The Smiling Maverick

It was May 11^th 1904. The sun had reached the horizon ready to set and mark the end of another day. The twilight rays diverging from the energetic star, casting it’s spell over the still waters of the river Ganges, illuminated the environment in a color concoction of it’s own.  The skies were painted in golden orange as a soft breeze blew across, harmoniously creating ripples in the calm water, small waves effortlessly caressed the fertile silt, dragging it back and forth in it’s banks like a child playing with his mother. A nineteen year old boy, Jatin sat under the sacred peepal fig, a mere distance away from the ridge, like a soulful artist deeply engaged in admiring his masterpiece on the nature’s canvas, the beautiful, breathtaking scenery, the effervescent colors of which, filled the atmosphere with earnest delight and a sense of prolonged belonging. The aura of the twilight hypnotized Jatin as he seemed aloof from the rest of the world, his wide eyes locked on the horizon, unblinking, motionlessly gazing at the setting sun, casting a charm all around it. A lonely, small living being leaped on the banks of the sacred river, racing in, hastily, from a fair distance away, in a manner signifying serendipity of it’s final destination within close sight and would sacrifice just about anything to reach the target. Jatin observing the sprinted movement from the corner of his left eye turned his devouring gaze to the creature. Semi darkness had set in by then, making it excruciatingly difficult for Jatin who strained his eyes to identify the lone figure advancing deliriously towards him.

“Maa……ah… Maa…….ah… has asked you to come home quickly.” Ratan said gasping, holding his knees with both hands panting heavily in exhaustion after the sprint.

“Why? I will not go now. Tell maa I will come after a while.” Jatin said.

“Maa is very angry, she has asked to bring you with me while returning otherwise she will come herself and will not spare…” Ratan said as his words were cut short out of loss of breath, echoing his mother’s furious temper so as to persuade Jatin to go back with him.

“Ufff… cannot even sit quietly!” Jatin said in disgust as he stood up, noisily shaking the dirt from the backside of his knee length trousers.

“Come on, let’s go.” Jatin said hoarsely, restricting himself from the act of imposing corporal assault on the eleven year old, instead tightly clutching the hands of his brother, making him cry out of anguish.

“Leave my hand. I can walk by myself. You donkey!!” Ratan said, preparing to wail the next moment incase his elder brother did not loosen his reigning grip.

Jatin immediately released his hand in a bid to avoid any violent scene being enacted, keeping in mind not to infuriate further, his already distressed mother.

“Inquilab zindabad… Inquilab zindabad… Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Bharat mata kiii… Jai (“Jai” in chorus)…. Bharat mata kiii… Jai (“Jai” in chorus)” the slogans were relentless and the chants getting louder and louder by the minute as Jatin and Ratan turned corners in the deserted alley. Men and women carrying kerosene lit torches marched through the streets of Medinipur protesting against the British administration for their divide and rule policy. The dominant British proposed to divide Bengal in two regions East and West Bengal, an idea which the people of Bengal aggressively opposed. General Hastings was believed to be the one who was responsible for taking this heinous decision.

“General Hastings hai hai…  General Hastings hai hai… “ the people shouted with resolve and no sense of fear as the procession was steadily moving forwards. Jatin instantly perceived the fickle situation sighting the procession heading straight at them.

“Hold my hand tightly Ratan! Run now, quick!” Jatin yelled overriding the emotional chants made by the crowd in unison. In a fit of despair and uncertainty he caught Ratan’s hand, hurriedly dragging him to the side of the pavement above so as to avoid the volatile crowd. The two ran with all their might wading through the mass of people to reach home safely.

“Maa… Maa…” Ratan shrieked vociferously, barging through the wide open doors of his house, childishly, trying to lodge an overstated complaint to his mother about his brother’s modest physical assault.

Jatin on the other hand liberated himself from his brother’s atrocious complaints and ran through the length and breadth of his house, climbing the stairs in a hurry to reach the terrace from where he could view the crowd, in anticipation of the likely series of events which were about to take place before his eyes for the very first time.

The sepoys in khakhi had made their presence felt, brandishing their long wooden sticks in their hand, barricading the procession, and standing face to face with the crowd which made them stop abruptly on their tracks seeing the khaki clad men from a distance.  An uneasy silence stormed in, magnifying the stress and hostility already looming in the tense atmosphere. Jatin’s mind raced around struggling to perceive the subsequent developments, the noise of his heart beats punctuating his thoughts at regular intervals.

“Bharat Mata kiii….. Jai (“Jai” in chorus)” a man from the crowd shouted, shattering the silence in pieces.

“Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Vande…..ee Mataram…mm Bharat mata kiii… Jai (“Jai” in chorus)” the crowd chorused, warning the cadres to leave or face the consequences.

“Disperse the crowd! Beat them to death! Dirty mongrels!!” Brigadier-General Reginald Dyson ordered as the British sepoys started to march in, obeying astutely to their superior’s behest.

The slogans erupted beyond decibel limits, deafening, people screaming on top of their voices relentlessly. With the sepoys of British Raj now marching towards them in close proximity the rebels in an act of revolt started pelting stones at them, much to their dismay, which caught the hapless sepoys off guard. Unable to combat the shower of stones hurled at them, they ran helter skelter searching for a safe territory.

“Take your position, you scoundrels! Aim. Fire!!! Kill these wimps!”  General Dyson ordered his infantry as he was irked by the sheer audacity and courage shown by the rebels, cherishing the moment so that he could set an example for others, for showing utter indecency.

The sepoys counter attacked, mercilessly obeying their general’s order as they set out on a killing spree. The scene was chaotic, men, women carrying their children ran for their lives. The hissing sound of the bullets shot, in all directions, exploding from the rifles stunned everyone. Human beings indiscriminately slaughtered like stray cattle, bodies of the dead ones lying around with blood oozing out of their bullet holed wounds, forming a thick red stream, tainting the streets of Medinipur.

“Don’t spare anyone!” the general ordered uncannily seeing the people lying half dead, with blood flowing out from their bullet incised arms and leg scrambling for a safe territory in order to save themselves from the General’s wrath.

Children and small infants rendered homeless in seconds, wailing in agony with blood on their faces and clothes, unable to make sense of the red pigmented bath precipitating on them. The howls and cries engulfed the night, people heard them from closed doors, miles away from the dreaded spot. The firing went on for fifteen minutes bringing a tame end to the daring revolt. The walls of the buildings nearby marred with blood. People thumping their chests in disbelief, grief stricken to an inconsolable extent by the tragedy and sudden unexpected massacre of their dear ones. It was a horrific sight, never witnessed before, never imagined in the wildest of dreams. Jatin stood overlooking from his terrace dumb struck, his hands and feet shaking in fear and utter disbelief of the grossly murders executed outrageously. The air was filled with the smell of gun powder making it difficult to breathe. Jatin felt a burning sensation in his eyes because of it as tears trickled down them, but he was unmoved, the savage killing which he noticed today would now be forever etched in his memory.

“What are you doing here? You idiot!” Jatin’s father said, scurrying towards him and dragging him by his collar to the presumably safe confines of his house.

“Baba… Baba… Did you see that? They killed them…” Jatin said sobbing, as he broke down on the stairs unconsciously unable to bear the trauma anymore.

“Maa… Why did they kill them? Please leave me… don’t kill me…” Jatin said repeatedly, his eyes closed, his body running on high temperature. The violent killings engraved on his mind flashed back again and again as he lay unconscious in a state of acute shock.

“Get up dada, get up. Will you not talk to me? Come we will play by the river side…” Ratan pleaded as Jatin was bed ridden because of high fever for the third consecutive day.

++++

Jatin slowly and steadily recovered from the pain and physical suffering to stand on his feet. His life had changed dramatically after the fateful day, he kept quiet not speaking to anyone most of the time, not playing or caring for his younger brother anymore, the killing scenes still fresh in his mind, kept haunting him time and again in his sleep. As days passed Jatin became more and more cynical, his parents realizing Jatin’s state of mind sent him to his maternal home in Murshidabad believing that a change of environment would do wonders and restore his normal playful self.

The loudspeaker bellowed in full volume as a local leader of Jugantar party in Murshidabad spat venom against the British policies. A huge crowd had gathered in front of the speaker listening intensely to Nitya’s speech, shaking their heads vertically in an agreement of the views expressed by him.

“What is happening uncle? And who is that?” Jatin inquired curiously, the car honked monotonously in a long tone asking people to shoo away and allow it to pass gracefully through the alley.

“That is Nitya…, Jatin he is like my younger brother and an activist. He will come to our house this evening, meet him then.” Jatin’s uncle said as they drove past him to reach their destination. Jatin was drawn at once by the charm and persona exhibited from Nitya’s speech, his krantikari voice reverberated in his ears drawing him to the activist like a magnet.

“Uncle I need some money to travel to Calcutta… I have to meet Subhash.” Nitya said, entering the room where Jatin and his uncle sat.

“Meet Jatin he is my sister’s son.” Uncle said.

“Hello Jatin… come with me I will show you the town” Nitya said as uncle handed him the money.

Jatin instantly agreed to Nitya’s invitation without any iota of hesitation. He delectably sat on the iron rod connecting the cycle’s handle to the lower part of the seat as Nitya paddled with minimum effort through the narrow streets stopping near the gates of his party’s office.

“Come come! I will introduce you to my friends.” Nitya said as he ran to the office doors and flung it wide open to join his friends.

Jatin had a good time joking and gossiping for the next two hours making friends with most of them.

Nitya dropped Jatin at his uncle’s house and left the next day for Calcutta chalking out plans with his counterpart Subhash for the future of Jugantar, which they had formed to counter the British administration.

“Brother I want to join your party.” Jatin said to Nitya one day as he narrated the sequence of events taken place before his eyes in the Medinipur massacre.

“Jatin, I respect your feelings and your patriotism towards the country, but will you be able to take up the challenges?” Nitya questioned Jatin’s commitment for the country.

“Dada I will die happily for my country if given a chance.” Jatin said, his chest protruding out as he was filled by the love for his country and the revenge for the innocent killings which was due on behalf of his people.

Nitya was impressed by Jatin’s spirit and selflessness. His induction in the party was a boost for Nitya as Jatin started taking up important responsibilities allowing Nitya to divert his attention on more serious stuff, planning strategies for diminishing the Brtish Raj.

“Dada I need your help, I have a plan to share with you.” Jatin said boldly one day.

“What? Go ahead.” Nitya asked as he turned the pages of the newspaper.

“I want to take revenge for the murders. I want to go to Calcutta and kill General Hastings.” Jatin said with a glow in his eyes.

“What? What are you saying, do you know that?” Nitya asked as he was stunned beyond limits.

“I know what I am saying. I need your help dada.” Jatin said the mass assassination still afresh in his mind.

“And would you please let me know, what is your magic plan to execute such brave act?” Nitya inquired mocking Jatin’s childish behavior.

The next few minutes Jatin explained his idol trying to coax him to agree to his patriotic yet foolishly violent intentions.

"Can you do this grim work?" The leader now openly asked him.

"With your support, what is impossible?" Jatin answered him with a question and firm belief in his plot.

"This is not as easy as going to jail. Do you know what will happen, if you are caught?" Nitya asked him in a tone of warning.

Jatin said calmly but firmly, “I know. At the worst they can hang me. Brother, I take it as a boon. Bharat Mata is my father, mother and all. To give up my life for her is an act of merit. My sole desire is only this. Till our country wins freedom, I will be born here again and again, and sacrifice my life."

"Is that so? I am very glad. Get ready for the journey. I will go with you." Nitya said, inspired by the dedication and devotion shown by Jatin towards his motherland.

Assassinating General Hastings was the order of the day as the two spent days and nights thereafter preparing, fine tuning their plan. Finally the two lads set out with two revolvers, a bomb and a little money, and blessings from their elders who knew nothing of their daring plan.

The eventful day at last had come for them to execute their bold plan and put it into effective action. They knew about the consequences, the fate and their destiny, they will end up with, but being a born patriot and possessing the exuberance of freedom in their hearts the freedom fighters set out to mark another chapter in the history of Indian Independence.

++++

It was a gloomy day in Calcutta, a blanket of drizzle covered the whole city, and it felt as if GOD was showering the nectar of immortality, in a way bestowing his blessings on Nitya and Jatin enlightening them towards the path of absolute freedom. Nitya and Jatin hid themselves suspiciously behind a bush located at a distance away from General Hastings lavish house. They had sneaked in with a help of a friend of theirs who worked as a guard in Hastings house. The two waited patiently for the man of the hour to come out of his house, obscured thoughts raced through their minds as their plan was about to take shape and become reality. The death of his people, the innocent, merciless killings executed at the General’s behest motivated Jatin as he crouched up and down overlooking the bush for any signs of sighting the cruel man.

“Dada, Dada!!! I see someone moving. Yes he is coming out!!” Jatin exclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Where?” Nitya asked suppressing his voice and excitement.

“There you see him!” Jatin said, rasing his eye brows pointing to Hastings direction.

“Yes Yes! I do see him.” Nitya said recognizing the assassin.

“Get low, be ready, his car will pass at any moment now.” Nitya said warning Jatin to hide.

Jatin took out the fatal bomb keeping it ready in his hand, waiting to throw it on the car as soon as it comes tantalizingly close to him. The moment had arrived, the car’s tyres were beginning to emit a crackling sound as it was slowly passing over the small pebbles and rubble scattered throughout the dusty road.

“The car is coming, get ready.” Nitya said alerting Jatin as it came perilously closer to the bush.

“Vande….ee Maataram…mm” Jatin screamed as he slit the upper part of the bomb and threw it directly in the direction of the car. He saw a lady sitting on the back seat of the car briefly as he hurled the explosive in her direction.

The bomb flew and landed straight inside the car making it’s way through one of the open window’s. The rest was horrifying; words seemed to be at a miss to describe the ghastly scene.

A huge explosion rocked the place, the car ripped off with it’s parts flying in all directions, mutated, charred bodies lying in flames inside the car. The body parts had mingled with that of the car as they were unrecognizable, projecting a horror sight. The chaos was prominent in the area as people rushed to the spot carrying buckets of sand and water in an effort to douse the fire, but it was too late. Nitya had a split second eye contact with General Hastings from the corner of his eyes as Jatin was throwing the bomb, instantaneously he realized their failure of the mission. Nitya held Jatin’s hand as they fled from the place leaving behind the deafening explosion and unimaginable heat from the flames emitted.

“Hastings was not in the car!” Nitya said as they were running.

“What?” Jatin asked stopping in his sprint as he could not believe his ears.

“Come run or else they will catch us!” Nitya said as he dragged Jatin forcing him to run again.

“We have failed in our mission?” Jatin asked to reconfirm the truth from Nitya, his voice quaking.

Nitya kept quiet which was enough confirmation for Jatin to believe in his leader’s words. The two ran frantically barging into a friend’s house as he was prepared to receive them and give them much needed shelter.

General Hastings life had turned for the worse, his wife and only daughter being killed in the gruesome act, their bodies unidentifiable to any extent; the face of Nitya and Jatin was sculptured in his mind as a nationwide hunt commenced in order to trace them. Their sketches were drawn and pasted in the walls, lamp posts, and streets, published in newspapers, and just about every nook and corner possible. Nitya and Jatin had become the centre of discussion for whole of India as everyone from children to elderly spoke about their bravery, praising them endlessly for their heroic act. The Britishers in the mean time condemned the act, chasing the notion of capturing the killers alive by levying a huge sum of bounty on their heads.

Nitya and Jatin spent days inside their friend’s house unable to move or go out in fear of being captured for their incomplete mission. The guilt of killing the wrong people followed them as it reminded them their failure to execute their plan perfectly. Nitya could not bear the thought of being ruthlessly killed by the Brtish any longer, one night he committed suicide by taking poison which he had secretly held from the day he had set out to murder Hastings. Jatin was now left alone to survive; he cried endlessly repenting on the loss of his only support. He made up of his mind taking a decision, to move out of his friend’s house secretly and stealthily fleeing to Delhi. He met a friend of his named Khayyum in Delhi who was his schoolmate, he immediately agreed to protect him by giving him shelter in his house, fully aware of the crime Jatin was involved him. That day Khayyum organized a secret feast feeding his starved friend heartily, charismatically bonding with him. The next morning Jatin heard a loud noise on the door, he searched for Khayyum in the house so that he would open the door and let the outsider in, but the house was empty. Hesitatingly he opened the door to find two British sepoys standing in front of him to his utter shock and surprise. The realization of his friend’s betrayal for the huge sum of money struck him hard as he helplessly surrendered to the sepoys.

A case of murder was lodged against him, the news of Jatin being captured spread across the country as millions gathered fearing the end of his life.

“Hang him till death!!!” was the final verdict of the judge as he broke the nib of his pen announcing the expected judgment.

“Deport him to the Calcutta prison” the Judge ordered.

Jatin’s days were numbered as he waited lonely in his prison cell looking at the rays of the sun coming through the window, remembering the evening when he sat freely by the side of the river Ganges.

One day before he was to be hanged his mother came to pay a last visit to his brave son. Jatin was called to meet his mother, the rustling sound of the iron chains tied in his hand and feet made his mother weep from within as she composed herself to give required strength to her son in order to meet his destiny.

“Why are you crying?” Jatin’s mother said with a shaky voice as Jatin kept quiet.

“If you had to cry then why did you decide to perform such a brave act?” his mother said questioning his audacity and patriotism.

“Maa I am not crying out of remorse, these are tears of happiness. I have seen you after a long time. I am your brave son and pray to GOD so that I am reborn again and again and can sacrifice my life in freeing my motherland.” Jatin said with deep emotion and exhilaration.

“Keep this babu!” his mother said as she left feeling honored, a sense of pride made her smile thinking about the good fortune she possessed to have given birth to a freedom fighter like Jatin.

A huge crowd had gathered around the prison anticipating the body of their hero, to be brought out and being handed over to his family anytime soon.

"Bring the convict here." the jailer beamed preparing to hang yet another Indian insurgent who would supposedly die meekly at the hands of the powerful British.

Jatin asked the guard cheerfully, "Is everything ready?”

Jatin walked gallantly, selfless, pride of devoting his life for mother India poured in him, his eyes starring the hangman as he climbed the stairs of the small podium approaching the elliptical rope destined to hang him, which in all likeliness would serve as a garland, a mark of honor shown by the hangman, to the, to be martyr.

The jailer had noted down the time as he signaled the hangman to tie the black mask round his neck covering the face.

“Any last wish? You swine!” the jailer asked Jatin, the teen-aged boy reluctantly, more out of compulsion than intimacy.

Jatin took a long deep breath, as he uttered out a cry “Vande…. Maataram” his red eyes wide open, smelling the intricacies in the fresh air of his country one last time. The silt of the river Ganges presented to him by his mother the day before was held tightly in his closed palms as he opened them and smothered the rich soil all over his forehead paying tribute to his mother, praying to her to allow him to come back again and dedicate his life for winning the all elusive freedom for his nation.

“Bharat mata ki…” Jatin roared as the rest of the people gathered outside the prison expressed “Jai” in unison. This was more than enough to infuriate the British jailer.

“Hang him!!!” was his next order to the hangman as the hour hand of the clock ticked to five in the morning.

The lever was pulled immediately producing a cranking sound due to lack of animal fat applied to it as Jatin’s body plunged into the pit below, the rope strangulating and twisting his neck down causing his death. A mournful silence fell all around the prison hearing the grunted sound of the lever.

“Get his body out of there. Throw it outside. Bloody bugger!!!” the jailer remarked crudely.

“Sir, sir please come here quickly! You need to see it!!” the hangman exclaimed as he ripped off the mask from Jatin’s pale blue face.

“What is it? Damn it!!!” the jailer cursed himself unable to believe the sight beckoning him.

Jatin’s body lay dead, calm and motionless, bearing a bright smile even after his last breath. The brave warrior of freedom although had not attained his purpose, still made sure that at least his last breath, breathed in fear in the hearts of Britishers.

We do not need a day to salute our martyrs or celebrate our freedom. When you tuck in your bed tonight for a warm and safe sleep, remember there were thousands of Jatin’s who made your country a free nestle - just for you.