Chapter 30 - Bombs, Vows, and Bapat's Other Loves

This chapter doesn't pass the Bechdel Test

This chapter takes the novel in a direction you don’t expect when it comes to thinking about our freedom fighters. Especially one after whom roads are named in Maharashtra.

In several interviews about Savarkar’s time in London, Vikram Sampath mentions that our revolutionaries found a Russian bomb manual, and the person who helped them translate it was Senapati Bapat’s gori girlfriend.

I had to find the truth behind this salacious bit for myself, so I dug into Senapati Bapat’s biography. And, here it is.

I say this in the most respectful way possible, but this whole revolutionary-on-the-run thing seems like a chick magnet. In an era when people were highly racist, and more so, racist against Indians all over Europe and America, and saw us as slaves or worse, and Indian society wasn’t exactly friendly to marrying outside of one’s community, somehow, a lot of our revolutionaries abroad seemed to transcend taboos of race and creed.

Lala Hardayal, whose elopement with his lawfully married wife we have documented before, was exiled from India. Plus, his wife’s family threw him out and forbade him from meeting her or their daughter. In later years, he seems to have had a companion who was a Swedish woman, who was respectful of his marriage.

Udham Singh, who assassinated General Michael O’Dwyer for his crimes at Jallianwala Bagh, was married to a Mexican woman, and when he went to England for his final mission, he purportedly married an Englishwoman as well.

Virendranath Chattopadhyay seems to have had a string of non-Indian girlfriends and wives, and his whole deal is immortalized in Somerset Maugham’s short story, Giulia Lazzari. (Aside: Maugham was in the secret service in WW1 and most definitely monitored Chatto.)

And, Subhash Bose’s German descendants are quite well-known.

Mind, this is not to make some kind of a lascivious point. I feel like our idea of the world back in the day seems to be of a close-minded place where boundaries were tightly maintained. Maybe we are wrong to think about it in such black-and-white terms.

My point isn’t that love conquers all. It is that no matter what era we are from, people will seek a family in whatever form they can find, and will try to work through any differences the best they can. Even being on the run and having your life in mortal danger, or not speaking the same language or sharing the same values as those around you, can’t quite get in the way of that.

Bombs, Vows, and Bapat’s Other Loves

Hem looked around Gare du Nord, squinting at the French signs for the directions to the trains from London.

“This way,” Bapat said, already leading the way with that characteristic confidence Hem had come to expect.

Bapat had been a surprise from the start. Madame Cama had arranged for them to meet, but when he’d opened the door and found a man with a luxuriant moustache and sharp, lively eyes, he hadn’t known what to expect.

“You must be Hem. I read your manual,” Bapat had begun, straight to the point, which had caught Hem off guard. He was so used to hiding his thoughts and feelings behind layers of caution — a careful poker face — that Bapat’s directness was refreshing.

They’d gone back to Hem’s modest apartment in Belleville, where they spent days poring over the bomb manual together, their heads bent over the pages, their conversation wandering from chemistry to strategy to philosophy. Bapat was sharp, impatient with half-measures, and prone to sudden declarations.

“I think we need Russian eyes on this,” Bapat said one evening, setting the manual aside.

“Where do we get Russian eyes?” Hem asked, incredulous.

“I have a friend. A medical student from Edinburgh, passing through Paris,” Bapat replied casually.

“Can we trust him?!” Hem was shocked.

“Very trustworthy. Stood by me when I got rusticated,” Bapat said. “And Russians are typically sympathetic to Indians. Let’s go — it’s twenty minutes to the train.”

“You tell me this now?” Hem said, exasperated. “Go on, get a cab. I’ll be down in a minute.”

He locked the manual in a hidden safe deep inside his cupboard, then tried to smooth his unruly hair before running down to the cab. You couldn’t be too careful, not with a talkative Maratha.

At the station, Bapat was already waving excitedly. Hem caught up, scanning the platform for a tall, broad-shouldered Russian, but instead saw a tall, blonde woman in a green summer dress, her grey eyes sharp and curious, striding toward Bapat.

“There you are!” Bapat said, spinning her around in a joyful hug.

Hem watched, mildly annoyed. Is this girlfriend of his going to stay in our cramped apartment? The thought was unwelcome.

“Hem, this is Ana,” Bapat said, grinning wider than Hem had yet seen.