Courage in the face of communal mayhem
AUGUST 16, 1946, will remain etched in my memory forever. I was then in school. World War II had ended. Great Britain, though a victor, was badly bruised. Talk of Independence was in the air. Meetings were held and processions taken out by political parties in Calcutta, demanding the lowering of the Union Jack to proclaim the end of colonial rule.
There were dark clouds on the horizon. Hindu-Muslim riots were erupting across the country. There was a strident demand for the creation of Pakistan by a large section of the Muslims. Mahatma Gandhi’s fervent call for Hindu-Muslim unity fell on deaf ears. In undivided Bengal, the Muslim League was headed by HS Suhrawardy, who was charismatic but wily and unscrupulous. The League declared August 16 as Direct Action Day for achieving the goal of establishing Pakistan.
We never thought that Direct Action Day would witness a bloodbath. The League had declared the day as a public holiday so that people could take part in protest meetings and processions. Premier Suhrawardy saw to it that the police did not intervene to stop loot and arson. The British Brigadier in charge of law and order in Calcutta ordered his troops to remain confined to the barracks for the day.
On the morning of August 16, reports of attacks on Hindus in Muslim localities and Hindu students staying in the Science College hostel started pouring in. There was outrage and anger in our locality and cries for retaliatory attacks on Muslims.
Right in front of our house, there were bastis inhabited by Muslim rickshaw-pullers and coachmen. My father, a solicitor, feared that communal fire would soon spread to our predominantly Hindu locality, and the Muslims would become victims of mob fury. He summoned some of the local boys, who formed a cordon through which Muslim residents were spirited away to a secure place. Subsequent events proved him right. By the evening, the whole of Calcutta was in flames. Hindus had started to retaliate. Howling mobs gathered before the bastis in front of our house, intending to butcher innocent Muslims, but they could find none. However, there were apprehensions that at night, Muslim ruffians may attack Hindu localities. So, my father asked young men of the area to remain alert.
On August 17, the Army was called in, and the city limped back to normalcy after a couple of days. The Statesman, in a powerful editorial, called it the ‘Great killing day’ and compared it to medieval mayhem. It lambasted the League administration and British Governor, Sir Frederick Burrows, for abdicating their responsibilities and allowing monstrous communal violence.
Even now, after seven decades, when I recollect that blood-soaked day, I visualise my father standing tall and upright, representing the voice of sanity and courage in the midst of chaos and darkness.
