Even in his state of confinement news from the outside world made its way to Vinayak. He once saw a cutting of Kesari in a prison corner. It had reference to Sir Henry Cotton, one of the founding fathers of the INC and the president of its Bombay session of 1904. At a public gathering of Indians in London he had perchance seen a portrait of Vinayak and sighed that it was a pity that a man so young and talented, and who had a bright future ahead of him, had been reduced to such a pitiable condition. He had hoped that The Hague award might work in his favour and help extradite him to France.
All hell had broken loose thereafter, with severe condemnations, protests and calls for withdrawal of his knighthood. The Congress quickly disassociated itself from the statements of one of its own founders. Sir William Wedderburn, the president of the Congress session that year, and Surendranath Banerjea had given statements to the press that they and other Congressmen did not endorse Sir Cotton’s sympathy for a man like Vinayak Savarkar. Ironically, Tilak’s Kesari too distanced itself by saying that these were Cotton’s personal opinions. 87 European newspapers were hailing Vinayak as a brave martyr, while Indian newspapers were scared to take a supportive stand. On his final conviction, the Times of India carried an article that said: ‘The rascal has at last met with his fate.’ 88
One day, during his imprisonment at Dongri jail, Vinayak had a visitor. Wondering who it could be, he stepped outside to the visitor’s gallery. His heart sank when across the prison bars he saw his young wife, Yamuna, and her brother, trembling with fear and battling their tears. They did not even dare to touch his hands from across the bars. This could possibly be their last meeting. Yet, the parting note had to be conveyed in the presence of a stern, unsympathetic British superintendent who kept watch. Trying to make light of the situation, Vinayak told his wife: ‘Only the clothes have changed, I am still the same! Moreover these clothes are good protection during the cold weather.’ Yamuna burst into tears. Consoling his wife, Vinayak said: ‘Even sparrows and kites enjoy domestic bliss, procreation, building houses . . . We have broken our cooking utensils so that in times to come fortune will probably smile on thousands of our countrymen.’ 89
Their conversation had barely finished while it was announced that their time was up. While leaving, Vinayak’s brother-in-law whispered the mantra dedicated to Lord Krishna: ‘Krishnaya Vasudevaya Haraye Paramatmane, Pranatah Kleshanashaya Govindaya Namo Nama h ’ (My salutations to Lord Krishna, the son of Vasudeva, who removes the sufferings of all who surrender to Him). He asked Vinayak to recite this without fail every day. They left without looking back.
All the agony and sorrow that Vinayak had been trying to hold back, broke their dams. Almost at the same time he looked up to see the ruckus created by the young ones of the pigeon family that had made its home in his cell. The mother bird had been mistakenly hit and killed by a bullet from the jailor while she had gone out to get food for the little ones. They were now desperately hungry and wailed in sorrow at the absence of their protective mother. The poignancy of the occasion was too much to bear for a sensitive poet like Vinayak. He burst out crying in intense pain. A warder, who was passing by stomped in, poked him with his stick and ordered him not to waste time and get back to picking oakum.
A month seemed to have passed this way. One day, the superintendent walked in and asked him to pack up. Vinayak thought that the time to depart for the Andamans had finally come. But he was just ushered into a prison van, its shutters were downed and he could see nothing in the pitch-blackness that engulfed him in broad daylight. All he could sense was the rough and tumble of the carriage, which suddenly halted. When he was pulled out, the sudden light blinded him. Squinting, Vinayak saw that he stood in front of another prison gate in Bombay, Byculla jail.
The cell here was lonelier and gloomier than the one in Dongri. There were some noises and sights of the outside world there, but here even those were gone. It seemed like he had been pushed further into solitariness. There were no books to read, not a word heard, not a soul that moved, no articles of daily use—Byculla presented a dreary picture. At Dongri, Vinayak had been served bread with milk. Here the milk was stopped, and he had to eat dry pieces of stale bread. He petitioned the jailer that he be served milk along with the bread. The request was immediately shot down. He then asked for books such as John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress , books by W.T. Stead, and the Russian general Prince Kuropatkin—at least one if possible. 90 He was sent an English copy of the Bible that evening. The life and sufferings of Jesus Christ seemed like the most opportune story for Vinayak at the time. He managed to mentally finish more verses of his epic on Guru Gobind Singh, and also a poem titled ‘Saptarshi’ that he had begun at Dongri.
Vinayak had also submitted an application requesting that the two sentences of transportation for life, running up to twenty-five years each, may run concurrently. In support of his plea, he had quoted relevant sections of the IPC. A life sentence meant the active period in a man’s life. While in England this amounted to not more than fourteen years, in British India it meant twenty-five years. Such being the case, being given a double sentence of fifty years, which he may not even live through, was against the code and hence a concurrent award of the sentence was the most logical and fair thing to do.
The government rejected this on 4 April 1911 and it was decreed that it amounted to consecutive sentences, totalling fifty years. It noted that ‘the question of remitting the second sentence of transportation for life would be considered in due course of the expiry of the first sentence of transportation for life’. 91
This was mockingly conveyed to him by the British superintendent who said that the government had decided to run their first life sentence for twenty-five years and the subsequent one for another twenty-five years. True to his patented wittiness and equanimity, Vinayak remarked: ‘Good! At least, the consolation that for this purpose the British Government has subscribed to the Hindu doctrine of rebirth, and had disowned the Christian doctrine of resurrection.’ The superintendent was stumped for a suitable response.
Quite soon, he was once again whisked away to another location, this time to the Thane prison. The place bustled with excitement to see a bar-at-law, a dangerous terrorist who had been condemned to life transportation to the Andamans. But no inmates were allowed to make any contact with Vinayak. Here, he was guarded by the ‘worst known warders’ of the place—they were all Muslims, ‘and the wickedest of them’ in the bargain. 92
His meal here consisted of hard-baked jowar bread served with half-cooked vegetables that were too sour to taste. He would often break the bread, put it into his mouth and, being unable to bite or taste it, merely swallow it down with water. By dusk the doors were shut and there was all-engulfing darkness. One night, Vinayak heard a soft tap on his door. A warder, whom he considered the wickedest of them all, walked in and told him that he was aware of Vinayak’s valour and was his admirer. He had brought a message to him from another inmate. Even as Vinayak wondered who this inmate could be, the warder pulled out a slate from behind his back. It contained a message from his younger brother, Narayanrao. Unknown to Vinayak, he too was lodged in the same jail. The warder told him not to breathe a word about this to anyone, as that would mean he would be executed.
Vinayak experienced another surge of emotions thinking about his beloved younger brother who had been orphaned in childhood and whom his parents had left behind in the care of the two elder brothers. Neither of them seemed to have done their duty well, he lamented. In the flickering light of a lantern, Vinayak tried to read what was written on the slate. The message was that Vinayak must gather courage and not give up hope; that he must not worry for him. There was not a word of sorrow, repentance or defeatism. Instead, it conveyed a spirit of quiet confidence reassuring his elder brother that come what way, he would not budge an inch from the solemn oath he had taken.
However, Vinayak had doubts about the message; it could be a crafty ploy to fix him. Still he decided that he wo
uld send a reply without any names or specific plans of action. Among other things Vinayak wrote: ‘Do not think of me, and do not shed tears of sorrow that you have failed in your life. Some fuel has to burn in a steam engine, so that the steam may rise up from it and the engine begin to move. Are we not that fuel that the fire may burn and the flames rise up and spread far and wide? To burn thus is in itself a great act!’ 93 Within two days of this, he learnt that Narayanrao had been shifted elsewhere.
The chief warder poked fun at Vinayak all the time, taunting him, ‘Oh! Here comes the Tiger!’ He ogled at him while he bathed and praised his toned body and passed snide remarks about how such a handsome man needed to serenade with a fair English maiden and not rot in prison. Dancing with lewd and awkward steps, he often gesticulated at Vinayak and passed jibes at him all day saying it was only his corpse that would leave the prison. 94
The Delhi Durbar of Emperor George V was scheduled for the end of the year. Rumours were rife that several political prisoners, including possibly Vinayak, might get a royal pardon and be released as a gesture of supreme goodwill on the part of the ‘benevolent monarch’. However, nothing happened to that effect. Instead, Vinayak’s trunks, books, garments and other belongings were put out for public auction. This was because the trial had sentenced him with forfeiture of all property. The monies so recovered were to go to the government treasury. His property—worth Rs 27,000 and that of his father-in-law’s worth Rs 6725—was confiscated. Even the cooking pots and utensils from his house were seized. 95
One morning, the havildar asked him to also surrender his pair of spectacles and a miniature copy of the Bhagavadgita that he kept with him. It was a moment of some poignancy that left even several hard-hearted warders of the jail teary-eyed. But eventually the government took ‘great mercy’ and ensured that the anna-worth of the Gita and the spectacles were duly returned to Vinayak but he was to use them as government property!
One day, at the Thane prison, Vinayak learnt that a large group of convicts was arriving. In prison parlance they were known as ‘chalans’. Given the monotony of prison life where even a crow flying over their heads caused a stir of excitement among the prisoners, this was an occasion for much enthusiasm and eagerness. Finally, by noon, a gang of the most notorious criminals across the country arrived amid the sounds of clanging chains and shackles. The stories of the horrors of their crimes sent shivers down many spines. Vinayak realized that he would soon have to share space with these very men in the Andamans. 96
On 25 June 1911, a sea of anxious faces assembled outside Thane prison. It was the day when India’s brave son was to be deported to Madras and from there to the Andamans. Vinayak was led to a committee that was to examine him for his physical and mental health and if he were fit enough to go to the Andamans. A kind officer told him that if he did not wish to go, he would try his best to use his influence to keep him in Bombay itself. After thanking him profusely for his kindness, Vinayak politely refused. He was suffering from high fever yet he was weighed, declared fit to be transported and handed over his earthly belongings—utensils and bedding. He was put up in a tiny cell adjoining the one with all the ‘chalans’. Through the walls he could hear their wails and boisterous laughter. Many of them lived in the moment, made merry like there was no tomorrow and were often thoroughly intoxicated. At that moment, intense grief lashed Vinayak’s mind. A barrister from London, all set to sail to the most dreaded jail of the subcontinent, with a motley bunch of the country’s most infamous criminals—the irony of the situation did not escape Vinayak’s sharp mind.
He thought about his elder brother, Babarao, who too might have travelled to the Andamans with similar ‘chalans’. His emotions were further roused when an older warder told him that Babarao had been lodged in exactly the same cell that he now was in before his departure to Cellular Jail.
Wearing just a vest, a rough rug over it and a small headscarf, with a small pot and iron platter in one hand, and a blanket and mattress tucked under his armpit, Vinayak was a symbol of dignity and grace. He was handcuffed, chained by the legs and roped to an officer. Given their experience with him in London and Marseilles, the police took no chances. He was whisked away into a closely guarded van that took him straight to his compartment in a Madras-bound train. The officer stayed with him all day and kept guard even when Vinayak had to visit the lavatory. The heat of southern India’s summer was unbearable. As they neared Madras, a British officer told Vinayak to pin his hopes on the royal pardon at the Delhi Durbar. He answered: ‘Thank you for your good wishes. My wounds are too raw . . . nothing can heal them. It would be a folly to bank on such meaningless hopes.’
Around the time Vinayak landed in Madras, the collector of Tirunelveli district, Robert William d’Escourt Ashe, had been murdered by a young revolutionary Vanchinathan. Vinayak realized that it could have been the handiwork of none other than his closest associate, V.V.S. Aiyar. There were stories about Aiyar having taken refuge in the French colony of Pondicherry and establishing a strong branch of Abhinav Bharat there. Vinayak was questioned by the police about this murder, and needless to say, he feigned ignorance.
In June 1906, his family and friends had given him a hero’s departure as he boarded the ship to London. Five years later, on 27 June 1911, he was boarding another steamer—ironically named the S.S. Maharaja —but this time as a dangerous convict headed to the frightful Cellular Jail in the Andaman Islands. As the ship set sail from the shores of Madras, sitting in a dark, claustrophobic cage amid filth and squalor, Vinayak wondered if he would ever see his beloved motherland and family members again. Vinayak writes about this heart-wrenching moment:
Climbing into that steamer to be transported for life was like putting a live man in his own coffin. Hundreds and thousands must have gone to the Andaman Islands during these years, and not ten in a thousand had returned alive to India! Young men of 18, as soon as they put their step on that steamer, became old and the shadow of death was visible on their faces. When a man is put upon the bier, his relatives conclude that he had left the world forever, and, overcome with bereavement, watch the corpse with vacant eyes. Even so, the spectators watched us as we climbed into that steamer and felt that we were dead to the Motherland we were leaving behind. The people, watching the scene, fixed their eyes upon me with the same feeling in their hearts. I was dead to the outside world—that feeling was writ large on their faces. Really, I was being put on my funeral bier. The only difference was that I felt what has happening to me while my corpse would have felt nothing. Thousands looking at me in this plight were simply indifferent and altogether cold. They were looking at me, as they would have seen any corpse passing along the road. ‘Poor man, he is dead and gone!’ says the passer-by and forgets him the next moment. It was a pain to me to see them gaping at me—my own fellow-countrymen that they were . . . If but a single one out of these my compatriots was to tell me, ‘Go, my brother, go, I and others like me swear that we shall make India free and fulfill your vow’, I would have felt my funeral bier as soft as a bed strewn with flowers. 97
8
Sazaa-e-Kalapani
Port Blair, July 1911
On entering the cabin in the lowest deck of the S.S. Maharaja , Vinayak found that he had to share space with some fifty other members, the most unkempt and unwashed masses of the country, who had spread their beddings on every available inch of the floor. In front of him was a cask from which a terrible stench choked the air. Later, when he saw a fellow passenger easing himself right there in front of him, Vinayak realized that this was used as a chamber pot and commode by these unfortunate passengers. It needed steely resolve of the mind to overcome this level of ill-treatment, and Vinayak consoled himself with various philosophical stories. There was not even enough space to stretch oneself, as the passengers were huddled together like cattle. Some of the European travellers on the steamer were very reverential towards Vinayak, having heard stories about him. In his honour and with the permission of the c
aptain, a few of them sponsored a meal for the entire lot of prisoners in the basement. It consisted of rice, fish and pickles. After two days of fasting, with just boiled peas and dried grams to munch on, the prisoners exulted at this feast. They thanked Vinayak because of whose presence they had enjoyed it. 1
After nearly ten days of travel in this squalor, the Maharaja docked at Port Blair in the Andaman Islands. The Andamans consist of nearly 184 islands and sixty-five islets. The length between the extremities is about 355 kilometres. There are five groups of islands from north to south—North Andamans (81 kilometres long), Middle Andamans (71 kilometres long), South Andamans (84 kilometres long), Baratang that runs parallel to the east of South Andamans (28 kilometres long) and finally Rutland (19 kilometres long). 2 The Rutland portion was full of dense and dark forests. Given its marshy vegetation and swamps, the Andamans were a hotbed of malaria. Flies hummed and spread over in thick swarms. The islands also had abundance of leeches and serpents—the former being more fatal and even causing paralysis in humans who got suckered on. The original aboriginal tribes who inhabited these islands belonged to the Negrito race, although there has been much controversy about the origins of the Andamanese. They possibly were migrants from coastal Burma as well, given the proximity of these islands. The tribes were named variously as Chariar, Kora, Toba, Yere, Kede, Juwai, Kol, Bojigyab, Balawa, Bea, Onge and Jarawa. Some were cannibals too.
The popular notion that Port Blair was the first and only penal settlement established by the British to transport criminals is erroneous. The first British Indian penal settlement was at Benkoelen in Sumatra, Indonesia, from where 1787 convicts were transported to the settlement known as Fort Marlborough. Convicts accused of murder, thugee, frauds, forgeries and so on were transported to these distant places to ‘reclaim them from their bad habits’. 3 The real reason though was possibly to procure recruitment of free labour in large numbers. By the time this settlement closed in the 1820s, nearly 800–900 convicts from the Bengal and Madras Presidencies were involved in hard labour, building roads and clearing jungles. In 1825, Marlborough Fort was shut and the island of Penang was chosen. Settlements were established in Malacca, Tenasserim and Singapore as well. Nearly 1100–1200 convicts from India were kept in Singapore by the 1830s.
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