It is important to understand the distinction between the types of prisoners and the benefits they received as per the law of the time. This is explained in detail in Nand Gopal’s petition dated 15 November 1913. Nand Gopal had pioneered the resistance against the kolhu work and had also submitted a petition which was his legitimate right. He explains that there are two categories of prisoners—one who are kept in Indian jails and another that are sent to Port Blair. Lifers and term convicts who are considered unfit for transportation were still being kept in Indian jails. Being stationed in Indian jails, even as a lifer, gave a prisoner several benefits:
. . . one can see his parents, friends and other relatives twice in a year. He can write at least two letters in a year. He is allowed more when he is promoted to C.N.W. and convict warder and overseer. He can receive as many letters as many are sent to him with the permission of the Superintendent, which is almost always given. He can keep with him as many books, as many are sent to him. He is not made to do work under sun and rain as prisoners of this place are bound to do. He is not subjected to half the hard tasks which the prisoners are doing at Port Blair. 6
Nand Gopal elucidates that the greatest grievance they had was the absence of remission that was usually allowed to political prisoners in Indian jails. He specifically cites the ‘Mark-System remission’ that enabled a prisoner transported for life to be released within fourteen years. He stood a chance of an earlier release within two or three years if he received extraordinary remissions, such as a coronation remission. This was given to almost all political prisoners in Indian jails. He writes that Port Blair’s penal policy was to keep every convict in solitary confinement and lodged within the Cellular Jail for a maximum of six months. After this, he was let outside to work and given ticket leaves. This facility had been taken away from political prisoners who had lost the status of an ordinary convict.
Barin Ghose, Nand Gopal, Kanjilal and Sarkar had also sent similar requests to be transferred to Indian jails and its associated benefits, or a grant of privileges legitimately available to convicts of Port Blair in their petitions.
In his petition, Vinayak draws the government’s attention to the fact that unlike a term convict, he had fifty long years staring at him and it was tough for him to draw the ‘moral energy enough to pass them in close confinement, when even those concessions which the vilest of convicts can claim to smoothen their lives are denied’. 7 He points to what he discussed with Craddock about the government’s constitutional path of reforms and education which had not been the case prior to 1909, when they had taken the armed path. He states:
Therefore if the Government in their manifold benevolence and mercy release me, I for one cannot but be the staunchest advocate of constitutional progress and loyalty to the English Government . . . As long as we are in jails there cannot be real happiness and joy and gratitude to the Government, who knows how to forgive and correct, more than how to chastise and avenge. Moreover my conversion to the constitutional line would bring back all those misled young men in India and abroad who were once looking up to me as their guide. I am ready to serve the Government in any capacity they like, for as my conversion is conscientious so I hope my future conduct would be. By keeping me in jail nothing can be got in comparison to what would be otherwise. The mighty alone can afford to be merciful and therefore where else can the prodigal son return but to the parental doors of the Government?
While writers like A.G. Noorani consider this as a sign of Vinayak’s ‘cowardice’ and that he had become a pawn in the hands of the British, biographers like Dhananjay Keer point out that this was a tactical move, quite like Shivaji writing pliant letters to Aurangzeb to secure his release and cannot be taken literally. 8 Both sides might be hugely exaggerated in their censure or eulogy of a historical character, who needs to be judged by the yardsticks of his time and the context in which he operated. Most often, those inimical to Vinayak quote these petitions partially and almost never in a historical and situational context, framing an argument around them to suit a contemporary political narrative which is plainly historically disingenuous.
The Biblical reference to the ‘prodigal son’ could well be viewed as Vinayak’s attempt to appeal to the religious sentiments of his incarcerators. While the sentences of his ‘mercy petition’ quoted above, when read in isolation, might convey the image of a vacillating man out to become the government’s tool in lieu of his release, the logical arguments he posits prior to getting there are not indicative of the same disposition. The questions one needs to ask are manifold for an objective assessment of a controversial and much-maligned historical figure such as Vinayak. Did future events in his long and distinguished political career validate the allegation of his willingness to acquiesce to the British? Even if the dominant narrative seeks to make a case that it did, by way of his opposition to some of the measures of the popular Indian mass movement led by Gandhi, an assessment has seldom been made about whether this opposition to the Congress world view was favourable for the country or harmed the cause of freedom. Without going too far into the future, the events that played out in Cellular Jail itself, and almost immediately after the submission of this ‘pliant’ petition, bore no semblance to capitulation or a willingness to cooperate with the government.
Did the British trust his alleged loyalty or even buy his so-called willingness to yield or were they forever suspicious of the dangers he posed to them? If he had indeed become their pawn, why did the British treat him with suspicion and as one of India’s most dangerous men for nearly a decade and a half thereafter? These are the questions by which this narrative will evaluate Vinayak and here the scales of history do tilt considerably in his favour. The 1913 petition that has been a hotly debated issue till date opens multiple possibilities for objective historical assessment. Did the tortures of Cellular Jail break his spirit? Of course they did, as they naturally would of anyone in those circumstances, and more so as a young man who was in his late twenties. And Vinayak himself has mentioned in his memoir the many times when his spirit succumbed and he contemplated suicide. But did this breakdown lead him to become a British stooge? The answer to that would be an assertive no. Historical evidences, rather than his hagiographers, would bail him out on this important and vexing question.
In Craddock’s report that he wrote on board the S.S. Maharaja during his return voyage to India from the Andamans, he details the interviews he had with all the prisoners. He dismisses the articles in the Bengalee , which, according to him, represented the political prisoners ‘as mistaken patriots, brutally treated as ordinary criminals and goaded by that treatment into suicide and madness. All this, of course, was absolute nonsense. Under the late superintendent Colonel Browning, the treatment meted out to them was, if anything, rather weak.’ 9 Craddock clearly mentions that from his conversation with Vinayak it was evident to him that ‘he cannot be said to express any regret or repentance’ for whatever he did. But he had changed his views nonetheless and had mentioned that ‘the hopeless condition of Indians in 1906–1907 was his excuse for entering upon a conspiracy’. But when the Government of India had begun to show a conciliatory approach in the way of reforms in councils, education and so forth, ‘the case for a revolutionary action had disappeared. Mercy to him would, he said, have a calming effect upon those who still conspire against British rule, and he was willing to send an open letter to the native press explaining his change of views’. Craddock mentions that he was pressed to give him some assurance or promise, which he obviously could not.
Craddock opined that it was ‘quite impossible to give him any liberty here, and I think he would escape from any Indian jail. So important a leader is he that the European section of the Indian anarchists would plot for his escape which would before long be organized. If he were allowed outside the Cellular Jail in the Andamans, his escape would be certain. His friends could easily charter a steamer to lie off one of the islands and a little money distributed locally would do the rest
.’ That even for a man like Vinayak it would not be possible to keep him on indefinite hard labour. ‘In his case,’ noted Craddock, ‘the punitive requirements would have been satisfied after a few years’ hard labour and the remainder of his term would not be of the nature of a punishment for his crime but of mere incarceration, because he would be dangerous to the community outside.’ He concluded his observations regarding Vinayak quite prophetically by mentioning that ‘the degree to which he was dangerous or not, depended quite as much upon circumstances outside as upon his own conduct in prison, and that no one could say what those circumstances would be 10, 15, or 20 years hence’. 10
Vinayak’s jail history 11 immediately after Craddock’s departure indicates that in less than a month, on 16 December 1913, he once again undertook a strike from work and was punished with a month’s solitary confinement without any work or books. He was thereafter assigned the task of rope making. A few months later, on 8 June 1914, he once again refused to work. As a result, he was punished with seven days of standing handcuffed. Within a day of the punishment being completed, on 16 June 1914, he went back on his strike. For this insolence, he was put in chains for four months. This did not temper him, and he continued his strike even on 18 June 1914. The authorities put him on ten days’ crossbar fetters. After Craddock’s departure, the increase in the number of punishment entries on his ticket certainly does not indicate the temperament of a man who was willing to cooperate with the British or become their stooge.
The treatment meted out to Vinayak was also discussed in the British Parliament. 12 On 23 June 1914, member of Parliament, Josiah C. Wedgewood, asked the government in the House of Commons why they were not entertaining the petitions for better treatment of the man while those committed on exactly similar offences in Ireland were allowed to go absolutely scot-free. In reply, the government through C. Roberts stated that there were no grounds to think that Vinayak had committed any offences violating prison discipline leading to temporary imposition of chains. This was only an exceptional punishment and not a norm. The Secretary of State contended that there was no reason to exercise special clemency towards a man convicted by the high court for abetment of the murder of Jackson.
In his memoir, Vinayak mentions that he had little hope of anything coming from the meeting with Craddock.
By then Nani Gopal’s indefinite fast had lasted for a month and a half and he had been reduced to skin and bones. Despite his fast he was kept standing for a week in chains and fetters. This was when Vinayak and the others undertook the series of work strikes to add momentum to the non-cooperation in the jail. At this time, he was also expecting a letter from India, but this was kept away from him. Vinayak later learnt that this was because it contained some ‘objectionable matter’. Vinayak intensified his strike at being refused the one letter he received from home. The so-called objectionable content in the letter were the comments of James Keir Hardie, the Scottish socialist, politician, trade-unionist and the founder of the Labour Party. In the House of Commons, he had criticized the government for Vinayak’s imprisonment in the Andamans. The gist of his criticism was that while in Ireland the government had taken no steps against those who threatened open rebellion or raised armies, it was grossly unjust that a man like Savarkar was sentenced to fifty years of transportation for distributing pistols. He had suggested that as political prisoners, they should be granted all privileges of first-class convicts as was the norm in England. If this was barred, they should be categorized as ordinary prisoners along with its benefits. Barrie kept this letter from Vinayak so that the support from Britain would not lead him to intensify the strike.
Meanwhile, Nani Gopal’s condition was becoming precarious; he had to be saved at any cost. Vinayak decided to take the lead. He mentions that he had always been against the suicidal policy of hunger strikes because it was ruinous to both the individual and the cause. While most of the strikers were convinced, Nani was a tough nut to crack. Finally, Vinayak sent word that he too had begun a fast unto death and would not break his fast until Nani gave up his stubbornness. Vinayak was taken to Nani’s cell and he whispered in his ear, ‘Do not die like this. If you must die, die fighting like a hero. Kill your enemy and then leave this world.’ From thereon, all political prisoners followed Vinayak’s dictum and had their meals twice a day and ate plenty of coconuts. His mantra to them was, ‘Take as much food from them, grow fat, and don’t do any work!’ 13
Following the unrest, the government sent a notification about the changes they had proposed at Cellular Jail. All prisoners sentenced to a term short of life transportation were to be sent back to Indian jails, where remission of their sentence would be considered. Prisoners on life transportation would be retained at Cellular Jail for fourteen years, after which, if there was proof of good conduct, they would be put on light labour. During these fourteen years, the prisoner would be given decent food and clean clothes. After completion of five years of incarceration, those transported for life could cook their own food and would be given a monthly pocket allowance of twelve annas to a rupee each. There was a wave of relief and jubilation among the harried souls. The years of struggle had finally borne fruit.
Gradually, some of the political prisoners on shorter terms began to leave the prison. They promised that upon reaching India they would ensure wide publicity of the jail’s conditions and the suffering their compatriots were enduring in prison. Very few term convicts and those transported for life, including the Savarkar brothers, remained. Vinayak continued his efforts at educating convicts in the ideals of social service and national duty. Those trained by Vinayak, who were released or sent to Indian jails, started similar groups to carry the flame of knowledge that they had gained under him. They got locals, traders and others to subscribe to an education fund they created and helped the general public acquaint itself with the country’s political situation. At Cellular Jail, Vinayak campaigned and secured the provision of slates, pencils and books for prisoners.
Despite Barrie’s opposition and threats to burn the books, Vinayak managed to obtain the superintendent’s concurrence and started a library which stocked books in English, Punjabi, Hindi, Marathi and Sanskrit. Prisoners themselves contributed a part of the allowance they had begun to receive towards the purchase of the books. The books included those on constitutional history, politics, economics and the science of governance that Vinayak recommended. Magazines like Modern Review and the Indian Review also found their way here after much consideration of the chief commissioner. With a collection of more than 2000 books, the Cellular Jail library soon became the model for all Indian jails. Some of the prized possessions included the Bengali biographies of social reformers and intellectuals such as Raja Ram Mohan Roy and Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the works of poet Rabindranath Tagore, Sanskrit editions of the Mahabharata, Ramayana and the Yoga Vasistha. Books on religion and philosophy, the lives and teachings of saints like Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Swami Vivekananda had pride of place on its shelves. The works of several Marathi poets from saint Dnyaneshwar to Moropant were part of the collection. The English books made for an eclectic collection—Herbert Spencer’s volumes on synthetic philosophy, including his First Principles and Sociology and Ethics ; all the works of John Stuart Mill, Charles Darwin, Aldous Huxley, William Tyndale and Ernst Haeckel; the writings of Thomas Carlyle and R.W. Emerson; works of historians like Thomas Babington Macaulay and Edward Gibbon; and poets like William Shakespeare, John Milton and Alexander Pope. It had John Abbott’s Life of Napoleon , the biographies of Bismarck, Garibaldi and Mazzini, with the latter’s complete works; novels from Charles Dickens to Leo Tolstoy; and the works of Peter Kropotkin. The library also had English writings of Vivekananda and Rama Tirtha; works of the German historian Heinrich von Treitschke; and of the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. Plato’s Republic , Aristotle’s Politics and Bluntschli’s Theory of the State as well as Rousseau’s Social Contract . From a decrepit hell of torture under the unlettered Barrie, t
he jail had suddenly transformed into a temple of knowledge. Except for the liberal superintendent, everyone in the jail, from Barrie downwards, viewed the library with deep suspicion.
Thus, gradually, by 1914–15 winds of change began to blow through the morbid jail. They were allowed to cook their own food and got clean and well-cooked food to eat. Some of them were called upon to work in the printing press, the library, and for drawing maps. Each of them also earned about Rs 10 a month from such work, which was a huge blessing for those who had seen no money for so long.
While these brought little benefits to Vinayak, he was happy to see his friends leading a better life now. Soon Wamanrao Joshi and Babarao were transferred to the kitchen for cooking duties. Vinayak remained in the same solitary cell—block number 7—and did the same work. Barrie was clear that he was he was the ‘father of unrest in the Andamans’ and hence need not be shown any mercy.
Vinayak was content with getting some time to read in the library. There was not a single book that he left unread. He finished the ten principal Upanishads, the Yoga Vasistha, Vedanta, the Bhagavadgita, the Bible and the works of Sanskrit poet and playwright Kalidasa. He made others read books and also make summaries of them. Gradually, they began to have Sunday meetings, which were book discussions on whatever they had read. Vinayak conducted classes for the prisoners and taught them various subjects. Many revolutionaries who had no theoretical or intellectual background benefited from these sessions. They were termed by Vinayak as graduates of his ‘Nalanda Vihar’—reminiscent of that ancient seat of learning, Nalanda University.
Savarkar Page 43
