Authors: Bart Moore-Gilbert
‘Glad I caught you,’ a thin voice says, ‘it’s Srinivas Dongare. I’m downstairs.’
It takes me a moment to recollect that he’s the journalist from
Young India
. Has he found me an old constable?
‘There’s someone who wants to meet you. He’s been in Satara for the week-end, but he’s heading back to work in Mumbai first thing tomorrow. I bumped into his son this afternoon.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘His name’s D.Y. Patil. A lawyer. He knows a lot about the 1940s. We should go at once if you’re free. He needs to make an early start.’
As with Kiron and Dhun Nanavatty, one thing’s leading to another here.
‘My wife and children,’ he explains, when I reach the lobby, turning to a pale-skinned, delicate-featured woman and two young daughters who look like they’re in Sunday best. ‘They wanted to meet you.’
Despite this assurance, all three quickly retreat a step or two behind the paterfamilias. Srinivas leads the way to a battered Maruti saloon. His womenfolk somehow cram into the back beside a couple of large aluminium camera cases. It’s cramped in front, too, and the shock absorbers feel worn out. But it’s not far to D.Y.’s and I’m too intrigued to care. Go with the flow, I remember Anders saying. Last night already seems to belong to another life. Time has taken on such strange properties since I arrived in India. My mind and body feel overloaded, stretched to breaking point.
D.Y. lives further along the same road as the Satara Club. When we pull up in front of a two-storey villa, a young man’s on the veranda. Introducing himself as D.Y.’s son, he shows us into an elegant drawing room. It’s much more Indian than Dhun’s or the Modaks’, with what look like Rajput paintings on the wall, a lovely inlaid gateleg table and chocolate raw silk curtains. One wall’s lined with bookcases containing uniform runs of forbidding legal-looking tomes in dark leather bindings.
‘Glad you could come,’ D.Y. smiles as he extends a hand. ‘So you’re the son of the famous Gilbert? That period’s long been my hobby.’
He’s a big, strong-looking man in his fifties with dark patches under his eyes and a piercingly intelligent expression. His son looks strikingly similar, the same ready smile and powerful frame.
Over soft drinks, D.Y. and I talk while everyone else listens respectfully, as if this is a masterclass. My host states that he’s a Marxist and proud of the Parallel Government. Like Shinde, he asserts they were nationalists, not thugs, and turned to violence only as a last resort. When I repeat the stories I heard at the Club about the shoeing of suspected collaborators and the trouble at the Cooper works, his face clouds.
‘The Coopers were loyalists. Farrokh’s grandfather was knighted by the British. But they were pragmatists, too. They must have known about the Prati Sarkar cell.’ He uses the respectful name. ‘But the Coopers didn’t denounce them. They knew the workers would have walked out. It suited both sides. The Coopers carried on making profits, and the nationalists carried on smuggling out parts to make weapons. They couldn’t have done so if there’d been a general strike.’
My mind boggles. Right under his nose, the biggest factory in Satara was supplying Bill’s opponents. D.Y. then tells me about the movement’s founders. After their arrest, the initiative apparently passed to a second, more radical cadre of dissidents.
‘At least two of that group are still alive who would have known your father. G.D. Lad, the field marshal. And Naganath Nayakwadi, who carried out some of the most daring operations. One bank robbery made him famous throughout India. They both had narrow escapes from Gilbert.’
I can hardly believe my ears. ‘Do you think they’d meet me?’ I stutter hopefully.
D.Y. looks discomfited. ‘To be honest, I don’t know.’ He stands up and goes to a bookshelf, returning with a book in Devanagari script. Flicking through it, he finds the page. ‘Gilbert was a
dushtoman
officer.’
What?
‘Villainous,’ D.Y.’s son interjects, seeing his father struggle for the right word. ‘Also cunning.’
I feel uncomfortable, but this isn’t the time or place to launch into a defence of Bill.
‘Where do they live?’
D.Y. shrugs. ‘Kolhapur way. There are some historians down there who’ve worked on the movement. They’ll know.’
‘Abasaheb Shinde and Arun Bhosle?’
He looks surprised. ‘You know them?’
‘Not personally. But I’ve been thinking of going down to Kolhapur to introduce myself.’ It’s suddenly much more tempting. ‘Perhaps they could set up a meeting?’
‘Well, it may be worth a try. But if you do go see Lad and Naganath, don’t turn up in a police car,’ he smiles.
‘I told him about your escort,’ Srinivas explains.
‘Naganath says we just replaced the white sahibs with brown ones. And the police still do the same dirty work they always did.’
‘Do they?’
D.Y. nods sorrowfully. Still, the police have been so generous to me, especially here in Satara, that it seems churlish not to acknowledge it.
‘Of course,’ my host says with a short laugh when I’ve finished praising Kulkarni and Shinde, ‘you’re a foreigner and a professor. And there’s still an aura about the old IP.’
‘Would you be able to give me the details of that book you quoted from?’
‘It’s in Marathi. I have three others which also talk about Gilbert.’
That’s seven books I’ve discovered, in less than three weeks, which feature Bill. I wonder what he’d have made of his posthumous celebrity.
‘When we get a moment, I’ll get my son to translate the relevant passages. Can you leave your email?’
I nod gratefully, giving him my visiting card.
Mindful of D.Y.’s early start, I’m about to get up when the lawyer leans across the arm of his chair. ‘You know, the British behaved very strangely at times. Almost as if their heart wasn’t in the battle.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let me show you.’ He says something to his son who goes to the bookshelves, returning with an old atlas and a map. D.Y. lays the two side by side.
‘You see modern Maharashtra? Now look how Bombay Province was in the 1940s.’
The boundaries are quite different. Along the southeastern edge of the old British territory are a number of enclaves: Aundh, Miraj and Sangli.
‘Princely states. Technically independent, albeit under the eye of a British Resident. See how close they are to Satara? Well, a fugitive just had to get to one of these territories and he could cock a snook at the British.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. Unless it was in hot pursuit, and strict rules governed such chases, your father and his colleagues would have to get the permission of the princely administration. Of course, it was rarely refused, but by the time all the paperwork had been completed, the suspect would have slipped into the next state. And so it went on, round and round from one place to the next.’
‘That’s ludicrous. Why?’
‘The British wanted to use the Rajahs as a counterweight to Congress. So the government wouldn’t allow anything to compromise their prestige.’ He shakes his head, chuckling. ‘Yet they still expected their police to crack the Prati Sarkar!’
I now remember
Sentinel
complaining about the obstructiveness of certain princely states. What did Bill make of all this?
‘Aundh in particular actively sympathised with the rebels. The prince was educated at Oxford before the war, where he became a communist. If you want to understand why the British had limited success against the underground, you need to understand factors like that.’
I nod. But I’m busy calculating the chances of meeting a couple of Bill’s former antagonists. ‘Do they speak English, those two leaders of the Parallel Government?’
‘Lad, some. He was at the Ayurvedic medicine college in Pune when the war began. Naganath very little. You’d need an interpreter.’
I presume it won’t be too hard to find one. ‘You know, my father spent eighteen months hunting them without success and it looks like I might catch up with them in a day or two.’
My host explodes into laughter. ‘Tell that to Naganath if you get to see him. He’ll like that.’
Despite my exhaustion, it’s going to be hard to sleep. What wouldn’t I give to meet the very men that Bill pursued? I’m beginning to hope Rajeev doesn’t ring.
CHAPTER 9
Against the Tide
At breakfast, the waiter hands me
Young India
. Bizarre to see myself on the front page, looking earnest, sandwiched between Shinde and Kulkarni. I’d expected perhaps an inch buried deep inside. Soon I notice Gujur in reception, accompanied by Srinivas.
‘Mr Cooper said eight o’clock,’ the latter informs me, offering his hand with a smile.
I don’t remember the arrangement being so precise. Farrokh’s even booked the conference room.
‘It’ll go out this evening,’ Srinivas explains as I’m fitted up with a mike. ‘I’ll also ask if any old policemen who see it can get in touch.’
‘Thanks, Srinivas. And also for fixing up last night. I’m really grateful.’
After a couple of trial takes, the interview begins. Gujur and I find it hard to understand each other, and I’m glad to have Srinivas on hand. I realise I’m beginning to get bored with telling my story. After an hour, the cameraman declares himself satisfied and leaves. Gujur and Srinivas, however, linger.
‘How many people are likely to watch?’
‘Could be a million,’ Srinivas laughs.
He says he’s a media graduate, and designs websites in addition to the freelance journalism which provides the bulk of his income.
‘Mr Gujur wants me to tell you a bit about Satara. Give you some context for your researches.’
Farrokh’s colleague grins expansively as he palms back lank, greasy hair, evidently more comfortable out of his employer’s shadow.
‘Satara means “Seven Hills” in Marathi. After Shivaji conquered the city in 1663, it became the centre of his empire. From here he drove the Mughals north.’
‘And freed the land?’
‘For a while. After his death, the Mughals returned, until they were finally forced out again in 1706. When the British encroached, there were several wars, the third of which they won decisively. They ruled through Shivaji’s descendants until 1839 when they deposed Rajah Pratapsinh because he was alleged to be plotting against them. They installed his brother Shahaji in his place. When Shahaji died in 1848, he had no male heir, so the British simply annexed the territory.’
Gujur looks aggrieved. Little wonder. The doctrine of ‘lapse’, whereby the British refused to recognise adopted male heirs in princely states, was perhaps the most cynical device used to extend British dominion in India, and a principal cause of the ‘Mutiny’. I ask if it spread to Satara in 1857–8.
‘No. Pratapsinh was organising an uprising, but it was discovered a week before due time. They exiled him and his immediate family to Karachi.’
‘Did the Parallel Government look back to this tradition of resistance?’
Gujur smiles. ‘Of course. Shivaji invented the idea of
Hindavi swaraja
, Indian self-rule, three hundred years before Gandhi. He was also a pioneer of guerrilla warfare and knew how to tie down much larger conventional forces. However, the PG were modernisers. They didn’t want the feudal princes to get back their old powers.’
‘Isn’t there still a Rajah here?’
‘The family occupies the palaces, but they lost their privileges in the 1970s and don’t have real influence.’
The intercom buzzes as my history lesson winds down. It’s
Kulkarni, to say that DSP Mutilal’s expected shortly and I should come in to ask about the reports.
I leave at once for the police station. Kulkarni’s in his office. To my surprise, he’s in a pink shirt, jeans and sandals, and reeks of cologne.
‘May I offer you one?’
He thrusts a tray of luminous, soapy-looking sweets towards me with his dazzling smile. They look like they might dissolve even his tooth enamel.
‘To celebrate,’ he explains. ‘I’m being promoted to ASP with immediate effect. Transfer to Pune in the New Year.’
I congratulate him and take a candy. It’s sickly sweet, but spiced as well.
‘DSP will be here in one minute only.’
I’ve got used to the elasticity of Indian minutes, and pass the time taking photos of the station. Kulkarni doesn’t seem to mind where I poke my nose. I end up on the roof, amongst a thicket of antennae, facing Shivaji’s fort. It’s like a stage set in the crystal light. On the other side of the road, I suddenly realise, is a prison. Inmates have gathered at a barred window, chaffing a detail of convicts repairing the wall below. It’s grim and forbidding, despite the prisoners’ apparent good humour. I wonder uneasily how many people Bill sent there. As I watch, a white saloon with flashing roof lights approaches from the direction of town.
By the time I get downstairs, constables are snapping salutes one after the other along the first-floor veranda. DSP Mutilal looks roughly the same age as me, but he’s rather short, with cowlicks over his bald patches, a wart beside one eye and a paunch which strains the buttons on his uniform. He expresses delight I’ve come and shows me into his office. It’s much like Kulkarni’s, but with several different-coloured phones and intercoms arranged across an even more imposing desk. Incense perfumes the room, thin smoke curling from a brass container on his desk towards a small, plastic-garlanded
figurine of Ganesh occupying one corner. Once I’ve rehearsed my story yet again, I ask about the station archives. Mutilal buzzes an intercom. Soon an attendant appears, clinking a tray of tea glasses, followed by an elderly man in civilian clothes.
‘My steno, Mr Walawalkar. Tell him what you need.’
Not a relative of the miscreant sub-inspector whom Bill got sacked? Or the horrid man in SIB? The archivist listens earnestly and mutters something to Mutilal before disappearing.
‘He says we should be able to find the Part IVs fairly quickly. The weekly confidentials may take time. Could you come again tomorrow?’
We chat some more before Mutilal’s mobile rings. He sits up straighter. ‘Yes, sir,’ he concludes the brief conversation, before standing up.