Anurupa – Page 13 – Anurupa Cinar

Savarkar: The Leader

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Hi, Everyone! Author Chitragupta has written a biography of Savarkar’s London days, Life of Barrister Savarkar. His words are very valuable in giving us an insight into Savarkar’s personality. He says:

“For the first time I heard of Savarkar in the most casual way from Riza just before I left for England in 1909. But I had no idea of who and what he was. On arriving at the India House, Highgate, London, I, my old friend Saiyad Haidar Riza who distinguished himself as a powerful platform speaker in the year 1907 and 1908, and another friend (all the three of us having traveled together), were ushered into the dining room, where several cheerful faces greeted us. Saiyad Haidar Riza carried a reputation with him, especially as he had been granted a scholarship by old Pandit Shyamji Krishnavarma (which, however, he like others, resigned within a short time of his arrival there), and therefore it was natural to expect that Savarkar, who was the “boss of the house,” would personally welcome Saiyad Haidar Riza.

I meet Savarkar

I took another gentleman, who looked rather prominent, and who has since then become sufficiently distinguished in his own to be Governor of the House, but he hastened to inform us that Mr. Savarkar would soon be down. Presently the door of the dining room was thrown open and there entered a short but rather agile figure, bearing a clean shaven and smiling face, a pair of keen and, I thought, fascinating eyes behind a gold pince-nez secured by a real gold chain attached to the left ear, hair parted on one side so as to make a neat bracket with curls on a moderately open forehead. The moment he opened his lips there emanated from them a sort of juvenile musical voice, which was inclined to be shrill but not unpleasantly so. There was a softness in his appearance and a something in his voice, which bordered on the feminine—to be something out of the ordinary one must possess something of opposite sex, for is not genius sexless?

This was Savarkar, fragile as an anaemic girl, restless as a mountain torrent, and keen as the edge of a Toledo-blade.

There was no hesitation, no stopping to think, about him. All opinions and actions came from him in an easy flow, and bore the stamp of unshakeable self-confidence. He seldom opened lips except to convince or at least silence the listener. As I think of it now, I wonder how so young a person—for he could not have been much beyond two or three and twenty in 1909—commanded the will of almost everyone who came into contact with him. I knew he was accused by some of his intellectual friends as a born leader, a man cut out for the part. He typified in himself the rivals as a “tyrant,” but Vinayak was a spirit of Shivaji and, I believe, consciously imitated Giuseppe Mazzini in his general behavior.

Savarkar’s manner

He used to be an ardent admirer and a very careful student of Mazzini’s life teaching and owned much of his politics, inspiration to that Italian patriot and thinker. But apart from what he had consciously acquired or unconsciously assimilated he seemed to possess no few distinctive marks of character, such as an amazing presence of mind, indomitable courage, unconquerable confidence in his capability to achieve great things, and a subtle genius for mastering complete details and devising astonishing means to reconcile conflicting interest.

A born captain, he loved and clove to his lieutenants and those who could fit into his scheme of things, but he brooked no rivals and somehow managed to leave every claimant to the first position in the cold, in a manner that you failed to notice any maneuver about it. He struck me as an incomparable strategist; whose maneuvers were sure and certain, and so cleverly marked that the practiced eye failed to detect the process, and yet the results were there, and you admitted his nimble skill.”

With this account one can see the Savarkar who turned around the Indian Freedom Struggle situation completely. In his short four years in London, he had stirred patriotic fervor in very many Indian students. He had posed a grave danger to the stability of the British Empire.

Anurupa

David Garnett’s plan for Savarkar’s escape.

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Hi, Everyone! Here in David Garnett’s words one can read how Savarkar’s situation was at the time, in 1910. The British really bent the law to slap the extradition order on Savarkar. They dug up speeches that he had given in 1906 and declared they were seditious.

There are two peculiar points regarding this.

· There are government letters written in 1906 that clearly state that this very same speech was not a threat to the British empire.

· The law that allowed the British to stretch reality to the extent of charging this speech as seditious was not passed until 1908 . . . !

David Garnett understood this injustice to Savarkar and was determined to help without worrying about the consequences to himself.

“After telling him I would do my best to find him a temporary home, I went to Bow Street, where I understood Savarkar was up before the Magistrate. I did not see Savarkar, but found myself being given a searching questioning by Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. I realized immediately that it would not do to try to be clever. My best line was the truth. But in my answers I exaggerated my ingenuousness. I explained I was a science student who had met Indians in my classes, had visited India House and become acquainted with Savarkar. Seeing he was in trouble I had come along to see if I could help in any way. When and where could I see him?

Parker’s attempts at grilling me broke down before my truthfulness. Finally he told me that as Savarkar was only a remand prisoner I could see him any morning at Brixton Gaol. When I left Bow Street I felt convinced that Parker had classified me as a young fool of no importance—-and he was quite right in doing so. I was only eighteen and certainly looked innocent.

Next morning I went to Brixton Gaol. The prison lies at the end of a long cul-de-sac. There was a big door for vehicles with a smaller door in it for men. The visitor to the prison rang a bell and a warder unlocked and opened the smaller door, and the visitor stepped in. The warder immediately locked the door, took his particulars, and walked across to unlock an inner door of steel bars, and the visitor found himself in the prison proper. It was obvious that the warder’s chief duty was to see that the outer and inner doors were never unlocked at the same moment, since there were frequently prisoners passing inside. There was sufficient space between the two doors for a lorry or a Black Maria to stand while they were both shut.

I took in all this at a glance; the strength and weakness of this mediaeval system were instantly apparent to me, and I thought over the weakness of the system as I waited with others in a room. The weakness was the time-lag before the warders in the prison could render help to the forces of law and order outside the gate. Presently we were shepherded along a passage divided into a series of open compartments with arrow-mesh steel wire separating the visitor from the distraught prisoner he had come to see.

The vehement jabber of these distracted creatures, who seemed to be trying to combine whispering with talking at the tops of their voices, was horrible. Presently I came to the compartment where I was to see Savarkar. It was empty. 1 examined the steel mesh netting. A moment or two later he strolled in and was very much surprised to see me. He was perfectly calm and at his ease. I discussed his defense and offered to collect money for it, and to do anything I could to help him. All he wanted at the moment were some clean collars: the size of his neck was only 131/2!—the size of a schoolboy.

From the point of view of the government his arrest was peculiar and required careful handling. They had evidence of his connection with the murder of Mr. Jackson at Nasik, but were not prepared to charge him with it. For the murder occurred while Savarkar was in London and he ought, therefore, to be tried in London. If he were tried in England on, let us say, an incitement-to-murder charge, he would, if convicted, get a sentence of two or three years. If he were tried in India, it would be another matter. The authorities were therefore trying to extradite him to India, but to do so they had to dig up, or manufacture, evidence of crimes committed while he was in India, carefully avoiding reference to the crimes he might have committed in London. This took some time, and while the case was being prepared, Savarkar had to be brought up at Bow Street week after week and remanded, bail being refused.

Eventually, the Indian authorities dug up some speeches that Savarkar had delivered in India several years before, and for which they had had ample opportunity to prosecute him at the time. They then applied for his extradition on that evidence only. The evidence was thin, for the speeches had been delivered at a time when the political atmosphere in India was completely different. The speeches, which had not been thought worth prosecuting him for at the time, had become seditious as the ferment of unrest increased in India.

I wrote a short letter on the subject, which was printed in the Daily News under the heading past offences. Meanwhile, I went practically every week to Brixton Gaol to see Savarkar, taking with me clean collars and handkerchiefs and I collected a few pounds for his legal defense.

Finally, the time came for me to leave Letchworth and I returned to London, sending my luggage by train and walking all the way as far as Finchley, starting about nine o’clock in the morning and getting home to Hampstead about six o’clock in the evening. I had meant to walk the whole way, but my heel chafed and the temptation of the electric tram was too great.

Next morning I went down to Brixton and learned from Savarkar that the documents from India were on the way and that it would only be two or three weeks, at most, before the case came up for trial. There was not the slightest doubt how it would go. I hesitated, waited until the warder walking up and down the corridor was out of earshot and said: “Why not try and escape? I have an idea how it might possibly be managed.”

Savarkar said he had been thinking of it, but had decided he would have more chances of success on the way back to India, but if I had a plan he would be glad if I would work it out. When I had done so, the necessary money would be forthcoming from C.C., with whom I could discuss it freely. I asked Savarkar a number of questions about prison routine and then went down to the Cearne that afternoon to think things out.

Savarkar was taken every week to Bow Street for the formalities of a remand, always in a taxi and not a Black Maria. He was accompanied by one, or sometimes two, detectives. His going up for a weekly remand had become a routine matter and he was taken from the prison at the same time, within two or three minutes.

The essence of my plan was that he was to be rescued at the prison gates, or within a few yards of them. A watcher would note when the taxi which was to take him to Bow Street drove up. A car would then drive up to the prison with supposed visitors, who would overpower the detectives, and Savarkar would jump in the car, which would drive off with him. The essential feature of the rescue was that the rescuers should not avoid arrest, or to escape themselves. They would have to deal with the two detectives, and the taxi-man, but there would not be time for help to arrive from the prison, owing to the routine of the two gates.

At first I thought I should have to find both the rescuers and cars, but I came to the conclusion that it was impossible for me to do so.”

David Garnett even traveled to Paris to make arrangements for Savarkar’s escape, but it all fell through. His father, too, found out what he was up to and hurriedly put a stop to what was certainly David’s treachery to his own country.

Anurupa

Savarkar, a hero for a British schoolboy, David Garnett . . . !

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Hi, Everyone! David Garnett was a British schoolboy who had the opportunity to meet Savarkar.

The extent to which he held Savarkar in respect is evident in the fact that he was ready to commit what can most certainly be considered treason in a British boy . . . !

He was of significant help to Savarkar in London. It was David Garnett who had published Madan Lal Dhingra’s statement for Savarkar. The British police were taken aback at this, for they had gone to considerable pains to squash this telling statement. David Garnett had even tried to arrange for Savarkar’s escape from the Brixton prison.

Had David Garnet been successful in freeing Savarakar—to annihilate whom the British had bent the laws of England and contrived new ones in India, so desperate were they to get him—one shudders to think what dire punishment he would have had to endure!

Here is what he says of Savarkar in his own words:

“At my entrance there was some surprise. Nanu came forward and welcomed me and stopped a young man, Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, and introduced me to him. He was small, slight in build, with very broad cheekbones, a delicate aquiline nose, a sensitive, refined mouth and an extremely pale skin, which was almost as pale as ivory on the forehead and cheekbones but darker in the hollows.

Soon after my arrival we trooped into the dining-room and Savarkar, after addressing the company in Hindi, stood up and began to read aloud. As I could not understand what he was saying, I looked about the room without paying much attention to him. The sight of those brown men, some sitting round a long table, others leaning against the walls, all listening intently to the staccato voice of the speaker, was very strange to me. When I was with Dutt or Mitter I could forget they were Hindus and I was an Englishman, but at this meeting I felt alone. My race and colour did indeed create a gulf between me and these brown men. But the consciousness of this gulf did not dismay me. On the contrary, I rejoiced in the sense of freedom which it gave me. In this company I could be myself and say whatever came into my lead. There was no question of my feeling shy and, at that age, I was always feeling shy, now I was delivered from that burden, simply because I did not know these people’s standards. Whatever I did, or was, would be strange to them. I felt exhilarated. I had embarked on an adventure of my own finding; there was nobody to guide me; nobody to feel ashamed of me. It was a new departure. . . .

Then I looked at Savarkar and thought that his was the most sensitive face in the room and yet the most powerful. I watched how he spat out his words, with almost convulsive movements. And, from looking at him, I became aware that he was actually reading aloud in English, not in Hindustani. His accent, his mispronunciations, the strange rhythm of his staccato delivery had deceived me. What a wool-gathering fool I was! But it was a relief to make the discovery for myself. I listened then attentively and made out that he was reading about a battle in which an Indian general called Tatia Tope had been defeated by English troops and Sikhs.

Savarkar was, although I did not know it, reading aloud a chapter from his extremely propagandist history; the Indian Mutiny called The Indian War of Independence of l857 by An Indian Nationalist, which was secretly printed a few months later. When he had finished his chapter, the greater part of the audience went into an adjoining room and someone put a record of Indian music on the gramophone. . . .

After India house was closed by the police, Savarkar went to live over a small and extremely dirty Indian restaurant in Red Lion Passage, where Dutt, who had quarreled with Mr. Pal, joined him. I arranged with the proprietor, a large old Jew called Jacobs, to have lunch there five days a week for four shillings a week, paid in advance, and forfeited if I did not turn up.

As a result I saw a certain amount of Savarkar and was more than ever struck by his extraordinary personal magnetism. There was an intensity of faith in the man and a curious single-minded recklessness which were deeply attractive to me. The filthy place in which he was living brought out both his refinement and also his lack of human sympathy, both characteristic of the high-caste Brahmin. The windows of the room which Dutt and Savarkar shared as a sitting-room, looked across the narrow, filthy alley of Red Lion Passage—one of the dirtiest slums in London. In the room opposite lived an appalling slattern with four young children. Often she was screaming, frequently drunk, sometimes one could see her through the open window, lying insensible upon the floor.

Dutt often spoke of her and her children with horror and pity. But Savarkar was indifferent to her existence and indeed oblivious to his environment. He was wrapped in visions. What was his vision then? I cannot say, but I believe it was that India was a volcano, which had erupted violently during the Mutiny and which could be made to erupt again, and that every act of terrorism and violence would beget further violence and terrorism, until Indians regained their manliness and their mother country her freedom. All the sufferings involved were but a fitting sacrifice to her.

Eventually Savarkar was persuaded to leave England and go to Paris, as another assassination, in which his younger brother was compromised, had taken place in his native city, Nasik.”

More of David Garnett’s reminiscence tomorrow.

Anurupa

Savarkar, a hero of the schoolboys

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Hi, Everyone! Savarkar’s personality, his words, his books, his speeches, all had stirred Indians, young and old, into patriotic fervor. Today, I have an anecdote of Mr. P. L. Gokhale who as a young school boy had traveled from his hometown Baroda to Ahmedabad in 1937, just to get a look at Savarkar.

Meeting Savarkar was never an easy job for anyone! His hectic schedule and his insistence upon visitors making advance appointments practically guaranteed that. Upon descending casually upon him, many a visitor, important though he may be, had found himself returning home with neither a whiff nor sniff of Savarkar.

Generally speaking, grabbing an opportunity to meet Savarkar at conferences and meetings was a great idea. Gokhale and his friends did just that for their first meeting.

The Hindu Mahasabha Convention was being held in Ahmedabad in 1937. Savarkar, now free from British bondage, was to attend it. Upon hearing that, Gokhale and his three-four friends were tremendously excited. They had heard many stories of Savarkar from Gokhale’s father, who had been a member of Savarkar’s Abhinav Bharat Society in the bygone days in Nasik. The boys had also devoured a couple of Savarkar’s banned books, My Transportation for life and Mazzini. They found Savarkar inspiring. He was their hero. They had to meet him, and Ahmedabad was not so very far from Baroda. They managed to wangle an invitation to the convention. And now here they were in Ahmedabad, right outside the bungalow Savarkar was staying in.

Gokhale and his friends crouched against the wall, peeping over it. In the room beyond the yard they saw a small-framed man, a little bent over, engrossed in straightening out the folds of his dhoti with both hands. His light skin glowed, the golden frame of his glasses shone. Is this Savarkar . . . ? they all thought.

“Arre, Gokhale, that does look like Savarkar!”

“Yes, it does. If only he will lift his head . . . .” Gokhale snapped his fingers. “I know! Let us hop over the wall and take a closer look.”

There was a brief babble of “Do we dare?” and “Oh, yes, let’s!” Then the boys hopped over the wall and tiptoed toward the veranda door through which they could see the man.

Suddenly the man looked up, fingers still straightening the fold. Oh, yes, this was indeed Savarkar! The boys gazed speechlessly at their hero, tremendously happy and excited to see him in person. With all the stories Gokhale’s father had regaled them with, they felt they knew him well.

“Tatyarao! We schoolboys have come all the way from Baroda expressly to meet you!” cried Gokhale.

A slight frown marred Savarkar’s brow and a faint irritation flashed across his face—a typical telltale sign of his dislike of being accosted without appointment. Seeing that, the boys subsided nervously.

Then Savarkar smiled. Training his penetrating eyes at Gokhale he asked, “What, boys, haven’t you come to attend the convention?” Without waiting for an answer he added, “Come, tell me about yourselves, your names, the classes you are studying in.”

When all the questions were asked and answered, Savarkar asked Gokhale again, “Are you Gokhale from Baroda?”

“Tatyarao, my father works in Baroda now, but before we lived in Nasik and Pune.”

Immediately Savarkar exclaimed, “Arre, I knew it! You must be the son of a Gokhale from our Abhinav Bharat Society. You look very much like like him.”

Gokhale’s face flushed with pleasure. Oh, Tatyaro still, inspite of all the hardships he had gone through, remembered his father well enough to recognize him! Oh, he was a great man, indeed!

“But,” Savarkar was continuing, “He was such a well-built man, so very dedicated to exercise. You are just skin and bones. Hmm, don’t you exercise regularly? You must, it is very important.”

Gokhale didn’t know whether to stand tall and proud at being addressed so familiarly by Savarkar, or to cringe in embarrassment at having the slightness of his frame brought under such scrutiny!

This was Gokhale’s first meeting with Savarkar. He went on to become a close and trusted member of Savarkar’s entourage. He has written a book recording his many, many memories of Savarkar.

Anurupa

A Schoolboy’s reminiscence of Savarkar

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Hi, Everyone! Every so often I shall be posting little anecdotes of Savarkar written by people who knew him. These give fascinating side-lights of Savarkar’s character.

Mr. Jaywant D. Joglekar is a well-known writer in Maharashtra, India. He has written about the American Revolution, the French Revolution, the Chinese Revolution, and the First Indian War of Independence, 1857, among other things. He has also written a biography of Savarkar, and it was upon reading this very biography that Savarkar was first revealed to me.

At the end of his book Veer Savarkar: Father of Hindu Nationalism, Mr. Joglekar has given lots of little what he calls “vignettes.” The one below records his first meeting with Savarkar. I loved to read about young teenage boys being so impressed and moved by Savarkar that they would play hooky from school when punished!

I first saw Savarkar at close quarters in Baroda in 1938. He had come to preside over the conference of the Marathi Literary Society. He was staying at the Baroda State Guest House which was located on the west side of the Baroda railway station, while the High School was on its east side. The distance between these two was about a quarter mile. Our teacher had asked four or five of us to leave the class for mischief-making. At the entrance to the school, there was a huge tamarind tree. We were sitting under its shadow when one of us said, “Let us go to see Savarkar.”

I had heard some stories about Savarkar from my elders. But the most important thing was that I had read his book ‘My Transportation’. The Bombay Government had banned this book. However, in Baroda, then a native state, the book was available in the Central Library. To read it was a thrilling experience. So when the idea of going to see such a great man was broached, we, at once, made a beeline to the State Guest House and were there in about ten minutes. There was a bearer in the waiting room. He went and told Savarkar that some boys had come to meet him. A few minutes later, he came into the waiting room. In my mind’s eye I still see the picture of Savarkar as I saw him that day.

He was small in stature and was wearing a white shirt and a fine white dhoti. His skin was very fair. He was wearing a pair of golden rim spectacles and had a penetrating look. His forehead was broad and his brows were a bit knitted and a smile was playing on his lips – such was Savarkar’s personality and he was standing before us. For a few seconds, he smiled and then asked us, “What brings you here boys?”

All were tongue-tied. No one could think what to say. Finally I summoned courage and said, “We want your sahi – signature.”

“You mean swakshari.” (Pure Marathi equivalent for the word signature) he said.

“No. I want a message and sahi”, I replied.

He then said, “Yes, that is swakshari.”

Having said this, he wrote in our notebooks: “Write in new script – V. D. Savarkar.”

Savarkar was a stickler for the use of pure Indian languages without words borrowed from elsewhere. When no such words existed, he coined them. So many of the words he coined are now an integral part of the Marathi language. But not many know the history behind it.

Anurupa

Oh, why did they not ask Savarkar?

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Hi, Everyone! In the last three years I have often wished that someone had asked Savarkar a few simple questions. He had lived until the age of 83, after all. That should have given people plenty of time to dig up the courage, if indeed courage was needed!

While reading one of Savarkar’s biographies, an intriguing fact jumped out at me. Savarkar was wearing a bath-robe given to him by Prince Kropotkin at the time of his escape in Marseilles. He had to leave it behind in the SS Morea, naturally.

Why, oh why did no one ever ask him re this bathrobe? There is surely some interesting story behind it?

A bathrobe is hardly the sort of gift one gives to a casual acquaintance! Under what circumstances did Prince Kropotkin gift one to Savarkar? There isn’t even any mention anywhere that the two knew each other. A host of questions come to mind, and the answers are not to be found.

I am on the lookout for Prince Kropotkin’s biographies, hoping that they will shed some light on the subject.

The other thing I really wish Savarkar had noted down was his escape from the SS Morea. It has taken me months and months to chase every detail down and put together a scenario. I even have studied the map and figured out the logical escape route, for Savarkar must have done the same as he walked on the deck plotting his escape. Plus accounts of the various parties mention some landmarks here and there.

But wouldn’t it have been wonderful to hear it all from Savarkar himself? So why did no one ask him?

When Savarkar was being extradited to Mumbai in 1910 in the SS Morea, he was not the only political prisoner on board! But except for a reference here and there re ‘two’ prisoners, accounts are silent on this fact. It is crucial to know the identity of this political prisoner. It will be very interesting to know what kind of paperwork was done for his extradition. It will be interesting to know if he has left an eyewitness account of Savarkar’s escape somewhere. Again, why did no one badger Savarkar to disclose it?

The list can go on. Fortunately, where we have unanswered questions, we also have found documentation that gives validity to many other things that Savarkar has written.

So I shouldn’t really be complaining. But I would so-o-o-o like to know everything.

Anurupa

A little bone to pick . . .

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Hi, Everyone! It is definitely no secret how I feel about Savarkar! But there is one place where I have a bone to pick with him.

Savarkar was held in great awe by all those around him. Though he inspired great devotion in many, not many expressed themselves freely to him. So many simple questions that are being argued over re Savarkar today would not be necessary had someone actually asked him. It puzzles me why it was not done!

Anyway, I do feel, since I don’t believe in being awestruck by anyone, that I would have the necessary gumption to put my issue before him.

Savarkar definitely had great respect and admiration for strong women who faced adversity and took bold steps especially for Mother India. That is apparent in his expressed feelings re Lakshmibai, Queen of Jhansi, his sisters-in-law, and the female characters in his fictional writing.

But when it came right down to it, so it seems to me, he didn’t quite believe women could actually be strong and bold enough to achieve anything in general. In the meager words he has written on women, one finds that he will almost always include the word ‘beautiful’ before the word ‘woman.’ One gets the impression that he believes women are overall all fluff.

This is just my impression, mind you. But I sure would have liked to have an opportunity to put it before him and argue his ears off, if it was indeed true.

Savarkar, of course, was famous for his comebacks, and I might have found myself squashed gently but surely instead (and perhaps turning tail as fast as Nirmalamaushi.) But I would have surely tried.

Anurupa

Another Staunch Savarkarite in the Family

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Hi, Everyone! I was making wholesale discoveries about my family. Long, long before me a granddaughter of Ramchandra Sathe, Mrs. Nirmala Vaidya, was staunchly championing Savarkar’s cause. Not only had she known Savarkar personally, was considered a friend of the family in fact, she has written many articles on Savarkar.

The very day I reached Mumbai in 2009, I had rushed out to meet her. It seemed incredible to me that I was meeting someone who had known Savarkar so well. Nirmalamaushi was a friend of Savarkar’s daughter Prabhat. She was very excited to hear about the novel I fully intended would see light of the day. It made her very happy to see the ‘youngsters’ championing Savarkar, she said.

I stirred restlessly at the ‘youngsters.’ When one gets to my age, one balks a bit at being described as a youngster! I did voice a protest or two, but it went unheard.

She talked of Savarkar and I listened avidly. My author’s mind was busy absorbing impressions. This was as close as I was going to get to Savarkar’s mind. I don’t believe she realized how revealing her words were. Particularly I got an insight into Savarkar re his breakdown and post Gandhi-murder state of mind.

Though it did occur to me that she might not be so forthcoming if she realized I would transfer my impressions into my novel, I did not enlighten her.

I have put an anecdote she told me in story-form:

Savarkar had just returned to Bombay after his meeting with Sir Stafford Cripps. Great things were expected from Cripps, even a solution for the deadlock in the Indian political situation. What had Savarkar and Cripps said to each other? That was the burning question. Everyone around Savarkar had a great curiosity to know the answer. Eighteen-year-old Nirmala was no exception. She had been counting the days, minutes, seconds until Savarkar got back. She had to know the answer to that question—she just hadto know it! And now.

But how? Approaching Savarkar directly was impossible. She, like everyone else, was in great awe of him. He never raised his voice, was always soft-spoken, and didn’t ever express his anger if he felt it. But his intellect, his magnetic personality, his repartee set him apart. It would be quite an impertinence to ask such a question to him.

Nirmala was not one to give up easily! There was only one person who could perhaps get away with it: Prabhat, her dear friend and Savarkar’s daughter. He doted on her, everyone knew that. She hotfooted it to Prabhat’s side.

“Psst, Prabhat!” Nirmala whispered urgently.

“Nirmala! Why are you whispering?” exclaimed Prabhat, looking up from her reading. “What’s going on . . . ?” She had noticed Nirmala’s air of barely contained excitement.

“Ooh, Prabhat! You must, must, must do me a favor!” said Nirmala grabbing Prabhat’s arm and dragging her towards the door.

“I will, Nirmala, I will,” laughed Prabhat, allowing herself to be pulled. “But what do I have to do?”

“Nothing much! Just ask Tatya what he and Sir Cripps talked about.”

“What!” Prabhat came to a screeching halt, and now the dragging started in the opposite direction. “Are you crazy? Never! I cannot do such a thing.”

“Yes, you can,” coaxed Nirmala. “Does he not love you a lot?”

“Ye-e-e-s, but . . . but . . .”

“Don’t you want to know what happened between them?”

“To tell the truth, Nirmala, I re-e-e-ally want to know. But it never occurred to me to ask!”

“Well, now it has. This is our opportunity. He is by himself right now. The coast is clear.”

“Well . . . maybe . . .” Prabhat allowed herself to be drawn towards Savarkar’s room. “He won’t be upset, I hope.”

“Well, if he is a bit, it’s okay. He won’t scold, I’m sure!”

“But his eyes, Nirmala! That look . . . ! I shall sink through the floor if he looks at me like that.”

“Be brave, Prabhat! You are Savarkar’s daughter.”

They had now arrived outside Savarkar’s door. Both girls stood close, clutching each other’s arms for courage. Prabhat knocked timidly and poked her head in. Nirmala peeked over her shoulder.

“Prabhe, Nirmala, what brings you here?” said Savarkar, surprised to see them.

Prabhat ventured into the room on reluctant feet. With Nirmala’s hand urging her forward from behind, there wasn’t much choice.

“Tatya . . . Tatya . . .”

“Yes, Prabhe? Anything wrong?”

“I . . . we . . .” Prabhat swallowed and then the words tumbled out. “What did you say to Sir Cripps, Tatya?”

Savarkar looked at them for a moment. “I told him, Prabhe, that I have two little girls here whom it is very necessary to consult before we make any decision about our Hindustan!” he said, quite gently.

These gentle words had an electrifying result. With one mind both girls turned about and fled out of the room.

This is one of Nirmalamaushi’s fond memories of Savarkar.

Anurupa

Oh Dear . . . !

Posted on by Anurupa

Hi, Everyone! Even as I was basking in this glory of my great-grandfather, my aunt added another titbit to my woefully small knowledge-pool of my family.

Ramchandra Sathe had received a gold watch from the British for his investigative efforts in the Nasik Trials.

For a minute I could not grasp all the implications:

· Nasik Trials were the trials in which Savarkar was put away for 50 years!!

· My great-grandfather was a Public Prosecutor in Nasik and had played a role in Savarkar’s fate.

· For which he had received a gold watch from the British. The gold watch is still in my family with my cousin.

I couldn’t think beyond “ulp!” and “oops . . . !” and “Oh dear . . . !” but what to do? It is what it is.

Here I am trying to bring justice to Savarkar, and there was my great-grandfather who was party to one of the injustices inflicted upon him.

C’est la vie!

Anurupa

My wonderful great-grandfather!

Posted on by Anurupa

Hi, Everyone! In the course of researching for my novel, I made some surprising discoveries about my own great-grandfather (my mother’s paternal grandfather), Ramchandra Sathe.

Right from the beginning I had decided I would highlight the plights of widows in India in those days. It has always bothered me that widows should receive such horrendous treatment. And perhaps, the fact that I am a widow myself and have experienced some social ostracization (and that in today’s world and in the U.S.!) probably influenced me. Which is why both Mohini and Lakshmi are widows (in the case of Mohini there were other reasons as well).

It was as I started discussing my novel plot with everyone that I discovered—much to my surprise—from my aunt that my great-grandfather had married a widow the second time around. What makes it even more astounding is that he had not married a child-widow, but a widow who had lived with her husband for some years! And this in 1917. I was so, so proud. It shocked me that such an important fact had passed me by all these years.

In 1917, only child-widow remarriage was being advocated by social reformers. And even then, much trouble was given to the widow after her second marriage. Social acceptance was hard to come by. Even Maharshi Karve, who did so much for the emancipation for women, could not give social acceptance to his child-widow wife. She was not allowed in the kitchens, and had cow-dung thrown on her, too, I believe.

Under these circumstances, Ramchandra Sathe’s act seems incredible. Non-virgin widow remarriage was unheard of then. Nor did his wife, Venutai (Janaki, after remarriage,) rush into the marriage to escape widowhood. They corresponded with each other, got to know each other and then decided to marry. They also consulted my grandfather (then only a teenager) to make sure he was not against their marriage. My grandfather was just as great a reformer as his father! He welcomed the idea.

I am not one for walking down a path laid out by traditions. I guess it is in my blood!

But not too long after I discovered something quite, quite shocking (to me) re Ramchandra Sathe. Life is not all sweetness and light.