[Novel Extract] Partying Against Propaganda
❌ "Sepoy Mutiny", ✅ First War Of Indian Independence
Novel extracts are back!
The turning point in India House is when the gang decides to organize a large event honoring the Indian martyrs of the 1857 War Of Independence, like the Rani of Jhansi, Tantya Tope, Nanasaheb Peshwa, and innumerable others. They do this to counter the large scale commemorations all around Britain of the 50th anniversary of the ‘Sepoy Mutiny’. There were plays, prayer services, poetry readings, endless newspaper columns, you name it. The British did like to downplay it as a ragtag rebellion, like they called the Irish insurgency ‘The Troubles’.
But our hero, Tatya, knows better, and writes an intensely researched book calling it the First War Of Indian Independence, and justifying it. That’s now the accepted term for the event.
We do know from many sources that this occasion was well-organized, well-attended, and had a lot of great speeches and commitments to the cause, and galvanized the Indian community in Britain. This was also what got the India Office of Scotland Yard incredibly interested in India House, and after this, they actually tried rusticating students who attended this event, with several actually losing their scholarships. This silenced a few, but kicked even more into high gear, and the covert war against the British began in earnest.
In this chapter, I try imagining what planning such an event would have sounded like. There’s always the enthusiasts who want to ‘do something’, several people who hang back and watch to see if it sounds fun, and a vocal minority of naysayers who only like pointing out problems. Having been part of Indian Associations that organized large events (some of which were spectacular shitshows, but others were surprisingly competent), I seek to capture my fly-in-the-wall feelings from those heady days here, of course in a backdrop of fear, persecution, and rebelliousness.
“Come without fail this Sunday!” Tatya had said. We dutifully showed up at dinnertime.
The hall filled up, and the trays of food slowly emptied away. The air was thick with conversation as usual, as well as the fragrance of phulkas and aloo-gobi. As I settled down next to two Tamilian gentlemen from the engineering school who were in angry conversation about a play that was being screened at Novelty Theatre, a warm, fuzzy feeling took over me. I was home.
There were forty or so of us, slowly putting away our plates and settling down. Tatya was speaking this time around.
Two people started arranging chairs. On their cue, everyone moved their chairs to the arrangement facing the back of the room. I sat down by the two Tamilian gentlemen again, and they were still going on about this play.
“What’s this play?” I asked.
“Oh you’ve not seen all the posters and fliers around town? It’s this awful, hateful play.” One of them said.
“You will despise it so much.” The other said.
“Sounds fun. What is it about?”
“1857.”
I groaned.
“They call it a mutiny. And talk about how the dirty marauding Indians were defeated by brave Englishmen.”
A couple of others joined in, hearing us.
“Oh are you talking bout On The Face Of The Waters? A neat, portly Bengali man said.
“Yes, yes.” One of the Tamilians said.
“I didn’t go watch it. Why spend money to be told I’m an oafish lout, when I can hear that for free at the Wembley?” A tall, well-built man with sharp features and a thinning hairline said.
“What are they doing in this play?”
“Propaganda.” The Bengali man said. “It’s the fiftieth anniversary on Monday. Elections are coming around, and all the politicians are vying to to outdo each other in convincing the public they will be tough on India and ‘Never Again’ allow such a horrific tragedy to happen.
“In the screening we went to, this Reverend came out at the end and led a prayer for the departed souls and wished that all the Indians would adopt Christianity and become civilized.” One of the Tamilians said.
The tall man chuckled. “They don’t wash their bottoms, and they call us uncivilized?” Everyone laughed, albeit darkly.
“Expect things to get worse.” The Bengali man said, “The anniversary is on May 1st, and they plan to have a Remembrance Week all week after that.
“Well,” I said slowly, “That’s how they remember it. We should remember it in our way. We cannot dictate how they act. But we can control how we act.”
Everyone around me frowned slightly, taken aback at my words.
This was annoying. Everyone liked complaining. No one liked doing anything.
The Bengali man opened his mouth to say something, but luckily at that very moment, Tatya, at the front of the room, cleared his throat, ready to speak.
“Vande Mataram, everyone,” He said, “I see from your happy faces you’re all amply fed and watered. Always good.
“A couple of organizational things - please leave the house quietly on your way out. Some of the neighbors don’t appreciate noise late on a Sunday evening.
“And Hardayal found a bunch of keys and a cigarette case by the tennis court. If it’s yours, please pick them up from Hardayal after this.” Hardayal stood up and waved to indicate where he was.
“Onto more pressing matters. After a year of study and writing and many sessions at the India Office Library, and many many sessions of reading out excerpts to you all, I am proud to announce that my book, The First War Of Indian Independence, is now complete! I would like to thank all of you for your enormous patience, and vociferous criticism, which have helped me write a much better, stronger book.”
The crowd applauded and cheered. Cries of Vande Mataram rent the air.
“And to commemorate this release, we plan to host a dinner, much like this one on May 1st, the day the First War Of Indian Independence was released.”
The crowd applauded and cheered.
“Make it bigger!” I screamed.
The crowd quietened in confusion, and the clapping gave way to confused looks in my direction.
“Yes, Herjoat?” Tatya said.
“We need to make our commemoration of May 1st bigger. Much bigger. The whole country here is erasing our stories and our narrative. There’s plays and talks and columns in newspapers that call us marauders and barbarians. We cannot let that go unchallenged!” I raised my voice.
Murmurs of approval began around the room, which then turned into applause.
“Make it a week-long event!” Someone else said. “The Times is having a special supplement all month long.”
Tatya grew thoughtful. “Good ideas. Any others?” He said.
“We should distribute chapatis in memory of the martyrs.” Said a voice.
Hmmms of approval rent the room.
“How about commemorative buttons? Or even lapel pins? Cufflinks? That could also be a small fundraiser.”
More hmmmms of approval rent the room.
“We might get into trouble with the authorities. Some of us might even end up deported. Have you thought of what that might mean for the Indian population in Britain at large?” The Bengali gentleman with thinning hair said.
There was visible confusion in the room. The energy drained out of it. Everyone looked around at each other.
The person expressing these worries was most likely not actually concerned about everyone’s personal safety; these were naysayers who did that for everything. Would there not be issues if we went to watch matches at the Wembley? Wouldn’t our presence at the library irk the patrons? Would contradicting the professor not put you in his bad books?
I had had it with this sort of person who was overly cautious for no reason other than to be overly cautious. They made a fetching virtue of it.
But this man did have a point. Celebrating those considered villains in this country might not have great outcomes.
Tatya spoke up, his calm voice cutting through the confusion.
“We are commemorating our dead. This is a free country. We do all have a right to peaceful assembly.”
That was not a great argument. It did nothing to allay the fears of those who worried about losing their scholarships and needing to go back home. There were still confused looks and noises around the room.
“I have something to say” came a voice from the back. Guy Allred, who had taken over printing and publishing our Indian Sociologist was standing up, his tall frame looming behind everyone.
“I don’t think anyone associated with this event is in any trouble at all. Not just for this event. There’s a right to peaceful assembly, and we can assemble for any, any reason at all unless there’s a curfew in place. Which I very much doubt there will be. It’s a private event on private property.
“What we need to watch out for is anyone who might try to stoke anger or violence. There’s no dearth of those tactics with Scotland Yard, certainly. We just need to be disciplined and calm. And take a bit of care about our phrasing so our speakers aren’t booked for sedition.”
My ears perked up at this. I would need to organize a few men to provide security. Everyone entering and leaving would have to be kept track of, and we needed men on the ready to defuse and deescalate any situation which might lead to punch-ups.
“We can manage that.” I said.
“Yes this should be no problem. Anyone else have any concern?” Tatya said, looking squarely at the Bengali man with thinning hair.
Everyone shook their heads. It was an art to manage the overly cautious gang. Guy didn’t necessarily know much more about this than me, or Tatya, but everyone was allayed by his speaking up than anything anyone of us could say. True, he was on the line for The Indian Sociologist and had probably read up on all the relevant laws to save his neck, but so had we.
We’d get nowhere unless we freed ourselves of this colonial mentality and slavishness to white skin.
Endnotes:
I read in my sources that there were plays about the Sepoy Mutiny from the British perspective that were shown, but couldn’t find any online. There’s however a book called On The Face Of The Waters. Its plot sounds incredibly like that of the movie Junoon. I can’t confirm it was ever made into a play.
I do know from Savarkar’s own writings that the character I call Herjoat regularly provided men for security purposes to events he organized. But I don’t know this sort of discussion actually happened, or if people listened to Guy Aldred more, it’s just extrapolation from what I’ve learned of all these people, and some good old fashioned imagination.