First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Jatin had been listening to Aurobindo quietly all this while. Now he stirred in his seat and said, ‘I’m greatly impressed by what you’re saying Aurobindo Babu. I would like to join Barin and form a society. I’ll go back to Calcutta tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be best for you. Why should you be content to serve as an ordinary soldier in a native raja’s army? Use your strength, skill and experience to free your country from bondage. Work together with Barin. He will comb the streets of Calcutta and collect a band of young men. You will train them in fencing, wrestling and shooting.’

  ‘We’ll leave tomorrow,’ Barin said. ‘But we’ll need money. Where is that to come from Sejda?’

  ‘I’ll give you some to begin with. But sooner or later you’ll have to fend for yourselves.’

  ‘We’ll start a collection,’ Barin cried excitedly. ‘We’ll go to all the rich men of Calcutta and ask them for funds.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind. Your watch word must be secrecy. You’ll expose yourselves to danger if you forget it. Besides, a country’s independence isn’t such a cheap commodity that it can be bought with charity money.’

  ‘But … But … what else can we do?’ Barin stammered out the question.

  ‘Commit burglary,’ Aurobindo answered. His face was smooth and calm. Not a muscle twitched. ‘Rob the rich. Kill if you have to.’

  ‘What are you saying Moshai?’ Dinendrakumar cried out startled. ‘You’re inciting boys from good families to rob and kill!’

  ‘We are undertaking a struggle the like of which has never been seen in the history of the world. There can be no value judgements in a cause like ours. The end justifies the means.’ Aurobindo lit a cigarette and put it to his lips. ‘Don’t think I’m speaking on an impulse,’ he continued, ‘I’ve thought on these lines for years … and now all three of you must swear a solemn oath. You won’t breathe a word of what has passed between us this evening to a living soul.’

  Barin and Jatin left for Calcutta the next morning. And, within a few days, Barin launched on the job of enrolling members for his secret society. As luck would have it, the first person he encountered in the streets of Calcutta was Bharat. ‘Bharat Dada!’ he exclaimed in surprise and delight. ‘I can’t believe my eyes. I’ve been thinking of you for the last two days!’ But Bharat’s response wasn’t quite so effusive. He was afraid Barin would pester him again to enter into a partnership. ‘What brings you here Barin?’ he said a trifle guardedly. ‘Have you opened a tea shop in Calcutta?’

  ‘No, no’ Barin waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’m doing something quite different.’ Then, bringing his mouth close to Bharat’s ear, he whispered. ‘I’m working for the country. We’ve formed a secret society and I need your help. Will you become a member Bharat Dada?’

  The house in Circular Road was old and somewhat decrepit. There were two shops on the ground floor—one selling grocery, the other homeopathic medicines. The first floor was vacant. It had been occupied by the landlord but he had bought another house quite recently and moved away. A quiet, unassuming Brahmin family lived in the four rooms on the top floor. The head of the family was a tall, hefty looking man in a dhuti and banian through which his poité peeped out—thick and strong and white.

  He wore a string of rudraksha breads on his neck and a dab of sandalwood paste on his brow. Looking at him no one could dream that he was the famous Jatin Bandopadhyay and that his house was the headquarters of the Secret Society.

  When Bharat first came here he had marveled at the way Jatin Babu had transformed himself from an orthodox Brahmin gentleman to a fierce wrestler and lathyal. Doffing his banian and tucking his dhuti securely between his legs he had picked up a lathi and commenced spinning it round and round in strokes as sharp and incisive as lightning. The others who came to the house were Barindra Ghosh, his uncle Satyendranath, his friend Hemchandra P. Kanungo, Debabrata Bosu, Bhupendranath Datta, Rakhahari Sarkar and Amitbikram Goswami. But if the members were few in number their weapons were even more so. Two swords, ten lathis and one pistol was all they had. Bharat was appalled. How could they hope to crush the might of the British empire with such a pathetic supply? But he didn’t leave or give up hope. He decided to bide his time and see what the future held.

  One evening, as they sat together listening to the howling of the wind around the house and the lashing of the rain on the shutters, Amitbikram said sheepishly, ‘This is just the weather for muri and fritters. With gulps of hot tea of course.’ Barin closed the book from which he had been reading extracts to his friends, and rose to his feet. ‘An excellent idea!’ he said, ‘The shop next to the ironmonger’s sells freshly popped muri—warm and wonderfully crisp. As for their fritters—’ he sucked the juices that trickled from his palate in anticipation. ‘But you’ll have to contribute two pice each.’ Everyone nodded, their faces eager and ready to comply. Only Jatin brought his brows together. ‘Who’ll pay for the tea? I haven’t opened a charity establishment.’ The members looked at one another in surprise. Who had ever heard of paying a family man the price for a cup of tea? But Barin solved the problem quickly and efficiently. ‘Tell them in the kitchen to start boiling the kettle,’ he said. ‘We won’t pay you for the tea but we’ll let you off the two pice.’ He dashed out of the room and returned, a few minutes later, with his purchases. And almost at the same time Jatin’s sister Kuhelika came into the room with a dozen cups of steaming tea set out on a thala. Kuhelika was a fine looking girl with a firm, well-knit body and a face which had more character than beauty. Her eyes flashed with intelligence and her mouth was perpetually curved in a mocking smile. At first everyone had thought her to be a spinster. Later they had discovered that she was a virgin widow. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ Amitbikram smiled at her but Jatin quelled him with a glance. ‘Go back to your work,’ he told his sister severely. ‘Can’t she have some muri?’ Amitbikram tried again but Kuhelika had left the room.

  The reading recommenced and a discussion followed regarding the relative merits of the Shivaji Utsav started by Tilak in Maharashtra and Sarala Ghoshal’s honouring of Pratapaditya and Udayaditya. Most of the members expressed the opinion that they should join Sarala and help her in her work. At this point Bharat rose and walked over to the window. His eyes were on the pouring rain but his thoughts were elsewhere. He had heard from Jadugopal that Bhumisuta had become a friend of Sarala’s and could be seen at her house every evening. Sarala was teaching her some songs composed by her famous uncle Rabindranath Thakur.

  Bharat spoke rarely as a rule. But now he turned to his compatriots and declared firmly. ‘We mustn’t think of joining Sarala Ghoshal.’ The others looked on in dismay. ‘Why not?’ Satyendra asked a trifle impatiently. ‘Because freedom will not come to us by dancing in the streets and demonstrating our skills with a couple of rusted swords,’ Bharat replied. He took a deep breath and continued. ‘And it won’t come to us this way either. We meet every day, talk and have tea. When are we going to undertake anything real and worthwhile?’

  ‘What can we do with one pistol and two blunt swords?’ Amitbikram cried. ‘The Japanese gentleman assured us that Japan and Korea would give us weapons. But nothing came of it. And now I hear he has gone back to his own country.’

  ‘There’s no dearth of weapons in the world,’ Jatin said, his voice deep and solemn. ‘I had a talk with a Chinaman from Pagoyapatti. He said he could get us any number of guns and cartridges from Hong Kong. But we have to give him the money. From where do we get it?’

  A clamour of voices arose. Many suggestions, most of them impractical, were made. The rain pounded, harder than ever, against the windows of the house as the evening wore on. Thunder rumbled and lightning streaked across the sky. Their arguments exhausted, the members of the Samiti looked on one another’s face despondently. The night had turned chilly and they shivered with cold and a sense of hopelessness. Suddenly Amitbikram said, ‘This is just the night to eat khichuri and omlette.’ The mood of the group changed. A
chorus of voices took up the cue. ‘Yes of course!’ ‘A wonderful idea!’ ‘Just the night.’ Jatin Bandopadhyay’s glance passed over the faces, hopeful and eager. ‘Very well,’ he said carelessly. ‘I’ll give orders in the kitchen. But you’ll have to contribute a rupee each.’ Then, seeing the disappointment writ large on their faces, he added quickly, ‘Aurobindo Babu sends me thirty rupees a month. I have to pay the rent, feed my family and carry on the work of the Samiti on that paltry sum. I’m broke all the time.’

  ‘Jatinda,’ Hemchandra spoke for the first time that evening. ‘We can’t even think of embarking on a revolution on thirty rupees a month. We’ll need money. Big money. And the only way we can get it is by robbing the rich.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Aurobindo Babu said,’ Jatin replied. Just then a tinkle of bracelets was heard outside the door. Amitbikram threw an eager glance in its direction and putting his hand in his pocket brought out a ten-rupee note. ‘There’s no need to start a collection. This is on me.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Satyen Babu cried. ‘Ten rupees is a lot of money. We can send out for some Topse and have it fried crisp with our khichuri.’

  ‘Who’ll sell you fish at this time of the night?’ Jatin snapped. ‘And in this weather too! There are a couple of dozen duck’s eggs in the house. Content yourself with omelette for the present.’

  ‘I can’t go home tonight Jatinda,’ Amitbikram threw him a pleading glance. ‘Srirampur is a long way off and the rain is getting worse. I’ll have to sleep here’.

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ Jatin told him sternly. ‘If you can’t go home—go find a place in Bharat’s mess.’

  Ten days later seven young men hired a boat from Chandpal Ghat. They didn’t want any boatmen, they said. They would row the boat themselves and bring it back a week later. It was a bright moonlit night and the craft skimmed over the Ganga smoothly and rapidly. To all intents and purposes it appeared to be a pleasure cruise. But if one lifted the planks of the patatan one would find a dozen oiled lathis, a couple of swords and a pistol nestling beneath. Jatin and his group had decided to target a middle class household in a village between Hirak Bandar and Diamond Harbour. The very rich had armed guards. Some even kept dogs. Jatin had transformed himself from an orthodox Brahmin gentleman to a Muslim majhi. Looking at him in his checked lungi and singlet and observing the skill with which he maneuvered the boat no one could dream that he was playing a part. But the others had started getting cold feet. ‘How would it be Jatinda,’ Barin asked the older man, ‘If I stayed on in the boat and the rest of you went ahead? I could raise an alarm if the police came after us.’

  ‘No,’ Jatin said firmly. ‘We’re in it together and we sink or swim together.’ Amitbikram lay on his back his head against the prow. His eyes were glazed and he seemed wrapped in his own thoughts. ‘Ki ré Amit!’ Jatin gave him a push. ‘Are you going to lie here all night? Get ready. We’re leaving in a few minutes.’ At these words Amit stirred and turned his eyes towards his mentor. His voice, when he spoke, was as weak as a bird’s and his lips trembled a little ‘What if we get caught Jatinda? My family is a reputed one—’ Now Hemchandra spoke up. ‘We’re not robbing to enrich ourselves,’ he said firmly. ‘What we are about to perform is an act of extreme valour. We’re not dacoits. We’re patriots.’

  For some reason, these simple words fired all seven into action. They rose, as if with one will, and started preparing for their nocturnal tryst. They blackened their faces with soot and smeared their bodies with quantities of oil. Then, tucking their dhutis between their legs, they took up their weapons. Jatin held the pistol, Bharat and Hemchandra had a sword each, and the others picked up lathis. Then, upon the stroke of midnight, they crept towards the house they had identified.

  The deed was accomplished so swiftly and smoothly that Jatin and company were left with a sense of anti-climax. It had been easy; too easy. They had leaped over the wall and kicked and banged at the door of the room where the inmates lay sleeping.

  Within a few minutes an old woman had come out and, seeing a bunch of boys, had shouted curses at them. ‘Who are you and what do you want you black-faced monkeys?’ she had cried, quite unaware of the gravity of the situation. The others had been taken aback at this volley of questions but not Jatin. Firing his revolver in the air, he had called out in a terrible voice. ‘Give us all the money and jewels you have! In absolute silence! Open your mouth once again and you’re dead.’ After that that it had been a matter of minutes. A little old man had come hobbling out of the room and, thrusting a bundle at Jatin, had said in a quavering voice. ‘That’s all we have Baba sakal. Take it and leave us to die in peace.’

  Back in the boat they had opened the bundle. It contained six hundred and seventy-two rupees and about a dozen pieces of jewelry. They had stared at one another. Burgling was so easy! Why hadn’t they thought of it before?

  Their next target was the house of a rich moneylender of Tarakeshwar. This time they were forced into a struggle. A Bhojpuri darwan armed with an iron rod and two burly men servants appears on the scene and between the three they were an adequate match for the seven. However, Jatin’s gun won the day. The moment they heard a shot being fired into the air, the three dropped their arms and allowed the assailants to ransack the house. No one was killed or injured and the burglary wasn’t even reported in the newspapers.

  But even though the police had no clue to these nocturnal activities the members of the other societies knew what was going on. Most of them didn’t lend their support. Surendranath Banerjee, who was negotiating with the British for self rule, was appalled at these acts of terrorism. So was Sarala Ghoshal. Sarala was so disturbed at what was happening that she tried to break up Jatin Bandopadhyaya’s aakhra by appealing to Tilak to make a public denunciation. But Tilak refused. By doing so, he told her, he would be betraying his own countrymen. The police would be on the alert and a bloodbath would follow.

  The aakhra broke up a few mouths later but not through Sarala’s efforts. The seed of disintegration lay within. Ever since its inception, Jatin and Barin had been fighting for supremacy. Now after the two burglaries, the cold war turned into an open feud—bitter and angry. Jatin felt that he was the natural leader being the strongest and most skilled in weaponry amongst them all. Barin believed that his was the right. The society was his brother’s brainchild and it was his brother’s money that was financing it. The first open quarrel was over who was to take charge of the money collected. Barin insisted that, as the representative of the founder, the society’s funds should be vested in his care. Jatin did not agree. This initial disagreement swelled into a mighty ego clash resulting in bitter recriminations from both sides. The breaking point came when Barin accused Jatin of keeping a mistress and passing her off as his sister. ‘Kuhelika!’ he exclaimed with a sneer. ‘Can that be anyone’s real name? It’s a pseudonym which betrays the truth of the situation. Jatinda is keeping the relationship hidden in a cloud of mystery.’

  When this last accusation reached Jatin’s ears he felt sick with shame and shock. Calling all the members together he threw the bundle of money and jewels on the floor. Then, dragging Kuhelika in by the hand, he made her raise her sari to the ankles and expose her feet. Placing his own beside hers, he said, ‘Have a good look.’ The boys stared in surprise. The feet were identical in shape down to the pronounced clefts in the big toes. ‘Such genetic similarities are found only among blood brothers and sisters,’ Jatin said. ‘Does this clear my character gentleman?’

  Jatin left the house the next day and went back to his village. Satyendranath, who had disliked Barin’s attitude from the start, submitted his resignation. The others went out of circulation, too, one by one. Only Barin and Bharat were left. One evening Bharat arrived at the house to find a big lock hanging on the door. Barin had abandoned the aakhra.

  Chapter XL

  After the disintegration of the aakhra Bharat felt as though he was suspended in space. He didn’t know what to do or wh
ere to go. Staying on in Calcutta indefinitely was neither possible nor safe. So when Hemchandra Kanungo invited him to accompany him to Medinipur he gave the matter serious thought. ‘How long can I stay in your house as a guest, Hem?’ he asked ruefully. ‘You’ll long to get rid of me after a while.’

  ‘I may or may not wish to get rid of you,’ Hem answered, ‘But that’s not the question here. You won’t be comfortable staying as my guest for long. I have another idea. I’ve inherited a small farm in the outskirts of Medinipur. Why don’t you go and live there? No, no! I’m not offering you charity. I suggest you buy it. I have no use for it and I hardly ever go there. I’ve been thinking of selling it for quite some time now.’

  ‘I’ve never lived in a village Hem.’ Though tempted by the offer Bharat demurred a little.

  ‘Medinipur is hardly a village. It’s a bustling town with many educated people living in it. It has a library and, what is more, a society like the one in Circular Road. You’ll find plenty of people to talk to.’

  ‘Give me a few days to think it over. I’ll let you know as soon as I decide.’

  Bharat left for Medinipur a couple of weeks later. Hemchandra met him at the station and said, ‘Let me take you to the farm first. See if you like it.’ Hiring a buggy the two friends drove to the edge of the town where a small dilapidated cottage stood on several acres of land. There was a garden around the house which had obviously been laid out with taste and care at one time, but was now reduced to a wilderness of weeds and tangled undergrowth. The pond in the middle had stone ghats around it but they were broken in many places and the water was choked with algae. Bharat could see some rice fields in the distance and orchards of mango and jackfruit. But the place was completely deserted. Not a soul was to be seen.