Latitudes of the past!

The islands looked like tiny diamonds strewn in the backdrop of the clear blue waters. Kalindi peeped out of the aircraft window gloating at the richness of this conglomerate of tiny land masses called the Andaman & Nicobar Islands….so far away from main land India & yet so much a part of her.

The Andamans held a special place in her heart. She had come here accompanied by her husband to look for history. A history which had a personal connection with her family’s past & the events that unfolded thereafter.

Kalindi’s maternal grand dad had served time in the cellular jail here as a freedom fighter. She had come looking for that part of her ancestor’s life that no one from her immediate family had witnessed. She had grown up hearing how her nanaji* had participated in the freedom struggle. He adored Gandhi but had pretty much leftist views.

The freedom fighters in his group were young men between the age of 18 to 25 who braved physical hardships to swim across the Padma river to reach Bangladesh which was a part of India in those days. They brought back formulas to make crude bombs to blow-up British contingents.

In the year 1933, Keshav Prasad was finally arrested by the British. They had burnt to death a ruthless British officer & had gone underground due to the intensive search organized by the British Raj. As he hid in the underground cell in his home, the police had hookwinked a child in the family into telling them where Keshav was hiding. Keshav & his friends were never found guilty of homicide but since a substantial amount of gun powder & fire arms were confiscated from their respective houses, they were booked & sentenced to 7 years rigorous imprisonment in the cellular jail in the Andamans.

The cellular jail is situated at the Atlanta Point, on the eastern side of Port Blair in south Andamans. Port Blair is the capital of these untouched islands and was named thus after Lieutenant Archibald Blair who had first surveyed these islands to establish a penal settlement in 1788. The construction of the cellular jail started almost a century later.

The most feared freedom fighters were banished to this place. It was infamous as Kal Pani. Kal meaning death & Pani in hindi means water. The island was infested with Anopheles Mosquitos that cause malaria, centipedes & snakes. The chance of anyone coming back from this place alive was remote.

The freedom fighters would be tortured mercilessly by whipping them till they fainted only to be later tortured again by rubbing salt into their open wounds. Any Swatantrata Sainiks* who chanted the Vande Mataram would be tied to the ice slabs specially designed to crush the enthusiastic freedom fighters spirits. Dr Keshav would more often than ever irk the jail officials, even if it meant sleeping on the ice slabs till he turned blue with cold & lost consciousness. The prisoners went without proper food, clothing & medical treatment that left them terribly sick & malnutritioned.

The tough convicts were tied together in one chain & were required to work & sleep with the common chain tied to their iron fetters. Coconut trees were abundant on the island & each prisoner was tied like cattle to extract oil, pound coir, make ropes & cane items.

After settling down in Hotel Sinclair, Kalindi & her husband visited the cellular jail the next day. The stark history written on each brick made her heart bleed thinking of the hardships her grand dad had suffered fighting for his country. The same grand dad under whose favouritism she had basked teasing her other four brothers.

As dusk approached, Kalindi witnessed the light & sound program that conceptualized the torturous experiences of the prisoners so graphically that it left the viewers stunned. The political prisoners had gone on a fast unto death strike to protest against the inhuman treatment meted out to them as “C” grade convicts. The force feeding of the prisoners wherein an inmate losses his life as he chokes on food while shouting “vande mataram”* has been so realistically visualized in the program that Kalindi broke down…sobbing broken heartedly, lamenting the past. Her husband sat teary eyed himself unable to comprehend the drive these hero’s must posses to assimilate such tortures.

She felt pride knowing how both her grand parents were a solid team. Where her grand dad was a freedom fighter, his wife was a pillar of strength whose unstinted support pumped him with herculean convictions to carry on the struggle. They sent messages of encouragement to one another in a language they had invented so as to not give away what was being conveyed.

Keshav was repatriated from Kal Pani in 1937. He was thirty-one then. Within two years he lost his wife to child birth. This was a major blow to him personally. He didn’t marry again as he felt there was no room for another in his heart. He carried on the freedom struggle till India achieved its freedom in the year 1947.

Kalindi reminiscences about the score of events on the eve of 15th August, 1947. She was just 5 years old then but remembers vividly how her nanaji had heard Pandit Nehru announce independence on the all India radio. Nanaji ran ecstatically into each room of their palatial house yelling on top of his voice that Bharat Mata* was at last free from her bondage.

Everyone was shouting in excitement till their eyes filled with tears of deliverance & solace. The whole family wore their best outfits & headed towards the Gandhi Maidan where the entire ground was lit with a million diya’s* in celebration of the new found azadi.* Strangers were hugging one another & crying in disbelief of the end of a servitude that stretched for almost 2 centuries & left India raped & plundered.

The task of uniting everyone under one banner was formidable. Pandit Nehru worked relentlessly towards balancing the freshly germinated democracy with Sardar Vallabh Bhai Patel arm twisting the princely states to come under the common flagship of free India.

Back to the Andamans….Kalindi is at last at peace getting to know a new facet about her grandfather that had been hear say until now. As she mentioned to one of the officials at the cellular jail about being a relative of one of the prisoners & behold! everyone who was present there looked at her in awe. They asked her questions in a hurry to know more about a an unsung hero who had suffered unrelentingly for us to breathe in free India.

To know more visit…..

http://www.andamancellularjail.org/Default.htm

http://www.andamancellularjail.org/ListOfRevolutionaries.htm

FEEDOM FIGHTERS INCARCERATED IN (CELLUALR JAIL 1932-1938)

1 Shri Biswanath Mathur Bihar

2 Shri Chandrika Singh Bihar

3 Shri Gouri Shankar Dubey Bihar

4 Shri Gulab Chand Gupta Bihar

5 Shri Jogendra Shukul Bihar

6 Shri Kamal Nath Tiwari Bihar

7 Shri Kanhaiya Lal Misir Bihar

8 Shri Kedarmoni Shukul Bihar

9 Shri Keshav Prasad Bihar

10 Shri Mihabir Misir Bihar

11 Shri Malay Bramachari Bihar

12 Shri Mohit Adhikari Bihar

13 Shri Nanku Singh Bihar

14 Shri Pramatha Nath Ghosh Bihar

15 Shri Ram Pratap Singh Bihar

16 Shri Shyam Krishna Agarwal Bihar

17 Shri Shyama Charan Bharatwar Bihar

18 Shri Shyamdeo Narayan Bihar alias Ram Singh

19 Shri Suraj Nath Chaure Bihar


http://www.andamancellularjail.org/P1.htm



Keshav Prasad Gaya Conspiracy Case
Born in Gaya, Bihar, participated in Civil disobedience movement. Joined Hindusthan Socialist republican Army. Arrested in gaya in connection wuth Explosives and Arms Seizure incidence. Sentenced to prison term of 7 years in 1933. and deported to the Andamans. Took part in second hunger strike. Repatriated in 1937 and released in 1938. In early seventies he became a sanyasi and took an ashram life in Vrindavan.



Note : Details downloaded from the cellular jail site



* Swatantrata Sainiks – Freedom fighters

* vande mataram – Salutations to my mother land

* Bharat Mata – India

* Nanaji – Maternal Grand Father

* Diya’s – oil lamps

* Azadi - Freedom


Copyright © BuntysBanter 2007

And miles to go before I sleep!

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost

The mist had enveloped the entire hill top & rain played hide & seek. Just for a few magpie robbins hopping about to catch the early worms (in this case a dragon fly) & the sweeping of the verandah by the bunglow keeper, everyone else seemed to be tucked up in bed enjoying the bliss of morning sleep.

I tip toe to not disturb anyone. Quickly wear my wind cheater & sneakers & armed with my binoc’s & camera, am off to breathe this heavenly place that I keep returning to every once in a while to recharge my batteries.

The whispering trees are swaying as the wind teases them first from one direction & when they are bent in sublime subservience, tickle them from another direction. These tall trees ever so gracefully try to keep up with the rogue winds naughty tactics.

It feels long that I have traversed this beautiful landscape. Have not had much time to introspect off-late either. Always surrounded by someone or the other, the connection with myself had slowly taken a back seat.

I walk the mature pathways changing routes to suit my sensibilities. In the distance I hear a logger chopping away in the middle of a beautiful misty morning. The rhetoric dull sound of the axe striking the wood is disturbing.

Why do people end things that give life? Why is life not celebrated? And then the turn gives me a direct view of the fallen tree. This majestic tree was home to so many species of birds & insects. It was the crowning glory of the bunglow that stood right next to it.

The heavy rains of last night had clawed the tree from its roots. As I had been snug under my sheets, this tree had finally breathed its last. It resisted & fought to survive. But there’s nothing that one can do against the forces of nature. Change is imperative.

It saddens me to see this lovely tree this way. Defeated & uprooted. I wonder why things get messed up when the moment is at its peak. One moment we are galloping in beautiful terrain & enjoying the ride & the next moment the topography changes to jagged & harsh surroundings throwing us off guard. Your horse bucks, throwing you to the ground & you collect yourself, muddied & befuddled at what hit you.

The woodcutter was not the enemy that I had thought him to be. He was in fact the solicitor of change. He was helping to clear-up the mess that had befallen. He chopped away at the tree to re-organise the next chapter of life. Make way to help the new saplings that were fighting for space after germination. Life must go on….

I wave to the old man guilty of my perceptions of him & his intentions. As I walk further into the unused paths that had seen feet in rare occasions, I come across a hamlet. The hut on the extreme side of the small group of houses has a tiny courtyard that is neatly layered with soft clay mixed with cow dung. A boy probably ten years old is chasing a hen & almost succeeds in getting hold of his object of affection.

I stand transfixed seeing him prance about in an awkward gait. He’s polio stricken. I find him the epitome of strength, as he, oblivious of my prying eyes, goes about cantering awkwardly with the breeze in his hair & unbridled spirit in his eyes.

I marvel at the gem I had tumbled upon. There is always a message in little things around us. It just needs to be noticed by throwing open the window of our whimsical outlook & embracing vicissitude. And then the poem by Robert Frost rings in my ear….

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2007

The curse of Satyabhama!

“I didn't dare look over my shoulder. I knew if I did, it would all be over…”

The curse of Satyabhama was such. She had given Shobha darshan* in her dreams & asked her to visit her temple to pay homage. The gramdevi* temple was situated under the banyan tree in the medow with tall grass glades. The temple & its surroundings were always deserted due to the fear of inviting Satyabhama’s ire.

It all began in the year 1952. Satya was the third amongst the five children. Her father Vilas Rao was a farmer who made ends meet by tilling the small patch of land that he had inherited after his fathers death.

Satya was a playful child & trouble attracted her like metal to magnet. Always getting thrashed either by her mother or elder sisters, she was soon turning into a rebel.

They married her at the age of 14. Her husband was a jawan* in the army. Their entire village was proud to flaunt him as the village’s son-in-law. Bhimrao’s posting always took him to far flung & obscure places. Being an ordinary jawan, he could never take his wife along. She sobbed uncontrollably every time he left to return after 2 years.

In his last visit, he had consummated his marriage & they had been happy stealing time away from prying eyes, sometimes hiding behind the hay stacks & at other times in the caves that were situated on the outskirts of the village where no one ventured due to the huge bee hives hanging from the rocks protruding out of the cliff walls.

The three weeks of sanctioned leave got over in a jiffy & it was time for Bhimarao to report to his head quarters at Maholi. Poor Satya was heart broken & he promised to leave her at her parents place for a few days to make her feel better.

As the days passed, Satya would miss Bhimarao immeasurably & her melancholia was noticed by Shyam Babu. Shyam was a libertine rake with a nose for vulnerable, passionate lassies. He started lauding her beauty & grace & found the nubile Satya responsive.

It was the festival of Shivratri*. Satya was coming back from the village temple after offering milk to lord Shiva. Shyam Babu accosted her as she was crossing the medows to reach her parent’s modest house. He presented her with a jasmine gajra* & as she jumped in glee, embraced her. Before she could realize what was happening…they were locked in a passionate embrace.

Satya had never known such sensual gratifications. She basked at each touch & moaned in their pursuit of pleasure. Little did she know that this was a one way ticket to doom.

The next month she skipped her menstrual cycle & ignorant that she was…didn’t bother much. The morning sickness & she became increasingly concerned as she realized that she was pregnant.

Fear made her hide the truth from her parents & by the time they realized the situation, she was 26 weeks pregnant. Her parents feared public ridicule & decided to somehow abort the baby. They fed her poisonous herbs & the baby died in the womb.

Satya was in immense pain, the dead baby was spreading the gangrene, as she lay wailing loudly in pain. The villagers had started inquiring about Satya’s loud pitched cries & he parents decided that they had to save face.

Satya’s cousin brother was taken into confidence. Vilas Rao & the cousin dragged her deep into the forest on the foot hills of the Sahyadri’s & killed her, burying her body in a natural furrow in the river bed camouflaging the area with the dead foliage of the massive deciduous trees around.

It had been exactly 13 days since Satya’s killing. Poorna, the village headmaster’s daughter-in-law was filing water when she suddenly lifted the earthern pot & flung it on the ground. The pot disintegrated into a thousand pieces as she loosened her hair & started laughing in an eerie manner. When she spoke….it was in a different voice. Her eyes rolled in their sockets & she flung her head in circular motions as if in a satanic trance!

It was difficult to subdue Poorna even with the help of 4 young studs from the village akhada.* As the village priest prepared to perform a particular puja*, the spirit that had permeated into her body left her as suddenly as it had encroached it. As Poorna fell on the ground in a heap, her body burned in fever & kept her bed ridden for days.

In the coming days….nothing was the same again. Every house feared for its young female occupant’s safety. The incensed spirit raged havoc as it took each victim & reduced her to a sickly invalid.

Ram Bau was a kindred soul & respected by every one in the village. It was one such incident of ravaged insanity when Ram Bau calmly sat next to the victim & with folded hands, asked in humble respect the spirit’s identity & what it wanted.

I’m Satyabhama, Vilas Rao’s daughter…screamed the victim tearing her own hair. There was a shocked hushed coz everyone thought Satya had returned to her husband’s village. Ram Bau pressed further what she wanted.

I want revenge! I want to teach all of you a lesson! She raged. Vilas Rao was confronted & he confessed to killing his own daughter. He was brought before the victim & he gently palavered urging his daughter Satya to forget & forgive & leave everyone alone. He cried in repentance & impelled her to take his life if that would make her happier.

Vilas Rao’s despair acted as balm on Satya’s choler. She calmed down & announced that she would not trouble anyone who appeased her. The villagers would have to give her prominence in the gramdevi temple. She would come in people’s dreams & they would have to offer her prasad* & a saree* & return without looking over their shoulders or else….



* darshan – to appear

* gramdevi – the local female diety

*Jawan - Private

* Shivratri – A festival in celebration of Lord Shiva’s marriage to Parvati.

*Gajra – flowers strung in a short garland to adorn the hair.

* akhada – A place where the wrestlers practice.

*Puja – worship or religious ritual

*Prasad – edible offerings

*Saree – A nine yard long cloth used to wrap around the body in a particular style
commonly worn by the ladies in India.


Copyright © BuntysBanter 2007