Smoke and Ashes Page 4

  ‘Any idea who that is?’ I asked.

  ‘His name’s Bose,’ replied Surrender-not. ‘Subhash Bose, recently returned from England. His father sent him there to sit for the Civil Service entrance examinations. Word is, he passed in the top division, then promptly declined his commission and came back to Calcutta to join the independence movement.’

  Suddenly, the name came back to me.

  ‘Not the chap that the Statesman ran a piece on the other week?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘Congress’s Gain is the Government’s Loss’ – that had been the title, or something like that, at any rate.

  ‘They say Das has taken quite a shine to him,’ Surrender-not continued. ‘Made him head of the Congress Volunteers in Bengal.’

  ‘Friend of yours, is he?’

  ‘That depends,’ he demurred. ‘When we were younger, maybe. These days I doubt he’d think so. An acquaintance perhaps. His father too is an advocate.’

  ‘Do you know everyone on the other side?’ I asked, exasperated.

  Surrender-not shrugged. ‘Only the lawyers.’

  Bose thrust his fist in the air and continued to whip up a storm. After two and a half years in Calcutta, my Bengali wasn’t bad – I knew enough to order almost any drink in several dialects – but it wasn’t quite up to the standard necessary to decipher a political diatribe in full flow.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘The usual thing. The need to stand firm in the face of British aggression.’

  A roar went up from the crowd and, encouraged by Bose, they took up a chant. Though it was the largest demonstration I’d witnessed in a while, neither their numbers nor their fervour were a patch on those of the crowds that had come out earlier in the year. It had been a long, gruelling struggle for both sides and it seemed that not even the Prince of Wales’s imminent arrival could enflame passions to the extent that they’d been aroused earlier.

  About twenty feet away stood a couple of constables, who looked on warily but made no effort to intervene. That was sensible. For a start, there was little they could do, and if they did try, there was always the risk that a stray shoe would come innocently flying out of the non-violent crowd and smack them in the face. Still, this was the heart of White Town and the powers that be couldn’t let such a blatant challenge to British authority go unanswered even if they’d wanted to. The God-fearing readers of the Statesman and the Englishman would have choked on their kedgeree, and those of the Daily Mail in London might require a dose of smelling salts. Sure enough, moments later came the wail of sirens and the booming cadence of a Home Counties accent amplified through a bullhorn, ordering the stationary traffic to clear a path. Two police trucks drew up and disgorged a detachment of lathi-wielding native constables onto the flagstones. The English officer, a haggard-looking chap I knew by sight, though not by name, descended from the cab of the lead truck and prepared to address the crowd.

  The constables lined up and the officer raised the bullhorn to his mouth. ‘This gathering is proscribed under the articles of the Anarchical and Revolutionary Crimes Act 1919. Disperse at once or you shall be arrested.’

  There was a tired formality to his voice. Indeed, there was a staleness to the whole spectacle. Both sides had danced this two-step so many times by now that everyone knew their respective roles. The protesters linked arms and continued chanting their slogans like some time-honoured religious liturgy.

  After waiting a matter of minutes, the officer took to the megaphone once more. ‘This is your final warning. Clear the road immediately.’

  Those words, when uttered by a policeman, might be presumed to carry the weight of a threat, but in India, in this year, they were positively welcomed by those on the receiving end.

  At a nod from the officer, the constables divided into two units, one turning towards the crowd on the pavements, the other making for the demonstrators blocking the road. Ushered by his lieutenants, Bose descended from the platform and I lost sight of him.

  ‘We should go,’ said Surrender-not, as the first of the crowd on the pavements began to disperse. I didn’t disagree. The show was over and most of the others would soon follow them, leaving only the real zealots, and the ones seated in the road, to court arrest.

  We pushed our way through the thinning crowd as the constables moved in and began the task of manhandling the remaining demonstrators off the road and into the waiting wagons. Behind us, the air filled with the cries of the wounded as a hail of blows from bamboo lathis rained down on the bones of the demonstrators. Some of the onlookers hurled insults at the policemen, but they were soon brought into line, not by the constables lined up in front of them, but by Bose’s Congress Volunteers.

  We continued through the knot of protesters and into the open street beyond.

  The gates to the High Court compound were manned by a platoon of armed soldiers who pored over our identification papers as though they were an exam syllabus. Once happy, they waved us through into grounds which resembled the courtyards of an Oxford college, with black-robed barristers ambling the lawns in quiet conversation, oblivious to the events occurring a few hundred yards down the road.

  ‘I understand Mr Das is defending a case in court number 3,’ said Surrender-not.

  ‘Any idea what it’s about?’

  ‘No, sir, but the court generally breaks for lunch around now, so we shouldn’t have long to wait.’

  We took a seat on a worn wooden bench in the corridor outside court 3. We’d been here many times before; sat in the same place and watched the same harried-looking officers of the court scuttle past, heads bowed and briefs clutched close to their chests, as we awaited the call to enter and give evidence.

  The minutes ticked by but the door to court 3 remained resolutely shut. What opened instead was a door at the far end of the corridor, and into the hallway stepped a patrician-looking Indian dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit and the black robes and grey wig of a barrister. He came down the hallway towards us, trailing two juniors, each weighed down by bundles of files, behind him.

  The man looked remarkably familiar and I was about to point him out to Surrender-not, when the man spotted us and his expression changed. It was an expression that resembled one I’d seen many times before.

  ‘Is that your –’

  ‘Yes,’ said Surrender-not. ‘That’s my father.’

  Before he could continue, I stood up and began walking. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’d better introduce me to your dear pater.’

  ‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea, sir,’ he said as he struggled after me.

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘You should have done it ages ago.’

  ‘Father,’ said Surrender-not as we drew level with the man and his aides, ‘may I introduce Captain Wyndham, my superior officer.’ He turned to me. ‘Captain Wyndham, this is my father, Mr Sasadhar Banerjee, barrister-at-law.’

  ‘How do you do,’ I said.

  Banerjee senior removed his spectacles and smiled. ‘Likewise, Captain,’ he said, stowing his glasses in his breast pocket and offering me a hand. ‘So you are the Englishman responsible for filling my son’s head with imperialist nonsense.’

  ‘I just teach him about police work, sir,’ I said. ‘The imperialist nonsense I leave to the viceroy. And to be frank, your son’s a credit to the force, and to his family,’ I continued, sounding like a form master relaying the progress of a prize pupil.

  Banerjee senior nodded sagely. ‘It is gratifying to hear that Suren is acquitting himself appropriately,’ he said. ‘However, I and his uncles would have preferred it if he had chosen an alternative profession.’

  ‘The country needs detectives, sir,’ I said, echoing something that Surrender-not had said to me the day I’d first met him, ‘whether it be the British or Indians in charge.’

  ‘The country needs doctors too, Captain,’ he replied, ‘and a doctor has the advantage of doing good while avoiding the moral dilemm
a of aiding and abetting an alien, occupying power.’

  ‘Baba, please,’ said Surrender-not. ‘This is not the time for such a discussion.’

  ‘Your son upholds the system of laws in this country,’ I said to the barrister. ‘One might say you do the same, sir.’

  ‘I defend those fighting against injustice,’ he replied.

  ‘And your son fights for justice for the families of those victims who have no one else to fight for them.’

  The old man pondered this for a moment. ‘Tell me, Captain. When was the last time you and he investigated the murder of an ordinary Indian?’

  I sidestepped the question. ‘I can tell you, sir, that your son’s actions have saved the lives of Indians as well as Englishmen. I can think of no finer officer that I have served with.’

  Behind us, the doors to court 3 opened. ‘It seems we shall have to continue this discussion another time,’ I said, much to Surrender-not’s relief. ‘I’m afraid we have some business to attend to.’

  Having made our excuses, we headed back towards court 3, from which a scrum of journalists and other more principled members of the public were exiting. There was, of course, no jury. There hadn’t been one since 1908, at least not for political crimes, on account of the difficulty of finding twelve good men and true in this country of three hundred million souls. Indeed, the presence of the press and the public was somewhat of a surprise, as the authorities were within their powers to hold all such trials in secret. I surmised that whatever was going on inside, the government was more than happy to have it publicised.

  Surrender-not and I stood back as the courtroom emptied and Das, accompanied by a bookish-looking junior counsel, strode out. The man whom Surrender-not had called a towering figure in Indian legal circles was about five feet six inches tall and dressed, like the protesters outside, in a white dhoti and kurta which in these august halls seemed as out of place as a pinstripe suit in a paddy field. He was in his fifties, according to his file, though he possessed the soft, youthful features of a much younger man. It was something I’d noticed before in Bengalis. They aged in a different fashion from other people. Their faces stayed young while their stomachs grew ever larger, so that it was easier to assess a man’s age not by the grey in his hair but by the girth of his belly.

  Das’s eyes lit up as he saw Surrender-not. Cutting short the conversation with his aide, he raised his arms towards the sergeant.

  ‘Suren, my boy!’ He beamed. ‘What brings you here?’ His smile disappeared as he descended into a fit of coughing which almost doubled him over. Both his aide and Surrender-not made to help him as he raised a handkerchief to his mouth. Das held his free hand out to stop them. The coughing subsided and he righted himself, eyes watering from the strain.

  Surrender-not fiddled with his cuffs. ‘Das kakū,’ he said. ‘May I introduce Captain Wyndham? He comes bearing a message from the commissioner of police, Lord Taggart.’

  Das turned to me and held out a hand. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Captain. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.’

  ‘As does yours, sir,’ I said, taking his hand, ‘though I’m surprised you should have heard of me.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling affably. ‘Suren’s father has on more than one occasion mentioned the devilish English officer who has so perniciously convinced his son not to resign his post. However, I shall not hold it against you. So what is it that our esteemed commissioner of police wishes to tell me?’

  Despite the chill, I felt myself sweating. Taking a handkerchief from my pocket, I wiped some perspiration from my forehead. ‘Maybe we should take a stroll?’ I said.

  ‘Consider it a friendly warning,’ I said as we ambled along a cloistered corridor and out onto a palm-lined path through the court gardens. ‘As of tomorrow, the government will issue an order outlawing all Volunteer organisations. Anyone gathering in paramilitary uniform or similar dress will be subject to summary arrest.’

  Das’s face darkened as he pondered my words. ‘It may be a warning,’ he said eventually, ‘and I appreciate the advance notice, but there is nothing friendly about it. Our Volunteers help to maintain order. You’ve no idea how much discipline is required to maintain the “non” in non-violence. The Volunteers stop the people’s passions from spiralling out of control.’

  ‘I doubt the viceroy sees it quite in the same terms,’ I said. ‘I understand the order comes directly from him. Besides, maintaining order is the job of the police. It’s what Sergeant Banerjee and I get paid to do.’

  Das gave a small chuckle. ‘Of course, Captain. But you must admit that the Volunteers have helped you significantly in that regard over the course of the last few months. Especially when your own numbers have been so stretched.’

  If our numbers were stretched, it was because of the protests he led and the resignations from the force that he and Gandhi had called for. He was turning the facts on their head. But then he was a lawyer after all.

  ‘I hope you will comply with the order,’ I said.

  ‘Do you expect me to?’

  I doubted he expected an answer.

  ‘I’m leading a non-cooperation movement,’ he continued. ‘I’d hardly be doing a very good job of it if I were to start cooperating.’ He patted me softly on the shoulder. ‘Let me ask you a question, Captain. Should I follow an edict which I believe to be unjust? If our roles were reversed, would you do so?’

  I hated this new breed of pacifist Indian revolutionary. So often they acted like we were all just good friends who happened to disagree about something, and that once the issue was resolved – obviously in their favour – we’d go back to taking tea and being the best of chums. It made punching them in the face morally difficult. Give me an old-fashioned terrorist any day. At least you knew where you stood with them. They might try to murder you, but at least they had the decency not to engage you in debate first.

  ‘I’m not one for politics, sir,’ I said. ‘I just do my duty.’

  ‘Your duty to whom, Captain? To your emperor across the seas or to the people of this city? Ridding Calcutta of the stabilising influence of the Volunteers is a dangerous game. Without them, what’s to stop the protests getting out of hand? Or maybe that is what His Excellency the Viceroy is hoping for? Mobs rampaging through the streets, just in time for the arrival of the Prince of Wales and the cameras of the international press corps. That would play very well for him in the court of public opinion.’

  ‘I’d remind you, sir, that it was Mr Gandhi, and not the government, who unleashed these forces and called for the police to resign en masse,’ I replied. ‘In any case, whatever the viceroy may or may not want, I’m sure the commissioner wishes to avoid any needless provocation or misunderstanding.’

  We walked past the guards at the compound gates and out onto the street. Waiting there was the young man, Bose, who’d addressed the demonstrators. He’d somehow avoided arrest and now stood leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette, no doubt waiting for Das, though he seemed surprised to see him walking out with us. Nevertheless he stubbed out his cigarette, flicked the butt into the drain and made his way over.

  Das turned to Surrender-not. ‘I take it I don’t need to introduce you to Subhash.’

  Before the sergeant could respond, Bose was already shaking his hand. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘If it isn’t Surendranath-da. I thought I saw your face earlier. Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to join the struggle?’

  ‘Not quite yet, Subhash-babu,’ Surrender-not replied. ‘May I introduce my superior officer, Captain Wyndham.’

  The young Indian turned to me and held out his hand. ‘Bose,’ he said, ‘Subhash Bose. I’m pleased to meet you, Captain.’

  ‘You won’t be so pleased when you hear what the captain has come to tell us,’ interjected Das. ‘As of tomorrow, the Congress Volunteers are a proscribed organisation; you, my friend, will be subject to summary arrest.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Bose acidly. ‘I suppose it’s
about time. I’ve been back in Calcutta for months now and it seems they’ve arrested everyone but me. Frankly it’s getting rather embarrassing. I do wonder where they’d put me, though. I understand all the jails in India are bursting at the seams.’

  ‘There’s always Burma,’ I said.

  Das at least found the comment amusing, and he burst into a laugh which soon descended into another fit of coughing. Bose put his hand on the older man’s elbow to steady him.

  ‘I must apologise,’ said Das, once the fit had passed. ‘As you can see, Captain, the cold weather is playing havoc with me.’

  Beside me, Surrender-not shifted nervously. ‘If I may make one request, kakū,’ he said. ‘Do what you must, but please don’t court arrest. Your health is not what it used to be, and neither Calcutta Central Jail nor Mandalay Prison are places from which men return stronger.’

  Das put his hand on Surrender-not’s shoulder. ‘A man cannot cheat his destiny, Suren. If it is my fate to be arrested, then so be it.’ Surrender-not made to object, but the Deshbandhu continued. ‘Yet I shall take your request under advisement, on condition that you too heed some advice. Go and see your parents. Your mother misses you – and your father, he is as stubborn as you, but I know him, he feels your absence just as sharply.’

  SIX

  ‘And what did he have to say?’

  Taggart stood with his back to us, hands clasped behind him, staring out of the window of his office onto the city below.

  ‘He said “thank you”,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s it?’ Taggart turned to face us.

  ‘More or less. He also requested we pass on his best wishes to you.’

  The commissioner failed to suppress a jaundiced smile. ‘I’ll bet he did. And he didn’t say anything else?’