First Light (79 page)

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.

After the disintegration of the aakhra Bharat felt as though he was suspended in space. He didn't know what to do or where 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.

Hemchandra shouted for the mali Siddhiram, who was also the caretaker, in vain. Then, giving up, he picked up a stone and hammered at the ancient lock till it broke and fell to the floor. The door creaked on its rusty hinges and swung open to reveal an interior that left Bharat staring with dismay. Dust lay thick on everything and cobwebs hung in festoons from the walls. The floor was pitted with holes from which mice scampered gaily in and out. ‘You're disappointed, aren't you friend?' Hemchandra asked with a smile. ‘Things will look quite different after a thorough cleaning and some repairs. Come home with me for the present. You can take charge of your new property when it's ready for you. By the way, I hope you're not afraid of ghosts. The house is supposed to be haunted. My grandfather kept a mistress here for many years and she died in this house. Members of my family claim that they have heard peals of laughter and the tinkling of ankle bells at the dead of night. That's why no one comes here anymore.'

‘I've had close encounters with death so many times that I've ceased to be afraid of anything—natural or supernatural.'

Bharat moved in within a week and adjusted to his new life with an ease that was amazing even to him. He gave up his city clothes and wore a checked lungi and singlet. He stopped shaving and soon a thick stubble appeared on his cheeks and chin. All day he pottered about, on bare feet, watering his shrubs, planting new trees and pruning old ones. Siddhiram, Bharat discovered, was a better cook than a mali and Bharat decided to switch roles with him. So while Siddhiram cooked and cleaned Bharat tended the garden. The evenings were spent in Hem's company. The two friends sat together by the pond, now cleared of weeds and hyacinth, chatted of the past and made plans for the future.

‘We swore on the Gita to dedicate our lives to the country,' Hem said one day. ‘But we haven't kept our oath Bharat.'

‘What can we do by ourselves Hem?' Bharat replied ‘Someone must give us the direction. Aurobindo Babu's silence is uncanny. He seems to have given up hope. Shall we do the same?'

‘By no means. The boys of Medinipur haven't given up the effort or the hope. Let us work with them. It may be that the lead for a great revolution will come from an obscure town like ours.'

A few months later Satyendranath arrived in Medinipur and took on the task of restructuring the Samiti. Bharat's house became the headquarters of the new aakhra and several boys, handpicked and initiated into the movement by Satyen, moved in with him. Here they received several kinds of instruction. Along with secret training in the martial arts they were given lessons in economics and history. Satyen explained the reasons for the country's declining economy and regaled them with stories of other great revolutions of the world. While Satyen was engaged in educating the youth of the country Hemchandra went from village to village on a rickety bicycle trying to win over the common man. He began by targeting schools and schoolmasters. He had lengthy discussions with the latter out of a conviction that, if they could be fired with a desire for freedom, they would pass it on to their pupils. Bharat accompanied him quite often and never failed to be amazed at his drive and dedication. Unlike Bharat, Hem was married and had a family. Yet he spent months away from home without a murmur. Even more surprising was the fact that he never put himself forward or claimed the right to leadership. He worked in the shadows and allowed Satyen to bask in the limelight.

One evening the whole group sat together in Bharat's house talking of this and that when one of the boys said suddenly, ‘What has become of Curzon's grand plan of the Partition of Bengal Satyenda? Why is no one talking about it anymore?'

‘The Bengali Babus were so fiercely opposed to it,' another replied, ‘that the sahebs lost their nerve. It is possible that Curzon has changed his mind.' Everyone's face brightened at the thought. Everyone's except Hemchandra's. ‘I hope he hasn't,' he muttered sullenly.

‘Why do you say that?' Bharat asked curiously. ‘Surely you don't endorse Partition! Don't you realize that the plan is to divide Hindus and Muslims and bring Bengal to her knees?'

‘I realize that—of course,' Hemchandra replied. ‘What you don't realize is that an act of this kind is needed at this juncture. It will shock the people out of their lethargy. The sleeping nation will wake up roaring for revenge. It might be a good thing in the long run,'

Even as he spoke a boy of about twelve came running into the
room. ‘May I have a word with you Hemda?' he cried, his face flushed with agitation. Hem looked at him indulgently. He was Khudiram, a very bright lad but wild and wilful and always up to some prank or other. ‘What is it Khudi?' Hem asked smiling.

‘I want a pistol Hemda. Shall I go to your house?'

‘A pistol!' Hemchandra exclaimed startled, ‘Whatever for?' ‘I want to kill an Englishman. The magistrate slapped an orderly for no fault whatsoever. How dare he? The white-skinned firinghees think they can do what they like in our country! Why should we allow it?'

‘The sahebs are all powerful Khudi. If you as much as touch the hair of the magistrate the police will shoot you down like a dog.'

‘I'm not afraid.'

‘Don't talk nonsense Khudi!' Hemchandra said severely. ‘You're too young to think of violence. Go home.'

The boy's face fell. He went away dragging his feet in disappointment. Hemchandra turned to Bharat. ‘Did you see that Bharat?' he asked. ‘Khudiram is only a child but his blood is boiling with a sense of injustice. With a few thousand boys like him we can launch a struggle the like of which has never been seen in this country.'

Bharat rose at dawn, the next day, and sauntered out into the garden. Plucking a twig from a neem branch he commenced brushing his teeth and examining each tree, bush and creeper running his hands lovingly over the leaves, flowers and fruits. The oleander was bending over under its wealth of blood red blooms. His heart lifted with triumph at the thought that this was his creation. The place where it now stood had been an arid patch overrun with dry scrub. He had cleared the land, dug the soil and planted the seed. He had watered it and watched it take root and grow to healthy, vigorous life. He turned his eyes to the banana clump. What a strange, wonderful green it was with the sun glinting on the leaves. Surely there wasn't such a golden green in the world!

Around eleven o' clock, when Bharat was engaged in scraping out a mound of termites from the root of a mango tree, a boy came running in with a message from Hem. It was Khudiram. ‘Hemda has had an accident,' he said. ‘He wants you to come to
the loom house at once.' The loom house was a simple shack situated at the other end of the town on one bank of the Kansai river and adjacent to the shrine of Hazrat Pir Lohani. Three handlooms had been set up here and a coarse type of cloth was woven by local weavers. Hem often held his meetings here. It was also a refuge for a number of boys who hated their homes and schools and had volunteered to work for the country.

Bharat rose from his knees and, throwing his shovel aside, had just turned to go into the house when he heard a rustle accompanied by a hissing sound. Then, as he stood rooted to the ground, a giant cobra reared its head from inside the broken mound swaying from side to side and staring at him with beady eyes. Its long greeny black body slithered out slowly and coiled itself within inches of Bharat's feet. Bharat's blood turned cold. He looked around with dazed eyes for a stick but, before he could move, Kudiram had pushed him aside with a thrust of his strong, young arm. ‘Move away Dada!' he yelled. ‘I'll deal with this fellow.' Picking up a handful of dust he threw it at the snake targeting the eyes. Then, like a skilled snakecharmer, he started circling round it picking up handfuls of dust and throwing them at intervals. The snake hissed louder in its fury and swayed more fiercely. But, being foolish and cowardly by nature, it couldn't take the boy's attack for long and tried to slither back into its hole head foremost. Now Khudiram sprang forward and grabbed it by its tail. Swinging it in the air with strong circular motions he dashed it against the rough mango trunk, over and over again till, its bones smashed and broken, it lay on the ground—a lifeless mass of battered flesh and bits of glistening skin.

‘Why did you have to take such a risk?' Bharat scolded the boy severely. ‘We could have killed it with a stick.' Then seeing the boy's face crumple with disappointment, he added, ‘Let's go now. Is Hem badly hurt?'

Reaching the shack they found Hem lying on a string cot with a bloodstained bandage on his brow. One foot, swollen to the size of a pumpkin, was coated with a mixture of lime and turmeric. ‘Why Hem! What happened?' Bharat asked his friend in a burst of concern. But Hem did not bother to answer his question. ‘Satyenda has returned from Calcutta,' he cried. ‘He has brought a number of newspapers with him. The Partition of Bengal is
about to become a reality. But, do you know Bharat, the Bengalis are not weeping and beating their breasts. Or begging the rulers to desist. They are holding meetings in street corners and protesting against the Bill.' Hemchandra sat up in his excitement. ‘Satyenda tells me that students have joined in large numbers and are going ahead with their slogan shouting right under the bloodshot eyes of the police.'

‘But how long can they do so?' Bharat asked in a bewildered voice. ‘The British have weapons. We have nothing.'

‘There are kinds and kinds of weapons. Ours will be boycott.' ‘Boycott! What is that?'

‘It means to denounce and abjure. The British are a nation of shopkeepers. The way to hit them where it hurts is to cripple their industries. Indians will take a pledge to stop using British goods. We'll give up wearing shoes and stop buying their cloth. We'll take to smoking bidis instead of cigars. And we'll use country mollasses in place of white sugar.'

‘What shall we wear then? There's no such thing as Indian leather and all our cloth comes from Manchester and Lancashire.'

‘We'll wear khadams or go bare foot. And we'll buy cloth from the mills of Bombay.' Hem paused to take a breath and continued, ‘A huge meeting is being organized in the Town Hall of Calcutta on the seventh of August. Many eminent men are joining it. I've a mind to go. Will you come with me?'

‘No,' Bharat replied after a moment's hesitation. Hemchandra frowned. Then, almost as though he was speaking to himself, he muttered, ‘It's going to be a historic occasion from what I hear. We're close to something. Something really big! This is not the time to remain tucked away safely on a tiny farm. All right-thinking people should set themselves adrift on the mainstream and sink or swim with their countrymen.'

‘How will you go?' Bharat asked bluntly. ‘Your foot is too badly injured for you to attempt anything so foolhardy.'

‘Go I shall—even if I have to crawl all the way. I'll show myself to a doctor first of course. Calcutta doctors are wizards. I'm confident I'll be able to walk in a few days.'

‘I'll come with you,' Bharat said suddenly.

‘You don't have to. Not for my sake at least. I don't want your charity.'

‘You may not want it. But you'll have to take it all the same.' ‘No!' Hemchandra shouted, his face flaming. ‘You stay here with your piddling bushes and creepers. I shan't take you with me.'

‘You can't prevent me from boarding the train,' Bharat laughed, ‘Or from leaving it at Howrah. And there's no law that decrees that I can't walk by your side through the streets of Calcutta.'

Bharat was as good as his word. Throwing a few things together in a bag he boarded the train to Calcutta accompanied by Hem. Then arriving at Howrah Station, he hired a hackney cab and drove straight to Dr Mahendralal Sarkar's chamber in Bhabanipur. He had accompanied Shashibhushan there a number of times and knew the place. But, alighting from the cab, he looked around with a puzzled frown. The street outside had always been packed with carriages and people at this hour. But now the place looked quite deserted. Only two carriages stood waiting, a little distance away from the gate. Walking in they were informed that Dr Sarkar was examining a patient and would send for them in a few minutes. They would have to wait, till then, in the reception room.