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This outtake can be read after Chapter Five.
Adhir had always looked up to his father. From an early age, he had been home, taking care of his little sister, doing chores around their small Shanti in Barishal’s largest slum area while their father ran a Paan Shop in front of the Police Station. He had always seen his father wake up at dawn before the first ray of the sun, pray to the Lord with his wet clothes still on, and leave for work, dangling a Thali of Ruti and Torkari for his lunch that he had cooked the previous night. Adhir would wake up right after him, help his little sister, make their tiffins and go to school. Benimadhob had enrolled him in his friend Upendra Gangopadhyay’s school for poor children. That was where Adhir met Master Moshai and Bina. Through his teens, Adhir slowly and steadily discovered a new side of his father, along with Mastermoshai. The Paan shop would be shut around 9 PM, but his father did not return home well after 11. The neighbours gossiped that he had taken a woman somewhere, not caring about his children, perhaps; others said he was a regular in the forbidden lanes of sin. Adhir wanted to see for himself. Question his father if that was true. So one evening, he kept his sister with the neighbour and ventured out towards the paan shop. He watched his father lock the makeshift shop, pray and leave with the Thali he came with. His Dhuti Panjabi was rather old and patched in places, but he whistled joyfully as he walked down the street, Adhir following him, keeping a distance. Adhir’s heart stopped briefly as he saw Benimadhob turn towards the lane of Sin. Women were seen calling clients on both sides of the lane, from the balconies of large Kothis. He was about to leave, hurt and disgusted, when he saw Master Moshai there. Adhir stopped for a while and decided to follow them. He had immense respect and trust in Mastermoshai, perhaps more than his father. There was no way he was a part of this sin. Adhir made up his mind that either his trust in everyone he ever looked up to would be shattered today or renewed. He held the shawl up to hide his youthful face as he walked into the lane after them. They had stopped in front of a street light on the busy road, exchanged Bidis and kept checking their watches. Adhir stood behind a pillar, watching. A woman from the Kothi came out and looked around before inviting Master Moshai in. It looked like his father stood there, as a lookout, still smoking indifferently as though he was waiting for someone. Adhir contemplated approaching and confronting him when someone caught him from behind, making him jump.
“New blood, eh?” The woman smiled while chewing the betel nut. “Come with me.”
“I… no…” Adhir was disgusted at her gaudy attire, shiny makeup and smile. To him, she looked shameless. He tried to shake her hand off him. She held on more firmly and laughed, amused. “I said, Come with me.” Her voice changed from coy persuasion to demanding, and Adhir gulped. To his surprise, the woman led him right past his father into the Kothi. He stared at his father, scared of his reaction, but to his surprise, Benimadhob looked away, not acknowledging him, as if he did not know the boy. Frowning at his father’s indifference, Adhir now saw a dark staircase that he was led up to. He resisted a little, and that was when the woman whispered, almost into his ear, “Mashtermoshai called you.” A chill ran down Adhir’s spine. How did he know Adhir was there? He walked into the hallway where the dancers practised their swirls and giggled among themselves, and walked past their eager eyes, towards a small door in the back with curtains. The woman, before he could protest, pushed him into the room. The room appeared dark as he stood there, among heaps of boxes that smelled of dust.
“Esho Adhir.” He could hear his teacher’s calm voice, but he was still not able to locate him. Wincing his eyes, Adhir followed the voice and turned left among the boxes. It was then that Upendra increased the light of the only lamp in the room, and Adhir found him sitting on a tattered mat with a few young men. Adhir looked unsure as drops of precipitation appeared on his forehead. He was only twelve, the odd age when his voice sounded more like a frog croaking and less like a man, but not like a child anymore. The men, mostly young collegegoers or teens, stared at him eagerly.
“Master Moshai?” He asked, unsurely. Upendra had a smile on his face.
“So you tricked your father, eh?” He said with an amused chuckle. “He did not even see you, I told him, you are getting older…” Adhir opened his mouth unsurely.
“I wanted to see…” He felt embarrassed to utter the words. Upendra nodded as he understood.
“Do you think your father can do something unethical?” His question was met with a shake of Adhir’s head. No way. He wanted to see that for himself. Defend his father to his friends who made fun of him. He has a mistress somewhere. Perhaps a wife and family. Soon, you will be abandoned. He just wanted to prove everyone wrong.
“Where did you learn to spy like that?” Master Moshai looked amused.
“What is there to be scared of?” Adhir opened the extra fold of his faded Dhuti and took out a betel cutter he had picked up from home. “I had this.” One of the young men gasped.
“Such a reckless fellow.” He exclaimed. Upendra still had a smile on his face. Adhir expected a scolding. Instead, Upendra asked him calmly, “Do you know what we do here?” He shook his head. He did not.
“We fight for our mother.” Upendra’s words suddenly ran a shiver down his spine. “Your father does too…”
“My grandmother died of Cholera last year.” His words were met with a roll of laughter from the men.
“There is another mother we all have, child, a mother that ties us all in brotherhood.” He insisted. Adhir did not understand. He looked confused. He had lost his mother when his sister was born. He had never known any other woman except his grandmother. Who was Upendra talking about? Upendra gestured at the young man who had spoken. He looked like a typical Bengali Bhalo Manush with a pot belly, who opened his Tholi and brought out a brown paper package.
“Read this.” Upendra insisted. Adhir frowned as he opened the package. In it was a book, hardbound, smelling of new pages. The golden letters on its cover said “Anandamath By Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay” Adhir loved reading books; he had also heard of the writer, but he had never heard of this book before.
“Read this in extreme secrecy. If you are caught with it, you will be in trouble. Come back here at the same time next week and tell me what you think.” Upendra instructed him. Adhir looked perplexed. Was this a secret book club? A rare book library? Why was this a secret society? He nodded, trusting every word Upendra uttered. Adhir was getting down the staircase in a hurry when he almost bumped into his father. Scared of being rebuked, he called softly and unsurely, “Baba?”
“Go home,” Benimadhob spoke in an indifferent voice. “Your sister is alone.”
Adhir spent the next two nights reading the book under the dimly lit lamp in their one-room home while his father slept on the bed and his sister, on the mat beside him. With every page, Adhir understood the need for rebellion, the expression of voice against atrocities. He hid the book in the trunk under the bed before his sister woke up. After finishing the book, he was eagerly waiting for the day to meet Upendra outside the school again. At school, the teasing about his father continued, but now Adhir was too engrossed and eager to care about bullies. Upendra did not act differently with him, and he followed the same protocol.
On the designated day, he made his way back through the lane to the Kothi to see the same woman standing on the threshold waiting for him. Adhir did not expect he would remember her, but he did. He was again in front of Upendra in the room, and this time his father was there as well.
“Did you read the book?” Upendra asked as he nodded. “And?”
“And it shows that sometimes you need to protest and rebel against the powers that rule over us. It can be self-sacrificial, but always for the greater good.” Upendra smiled proudly at his words.
“Your boy is ready, Benu.” That was all it took for Adhir to get baptised into the movement.
At first, the work was somewhat easy: cycle around the Bazaar, collect gossip, follow a few constables here and there, and make notes of people’s routines. Then it turned a step further by helping already active members of the anarchist group with disguises and escape. When Adhir was fifteen, his father took him to an abandoned warehouse one night, and for the first time, he saw a bomb. He had no idea those could be made so easily. One of the senior members, Kalikingkar Bose, taught the young lads to hold and fire rifles, and Adhir’s hand shook terribly at the heavy weapon in the first few days. He was rebuked by Kali Da time and again until he could fire a weapon without wincing his face or shrugging backwards.
Upendra insisted his daily life should not be hampered in any way to avoid suspicion from anyone around him. So Adhir helped his sister, went to school, studied and did everything else his friends did. And then, around the time his father closed shop, they would go to the hideouts that kept changing over time. With his sister a little older and managing by herself, she was let into the secret. That made things easier for him. Adhir was soon travelling to Calcutta, Dhaka and Narail in trains and carriages, exchanging information between different anarchist groups. The security was sometimes tightened around the areas where they spied. He would have to lie low for a while and begin his investigations again. This continued for a few years, but Adhir was restless.
All the group of men managed to do during this time was indulge in debates, spy on the officials and argue about the course of action. Sometimes they would join marches and protests in Calcutta or Tamluk, but nothing came out of it. The young men came back with bruises from the Lathi on their bodies, and the police listed their names. Adhir, like his name, was restless. He wanted to do something and make an impact that the British would not forget. Master Moshai reminded him time and again to be patient. Nothing should be hasty; the group did not have men and gunpowder in surplus that they could afford to lose. But Adhir gathered his fellow youngsters, Jatin being his closest aide, and protested against the leader’s notion. It was then that the leader’s son, Sharat, who was straight out of Presidency College, joined them. And to Adhir’s delight, he also thought that it was not a time to sit and wait but to act. The leader finally gave in to their pleas, and a plan was hatched. Sharat introduced Meera to the group, who, in turn, brought in Bina. The more women who joined the mission, the easier it was to employ spies in the homes of the rich and influential. Kabir was found on the lane of Metia Bruz by the leader himself. Then it was a phase of preparation. Kabir and Meera were employed, and the young men started making and testing bombs in the rail yards. Bina insisted she should be selected for this mission. She pleaded her cause to Adhir. Although she was older than he, she knew Adhir could make an impact if he wanted her by his side for the mission. Nobody would suspect a woman. Adhir held the revolver in his hand with utmost excitement when Kabir brought back information, and the group gathered in the Nat Mandir with maps to plan a day to strike. Adhir could see the pride in his father’s eyes like his prayers had been answered.
Adhir was eighteen when he bid his teary sister his final goodbye and reminded her that a bright future lay ahead of her in a free nation. She would study and be a good wife and mother someday. The thought that he would not be there to witness her growth overwhelmed him, but he knew how to control his emotions. For the Greater Good was the chant. She fell at his feet, taking his blessing like he was her God. Adhir gently blessed her and left at dawn.
The target car was observed for the first three or four days, as Adhir cycled around the routes, sat in tea stalls, indulging in meaningless gossip with strangers for hours, and hid behind the day’s newspaper to watch the men change guards. On one of the occasions, he even tried to strike up a conversation with the driver of the target. Upendra taught them that the basics of making it easier to strike would be to dehumanise the target. See his deeds, not his flesh and blood. Do not give a face and name to the target. For a while, it worked for Adhir. He made himself believe that killing a human being was not as tough as he had anticipated. But the day he and Bina set out for the showdown, his hand shook a little. Bina seemed tense as she spoke very little and bade adieu to go to her position. They had decided among themselves to either die or escape, but not let the police catch up to them. In case they got caught, no amount of severe torture could make them reveal people and plans. Adhir spent his days in a hideout reading about different torture methods that have been used in Ireland and how prisoners could get over them. He was unsure whether all that was practically possible. Adhir decided that no matter what happened, he would save a bullet in his revolver for himself.
No matter how much one plans, things barely go their way. Adhir made a mistake. While he shouted “Vande Mataram” out of the blue and hurled the bomb, he made eye contact with the target. The terror in his eyes was not to be missed. For a moment, Adhir lost his grip on himself, his humanity got the better of him, and his hand shook a little. Although the bomb hit the car and eliminated the target, Adhir could not bring the revolver up to his forehead and pull the trigger before the guards jumped on him. He was severely beaten and transported elsewhere. He had no idea where they were taking him until he heard the driver and guards speak in Hindi about Calcutta. Calcutta was far from home, away from the group. It meant they probably had no inkling of the anarchist activities in Barishal. Adhir thanked god for it. He was led into the newly built red-bricked Alipore Jail and dragged in chains into one of the cells that looked over a long corridor and a tree on one side and the high wall on the other, where he could see a part of the sky from the high window. There began the torture. No amount of reading could prepare him for it. Adhir was in and out of consciousness as they splashed hot and cold water on him, removed his nails, nailed his hands, and pulled his hair. The punches and kicks made him roll up on the floor and groan in pain. He was kept separately for a few weeks, but when he did not utter a word, it seemed like they had given up on him. The jailer was strict, and the prisoners were not allowed to interact or keep their hands on the railings. Adhir slowly got used to the stale food, torture and solitary confinement. His court date was near, and he was asked for his identity with the pretext of informing his family.
“I have only one family, my mother, Bharat Mata.” He would be beaten again. They asked him his name, and he proudly said, “ Bharat Santan” he was beaten again, but they could not identify him. Sometimes, when he thought he was running out of energy, he would shout Inquilab Zindabad and hear the other prisoners, whom he had never seen, echo his sentiments from the other barracks. He was whipped. One day, a Bengali gentleman arrived to see him. He wondered who that was when he found out about his court date and the appointed defence lawyer. Who appointed him? The barrister insisted he came on his own, for his right. But Adhir remembered that the leader, Master Moshai, had a barrister son in the city. He refused to plead guilty despite being warned of the consequences. He was ready to embrace the ultimate fate.
Once his sentencing came, Adhir was suddenly not scared anymore. He was humming songs, saying his prayers and tapping on the walls with his nails as if to leave his mark on them. The Jailor eased out, perhaps because he had accepted his fate, and almost like a miracle, he was seeing sunnier days. His solitary confinement was over. The first cellmate was an old man who had distributed some pamphlets. He could not read or write, and someone paid him enough to let him do the job. Adhir wondered if the man even understood his rights. He requested his lawyer to look into the matter. The man got bail, and his daughter brought homemade sweets for Adhir. For the first and last time, as Adhir had the sweets, he shed a few tears in secret for his sister. The home he lost. But then the sun shone once again. The next cellmate was a fifteen-year-old boy, Nanku Patel. Something in his demeanour was nervous and reluctant. Adhir had experienced life enough to know Nanku did not have the guts to break the law. He was amazed that the government had not given up on him exposing secrets. But he felt bad for Nanku. If the youth of the nation, the blood like his, were used in the work of nation-building instead of helping colonisers, India would be free sooner. But he got that the boy was doing this for his widowed mother. He understood that some people could not leave everything to god and jump into the service of the motherland for the greater good. He wondered what happened to Bina, if she had been caught, or if she escaped the place. When the judge read out that he was solely responsible for the bombing, and he narrated how he made the bomb, Adhir was relieved that somewhere in all this, Bina was safe and ready to serve the nation again.
Six months after Nanku left, Adhir had exhausted all his appeals and was set to be hanged. He could not sleep all night. He held the Bhagwat Gita to his chest and prayed for the country and the countrymen. At dawn, he could hear the birds chirp when the Jailer came and led him unchained to another detention cell. There, he was given a sumptuous meal of his favourite food. Adhir ate heartily as he watched the Jailer’s eyes sparkle.
“What is it, old man?” He chuckled at the man, “Are you in love with me?”
“I can’t comprehend how you are laughing.” The Jailer spoke in a trembling voice. Adhir smiled back.
“ Sacrificing my life for my nation, that is the greatest of virtues in my sacred motherland. Why should I be scared of going to heaven?” The man suddenly came forward and blessed Adhir with a Christian prayer. Adhir wondered what had moved the man so much. He lamented quitting his job and moving back home to Scotland. He had seen enough.
Adhir was tied with ropes on his hands and feet after a medical check-up. He was then led by the executioner to the gallows. He looked up at the blue sky, white clouds and sun. “Vande Mataram.” He pumped his tied fists up in the air as he was dragged up the steps.
“Inquilab Zindabad.” Echoed in the air as he now saw the men watching from the windows above the gallows, fellow soldiers embracing the same fate. He was not scared anymore.
