Calcutta was a city divided in more ways than one. To the north, there was Black Town, home to the native population; to the south, White Town for the British; and in the middle, a grey, amorphous area full of Chinese, Armenians, Jews, Parsees, Anglo-Indians and anyone else who didn’t fit in. There was no law demarking the city, no barriers or walls; the segregation was just one of those things that seemed to have evolved while no one was paying attention. There were oddities of course, the odd Anglo-Indian in Alipore or a couple of Englishman in Bow Bazar, but for the most part, the rule held.
The exception was Bhowanipore. While much of the Bengali elite resided around Shyam Bazar, a sizeable number had decided that it would be jolly to build their mansions in the south of the city. Not just anywhere in the south, but a stone’s throw from lily-white Alipore. The walls were as high, and the houses as big, but where those of Alipore were set back from the road and hidden from view – as though the buildings, like their residents, were different from their surroundings – the mansions of Bhowanipore stood tall, their columned facades looming high over the roadsides. I doubted it was coincidence that some of Bhowanipore’s finest houses were those visible from across the canal in Alipore. In a city where the natives were second-class citizens, the suburb’s architecture was a political statement. Bhowanipore was two fingers raised towards the British. And Bhowanipore was where Das lived.
Surrender-not and I sat in the back of a police Wolseley as it drove down Russa Road in the hazy winter sunshine. The sergeant had seemed on edge ever since we’d left Lord Taggart’s office.
‘Come on, spit it out,’ I said.
He turned to face me. ‘What?’
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘You’ve spent the whole journey looking like someone stole your sweets.’
He vacillated for a moment.
‘Don’t make me pull rank,’ I pressed.
‘The commissioner’s orders,’ he said finally. ‘I can’t help but feel he thinks I have some pull with Das, when the truth is quite the opposite.’
‘He is a family friend of yours,’ I said.
‘He’s a friend of my family – which is something quite different to being a friend of mine. He’s no more likely to listen to me than he is to listen to you; probably less so, given I’m an Indian who …’
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. He was a native who’d sided with the British, at least in the eyes of Das and his cohorts. It didn’t matter that, in his way, Surrender-not was as patriotic as any of them. He’d done what he believed was right – stayed at his post and continued to do his job. But he’d paid a heavy price for it.
The car stopped outside the gates to Das’s residence.
‘His house looks even bigger than your father’s,’ I said to Surrender-not as a manservant dressed in a white kurta opened the gates.
‘Yes.’ The sergeant smiled, as the car edged forward once more. ‘But our house in Darjeeling is larger and better situated than Das’s.’
‘Of course it is,’ I said drily.
The driver halted at the foot of a set of marble steps leading up to a column-studded veranda and we exited the car.
‘We’re here to see Mr Das,’ I said to the manservant, who’d come running over.
‘Hã, sahib,’ he said. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘We’re the police,’ I said. ‘We don’t need an appointment.’
The man’s face fell, yet he answered with good grace.
‘If you’ll kindly follow me.’
He led us through a high-ceilinged hallway dominated by an iceberg-sized chandelier to a drawing room which opened out onto a courtyard that could have doubled as a football pitch.
Surrender-not made himself at home on one of the sofas while I prowled the room. For a man who agitated for Indian independence, Das’s drawing room was surprisingly Western, decorated in the style one would expect of a highly paid Lincoln’s Inn lawyer, with French furniture, a gilt-framed mirror and portraits of several stern-faced native men on the walls.
It all seemed rather ostentatious for a man who now wore only homespun clothes, and yet, as Surrender-not had pointed out, Das had bequeathed this house and all its chattels to the Congress Party and the cause of independence. His conversion from advocate to acolyte seemed as sudden and wholehearted as that of St Paul on the road to Damascus, the only difference being that his new-found leader called himself Mahatma rather than Messiah.
The door opened and in stepped a rather striking middle-aged Indian woman in a plain blue sari.
Her eyes fell on Surrender-not and her face lit up.
‘Suren, my dear. It has been far too long. How are you?’
Surrender-not rose from the sofa. ‘I’m fine, kaki-ma,’ he stammered, as she walked over and took him by the hand.
‘Your parents are well?’ she asked.
Surrender-not sidestepped the question. ‘Allow me to introduce my superior, Captain Wyndham,’ he said.
The woman smiled then placed her palms together in pranam.
‘Captain Wyndham,’ continued Surrender-not, ‘I have the pleasure of introducing, Mr Das’s wife, Mrs Basanti Das.’
‘The pleasure is mine,’ I said.
She was taller than I’d expected, and carried herself with a certain elegance that one associated with women who wore expensive jewellery. Save for a few bangles though, Mrs Das was bereft of such adornment. In this, it seemed, she followed her husband’s example.
‘You will excuse my husband,’ she said, looking me in the eye with a confidence few native women displayed upon first meeting. ‘He is concluding a meeting and will join you shortly. In the meantime, please sit. Would you care for some tea?’
It wasn’t a question. In Bengal, even more than in Britain, tea was a given, a fact of life as constant as the air you breathed. She pressed a brass button on the wall, summoning a maid in a plain white sari, who, having received the briefest of instructions, nodded and retreated once more.
Mrs Das took a seat on the sofa opposite. She turned to Surrender-not. ‘I take it this is not a social call, Suren? Your uncle mentioned you came to see him at the courthouse yesterday.’
Surrender-not cleared his throat. ‘You must speak to him, kaki-ma. He listens to you. Convince him to call off the demonstrations.’
The lady smiled and shook her head. ‘I could never ask him to do that.’
Surrender-not ran a hand through his hair. ‘The authorities are becoming nervous, kaki-ma. Their only concern is that this visit by the Prince of Wales passes off without incident. They need to show a peaceful Calcutta to the world’s press.’
The bangles on her wrist clinked against one another as she took his hand. ‘But Calcutta is peaceful, Suren. The demonstrations are peaceful. What your authorities want, I think, is not a peaceful, but a docile populace, and that is something they will not obtain. If anything, now is the time to redouble the protests,’ she said. ‘It proves your uncle’s tactics are working. In their desperation, the British will concede to his demands.’
‘No, kaki-ma, they will not,’ said Surrender-not forcefully. ‘They will crack down and they will spare no one. They will arrest him and throw him in a jail somewhere, possibly hundreds of miles from here. Maybe even outside India. What good can he do anyone by languishing in prison in Mandalay? And you know the toll that the struggle has taken on his health. He is not a young man any more. I fear that prison would break him.’
A shadow of doubt flickered across the woman’s face as the door opened. Both she and Surrender-not turned to it expectantly, but instead of Das, it was merely the maid returning with tea and Bengali sweetmeats. She set them down on the table in front of her mistress and began to pour.
‘What do you wish me to do?’ said Mrs Das. ‘Your kakū will not listen to me. In matters like this, he won’t listen to anyone, save for the Mahatma, and of late, not even him.’
Anguish etched itself like a rictus mask on Surrender-not’s face and it struck me just how much he’d aged over the last twelve months. The idealistic, self-effacing young man I’d first met over two years ago had grown up quickly, forced to bridge the divide between the love of his family and community and the love for his job and his personal belief that he continued to do what was right and moral. It had proved impossible to square that circle, and, to the extent that he was all but excommunicated from his kith and kin, he was, ironically, as alone in this city as I was.
They say no man is an island, but the truth is that some of us are forced to be, fashioned by fate and circumstances beyond our control. I was one, and I feared Surrender-not was fast heading that way too.
The maid set out the teacups in front of us. Mrs Das picked one up and sipped. ‘If you want to change his mind, talk to Subhash.’
‘That young fellow Bose?’ I asked. ‘But he’s positively looking forward to being arrested.’
‘He may be,’ she replied, ‘but he worships my husband. His desire to keep him from harm will outweigh any wish to court arrest on his own part.’
‘Who is going to be arrested?’ said a familiar voice, as the door opened once more. Surrender-not and I stood as Das walked in, smiling like an imp and dressed in a dhoti and a grey-flecked chador. Looking at him, it was hard to believe he was anything more than a kindly old uncle, rather than the de facto leader of millions throughout the province. Behind him came Bose, who appeared altogether more earnest, in the way that only the young and untested can. It was how Surrender-not used to look when I’d first met him; how I used to look before the war beat all of that nonsense out of me.
‘Captain Wyndham has come to ask you to call off the protests,’ said Mrs Das as her husband walked over. ‘Maybe you should listen to what he has to say.’
The glint faded from Das’s eye. He gently squeezed her hand and then gestured for us to sit.
‘You will excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Basanti Das. Making her apologies and leaving her tea unfinished, she made for the door. Das took the seat vacated by his wife, while Bose continued to stand, taking up position some feet behind the old lawyer.
‘So, Captain Wyndham,’ said Das. ‘Have you come bearing another missive from Lord Taggart?’
‘I’m here on the commissioner’s behalf, sir, to ask you to call off your protest at the bridge this afternoon, and to warn you that any attempt to close down the free movement of traffic will be met with the utmost severity under the law.’ Das listened politely. ‘Thank you, Captain. Please inform the commissioner that I would be most happy to accede to his request, provided he rescinds the order banning the Congress Volunteers by noon today.’
‘There’s no possibility of that, kakū,’ said Surrender-not. ‘The order comes from Delhi.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I added, ‘we shall pass on your request.’
‘Then we find ourselves at an impasse,’ said Das. ‘Unless you can think of any alternatives?’
‘Perhaps,’ ventured Surrender-not, ‘you could move the demonstration to another location? One that would allow you to air your grievances without provoking such a forceful reaction. The Maidan, maybe?’
Behind Das, Bose snorted. Das held up a silencing hand.
‘Of course, we could move it, Suren, but that would precisely deny the purpose of non-violent non-cooperation. It is our job to provoke a reaction. Otherwise, what would be the point? We cannot lash out, and we cannot allow the government to simply ignore us, carrying on as usual.’
There was a certain absurdity to it all. Here we were, Das and I, in the drawing room of a south Calcutta mansion, taking tea and calmly issuing demands at each other, in the full knowledge that neither of us had room to compromise and avert a cataclysm that would no doubt lead to violence, mass arrests and possibly deaths in a few short hours. It was like heading towards a precipice in a car with the brakes cut. We both knew what was coming, there was still time to jump out, but neither of us had the ability to take action.
Das took a handkerchief from within the folds of his dhoti, held it to his mouth and coughed.
Beside me, Surrender-not was becoming agitated. Balling one hand into a fist, he slapped it into the palm of the other. ‘If you go ahead, kakū, there will be arrests on a scale greater than we have seen since the start of the year. Fathers dragged from their families, sons locked up and deported. Do you want that on your conscience?’ he asked. ‘Hasn’t there been enough hardship already?’
‘All struggles involve hardship, Suren,’ he replied benignly. ‘It is only through such sacrifice that we shall create a new and worthy India.’
I’d seen more than enough hardship and sacrifice in the trenches to know it was all nonsense, of course, but the old man seemed to believe it. I suppose he had to. How else was he to justify the suffering that so many had endured by heeding the Mahatma’s call?
‘Please think of your health, kakū,’ implored Surrender-not. ‘A jail is no place for you.’
Das raised his index finger. ‘I’m not so sure, Suren. Maybe imprisonment in a British jail is the most powerful message I could send.’
Surrender-not turned to Bose in desperation. ‘Please talk to him, Subhash babu. What good will it do anyone if he should die in prison?’
Bose breathed in sharply but said nothing.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Das, making to stand. There seemed to be a new-found steel to his voice. ‘If there is nothing further, you will excuse me. Today is going to be a particularly busy day. Perhaps for all of us.’
I thanked him for his time and made for the door.
‘And, Captain,’ he said from behind. ‘Please pass on my best wishes to Lord Taggart.’
We stepped out into winter sunshine and walked back to the waiting car. The driver stood leaning against the car, a cigarette in his hand and a distant expression on his face. On seeing us, he jolted upright and threw the butt to the ground before composing himself and opening the rear door with all the gravitas of a footman at the viceroy’s palace.
As he did so, a native police peon, in white uniform and red fez, came wobbling along the street on his bicycle and stopped close by. Leaning the cycle against a tree, he walked over and saluted.
‘Captain Wyndham, sir? A message from Lal Bazar.’