[Novel Excerpt] Rabble Rousers Under The Shamiana
Guest starring: A veteran of the Anglo-Burmese war, and an early brownie camera!
Last week, our boys planned a large commemorative event to remember the Indian forces martyred in the First War of Independence in 1857. This week, we witness the event. There’s an incompetent spy who shows up later and changes the course of India House. I wanted to introduce him in this backdrop, because it’s kinda boring to just give a beat-by-beat of a hundred year old desi party.
Using agent provocateurs isn’t new. I wanted to add the fear of one into this event; it was a very real danger. And we know from Savarkar’s own writing that the character I call Herjoat was providing security to him and the events conducted at India House. I wanted to add a bit of a cat-and-mouse feel to this, but it hasn’t come through as strongly as I’d have liked.
I’ve based it on as much fact as I could. I really truly want this book titled Five Stormy Years - Savarkar In London, by Harindra Srivastava which I can’t seem to find anywhere; that has more anecdotes, and a nice long description of this event. If you have a copy, or can procure me one, please get in touch. I will be eternally grateful (and pay for the book and shipping).
On the morning of the 11th, India House was a flurry of activity. The attendees would begin arriving a little by four, and Harnam and Hardayal were flying around the place hanging tapestries of India as the Mother Goddess, and carrying sacks of potatoes and flour. Excited voices emerged from the kitchen, where batches of parathas, biryani, dal, fish, and vegetables were transferred from large vats to metal trays and wrapped. They would be heated up at dinnertime. I entered to see Chatto frying up fat samosas as Abdul ground mint leaves into a chutney. I grabbed a samosa and exited into the large backyard.
Somehow in this flurry, the two gentlemen with me hadn’t been noticed at all.
A large shamiana was being put up, which covered nearly all of the backyard. Harnam was already back out here, undoing the tennis nets. Tatya was assembling a stage, nailing together wooden pallets with Bapat. Shimmery red cloth poked out of a box. I presumed it was the backdrop to the stage.
“How many people are going to be here? They seem to be rustling up enough food for an army!” I said as I approached Tatya.
He looked up at me and my two friends, put away his hammer, and rose, dusting his hands and clothes.
“About two hundred. But I’m sure everyone will bring their friends as well.” He said, moving us away from earshot.
“Well, you’ll have at least two more.” I said, indicating my friends. “Ali and Mannar work with me. They are very astute and trustworthy. They’ll make sure you have no problems throughout this event.”
Tatya looked over the two stocky men, not much bigger than him, with some dismay. Ali, who guarded our warehouses by the wharf, was greying, and Mannar walked with a limp. An exploding mortar shell had left one leg shorter than the other, and a seething hatred for the British, though he didn’t quite mind his pension from the Royal Army.
“Ali used to be a policeman in Cochin. And Mannar is a veteran of the war in Burma. They have a few more associates they will have in the crowd. You can relax.”
“No rabble-rouser is going to get away with any rabble rousing on my watch.” Said Mannar. Ali quietly nodded.
“I don’t know how to thank you all. Come, let me find you some tea and snacks in the kitchen. Do you live close by?” Tatya said, as he walked with them into the house.
The air was festive as people shuffled around the shamiana looking for seats. The sky was clear, and a smell of spice and grass hung in the air. I stood by the entrance, welcoming people in with flowers and a smile, directing them to the shamiana. But really, I was looking for anyone who didn’t belong.
The crowd was mainly young and middle-aged Indian men, some with their wives and children in tow. There were a few older men, mostly friends of Shyamji, extremely well-dressed in achkans and sherwanis and crisp turbans.
Several Europeans came in, usually in groups. Dhingra brought some of his friends. Guy Aldred came in with a dumpy-looking woman I presumed was one of his anarchist friends. There were some Irishmen who walked in with Chatto and his red-haired wife.
A lone white man stood a little away from the front gate, in a tired suit, and took in the place. He picked himself back up and walked in. I didn’t remember having seen him before.
“Ah, Mr. Callahan! Tom! So nice to see you again!” I said.
“Sorry, you have me mistaken for someone else,” he said and tried going in.
“Tommy, come now” I persisted, blocking his way.
“Sorry sir, I’m Barry O’Brien” he said huffily.
“My mistake, Mr. O’Brien” I said, “This way please” I led the way to the shamiana. “Long day?” I said.
“Oh, you know,” said Barry O’Brien shrugging.
“There’s coffee by the back. Please make yourself at home.” I said as I spied Mannar. “Mannar, take Mr. O’Brien to where the coffee is!”.
Good. Now there would be more pairs of eyes on him.
I sped back to my post.
After the last stragglers had made their way into the Shamiana, I stood by the back door of the house, in case anyone came. The shamiana was full, to standing room only.
Tatya was winding up a speech he was giving.
“And now to put our mouths where the money is, pardon the misquote, our kind benefactor, Madam Dhan Devi Kaur has sponsored medallions and badges in memory of the martyrs of 1857.”
The crowd applauded.
“I kindly request Madam to present the first medallion to our very own Pandit Shyamji Krishna Varma!”
The crowd burst into claps and applause, as Shyamji and a dapper woman in a smart blue salwar-kameez and a shimmering gold dupatta came up on stage. The crowd went wild as the lady put the medallion around Shyamji’s neck.
“You can get your own medallion by the tennis courts, next to where the meals are served.” Tatya added.
As Shyamji left the stage, the woman walked up to Tatya’s mic. My eyes wandered around looking for Barry O’Brien. The thought of him bothered me.
“And so I announce the title of Yaar-E-Hind, which comes with a silver medallion, and five hundred rupees, for everyone who has performed an act for service for our Mother India at great personal cost.” the dapper Dhan Devi concluded.
Madam Dhan Devi Kaur left the stage amid great cheering and applause.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some awkward movement in the middle row.
Barry O’Brien. He was pulling out a large black box. Dusk was falling and I couldn’t see clearly what it was. He pointed it at the stage, and put his eye to it.
Oh. A camera. One of those new Brownies. You didn’t need to carry an entire lighting setup with you anymore. It was brand new, from America. It was affordable, but not cheap. Mr. O’Brien was trouble.
I quickly went up to him.
“Can you please put that away? Sir?” I said.
Not wanting to cause a scene, he put it away.