Hey folks! I rewrote this chapter just now, in a hurry! I’d scheduled it to go out at 9 pm as usual, but I was reading Sanjeev Sanyal’s epic book Revolutionaries earlier today (HIGHLY RECOMMEND) and realized I’d gotten this scene completely wrong. I’d imagined it to be a small campus demonstration in the daytime. But no, it was a large Vijaya Dashami procession that is remembered to this day. As has been frequently the case with this book, reality outdoes anything my puny imagination musters up. Every incident is something on an epic scale, with the biggest names you can imagine associated with it. The more you know!
The night of Vijaya Dashami, 1905, Lakdi Pul, Poona.
The wooden bridge had been built to withstand the Maratha cavalry, when they marched back from Panipat, defeated. 144 years later, it still stood strong as a milling procession of a thousand marched across the Mutha river, to the Deccan Gymkhana. The crowd was chanting slogans, and carrying wheelbarrows and pushcarts overflowing with British merchandise.
There were tons of papers, notebooks, pens, pastels, and other stationery on some of the carts. One man was carrying a large number of British shoes, and another had large women’s hats and feathered fascinators. But the bulk of the goods were cotton clothes, a good chunk covered in paisleys woven in Manchester or Nottingham.
Carrying these goods were Puneri men and women, as well as those who had come from out of town, just for the event. They were dressed in their festive best, in bright silks and crisp cotton, gold jewellery, and jasmine flowers, and were chanting call-and-respond chants.
A short, thin, pale man, all of twenty-two, marched in front, his booming voice, carrying his shouts well into the back of the procession. Next to him was an older, taller, heavier man, his mustache luxuriant, his appearance matching his thundering tone. Right behind them were pushcarts piled high with firewood.
“Down with British exploitation!” Screamed the pale young man
“Down with British exploitation!” Screamed the others.
“Why must India endure?” screamed the mustached man.
“Pain of weavers in Solapur!” screamed the crowd.
“Be Indian, Buy Indian!” Screamed the mustachio.
“Be Indian, Buy Indian!” Screamed the crowd.
“We will never be subdued!” Screamed the pale young man.
“Burn British cloth and British goods!” Screamed the rest.
Whenever these men paused for a moment, the crowd filled the air with deafening screams of “Jai Bhavani!”, “Jai Shivaji!” and “Jai Shri Ram!”, in honour of the occasion. Initially, the cries of “Vande Mataram!” were hesitant, given the slogan was essentially illegal, but as the procession picked up, people lost themselves in the festive, defiant mood and called out “Vande Mataram” with pride.
“We’re almost there, Tilak-ji,” the pale young man said.
“Go on ahead, Tatyarao,” Bal Gangadhar Tilak said, “Set up the bonfire by the time the crowd gets there.”
Tatya obediently hurried ahead, the men with firewood closely following. Tilak paused for a moment to stretch out his back; the jailors at Mandalay hadn’t been kind.
A big fire had got going by the time Tilak walked to the front of the Deccan Gymkhana. The mood was festive. The crowd had broken out in song and dance, as volunteers brought out the carts, and dramatically fed the bonfire with British goods. Someone had brought out a megaphone from the Gymkhana, and Tatyarao entertained the crowd, keeping them focused and on topic.
As men and women came to offer their contribution to the fire, he talked to them.
“And what are you called, brother?” he asked a young man with enthusiastic eyes.
“Krishna, sir,” the young man said.
“That’s a lot of British-made clothes you have there, Krishna,” Tatyarao said, “Is this how Krishna appeals to the Gopikas these days?”
The crowd tittered as Krishna looked bashful.
“I collected these from my entire chawl, sir.” Krishna said.
“You seem like an enterprising lad, Krishna.” Tatya said, “And now that you don’t buy British-made clothes anymore, care to tell the crowd where you shop for your very becoming clothes?”
“Uh,” Krishna thought for a moment, and then said “My family shops at Wadia Fabrics at Juna Bazaar.”
“Wonderful. Citizens of Pune, here is a new business for you to patronize. Buy swadeshi cloth at Wadia Fabrics in Juna Bazaar!”
As the crowd applauded, Tatya indicated for Krishna to tip his cart into the bonfire.
The fire burned the cotton in no time, and glowed brighter, as if to ask for more.
“If I were you, Tatyarao, I would be quaking in my dhoti right about now.” Principal Paranjpe said as Tatyarao sat across from him in his office, “But of course, you being you are here like I am commending you for the best marks in your class per usual.”
“Sir, I was going to come to see you anyway. I have a matter of great importance to talk about.” Tatyarao said.
“You were leading that despicable march to burn British goods on Saturday! And you came straight to the door of my college to do that! With what confidence do you come here and face me?”
Sir Raghunath Purushottam Paranjpe was known for two things - his quick mind that had him graduate top of his class at Cambridge, and his love for all things British. Seeing his top student’s face plastered across all the newspapers, leading an anti-British protest was the last thing he wanted. In Bengal, there was the Carlyle Circular in effect, which meant if the students of a college were found indulging in political activities, the university’s funding would be cut. The principal of Fergusson College could not have that happen under his watch.
“Sir, as you know, British goods have been ruining the lives of cotton weavers all over the country, but especially in our Bombay Presidency. Solapur, Bharuch, and Surat will soon turn into ghost towns if this continues. It is the duty of every Mahratta, nay, every Indian to speak against this wanton squeezing of our brethren.”
“So write a strongly worded letter. Why do you have to build a fire while enrolled in my college?”
“Sir, as you well know, no one reads. Especially strongly worded letters to the editor. That is the province of cranks. A public demonstration like this illustrates to people—“
“I do not care. You are putting the funding of my university in jeopardy. Boys like you only serve to ruin the morale of other boys who have come here to study.”
“Sir, as you well know, I too have come here to study, and have proven that time and time again with excellent results in the exams.”
“And what of the other students? None of them are from educated families like yours or have a father-in-law who is the Dewan of Nashik. Not only are you ruining your own future, but you are also a pied piper leading them to their ruin.”
“Sir, the other students who were with me have all attained full majority as per law and joined me for their own reasons, including that they feel that British rule is not good for our land. For instance, Suresh’s family has farmed cotton for generations in Nanded and has been impoverished by continual taxes and the high-handed behavior of the British. He is forced to move to the city and seek a clerical job. If anything, his story influences me to conduct these kinds of protests.”
“And who will give him that clerical job, if he is found in these kinds of protests? You?”
Tatyarao paused.
“Tatyarao, don’t teach me in my university. You cannot lead innocent unsuspecting students up the garden path to ruin their lives by showing them beautiful visions of a future you have no chance of delivering on.”
“Sir, I feel we should be taking a long view of history. If Nanasaheb Peshwa and Rani Laxmibai thought it would be best to think of what was best for them and their families alone—“
“Tatyarao, do you know what befell Rani Laxmibai’s son after she was killed? Her loyalists took him and moved from village to village, as no one was willing to house them, and if they were, they fleeced them of what little money they had left. Eventually, they had to surrender him to the British, and they gave him a pension of Rs. 200 a month. I’ve met his sons. They work as typists in Indore.”
Tatya opened his mouth, but Wrangler Paranjpe cut him off.
“Face it, Tatyarao. You are taking a losing position, and you have no right to drag other promising young men into this.”
They both fell silent.
“What do you want? What do you want to do in life? I know your father-in-law. He is a noble soul. What does he expect you to do to give his daughter the good life she deserves?”
“Sir, I need your help with that. I am applying for a scholarship to study at Gray’s Inn, and it would be a great favor if you were to write me a letter of recommendation.”
“Gray’s Inn?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The one in London?”
“The one and only, sir.”
“You spend all your time railing against the British, and that is where you see your future?” Principal Paranjpe smirked, “You plan to come back and work for the British? Or stay there and work for the British?”
“Sir, I am applying for the Shivaji scholarship. The terms of that scholarship are that I would not work for the British government in any capacity. I hope to be called to the Bar, and then come back to be in the service of our Princely States.”
“Shivaji scholarship? How did you come across Shyamji Krishna Varma?” Principal Paranjpe was now interested.
“You know Mr. Shyamji?”
“We go back to when we both were new in England. He had his barristership, established the Indian Center at Oxford, and taught Sanskrit to Monier Williams. Can’t say he did a great job, because Monier had only a very loose grip on Sanskrit, last I knew. He translated the Usha stotra to mean ‘we are eager for the cows to burst out of their pens’, when in fact it is about the sun’s rays bursting out of the clouds. Even I know that.”
They both laughed.
“Of course, I was at Cambridge, and we, you know, have this rivalry. We clashed a lot.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes, I am more of a mathematics man. Physics, Chemistry, Biology— these things make sense to me. All these lawyers, their incessant letter-writing and beefing with each other to improve their own standing and influence, I find very exasperating, and I told him so. Focus on creating. Arguing is not creating.”
“Of course, sir. You have such an analytical mind. You graduated as Senior Wrangler at Cambridge. That sounds like such a high honor.”
“It is. It means I was the highest-scoring student in my class. If you applied your mind to it, I have no doubt you could get there as well. Be that as it may, it would make sense for you to want to follow in Shyamji’s footsteps. How did you come across him and his scholarship?”
“Tilak-ji suggested I apply. I am familiar with him from organizing Ganeshotsav together.”
“And yesterday’s bonfire too, no doubt” Principal Paranjpe had a quiet exasperation about him, liking exactly none of these developments, but not knowing how anything could be otherwise. He felt this frequently, mentoring so many students. It just had to happen that Tatyarao would be mentored by Tilak, and his extreme tendencies nurtured.
“Tatyarao, I think this scholarship could be the best thing for you. I too had all this fervor of youth when I went to Cambridge, but I got to see the other side and was able to decide for myself. You too would get to see London for yourself. And once you are absorbed in earning a living and providing for your family, I’m sure you will straighten out. And, with your family growing, it’s about time you do.”
Tatya’s face softened as he smiled and blushed. His wife was six months pregnant.
“So you will be writing me a letter of recommendation, sir?”
Principal Paranjpe nodded.
“Tatya, I do not like to do this, but as a principal, I have to act in loco parentis, and do what is good for you, and my university. I have to rusticate you. You can write your exams, but I cannot allow you to attend the classes”
“I understand, sir.”
“There will be a disciplinary committee hearing, but there will only be one outcome.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And you will be fined ten rupees. That is a lot of money.” Principal Paranjpe said as formidably as he could, but he knew that wouldn’t daunt Tatyarao. A man who could lead a procession of thousands would be able to raise ten rupees in no time.
“I understand, sir.”
“I am only doing this because I think you need to learn a lesson about leadership, and I know you will land on your feet, what with your Shivaji scholarship and all.”
“I hope so too, sir.”
“Very well, Tatyarao, good day to you.”
“Good day, sir,” Tatya said and opened the door.
“Oh, and one more thing, Tatya.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re going into the lion’s den. Best not to be a lamb.”
I feel there is as lot more depth to the conversation with the Principal now.