-48_Subhash Oaten Ullas Russell

Subhash, Oaten: atlas, Russell

 

THE Subhash-Oaten encounter has attained some notoriety, as a number of people have on several occasions given an account of how Subhash Chandra once gave a thrashing with his shoes to one of his British professors, Oaten. But it seems to have almost been forgotten by the general public that this incident was a mere replica or imitation of an earlier and identical performance. Subhash did not institute anything new; he was simply following in the footsteps of eminent and heroic predecessors. Today I propose to give an account of that original performance.

It was in the year 1905. The Swadeshi movement was in full tide, flooding the land with its enthusiasm, particularly the student community. But how about the Calcutta Presidency College? That was an institution meant for the "good" boys and for the sons of the rich, that is, for those who, in the parlance of the time, "had a stake in the country," those who, in other words, had something to lose. How far were they touched by that flood? Those that were touched might be described as something of a phenomenon.

In 1905, I was in my Second Year class. Among my classmates were Narendra Nath Law, a well-known name in later years, and perhaps also Bhupati Mohan Sen, who subsequently came to be known as Principal B. M. Sen.¹ Sitapati

 

¹ I cannot now exactly recall if Bhupati Mohan had been at the Presidency College right from the First Year class, or whether he joined the Third Year from the Scottish Churches College, known at the time as the General Assembly's Institution. 

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Banerji too was there; he won the Ishan Scholarship in his B.A. examination and was ultimately given the name of Swami Raghavananda or Sitapati Maharaj at the Ramakrishna Mission. These more or less .made up the list of the "good" boys. Among the "bad" ones was Indranath Nandi, a son of Colonel Nandi of the Indian Medical Service. Let me recount some of his exploits.

He had been a colleague of Barin Ghose of Manicktolla Gardens fame, and also a member of the Atmonnati Samiti, an "Association for Self-improvement". This Samiti was really a centre for the recruitment and training of revolutionaries. I too had been one of the junior members of the Samiti. Bepin Behari Ganguli was among its organisers. We had just given up football as being a non-Indian sport and had taken up lathi and dagger play. I had already attained such proficiency in these games that I was once asked to give a demonstration of lathi play before Mrs. Sarala Devi Chowdhurani on the occasion of one of her visits. But Indra Nandi was engaged in something much more serious; he was trying to make bombs. And he ended by blowing up his fingers in an explosion during a test. Caught in this maimed condition, he was sent up for trial in the Alipore Bomb case, although he could not be convicted. Our counsel managed to prove that the state of his hands was due to their being crushed under an iron chest.¹

Let me in this connection announce one of the feats of my college life. It was in that same year, 1905. Loud protests had arisen on account of the Bengal Partition and there was going to be observed a Day of Fasting or Rakhi-day or something like that. In what manner did I register my protest? I went to college dressed as if there had been a death in my family, that is to say, without shoes or shirt and with only a chuddar on. As I entered the class, everybody seemed a little

 

¹ But there was a rumour that Colonel Nandi had compounded with the Government on condition that his son would thenceforward behave like a thoroughly "good" boy. 

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stunned. The professor cast an occasional furtive glance at me but said not a word. My action must have appeared as rather unconventional, perhaps even incorrect to many, but I felt at the same time there were quite a few who gave me an admiring look.

At that time, in the class just above mine was Charu Biswas. Next above him was Rajendraprasad, and a year senior to Rajendraprasad there were Benoy Sarkar and Atul Gupta. Ramesh Majumdar was perhaps a year junior to me.

Now let me come back to what I was going to say – revenons à nos moutons, as they say in French.

At a time like this, when the sky was getting red and the air was hot, with so much agitation in the minds of men and the young hearts, one of the Englishmen in our college, Russell, our professor of Logic and philosophy, got it into his head to come out with something tactless against the Bengalis. It was like a spark in a powder dump. There was much excitement and agitation among the students. Could this not be avenged? Should the white man be allowed to escape scot-free, just like that? The day of reckoning came at last, like a bolt from the blue. How did it all happen? One of our classes had just been over and we were going to the next class along the corridor, when all on a sudden there rang out all over the place from a hundred lusty throats shouts of "Bande Mataram" that tore the air with its mighty cry. Everybody ran helter-skelter. "What is the matter? What happened?" "Russell has been thrashed with shoes!" "Who thrashed him? Who?"

The Principal came – it was Dr. P. K. Roy, the first Bengali to have become Principal of the Presidency College, though in a temporary capacity. We all got into our classes. Reentered our class first as it was nearest to the scene of the incident. Russell was with him, his face red with shame and indignation. He glanced around those present in the class and said that he could spot no one. After the class was over, 

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we went into the Physics Theatre for the Physics class. There too the Principal came in and broke out in a deep thundering tone, "I see, 'Bande Mataram' has become a war-cry." But the whole class was utterly quiet, there was not a sign of movement. All that high excitement and agitation of an hour ago was now hushed in dumb motionless silence. We were all a bunch of innocent lambs!

But who was the culprit? It was Ullaskar Datta, one of our class-fellows. He was a boarder at the Eden Hindu Hostel. He had come to college with a slipper wrapped up in a newspaper sheet and had made good use of it as soon as he got a chance.

The life-story of this Ullaskar is a real drama, although its last stage is rather tragic. Soon after this incident he joined the Manicktolla Gardens with Barin Ghose and gave all his thought and energy to the making of a bomb. He did not know even the ABC's of bombs. He read up by himself books on Chemistry, pieced out information from all kinds of books and finally mastered all alone the principles of explosives – nobody ever taught him. His father, Dwijadas Datta, was a professor at the Sibpur Engineering College. He had something like a small iaboratory at his residence. It was here that Ullaskar took his training in secret. To what extent he had finally succeeded in his efforts was proved one day when to the first of his bombs one of our own men had to fall a martyr – Prafulla Chakravarti.

I too had been an associate of his in this enterprise.

    Ullaskar – "one who abounds in energy" – fully lived up to his name: he was indeed an inexhaustible fount of energy and enthusiasm. When they used to escort us in a prison van from the jail to the court room (during the trial of the Alipore Bomb case), we rent the air all the way with our shouts and songs as we drove along. It was Ullaskar's idea; he led the chorus and the rest of us followed. Some of the old refrains still ring in my ears, I can still recall the words of songs like "Deep from the heart of Bengal today", "The 

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soil, the rivers of Bengal", "My golden Hindusthan".

I have heard that Ullas is still alive, though almost halfdead, they say. Ten or twelve years of jail in the Andamans deranged him in body and mind. But this after all was part of the ritual of sacrifice. As Barin used to say, "Such indeed was the vow in this kind of marriage."

For, the enthusiasm of that day, that reawakening to new life, took no account whatever of the gains and the losses. It forged ahead by itself, it drew its secret support from its own momentum. That was why people gazed wide-eyed in wonder, that was why they all joined in a mighty chorus:

 

"A day indeed has dawned,

When a million hearts

Have known not to fear

And leave no debts unpaid.

Life and death are

Bondslaves at our feet;

Our hearts have forgotten to care." 

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