock. A market close by was still open. With the money left over from buying the tickets, Ganesh-da bought himself a bundle of beedis and a lungi and a fez for each of them. Heading for the rice fields, they changed into their new costumes.
The Feni incident had led to a state of high alert all along the Assam Bengal Railway lines. As the train slowed down at stations, teams of policemen entered each compartment and subjected every traveller to scrutiny. The new costumes helped. Pulling at their beedis they chatted comfortably with the other passengers in the third-class compartment. Soon they had become one with their fellow travellers – simple village folk going about their business.
A policeman standing on the platform came up to the window. His eyes lingered on Ananda’s face. Then suddenly bringing his lips right next to his ears hissed, ‘Are you really a Muslim?’ His heart leapt up hammering loudly against his chest. He could barely keep his voice steady. ‘Why, can you not see? Here is my chacha beside me.’
The policeman stared at Ganesh-da. ‘You are his chacha?’
Ganesh-da seemed more intent on his beedi. He gave a grunt.
The train began to roll and Ananda closed his eyes against the wave of nausea that engulfed him.
ANANTA LAL SINGH, 23 APRIL
The rivulets would lead him to the Gumti; the Gumti would take him to Kumilla. Ananta raised himself from the waters of the nalla and removed the notes held carefully between his teeth. The sun was close to setting. A destination? A destination had not yet been decided upon. He would need a boat to take him to Kumilla.
A lone fisherman sat upon the banks, whiling away his time. Did he look like a man to be trusted? Ananta loped towards him, whining and pointing to his mouth. He wasn’t really hungry but he needed to make contact. The man turned out to be a kindly sort and without hesitation indicated that he should follow. They walked silently until he was ushered into a hut. All of a sudden, he was surrounded by the family: men, women, wide-eyed children. They all gathered around. A large plate was pushed before him. It was piled high with food. The family jostled with each other for a better view. It was feeding time at the zoo.
‘Looks like a student,’ observed one.
‘The hair had been freshly cropped.’
‘Strong? What do you say? Worth twelve rupees of labour?’
Ananta forced himself to eat.
A wrinkled old man peered at him for a while before breaking his silence. ‘Say what you will … doesn’t look mad to me. CID? Who knows?’
It was fun, but staying any longer could become dangerous. A fit appeared to grab hold of him. Beginning with his hands, the jerking spread slowly through his body. Ananta stood up abruptly and walked out. The fisherman ran behind for a while. He seemed a kind man. Ananta considered confiding in him. But after the conversation that had just taken place in his house, he thought better of it.
The Bilonia bazaar would have to be crossed. There was little choice. Until now he had avoided all crowded places. But darkness was on his side and the streets had emptied. People had gone home after the day’s buying and selling. Ananta was able to make his way through without attracting attention. He was now close to the railway tracks. About 500 yards away, figures moved around a bonfire. The flames leapt into the air. In another couple of minutes it would become too dark to move without the help of a flashlight. A bugle sounded. He was in the middle of a cantonment. He would have to make it to the hills while visibility lasted.
LOKENATH BAL, 23 APRIL
They were engrossed in making a meal of bananas, flat rice and jaggery.
‘Which is the nearest village?’
The Muslim pointed into the distance. ‘Kattali village … three miles.’
They were near the sea! Lokenath stared open-mouthed at the Muslim who had resumed his eating, without realizing the effect it had had on his companions.
‘Bhai,’ Lokenath nudged him. ‘Will you take us there?’ He knew Zamindar Pranhari Das’s son Suren. Despite the fact that father and son were ardent Congress supporters, Lokenath and Suren had bonded over music. In fact, it had been Suren’s rendition of ‘Bande Mataram’ sung to Rabindranath Tagore’s tune that had held scores of people spellbound at a recent concert. Suren had given up his job to join Gandhi-ji’s Ashahjog Aandolan in 1922 and had since then not gone back to work. He now concentrated on running a music school – the Arjya Samaj Music Academy. Surely, he wouldn’t turn them away. The zamindar had quite a fierce reputation – one that had driven the little fishing village to revolt sometime back. It had been with great difficulty that the household had escaped the villagers’ wrath. But Suren would be there … it would be all right.
Suren was not at home. At 11 p.m. when the band of khaki-clad boys carrying firearms trooped into the courtyard, Pranhari Babu came rushing out in alarm, as the terror-stricken household cowered indoors. But within moments all
was clear. Here were the victorious soldiers of Jalalabad, at their doorstep. It was a matter of honour … a matter of great pride that they had chosen this home. The women got down to work, chattering shrilly. The kitchen doors were thrown open, lamps lit and the larders emptied to cook a hurried meal. The younger men of the house helped the boys wash up, pouring out pitchers of water onto extended hands while others brought out the stocks of sal leaf platters that had been left over from the last communal meal that had been held in the zamindar’s house.
Pranhari Babu was supervising the distribution of fresh shirts and dhutis. He turned to Lokenath. ‘Change … I will have your uniforms destroyed.’
The shoes and socks were left in a pile along with firearms. The boys had begun sitting down in two rows. Lokenath found his place and sat down cross-legged on the floor. He wriggled his toes – it had been such relief to splash them with water. A young man rushed along the line, pouring cool water into the earthenware pots that had been placed in front of them. A young boy followed, depositing a pinch of salt and a wedge of lemon on each platter. Behind him came a man with a metal bucket, ladling out their first real meal in days.
Chittagong Summer of 1930 Page 34