Freedom’s Song - Unsung Acts of Courage!
The
struggle for freedom was familiarized for us through our history books. Popular
culture too had a role to play. In the 60’s and 70’s, before the popularity of
television, most cinema halls removed their regular fare on 15th
August and instead screened movies that
focused on ‘desh bhakti’; the relentless, unending battle for freedom, with its heroes at the vanguard of the action. Their
tales of unimaginable grit and sacrifice which often ended in betrayal, or
being sent to the gallows, or
imprisonment, often left the audience, and I remember my own reaction as a child, of being overcome with a helpless rage at
these frozen chapters of enslavement and servitude. Yet, one felt the
coruscating tide of inspiration and pride course through one, as you left the
dank dark movie hall, and sucked in large gulps of the ‘free’ air. Whilst
rejoicing in the knowledge that one lived in a free land, having just had a
glimpse at what price freedom had been won.
Yet, in the larger canvas of history, individual stories of struggle, of prodigious
courage challenging the iron fist of a mighty colonised state or even the blood
letting of communal violence, are lost
in the archives of unreliable memories. What was remarkable was that an imagined ideal of freedom or plain humanness brought
out unbelievable displays of courage from those who were otherwise
considered vulnerable and ordinary. This
was particularly so in the case of the
women of the era, who were hamstrung by so many social and cultural strictures,
that they were all but rendered
invisible in a land ruled by
patriarchal mores, that was bolstered by
the state. And yet when Gandhi ji gave
the call for the women to join the freedom movement, this same vulnerable
section took to the streets.
I would like to share here the story of my aunt -in -law’s, Shashi Sahaya nèe Prasad, grand aunt, who
was called Boodhi Iia ( pronounced eeya); boodhi or aged added to her nomenclature to
give more gravitas to her stature. Iia’s brother became the first President of
the Republic of India, Dr. Rajendra Prasad. His story is in the public realm
and most are familiar with it, but Iia’s
own story was caught in the shadows of the cultural mores of the era, before her own
participation in the struggle for freedom, invested her with an identity that was distinct and distinguished.
Married at the age of nine, and widowed in
her early teens, Iia’s life was a chronicle of traumatized womanhood and the
thwarted wants of a widow with all its ugly connotations, in the early parts of
the 20th century. My aunt
recalls that Jia was a very smart, bright girl who given the opportunity, could
have had a career as brilliant as her
brother’s. But as a young widow, all that was allowed to her was to return to her natal home in Jiradai in
Bihar. Her brother Rajendra Prasad was
rarely if ever at home, too caught up in the politics of the time to be the lonely
woman’s support. Soon however, as happened in many extended families, a niche
was created for her. She became the matriarch of the family in the absence of
older women, where she ruled with an iron hand , a cantankerous frustration
that did not make life easier for those around her. These aspects of her nature
peppered a legion of stories, once she shifted into Rashtrapati Bhawan,
after her brother became the President.
But before independence could become a
reality, Iia’s life took an unusual turn. She came to Patna to be with her brother as he became even more
deeply immersed in the freedom struggle and was frequently imprisoned. Gradually,
following his footsteps and inspired by Mahatma Gandhi’s call, she joined the
legions of women who stepped out of the confines of their homes, discarded the various forms of purdah that constrained them
and joined the freedom movement. She began to wear khadi and carried the fabric in a tin trunk from house
to house, as a part of a strategy to popularize the fabric and push for Swadeshi; where she like many others picketed
against foreign made cloth and goods.
She was actively involved in the Prabhat pheris, where groups of freedom
fighters would walk through the streets
protesting British rule. As a part of the movement she tried to hoist
the Indian flag at the Gandhi Maidan in Patna, a criminal offence for which she
was arrested and put behind bars. But the feisty woman, who was an inflexible
follower of the practices of ritual
purity, insisted that her cell be washed with Ganga jal, the waters from the Ganges river
everyday; besides a host
of other purification rituals, that she followed rigorously. In the bargain she
created such a tumultuous disruption in the routine of the prison officials, that they were happy to
see her released within the week of her imprisonment.
We turn the pages and find the sustained ahimsa driven struggle led by
Gandhiji overrun by the ugliest, most
bitter manifestations of communal violence, which eventually resulted in the
amputation of a country and the displacement of millions of people. By the
1940’s there were frequent communal riots in Calcutta.
Those days my family was living in
Calcutta, though as the communal situation turned more grim, parts of the
family shifted to Kanpur. The family’s business headquarters, a big office
space , which also served as a residence was located on a street called
Dharamtalla. This was the commercial hub, which even boasted of having the
premier general goods outlet, White
& Ludlow later named the Kamlalaya stores.
In the front yard adjoining the street,
which was fenced off by a high brick wall, piles of tyres had been stored. There
was apparently a huge demand for stock during the war years, and my grandfather
a canny businessman had invested his money into it, though this earned him the
ire of his cousins - his business partners. Later events, eventually did vindicate his
decision, as the acute shortage of material sent their prices soaring.
This particular incident happened on a day,
when curfew had been declared in Dharamtalla, in order to quell a particularly ferocious phase of communal violence unleashed
on the city. My aunt had shared this story with me when she was still alive.
Aunty was alone in the house with her small children and her mother-in-law. Uncle
had gone on a work related trip, and had been unable to return because of the
curfew.
It was afternoon, an uneasy silence
prevailed in the streets. Suddenly shots rent the silence, adding an acrid
smell of gun powder to the foetid monsoon air.
Immediately after, a rising tide of human voices, unintelligible but
discernible in their blood curling cries seemed to move in the direction of the
house.
Aunty came running to the verandah. It was
actually an enclosed space, secured by iron grills, which served as a covered
area for storing all manner of household goods. It also provided a sweeping
view of the compound, where the tyres were stacked and the main gate, which was
normally guarded by the chowkidar. From
this vantage point, she tried to figure
out what the commotion was about.
Outside on the streets, she had a partial
view of a group of men running behind a
couple of boys or were they men,
screaming for their blood. The
boys were trying desperately to give them the slip, but the group was gaining
on them. Soon, it seemed they had managed to catch them as the shouts of
pursuit were replaced by triumphal cries for vengeance. In a while though, confusion seemed to fill their ranks as some
of them realized that they had only
caught one of their preys. There were
cries to look for the other. ‘ Where is he, where has he disappeared?”
Their voices carried up to her, in her
enclosed space , where she had taken the precaution of hiding behind the
furniture. By now, she could see that the chowkidar had disappeared fearing for
his life and there was no one to protect the gate, which was around 6
feet in its height, and was secured with nothing more than a flimsy looking
padlock.
She moved a few inches away from behind her
cover trying to get a better view. But stopped, transfixed by the eyes of a teenage boy. Dark,
and swarthy, his face caked in drying blood, his blood shot eyes were filled with a plea for mercy. He was hiding inside the walls of
tyres stacked in the compound, and though he was clearly hidden from those at
the street level, she could not miss
him. He had obviously seen her too. There was an animal fear on his face. He
knew that it would be over in minutes, if the crowds caught him.
The sounds for blood were now coming from
near the gate. Some in the crowd were shaking
its iron length with enraged fury, sensing that their prey had probably jumped
into the compound of the business establishment. Some were shouting for the
gates to be opened.
Aunt
had to make a decision. She could give up the boy and perhaps hope that the
crowd would go away appeased. Or she would need to thwart them and save him. She didn’t have any time, the
crowd would soon be inside the compound, from where the entry into the house
would be a matter of minutes. She was alone, she and her small children and the
mother in law; who had no protection against the hordes outside. Fear was palpable on the faces of her
children and the older woman. She was terrified too. But gained some modicum
of courage as she remembered her parents, who were krantikaris,
revolutionaries who were engaged in
various kinds of subversive acts against
the British. She herself had seen them
smuggling in guns and hiding them in secret cavities in their house.
Now she went inside her room, opened the cupboard where the family pistol was kept, bundled in old
clothes. She felt its heft. It had been a long time since she had been given some training in using a pistol, but she certainly knew what was to
be done with its trigger.
With the pistol in her hand she came back
to the verandah, determined that no one would be allowed into the compound. She waited, and fired a warning shot into the air as a man tried to
jump across. It was an impossible situation, and though she was well aware of
the dangers, she was not going to go without a fight.
Fortunately for them though the police
arrived before the men could break the gate or enter the compound and the
situation was saved.
But it could not take away from the courage
of the thought or the act.
*Incidentally, I learnt later that the
preamble page along with the other pages of the Constitution were designed and
illustrated by a distant relative, the eminent painter Rammanohar Sinha of
Jabalpur, which were later endorsed by Nandlal Bose. Sinha had also designed
the covers for several of the novels written by my great grandfather Vrindavan
lal Varma.
By
Amita Sahaya
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