Indian History and Culture
//www.rssing.com/favicon.ico
What is love without freedom? Does politics define the contours of a personal relationship? These are some of the questions that arise upon reading the 18-month correspondence between Madhu Dandavate, a five-time Member of Parliament from the Rajapur constituency of Maharashtra, and his wife Pramila, a fiery political activist, during their days in the Bangalore Central Jail and Yeravada Central Jail respectively following the imposition of Emergency by the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in June 1975.

After nearly 23 years of marriage, the couple were suddenly split apart by a distance of over 800 km. As products of the freedom struggle, avowed socialists, and seasoned activists in their own right, the government first arrested Madhu on 26 June1975, and subsequently picked up Pramila the following month on 17 July.

During their time in prison, the only way they could correspond was through letters. The couple exchanged nearly 200 letters, where they discuss among other things music, poetry, books, philosophy and of course politics.

More importantly, however, their letters were a testament of how the love they shared for each other translated into resistance against an authoritarian regime.

“The letters register the pain of separation as well as how they worked through it to reaffirm their emotional bond by restating their commitment to freedom… They loved each other because they loved freedom. Their love also enriched and extended the meaning of freedom,” writes Gyan Prakash in his seminal work, Emergency Chronicles: Indira Gandhi and Democracy’s Turning Point.

In a vivid recollection of the letters they share, Prakash sheds light on the hope, despair and defiance they shared since in the words of Madhu “these letters….are also a great way to hear oneself think, to hear oneself sort out one’s own feelings and thoughts.”

Prior to their months in captivity, the couple had spent their lives on tours, public meetings and activism that pulled them in million different directions in their cause for building a vibrant society set upon the foundation of equality.

Their time in prison was a moment to reflect as Madhu wrote in one letter, “As though in revenge for that, we have been forced into this solitude at the prison. The tranquillity has made it possible to immerse oneself in the memories of the last twenty-three years.”

Of course, Pramila couldn’t resist teasing her husband by writing, “Have you ever written letters to me so regularly in life before? I remember you would go away on long tours and wouldn’t write for months… I would feel so embarrassed when someone asked about you. I would have nothing to tell them. But now look at us! You write to me every Monday without fail. Thanks to the Emergency!”

Reflecting on the bond they shared, Pramila particularly emphasised on concerns of romance, sacrifice and togetherness that the confines of their respective jail cells couldn’t crush. There is one particularly peculiar anecdote that Pramila shares of sparrows in their prison quarters.

She describes seeing a flutter of sparrows “getting ready to welcome their young ones into this world”, while seeing another one who was busy engaged in enticing a romantic partner, but forever pecking away at her reflection displayed on the mirror hanging in the jail complex.

“We felt a little bad for her but also couldn’t help laughing at her. I told her, ‘If you spend so much of your time worrying over the ‘other woman’ in the mirror, your man will get tired and actually go get himself another wife,” she wrote. Fortunately, the female sparrow got over the mirror and Pramila saw them “sitting close together cozily” and building a nest together.

As Prakash writes, “In spinning a story out of a female sparrow pecking at her image in the mirror, she brings into view her preoccupation with romantic relationships. Being placed behind bars did not crush this interest.” In other words, the mirror in the story is the instrument of Emergency hell bent on taking the focus of her love away from Madhu.

“No doubt, the reality of the Emergency is undeniable, but not the emotions it has generated in her. Pramila could vanquish the villain – the Emergency – only by overcoming her obsession, in much the way the she-sparrow swept aside her preoccupation with the imagined rival to her partner’s affection,” writes Ajaz Ashraf for FirstPost.

But there was lament as well, particularly with regards to their son Uday, who had joined the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, just before they were sent to prison.

As Pramila writes, “Our only son and there is nothing we can do for him. We tried to inculcate our values in him. But before he was fully ready, before there was strength in his wings we abandoned him, left to fend for himself, to build his own life.”

Madhu also laments the cost their son had to bear while they fought their daily battles. Apparently, according to him, one day Uday had asked him, “Why do people who want to dedicate their entire lives to a cause get themselves tangled up in marital attachments? Don’t their wives or children become obstacles in the path of their work? What right do they have to get married and to produce children?”

These are undoubtedly difficult questions that can drive any parent in the public eye to deeper regret. However, even in times of such sorrow, the couple always found a way to rise above it. In lifting Pramila’s spirit, Madhu once wrote, “Your last letter had a shadow of sadness over it. You said that our home and life together would be completely destroyed by the time we get out of here. And you don’t know if you have the strength and persistence to do it all, all over again. Your comment felt exceedingly hopeless to me. We have always carried our life together on our backs. As long as our spine is in place, who can possibly touch our life together?”

On the serious questions by their son on the subject of family and politics, Gyan Prakash writes, “Captivity asked them to weigh the value of freedom against their love and duty to the family. To their credit, they met the test with their heads held high. They were anguished but unbent.”

Having said that, the standout feature of their letters is the expression of freedom and defiance through their love for each other. What these letters express is that it wasn’t a selfish kind of love. It was a love set to a higher standard of freedom and dignity.

Throughout their incarceration, Pramily wanted Madhu to visit her in prison. That meant writing an application to the court and government authorities. Although Madhu’s application came through, the court set some rather humiliating conditions like paying for the cost of a security escort during his visit.

Also Read: Fearless, Compassionate And Martyr: The Story of an Actress Who Took on The Emergency

“No matter how eager I might be to meet you, you know I cannot compromise my principles for any kind of personal gain. And if you were to think otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to bear it,” wrote Pramila. Meanwhile in another letter, Madhu quotes a Marathi poet writing, “I don’t want the pathetic intimacy of cowards/I would rather endure being apart from you.”

Unyielding in their love, the shackles of prison were finally lifted with the end of Emergency. Madhu went onto serve as one of Independent India’s standout Railway Minister following the Emergency, and subsequently as Finance Minister in 1989-1990, while Pramila was elected to the Lok Sabha in 1980. Following his death on 12 November 2005, Madhu donated his body for medical research.

A life dedicated to the pursuit of equality, progress and social progress, the couple leave behind a legacy through their letters that evocatively capture the values of love and freedom.

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

Although it was an episode that actually lasted less than a week and remains largely forgotten in public memory today, the Royal Indian Navy (RIN) Mutiny of February 1946 was arguably the single most critical event in convincing the British to hasten their exit from India.

Triggered by a group of 20 young Indian ratings (low ranking sailors) of the RIN between the ages of 17 and 24 stationed on the His Majesty’s Indian Ship (HMIS) Talwar, the mutiny spread to 74 ships of the British Royal Navy—from Indonesia to Aden, 20 shore establishments, and brought together nearly 20,000 of their fellow Indian sailors across mother tongues, class, caste and creed.

These young men, who called themselves ‘Azad Hindi’ (Free Indians), had one cause binding them together—the rapid exit of the British from India. But what caused 20 young Indian ratings to perform such an act of daring on the morning of 18 February?

The answers are manifold. With the end of World War II, the British coffers were nearly empty. They could not afford to maintain a large Navy in India and began letting go of many Indian personnel, particularly ratings, despite their heroics in the War.

Those ratings who continued working were paid poorly, given shoddy accommodation, made to do demeaning tasks like cleaning toilets, sweeping floors and carrying tea for the British officers, and then suffer the indignity of suffering racist insults from them. Add an insensitive and cruel disciplinarian like Commander Arthur Frederick King commanding the HMIS Talwar, and rebellion wasn’t far away.

“Torture and injustice often work as a powerful adhesive even when inflicted upon disparate groups with a common cause. The young ratings—Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Dalits, Brahmins, with different mother tongues, of all class and caste, were made to sit around a large wooden vessel full of indigestible daal, given half-cooked rotis, which they would dip into the common vessel and eat as a community meal. Irrespective of their religious and class differences, the act of breaking bread together made them brothers in arms. Inadvertently, the British naval officers had united them to turn rebels,” writes Pramod Kapoor, the author of ‘1946: The Unknown Mutiny’.

However, their experiences in the War also triggered a growing discontent with the institution, which was further charged with an ever-increasing spirit of anti-colonialism and anti-imperialism.

While liberating different countries from the throes of fascism, serving Indian personnel also witnessed many countries fight for their Independence from their colonial rulers. The likes of BC Dutt, one of the main protagonists of the mutiny, asked themselves questions like ‘What did I fight for’ and ‘Whose war did I fight.’

A key demand of the mutineers was the withdrawal of Indian soldiers from Indonesia, which was fighting its own War of Independence. Another significant demand was the release of Indian National Army soldiers, who had served under Subhash Chandra Bose. Their objective was ‘revolutionary action’ against the British because they were “as much sons of the soil as the nationalist Indians fighting for Independence,” argued BC Dutt.

Laying the ground for revolt in the wee hours 2 February 1946, Dutt painted slogans like ‘Quit India’ and ‘Jai Hind’ on the wooden platform leading upto the HMIS Talwar, where the commander-in-chief of the RIN was to address the officers and men. Dutt was arrested but kept in custody on board and tensions between the commanding officer and crew grew.

Meanwhile, Dutt and his fellow conspirators like MS Khan and Madan Singh began persuading their fellow ratings to join them in a hunger strike. Finally, on the morning of 18 February 1500 ratings went on strike shouting slogans like “No food! No work!” at the mess upon the HMIS Talwar.

In a conversation with The Tribune, Madan Singh describes how the rebel ratings spread their message of rebellion to colleagues boarded in different ships.

“We did this with the help of the wireless system under our control. We were able to win over almost all the 70 ships and all the 20 seashore establishments. We had secured control over the civilian telephone exchange, the cable network and, above all, over the transmission centre at Kirkee manned by the Navy, which was the channel of communication between the Indian Government and the British,” says Singh.

Within a few days, the rebels had managed to take control of 74 other RIN ships stationed in Bombay, Karachi and other parts of the world. All these ‘liberated ships’ had replaced the British ensign with the three flags of the Congress, Muslim League and Communist Party.

“The most significant feature of this short uprising was the massive outpouring of public support for the mutineers. The city of Bombay, especially the labouring classes, went on strike on 22 February in solidarity. The public transport network was brought to a halt, trains were burnt, roadblocks were erected, and commercial establishments were shut down,” writes military historian Srinath Raghavan for Mint.

And the British response was swift and brutal. As Pramod Kapoor goes on to write,

“Not just naval ratings, students’ unions and mill workers galvanised by the Communists, too joined in the mutiny and hit the streets of Bombay, leading to widespread arson, looting and vandalising of anything British. The retaliation was inevitable, and nearly 300 civilians lost their lives, and over 1,500 were injured when police opened fire. So intense was the anger against the British, and so rapid and widespread was the rebellion, that it took months before peace and sanity could return…Officially, HMIS Talwar and nearby ships surrendered on 23 February, but in Karachi, the mutiny lasted till 25 February.”

The decision to surrender on 23 February came from the Naval Central Strike Committee established on 19 February, which elected Leading Signalman Lieutenant MS Khan and Petty Officer Telegraphist Madan Singh as President and Vice-President respectively.

They expected the national leadership to join them in their struggle but received an inadequate response. Abandoned and left for dead, the committee feared that more would die mercilessly and thus decided to surrender.

“We decided to surrender after being called upon to do so by the Congress leaders, particularly by Sardar Patel. We were assured that there would be no victimisation…we made it clear that we shall surrender only to our national leaders and not to the British authorities. However, the promise made to us about ‘no punishments’ was honoured more in the breach,” says Madan Singh, speaking to The Tribune.

Many were sent to detention camps, dismissed from service, sent home without a trace and court-martialed.

But the reason why they were left at the altar by the leaders of the freedom struggle (with the possible exception of Aruna Asaf Ali) is open to interpretation.

Some argue that the Congress leadership wasn’t keen on disturbing the intense negotiation for Independence with the British by a strike that had devolved into violence. “The leaders [also] realised that any mass uprising would inevitably carry the risk of not being amenable to centralised direction and control. Besides, now that Independence and power were in sight, they were eager not to encourage indiscipline in the armed forces,” writes Srinath Raghavan.

Whatever be their reasons, it’s time we remembered the brave young men who dared to defy an Empire and “energised the hearts and minds of our sailors, infantry soldiers, airmen and RIAF [Royal Indian Air Force] pilots, ordinary mill hands, students, workers, citizens,” writes Admiral Vishnu Bhagwat, the former Chief of Naval Staff.

Also Read: ‘Greatest Legal Argument Delivered in India’: How a Gujarat Lawyer Defended INA

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

Thirty-odd years ago, an English film on the staid old Doordarshan channel (remember, it was the only one), was an event.

When the papers announced that the offering on a certain Friday evening was that classic Disney cartoon film, Jungle Book, my sister and I scarcely believed our luck. It was a late-night screening, and so permissions had to be sought in exchange for promises made (‘Yes, we will finish our homework on Saturday morning and hit the books on Sunday too!’)

And so, the three of us–my sister, an old uncle who happened to be visiting, and I–waited with bated breath for the spectacle to unfold.

When it did, it was a crushing disappointment. It wasn’t the animated feature.

This Jungle Book had real people, and a strange name rolled off the credits–Sabu! His name in capital letters appeared in a bigger font than the others that were listed below him. Clearly, he was the lead actor, something of a star even.

My sister and I were crushed. Our old uncle wasn’t. He slapped his thighs in glee and exclaimed, “Oh my god! It’s Mysore Sabu!”

My sister slunk off to catch up on her sleep. She didn’t deem Sabu worthy of keeping her up. My uncle and I watched on. I remember not being disappointed at all.

In retrospect, Sabu’s Jungle Book, a celebration of empire and colonialism, appears dated. The ‘exotic’ Indian sets and the European actors who had been ‘blackfaced’ to resemble the Indians they were portraying, belonged to a time long gone. Yet, in that overly white, racist, and condescending cinematic world of the English films of the 1930s and 40s, Sabu, the Indian boy, made his mark.

Sabu was the first Indian to ‘make it’ in Hollywood, long before Priyanka Chopra, Om Puri and Irffan Khan became noted actors in the west. Even inducted into the Hollywood Walk of Fame in 1960. Now forgotten, in his time, Sabu was the go-to actor for exotic Indian and Asian roles.

His beginnings were innocuous. He was born in 1924 in Karapur near then Mysore. Many sources cite his full name as Sabu Dastagir. But that appears to be erroneous. Selar Sabu or Selar Sheikh Sabu was his actual name. His brother, Sheikh Dastagir, went to Hollywood with him and somehow, owing to a mix-up of immigration forms, their last names got interchanged. And so, for Hollywood, he was just Sabu, his full name was never mentioned.

Sabu’s mother, it appears, died when he was young, and in 1931, his father too passed away. The six-year-old boy went on to serve in the elephant stables of the Maharaja of Mysore, and later as a mahout.

In 1934 or 1935, Robert Flaherty was in Mysore filming for Elephant Boy and spotted ten-year-old Sabu, in all likelihood, sitting on an elephant. And that’s how he was drafted into the film.

Flaherty was something of a cinematic pioneer. Among other things, he was the maker of Moana (1926), often described as the ‘first documentary’. It is likely that Elephant Boy too was intended to be a documentary, but the film’s producer, Alexander Korda, had a costume drama in mind and handed over the production to Zoltan Korda, his brother.

Elephant Boy proved a big hit, with much of the praise reserved for Sabu, described by critics as a “complete natural”.

Zoltan brought Sabu to London, filmed him with elephants borrowed from circuses and zoos, and in 1937, a very different Elephant Boy, based on a Rudyard Kipling story, hit the screens. O’Flaherty and Korda went on to share the Best Director award at the Venice Film Festival that year, and the film, while garnering mixed reviews, was a box-office success.

Sabu was on his way.

The Kordas were quick to recognise Sabu as someone who could draw crowds and signed him up for more films. The Drum, the Kordas’ first colour film, followed in 1938. In keeping with Sabu’s persona, it was again an exotic Indian offering, featuring him as Prince Azim who befriended a British lower-class drummer boy. The film sparked controversy in India as many were upset about the depiction of Indians.

In 1940, Sabu starred in The Thief of Baghdad, a lavish production. Shot in both England and the US, the movie was the Kordas’ biggest US hit and even won the Academy Awards for special effects, cinematography and art direction. Director Michael Powell said that Sabu had a “wonderful grace” about him.

Next up was The Jungle Book in 1942, shot extensively in Hollywood, also a success.

His contract with the Kordas now completed, Sabu stayed on and signed up with Universal Pictures. He was now something of a star in the industry.

He appeared opposite Maria Montez in Arabian Nights (1942), White Savage (1943), Cobra Woman (1944) and Tangier (1946). In 1944, he also became an American citizen and enlisted in the US Air Force, even flying World War II missions as tail-gunner. It was a time when most Hollywood stars were aiding the war effort. Given that it was the war, Sabu probably felt the need to affirm his identity as an American citizen. For his services, he was awarded the distinguished flying cross.

Amidst all this, it was clear that his acting career was stalling. In Tangier, he was reduced to playing a supporting role. Presumably, his typecast image of an exotic Asian man began to work against him after a while. Given his looks, he could not hope to be cast as a mainstream American character.

In 1946, Sabu went back to England and starred in Black Narcissus (1947), based on a Rumer Godden novel, in which he played a young prince. His co-star was Jean Simmons.

Another film soon followed–The End of the River (1947)–in which he was the lead star. This story was set in Brazil and Sabu played an Amazonian native, Manoel. But it performed poorly, and Sabu went back to Hollywood.

His next film, The Man-eater of Kumaon (no resemblance to the Jim Corbett book beyond the title), was released in 1948. That year, Sabu began filming The Song of India. On the sets, he met Marilyn Cooper, who played a small role in the film. Sabu and Cooper married the same year.

Given the heights that Sabu had reached in the early 1940s, the ‘50s weren’t very kind to him cinematically. By all accounts, he appears to have built a successful career in real estate in LA with his brother even as his film career waned. He continued to play the same exotic Indian/Asian roles with turban and faux jewellery in film after film, many of them low-budget European productions. There were films like Hello Elephant (1952), The Black Panther (1956) and a 1957 production entitled Sabu and the Magic Ring, all attempts to milk his typecast exotic Asian persona. He also did a brief stint with the Harringay Circus.

In the mid-50s, he came to India and was considered by Mehboob Khan to play the role of Birju in Mother India (1957), a role that ultimately went to Sunil Dutt. Some reports mention that given the fact that Sabu was a US citizen, he could not obtain a work permit in India. He was never to act in an Indian film.

In a comeback of sorts, he played Dr Lin Chor in Mistress of the World (1960) and also starred in Rampage (1963).

While there are clear issues with imperialism, orientalism and sexism in watching many of these films today, they can be viewed as products of their time and one can marvel at the Indian mahout who became the first international Indian star.

On December 2 1963, Sabu died of a heart attack in Los Angeles, California. According to his widow Marilyn Cooper, Sabu had a complete physical exam just a few days before his death, at which time his doctor told him, “If all my patients were as healthy as you, I’d be out of business.” Thus, his sudden death of a heart attack at the age of 39 came as even more of a shock than it would have been otherwise.

His daughter, Jasmine (born 1957), went on to have a successful cinematic career as an animal trainer, dying young in 2001. His son, Paul (born 1960), embarked on a successful music career, working with David Bowie and Madonna, among others.

Also Read: When Mogambo Said No to Steven Spielberg: An Epic Story From Amrish Puri’s Life

Sabu’s last film, released after his death, was A Tiger Walks (1964), where he played an Indian animal trainer who helped pacify a Bengal tiger.

The Elephant Boy had come full circle.

(Edited by Shruti Singhal)

Featured image sources: Ermitage/Facebook; FliXposed – Classic Film Community/Facebook; Citizen Screen/Facebook

Like this story? Or have something to share?

Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com

Connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

In the past, The Better India has extensively covered the life and times of the 19th Kushok Bakula Rinpoche, a high ranking Buddhist monk, statesman, Member of Parliament and diplomat considered by many as the ‘Architect of Modern Ladakh’.

While one can find ample material on this remarkable personality online, there is a remarkable story that often escapes the attention of many. It’s a story about his elder brother Tashi Phunstog Namgyal, who was once the king of a small fiefdom called Matho about 20 km away from Leh. One day, Namgyal left home without a trace only to be reunited with his brother 60 years later.

Here is their incredible story.

Tragedies & a Long Quest

Before delving into the story, a little context is required. Rinpoche was only six years old when he was recognised as the 19th incarnation of the Bakula Arhat, who, according to the Mahayana tradition of Buddhism, was one of the 16 chief disciples of the Buddha. Destined for a monastic life, he was sent to Tibet for higher studies at the age of 10 in 1926.

This was to be the last time he would see his father Raja Nagwa Thyas and elder brother Tashi Namgyal, who succeeded him. When Rinpoche returned to Ladakh 14 years later following the death of his father in 1940, he found that his brother had mysteriously disappeared.

The circumstances of his disappearance were tragic to say the least. Married twice, Tashi Namgyal lost his first wife during the birth of his first child. After losing his father and second wife under tragic circumstances, he became a total recluse and lost all interest in worldly affairs. Distraught and unable to fulfill his temporal duties, he left his home unannounced, leaving behind a son and daughter in the care of the extended family.

Nobody knew where he had gone, and it came as a deep shock to the family. Although divination indicated that he was alive and living as a Hindu ascetic, there was no concrete evidence. But based on these divinations, Rinpoche spent nearly five decades looking for him. In these decades, he visited many holy places and pilgrimage sites like the ghats on the banks of the Ganges at Varanasi and Haridwar, making multiple enquiries and hoping to get word of his brother living among the sadhus (ascetics) there.

There were multiple reports of different sightings, but none of them panned out. Although the family had more or less given up the search nearly two-three decades after he left, Rinpoche never gave up hope of finding his brother.

While searching for his brother, Rinpoche’s own life took a very different trajectory than what one would ordinarily see from a Buddhist monk. From helping organise the defence of Ladakh from Pakistani tribal raiders in 1948, defending its interests in the face of a hostile Jammu & Kashmir government to serving the region as its two-time Member of Parliament, he helped usher the people of Ladakh into the modern age.

A Break in the Case

In 1985, when Rinpoche was serving as a member of the National Minorities Commission, he received news of a person who matched his elder brother’s physical description. The report was about an elderly hermit living in the mountain hut near Manali, Himachal Pradesh, who could speak Ladakhi. Eager to find out more, Rinpoche sent his manager, Thupstan Targyes to ascertain the actual location of where this old sadhu was living. Upon his return, Targyes told Rinpoche that this old sadhu was living at Nehru Kund near Manali.

“But it was hard to be conclusive since the old fellow would not disclose his identity to anyone…The Baba apparently maintained no relationships with anyone and never revealed his identity to visitors. Occasionally, it was reported, he would admit that he was from Ladakh, but that was as much information anyone could glean. But it was clear that Baba could understand Ladakhi and most interestingly, he also appeared to know about some people and specific incidents in Ladakh’s history that suggested he could be Rinpoche’s brother,” says Sonam Wangchuk, who was Rinpoche’s personal assistant at the time.

There were even occasions when the old sadhu would deliberately mislead people from Ladakh about his true identity. However, news of his sighting had reached other members of the family, particularly his son, daughter and sister. All of them visited the white-bearded chain-smoking sadhu, and came back convinced that the man was indeed Raja Tashi Namgyal. What strengthened their conviction was the sight of him walking with a limp, which exactly matched the way he walked. However, he never truly revealed himself to them.

Convinced, Rinpoche decided to visit him alongside Wangchuk. Arriving at Nehru Kund, 20 km away from Manali on the way to Rohtang Pass near the Beas River, during a cold autumn morning of 1986, both Rinpoche and Sonam Wangchuk found that there was no sign of a human settlement near the hut he supposedly lived in.

Also Read: The Extraordinary Ladakhi Monk Who Helped Bring Peaceful Democracy to Mongolia

The Reunion

At first, Rinpoche asked Wangchuk to visit the hut and inform the gentleman of his visit. When Wangchuk told the sadhu living inside that Rinpoche was waiting outside, he initially reacted with bewilderment that soon turned to joy. But before Wangchuk could invite Rinpoche into the hut, the sadhu asked him to help clean up the place a little and light some firewood to heat the place.

Once the dust settled, Rinpoche entered the hut.

“Having severed all worldly ties, Raja Tashi Phunstog Namgyal had never disclosed his family and personal relationships for over 60 years. But when he saw Rinpoche, his younger brother, entering the tiny room, he could not control his emotions. He stood up from his seat and tightly embraced Rinpoche…Tears rolled down my cheek as I watched these two royal princes, both of whom, in their different ways, had chosen to renounce the world and family to follow the path of spirituality, make such an emotional reunion,” recalls Wangchuk.

Rinpoche, meanwhile, also couldn’t hide his immense joy at seeing his brother after 60 years. In the ensuing conversation, Tashi Namgyal spoke of his life as an ascetic, impermanence, his journey through Burma and the neighbouring areas during World War II, how he eventually arrived at his current abode in the foothills of the Himalayas and shared his immense knowledge of both Hindu and Buddhist scriptures. In between their conversation, he would pick up the flute and play a few tunes as well. He even unwrapped his most prized possession, which was a photograph of a very young Rinpoche, and said “you see, you were always with me”.

Although the both of them hadn’t kept in touch for 60 years, Tashi Namgyal had heard of Rinpoche’s work for the people from the Ladakhis he met on his travels. At the end of the conversation, Rinpoche asked him if he would like to visit Ladakh.

“Like a true sadhu, Baba’s reply was that he would go if his Laxman (from the Ramayana epic) would go with him. To this Rinpoche nodded in agreement and promised to make the necessary arrangements,” says Wangchuk. Once Tashi Namgyal came back home, his son Rizong Sras Rinpoche, who remains till this day one of Mahayana Buddhism’s leading scholars and spiritual masters, took care of his needs. Although he spent a few months at the palace in Matho, he could never acclimatize and went back to his hut in the mountains.

It was in the autumn of 2003, when he finally passed at the ripe old age of 100. Only a few months later, Rinpoche passed away as well. He was 86 years old at the time.

Despite being born into royalty, both brothers gave up the comfortable life it entailed. While one left to serve the people, the other went on his own spiritual quest looking for answers to difficult existential questions. When they reunited 60 years later as brothers, they also found in themselves fellow ascetics eschewing the material world.

But the one thing they couldn’t give up was their love for each other.

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

In the early 1920s, when women were actively subjugated by men and speaking out of turn was considered blasphemy, Dr Irawati Karve was riding her two-wheeler on the streets of Pune.

This was not the first time when India’s first female anthropologist had challenged the deep-rooted social constructs of the society with a touch of feminism.

In fact, the men weren’t as agitated to see a woman ride her vehicle then welcome her commendable expertise in male bastion fields of sociology and anthropology.

Her belief system when it came to the rights of women were a little different. “Ladies, while fighting with men for rights, why fight for only equal rights? Always fight for more rights,” she would often say in her lectures and community gatherings.

Through her research and writings, Dr Karve extensively questioned caste systems, family relationships, religion, mythology, kinship and even wrote multiple books on such subjects in English and Marathi like Kinship Organization in India (1953), The Bhils of West Khandesh (1958), Maharashtra: Land and People (1968) and Yuganta: The End of an Epoch (1968)

“One of the pioneers in Anthropological research, Dr Karve, commanded a wide circle of readership. She researched and wrote on an all-encompassing range of topics including the culture of people, townships and villages in India, religion, family, folklore and myth, and so on. Through all her dedicated work she has shown herself to be a true daughter of India,” Dr Amrita Nadkarni, a Sociologist and former Professor at St Xavier’s College, tells The Better India.

A Global Influencer In The True Sense

Dr Karve was born on 15 December 1905 in Myingyan, Burma (now Myanmar). Her father, an engineer, named her after the sacred river, Irrawaddy.

She, however, grew up in Pune, Maharashtra and finished her schooling from Huzurpaga in 1922. Contrary to other middle-class families of Pune, her family gave utmost importance to education for a prosperous life.

1926 was an important year for her. She graduated from Fergusson College with a BA degree in Philosophy and later, married Dr Dinkar Dhondo Karve, the son Maharshi Karve, the great scholar and social reformer.

Being a part of such a progressive family gave her enough room and freedom to study further. She worked hard and secured Dakshina Fellowship from the government of Maharashtra that gave her a chance to work under her mentor and guru GS Ghurye in 1928 at the University of Bombay.

Under his guidance, she researched and published two essays. In the first one, she decoded the lives of Chitpavan Brahmins and another one was about the Folklore of Parshuram.

At such an early age, Dr Karve managed to make inroads in societal subjects. Scholars from across India and even abroad referred to her work. From the School of Oriental and African Studies of the University of London in England to the Humanities Division of the Rockefeller Foundation, United States, Dr Karve would often be invited by global educational institutions to present her anthropology thesis.

Alongside the fellowship and other assorted work, she completed her Masters in Sociology from Mumbai University in 1928. Unwilling to stop at that, she successfully completed an MPhil in anthropology from the University of Berlin in 1930.

One of her most significant contributions to her academic field was starting the Anthropology Department at Poona (now Pune) University.

From heading the Departments of Sociology and Anthropology at Deccan College, Pune for forty years, presiding over the Anthropology Division of the National Science Congress held in New Delhi in 1947 to being appointed as the Vice-Chancellor of SNDT College, Dr Karve donned multiple academic hats in her lifetime.

Everlasting Impactful Works

One of the significant works of Dr Karve was in the area of Indology, a non-anglicised perspective or study of India’s culture and heritage.

She emphasised on shedding the lens of colonisers and promoted the idea of unity in diversity with her subtle works at a time when colonisers were desperate to divide the country on religious lines.

Dr Karve even touched the Indian Mythology and labelled it as a ‘historical event’ in her book ‘Yuganta’ for which received the Sahitya Academy Award in 1968.

She attempts to analyse the protagonists of Mahabharata from the socio-political context and draws parallels with India’s history.

Her study on Kinship Organization in India is also a delightful read where she uses dialects and geography of different regions to understand the kinship structures across India.

“Dr Karve’s work on The Pandharpur Yatra, The Indian Village, Bhils of West Khandesh and Yuganta make for classical studies. It is still advantageous to the social sciences like anthropology and sociology because from here, we derive a whole world of ideas to work with and take research forward. She has been a great inspiration for me,” adds Dr Nadkarni.

Amidst the country’s divisive political scenario, exploitation of the weaker sections, including women and a problematic social system heavily dependent on religion, Dr Karve dared to challenge the norms and explored new territories.

A commentary by her that personally left an everlasting mark on me was the comparison between the society and the quilt.

The quilt is made by gathering multiple pieces of colourful threads just like the society which is formed by people belonging to different communities. Though there are differences and conflicts, it is the thread that binds society together.

This makes for a valuable lesson that is desperately needed in the times we live in.

Featured Image Source: JSTOR and Wikimedia

Also Read: Binodini Dasi, the Trailblazing ‘Fallen Woman’, Who Inspired a Bollywood Biopic

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share?

Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com

Connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

From the martyrdom of Haipou Jadonang, the Rongmei Naga leader who built an army of 500 to take on the British in the early 20th century to Rani Gaidinliu, who called upon ethnic Naga tribes to challenge the colonial administration at the age of 13, the contributions of the Northeastern states in the popular discourse surrounding India’s freedom struggle, has been largely forgotten.

While these were rebellions centred around influential personalities, the Nupi Lan (Women’s War) movements of the early 20th century were movements led by masses of women without a discernible central personality.

The first Nupi Lan movement broke out in 1904 in response to the reintroduction of the Lallup System, wherein local men were obligated to offer free labour for 10 days after every 30 days.

The second one began in 1939 against the indiscriminate export of rice from the state resulting in a famine-like situation.

Historians argue that these movements not only sowed the seeds of economic and political reform but also inspired generations of women to assert their rights as equal citizens from the Meria Paibi movement in the 1970s against alcoholism and drug abuse to the anti-AFSPA movement in 2004.

In many ways, these movements shaped Manipur’s future.

What’s particularly unique about these movements was where these agitations took place—the Ima Keithal or ‘Mother’s Market’—established in the late 16th century, which is today believed to be the largest all-women market in Asia, and possibly the world.

The First Nupi Lan

As stated earlier, the catalyst behind the first Nupi Lan movement was the reintroduction of the Lallup System by Colonel John Maxwell, the first British political agent appointed after the Anglo-Manipuri War of 1891.

Following the war, the British took direct control of Manipur till 1907 when they handed it to Raja Churachand Singh, whose administration was overseen by a political agent appointed by the British.

Colonel Maxwell had temporarily reintroduced the Lallup System following the burning down of two bungalows owned by British officials in 1904, and he wanted the local men to rebuild these bungalows for free.

But the women of Manipur had other ideas as they rose in unison to protest against this system of forced labour.

In September 1904, thousands of them came together and marched towards the Colonel’s official residence, and seeing them; the administration promised to reconsider their decision, which they did not. Unhappy with their inaction, nearly 5,000 women gathered at Ima Keithel in protest and refused to move out of there till the order was retracted.

“The violent agitations and demonstrations led by the market women had to be dispersed by the use of force, but ultimately the British had to build the houses at their own expense,” wrote Sanamani Yambem in the Economic and Political Weekly.

In other words, the women could accomplish what their men couldn’t, but this was not going to be the last time they raised their voice. Once again in 1925, when the administration raised the tax on water supply, it was the tradeswoman of Ima Keithel who stood up and demonstrated against this order. They never took things lying down.

The Second Nupi Lan

The Manipur valley has long witnessed the cultivation and export of rice even before the war in 1891. Following the war, however, the volume of rice exported from the valley increased exponentially irrespective of how much was produced and what the residents needed to survive.

This sudden spurt in exports was driven by the transport of rice on motorised vehicles instead of bullock carts. This unfair system of trade suffocated the valley’s residents.

Moreover, like what they did in the rest of India, the British practised their time tested economic method of swamping the local economy with cheaper imported goods which eventually destroyed the local cottage industry.

Meanwhile, Marwari traders brought in by the British had settled down in the region, taking over large segments of the rice trade by buying out a lot of land for paddy cultivation and setting up massive rice mills.

“[The] Second Nupi Lan of 1939 was a movement against the export of rice amidst acute scarcity in Manipur. Analysing the antecedents and the activities of Nupi Lan one may conclude that it was more of expression of economic grievances. Technology also served as [a] hindrance towards livelihood. The mills used to thrash the paddy deprived the women of Manipur of their earnings from husking paddy. The movement was not viewed as a class conflict between the Marwari rice traders and the people of Manipur who were poor and dependent on lands. It is interpreted as a freedom movement,” says this academic document on the history of social movements in Manipur.

Combine all these factors, and it only needed one season of either excessive rain or drought to push the residents to the wall.

And that’s exactly what happened in 1939 when excessive rains from July-August and November wreaked havoc on local paddy production.

In desperation, the farmers reached out to Raja Churachand’s durbar seeking a ban on export so that residents could at least survive on the rice they produced. Although the king’s durbar had initially agreed, the decision was soon overturned with pressure from the British and local exporters. This shortage of rice devastated the poorer Manipuris very hard and resulted in a near famine-like situation.

Angry at the status quo, on December 12 hundreds of women took to the streets of Imphal demanding a ban on rice exports and sealing of rice mills. They marched to the durbar office, but the Maharaja wasn’t present since he was out of station.

Desperate to enforce a ban on exports, the women physically dragged the president of the Manipur state durbar, TA Sharpe, took him to the local telegraph office and made him send an urgent telegram to the travelling Maharaja. Till a response came, Sharpe and other durbar officials were held captive at the telegraph office by the women whose numbers had swelled to nearly 4,000.

Eventually, a team of Assam Rifles soldiers came and brutally dispersed the women. In response to the beat down suffered by these women, the Ima Keithel was shut down for nearly a year. Upon hearing the news of this episode, the Maharaja too sought the stoppage of rice exports on the very next day. Meanwhile, traders who attempted to export again or engage in milling were met with protesting women.

“The Nupi Lan, which started as an agitation by Manipuri women against the economic policies of the Maharaja and the Marwari monopolists, later on, changed its character to become a movement for constitutional and administrative reform in Manipur,” adds Yamben.

Besides ignoring the contributions of the Northeast in our freedom struggle, the popular discourse surrounding it also ignores many of its women. In telling the brief story of movements like the Nupi Lan, one hopes that this changes.

Also Read: Manipur Girl Quits Singapore Job, Brews Up Herb Tea to Empower Local Ladies!

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

I was in school when I came across an immortal line of poetry which read, “Khoob Ladi Mardani, Woh toh Jhansi wali Rani Thi’‘ penned by legendary Hindi poet and freedom fighter Subhadra Kumari Chauhan.

While many column inches have been dedicated to the life of Lakshmibai, the Rani (Queen) of Jhansi, a leading figure in the First War of Independence in 1857, little is known about the poet who probably did more to keep her memory alive.

A glance at the life of Subhadra Kumari Chauhan will give many the impression that she lived her own life in the mould of the very woman she wrote about. In her own way, she dedicated herself to the freedom struggle and paid a very dear price for it.

Rebel With a Cause

Subhadra was born on August 16, 1904, into a zamindar family in Nihalpur village, Allahabad district, and eschewed tradition and convention right from the start.

Even though her family practised untouchability at home, she made it a point to actively engage with the domestic helpers in completing their chores.

In school, Subhadra was a prodigy of sorts penning her first poem when she was just nine years old. She was a few classes senior to Mahadevi Verma, who would also go on to become a famous Hindi poet. In between classes, the duo would write poems and thus began a friendship that would last till her premature death at the age of 44.

After passing secondary school exams at the age of 15, she married Lakshman Singh Chauhan, a member of various social reform movements from Jabalpur, Madhya Pradesh, who participated in campaigns against the dowry system and the wearing of the veil, i.e., ghoonghat or purdah.

In Subhadra’s parental home, women were forced to wear a ghoonghat. Following her wedding, Subhadra gave it up tuck to her guns even though this move caused an uproar in both extended families.

An Ardent Supporter of the Freedom Struggle

In 1921, the couple joined the Non-Cooperation Movement and led the Jhanda Satyagraha in Jabalpur two years later, when the Indian national flag was hoisted all over the city. Subhadra was pregnant with their first child when she was imprisoned for the first time in 1923 but was released a few months later because of her pregnancy.

Besides engaging in various activities supporting the freedom struggle, she also wrote nearly 100 poems and 50 short stories through these turbulent years that ran well into the 1930s. She would write on subjects like caste discrimination, dowry system, gender inequality and class.

Among her most famous works is a collection of poems titled Mukul, which was published in 1930. This collection contains the legendary Jhansi Ki Rani poem. Politically, she was actively managing the women’s section of the Madhya Pradesh Congress Committee. In 1936, she was even elected as a member of the Legislative Assembly of the erstwhile Central Provinces.

Her next significant involvement with the freedom struggle came in 1942 with the Quit India Movement. By that time, however, both Subhadra and her husband Lakshman had five children—and the youngest was a toddler who had a cleft palate that impaired her speech.

Lakshman was arrested by the colonial administration, while Subhadra took her children to Bombay (Mumbai), where she single handedly managed everything–from doctor visits to being an active part of the Quit India Movement while also battling for her husband’s release.

Eventually, the administration caught up to Subhadra and arrested her. By then, she had prepared her eldest daughter Sudha to look after her siblings, leaving behind enough rations for them.

Despite her struggles, Subhadra actively worked for the welfare of her fellow prisoners.

On occasions, she would give up her meals to other inmates suffering brutal punishment. Nonetheless, it was a life-threatening illness that eventually got her out of prison a few months later.

Failing health notwithstanding, she was once again elected to the legislative assembly of the Central Provinces and continued to break down social barriers in her own immediate life.

On one occasion, she attended the wedding of her domestic help’s daughter, which caused much consternation among the elders present there because of her decision to eat together with other workers present, notes this Live History India article. On another occasion, Subhadra supported her daughter Sudha’s decision to marry Amrit Rai, the son of legendary literary figure Premchand. Despite marrying out of their caste and the consternation it caused among certain relatives and the larger society, Subhadra backed her daughter all the way.

Setbacks

Even though Subhadra and her husband witnessed the fulfillment of a long standing dream when India attained Independence, the communal disharmony and violence that ensued following Partition deeply saddened them.

Another setback was the cruel assassination of Mahatma Gandhi in January 1948. Despite these setbacks, they promised to continue working towards establishing communal harmony and nation-building.

Sadly, a month later, when Subhadra was returning to Jabalpur from Nagpur after attending an educational conference, she suffered a terrible accident and passed away at the age of 44.

Keeping her memory alive

Unfortunately, Subhadra isn’t as revered as she should be, but her daughter Sudha and grandson Prof Alok Rai are doing their best to maintain her legacy. Mila Tej Se Tej (As Effulgence Met Effulgence), a book written by Sudha, chronicles her mother’s life and times, while Prof Alok Rai is translating her memoirs into English.

There is no question a lesser person would have crumbled under the societal, familial and political pressure that she endured for most of her life. But she didn’t let any of that get in her way in the fight against colonial rule.

In her very own way, she was the Jhansi Ki Rani of the 20th century.

Also Read: When Their Men Demurred, Here’s How 1000’s of Manipuri Women Battled the British

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

With the World Health Organization recently declaring the deadly Coronavirus a global pandemic, many historians have harked back to the year 1918. It was a time when an influenza virus devastated vast swathes of the country resulting in the death of an estimated 10-20 million Indians and have spoken about the lessons we can learn from it.

But few have spoken about the Bombay Bubonic Plague in the late 19th century, which killed thousands in present-day Mumbai and resulted in a drastic drop of its population with many residents fleeing. Nonetheless, standing in the frontlines against these deadly diseases are doctors and health workers who risk their own lives to save others.

One such medical practitioner during the Bubonic Plague in Mumbai, who risked his life was Dr Acacio Gabriel Viegas, who is not only credited with the discovery of the outbreak in the city which helped save many lives, but also the inoculation of nearly 18,000 residents despite serious risks to his own health.

Born on 1 April 1856, in the village of Arpora, Goa, Dr Viegas left for Mumbai after completing his primary education. Following his matriculation, which he passed with distinction, he enrolled with the Grant Medical College.

“In the course of a few years after graduating as a medico, Dr Viegas developed a lucrative practice at Mandvi, Bombay, gaining considerable popularity with his large clientele, and in 1888 was elected to the Bombay Municipal Corporation for five consecutive years. He was the first Goan to be so elected,” writes J Clement Vaz in his book titled ‘Profiles of Eminent Goans, Past and Present’.

It was in September 1896, when Dr Viegas detected the first case of Bubonic Plague.

“Dr Viegas’s dispensary was located in Mandvi in the Port Trust Estate. It was a poor neighborhood of narrow and overcrowded streets, with buildings piled atop each other and filth accumulating in its sewers. The drains were silted and blocked up with buckets of night soil that were routinely emptied into the nearby gullies. The night soil found its way into the blocked drains, along with urine and sewage from the privies and sullage water. The worried doctor raised his concerns about these conditions at the Municipal Corporation meetings. Then, at noon on September 18, 1896, he was asked to see a patient, Lukmibai. He learned that she had not slept for three days. She was comatose and yet could be roused easily. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she had a glandular swelling the size of an orange in her femoral region. Her temperature was 104.2 with a pulse rate of 140. There was nothing to explain the femoral bubo. He prescribed diaphoretics, salicylate of soda, and quinine, but her condition worsened in the evening. When he went to see her the next day, she was dead. Surprised by the rapidity of her death, he suspected that this might be a case of Bubonic Plague,” writes noted historian Gyan Prakash.

After seeing another patient showing similar symptoms, and reports of 50-60 such deaths, he was convinced of his diagnosis. By the end of 1896, reports from the time estimate that at least 1,900 people died per week. Many naturally fled the city and the city’s population had dropped from 820,000 in the 1891 Census to 780,000 according to the 1901 Census.

“The administration was baffled by the swiftness with which the [highly contagious] disease spread could not cope. Dr Viegas researched and identified the disease as bubonic plague, and worked tirelessly to fight the epidemic. Identifying rats as carriers, [he] helped combat the spread as well,” says Dr Fleur D’souza, former head of department of history at St Xavier’s College, speaking to Mid-Day earlier this year.

To confirm Dr Viegas’ findings, the local administration enlisted four teams of independent experts. “Official investigations reported armies of rats infected with the disease moving from area to area, spreading the epidemic,” adds Prakash.

Once his diagnosis was proven correct, the Governor of Bombay invited WM Haffkine, the Jewish-Russian bacteriologist who had developed the anti-cholera vaccine, to develop a vaccine for the Bubonic Plague. The challenge before him was rather daunting.

Working three months non-stop at a makeshift laboratory, he soon developed a vaccine ready for human trials. In fact, he reportedly tested the vaccine on himself.

“On the 10 January 1897, Dr. Haffkine caused himself to be inoculated with 10 cc of a similar preparation, thus proving in his own person the harmlessness of the fluid. A form useful enough for human trials was ready by January 1897, and tested on volunteers at the Byculla jail the next month. Use of the vaccine in the field started immediately,” says this profile on the Haffkine Institute.

While 7 members of the control group in the Byculla Jail died, the vaccine reduced the risk of death by upto 50 per cent, although it had some nasty side effects. Armed with Haffkine’s vaccine, Viegas personally inoculated nearly 18,000 residents.

Besides discovering the plague and inoculating patients, he also launched an intense and widespread campaign to clean up the slums and exterminate the rats responsible for carrying the plague. However, the campaign to eradicate the plague also witnessed severe misery and deprivation of the poor. Hundreds of slum dwellings were destroyed by the municipal authorities, while other measures included strict segregation of suspected plague cases, large scale evacuation of people, ban on all mass gatherings like fairs and close examination of people entering the city through rail and ship.

Sadly, mistakes were also made in terms of letting some of the victims slip through the cracks and thus spread the disease to other parts of the country.

“Plague ravaged India seriously for two decades and sporadically thereafter from its outbreak in Bombay city in August 1896, took at least twelve million lives and probably many more, ran up terrible death rates of over 100 per thousands in a season in some towns, created panic and flight, and brought great cities like Bombay and whole provinces, like the hard-hit Punjab, within compass of social disorganization and collapse,” writes scholar Ira Kelin in a journal article titled ‘Plague, Policy and Popular Unrest in British India’.

Nonetheless, Dr Viegas continued to make efforts towards improving living conditions in the city, particularly for the poor. In 1906, he was elected President of the Bombay Municipal Corporation.

“During his long career as an elected city father, Dr Viegas served as a watchdog of the city’s interests in matters of sanitation and public health in particular, making untiring efforts to secure drainage for north Bombay,” writes Clement Vaz.

Meanwhile, he also advocated for the reduction in public transport fares, electricity costs, midwife services free of cost to the poor, and finally free and compulsory primary education.

After an incredible life of public service, he passed away on 21 February, 1933. Mumbai still remembers this remarkable public servant thanks to a life-size statue of him that was erected in the Cowasji Jehangir Hall opposite what is today Metro INOX Cinemas.

With his tremendous will power, courage and perseverance, Dr Viegas helped the city of Mumbai tide through one of its most difficult moments in history. For his invaluable service and thousands of other doctors, nurses and health workers who are currently risking their own lives to save others, it’s imperative we remember such stories.

Also Read: Refused a Nobel, This Unsung Indian Scientist’s Research Saved Millions of Lives

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

It was yet another day, overrun with darkness and gloom when a man in his late twenties emerged from the shadows, his head full of matted and greasy hair.

As he tugged on the tattered strap of an overused jhola (cotton bag) hanging from his shoulder, his restless eyes behind the thick foggy glasses searched for someone, something or some truth amid the confusion and chaos around him. After all, he was on an important exposé mission.

The man was Chittoprasad Bhattacharya, who exposed the colonial brutality of the British Raj, 77 years ago, with nothing but his raw and powerful sketches of the Bengal famine, scribbled in his tiny notebook.

From pot-bellied malnourished kids to sad faces of mothers hiding their babies in their skeletal embrace, his pen captured the true tragedy of hunger with a silent protest against the imperial Raj’s monstrosity.

Rise of the revolutionary

Born in Naihati, West Bengal in 1915, Chittoprasad’s political journey began in the mid-1930s when he was completing his studies at the Chittagong Government College, situated in East Bengal (present Bangladesh).

In April 1930, because of the Chittagong uprising, led by freedom fighter Surya Sen, the city was becoming the epicenter of the Bengal revolution. The crux of movement revolved around the fight against oppression from the colonial rulers and Indian land-owners or zamindars.

Like many young revolutionaries, Chittoprasad found his purpose in the larger fight for his motherland and chose the path of activism. It was the same year when he joined the Communist Party of India (CPI).

Later in the 1940s, inspired by a communist leader, writer and lawyer Purnendu Dastidar, Chittoprasad became an active member and stepped out of institutional confines to take the freedom struggle to the grassroots. He then took refuge at the office of the Student Federation of India in Kolabagan, from where many of his anti-Fascist woodcut prints, cartoons and sketches were published in CPI’s journal called Jana-Yuddha (meaning People’s war). This was a turning point in his life as he began to use art as a tool of political activism.

And then in 1943, Bengal was hit with one of the world’s worst man-made disasters—a famine that claimed the lives of more than three million people. This was the outcome of British World War II policies that robbed Bengal and its people of food grains, to feed the British military and citizens.

Despite the ‘mass-murders’ caused by starvation and sheer cruelty of the imperial forces, the western press ignored it and was obsessed with news about World War II.

Owing to this, the famine was largely unreported and undocumented. And so, CPI entrusted Chittoprasad and a photographer Sunil Janah with the sole mission of documenting and immortalising the truth.

Touring across famine-struck districts of Bikrampur and Midnapore, the duo documented grotesque images of human suffering.

Chittoprasad’s sketches captured horrific scenes of children starving away with an almost translucent layer of skin loosely covering their skeletal structure, communal killings, ravages of war and even the intricate details of lanky men and women with exposed rib-cages, eagerly awaiting the call of death.

These images were and still are poignant and provocative and had a strong impact on its viewers at the time. It was published in 1943 as an illustrated report of the famine in a pamphlet called Hungry Bengal, in an effort to rouse nationalist sentiments. Owing to this, the British wanted to stifle this uprising, and they seized and burnt its copies. All but one survived, and it is now preserved in a bank vault in Kolkata.

An artist who became the voice of India’s suffering

A self-taught artist, Chittoprasad always wanted to study art but was denied admission into the prestigious Kala Bhavana of Shantiniketan and even the Government College of Art and Craft, due to his political affiliations. But, his passion for art was not ready to be doused. So, he shunned the traditional form of tempera paintings that were popularly practiced to glorify India’s spiritual past and instead delved into a style that was straight-forward and raw, depicting the present tragic reality in all its darkness.

Chittoprasad traveled the remotest parts of the state, from villages, hospitals, orphanages to make-shift camps, mirroring the drudgery of poor peasants and labourers and the evil face of poverty, in his black and white sketches. The skeletal faces, lined ribs and barren forests, his confident black strokes reflected the life around him-devoid of colour and joy.

And it was this nerve-wracking aspect that brought his paintings alive and shocked its viewers, waking them up and jerking them to be a part of the change.

Summarizing his extraordinary journey and body of work, Chittoprasad, in a biographical short-documentary, called Confession (1972) by Czech filmmaker Pavel Hobl) says, “To save people means to save art itself. The activity of an artist means the active denial of death.”

Despite repeated upheavals throughout his life, he continued to live by this ideal and constantly pushed boundaries of art to depict the ignored and forgotten stories of human history. It is because of that courage and passion for his art, that the memory of such struggle and rebellion is now forever immortalised in the pages of time.

Also Read: Paris to Calcutta In a Milk Van: A 19,000 km Road Trip That Captured the Sound of Music!

(Edited By Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share?

Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com

Connect with us on Facebook and Twitter

As we live quarantined in the safety of our homes, there are dedicated doctors out there who are working tirelessly towards saving lives while putting their own at risk. In this pandemic that has rendered us helpless, it is the tales of courage that keep us going and fan the flames of hope.

This is not the first time that a pandemic has hit India. The Bubonic plague, also commonly known as the ‘Black Death’, has been one of the most devastating pandemics historically. The plague broke out in phases across the world and for several hundred years, the cause of the plague was a mystery.

Between 1896-97, India too was badly hit by the deadly disease. Throughout the course of that one year, estimates say that about 1,900 people succumbed to the disease every week. Considering these statistics, it’s safe to say we are currently in a much better position with scientists working in labs to find a cure.

What, however, we must take as inspiration is the story of well known social reformer Savitribai Phule and her son, Dr. Yashwantrao Phule, who lost their lives serving plague patients.

An anecdote mentions how Savitribai carried a 10-year-old boy from Mahar settlement in Mundhwa to her son’s clinic in Pune’s outskirts. Although the little boy survived, Savitribai caught the infection and succumbed to it on 10 March 1897 at the age of 66.

Caste, Plague and the Phules

Savitribai is a known figure in the history of India’s notable social movements. She was a paragon for women’s rights and has been often regarded as the mother of Indian feminism. A proficient Marathi writer, she also promoted education highly evident in her body of work.

However, what is lesser known is the fact that in matters of the caste system, she did not shirk to display her disapproval.

She played a pivotal role as an activist for the ideals of Satyashodak Samaj, a social reform society, launched by her husband Jyotirao Phule in 1873. In fact, her adopted son Dr. Yashwantrao’s birth mother, Kashibai, was sheltered by the couple from conservative Brahmins in Pune who tried to kill her when she became a widow. They rescued Kashibai who was pregnant at the time and adopted Yashwantrao in 1874.

When the plague broke out in India, the caste system was highly prevalent. Since India was colonised at the time, the British had made it compulsory for doctors to treat patients without any caste-based discrimination. A lot of Brahmins at the time actually refrained from being trained as doctors as they were unwilling to treat patients belonging to the Shudra and the Dalit communities.

Being fully aware of the social context of those times, Savitribai urged her adopted son Yashwantrao, who was a doctor, to start a clinic in Pune that would treat patients irrespective of their caste.

The clinic was opened away from areas where the infection had broken out. This was so that they could contain the spread while also helping the patients recover. It was during this period of service that Savitribai lost her life.

Her son Yashwantrao Phule survived the plague that year and went to serve the army only to return to Pune in 1905. The reason for his return was because the epidemic broke out on a larger scale for a second time. While treating patients, he caught the plague and eventually lost his life on 13 October 1905.

A lot of doctors did not want to treat patients on the basis of caste. The sacrifice of the Phules is not just important because they put themselves on the path of adversity. Their contribution in bettering the lives of people is even more commendable because they ignored the caste dynamics at play in those times and did what they felt was the right thing to do.

Things have changed a lot now. We live in times where we have the tools to protect ourselves from infections but the lesson we can learn from the Phules is to do our best within our capacity. In these trying times, it is the small acts of kindness that make a big difference.

Also Read: The Goan Doctor Who Risked His Life to Treat 18,000 Mumbaikars From Bubonic Plague

(Edited by Saiqua Sultan)

Like this story? Or have something to share?

Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com

Connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

Every city has its own distinct charm. For example, when I think of Bengaluru, the first thing that comes to my mind is beautiful gardens, while Jaipur is the ‘pink city’ full of heritage with a touch of modernity. But, have you ever thought about how these two cities came to be so distinctly associated with these characteristics?

Well, the credit for this goes to Sir Mirza Ismail, an Indian statesman who served as the Diwan of Mysore, the Prime Minister of Jaipur and the Diwan of Hyderabad.

Mirza’s contribution in developing cities and industries has been lauded by several prominent contemporaries. Sir CV Raman, the Nobel-prize winning physicist, spoke about how Ismail’s accessibility and charm set him apart from the rest. He added that these characteristics coupled with knowledge and “his keen sense of human and cultural values,” made him a great administrator.

Sir Chetput Pattabhiraman Ramaswami Iyer, on the other hand, who served as the Diwan of Travancore, referred to him as “one of the cleverest men in India.”

Early life And Appointment as a Diwan

Mirza’s roots can be traced back to Persia. His grandfather, Ali Askar ,was a Persian trader who fled Iran and reached India in 1824. He took refuge under the Maharaja of Mysore and supplied horses to the stables of the royal family. The thriving trade helped him own land in Bengaluru and he eventually ended up building big estates around the city.

Born on 24th October 1883, Mirza grew up in Bengaluru. He studied at the St. Patrick and the Wesleyan Schools in Bengaluru. After graduating from the Central College in Bengaluru, he started his career as an Assistant Superintendent of Police.

Mirza and Krishnaraja Wadiyar IV, the twenty-fourth Maharaja of the Kingdom of Mysore, were classmates in college and had developed a deep and lasting friendship. He was first appointed as the Maharaja’s private secretary, but as the latter’s administrative acumen became obvious, he made the decision to appoint him as the Diwan of Mysore.

The year was 1926, and Mirza, at the age of 43, secured this important position, and together with the Maharaja embarked on several projects that ushered in a period of development.

Mirza’s distinction and penchant for developmental projects shows in his body of work, but one of his most notable qualities is how, thanks to his keen foresight, he initiated and developed different industries with a keen foresight.

For example, Bengaluru’s iconic Town Hall, Hindustan Aeronautics Limited, the Glass Factory and the Porcelain Factory were all established in Bengaluru (then Bangalore) during his tenure as the Diwan of Mysore. He set up several industries, took a keen interest in town planning and the city’s beautification, and also took charge of the development of Wilson Garden, Kalasipalyam and Gandhi Colony, among others.

According to this article, “If M Visvesvaraya, as Diwan of Mysore (1912–19), made Bangalore (now Bengaluru) an industrial city, then Mirza Ismail made it a beautiful one, with the Lalbagh and the streets lit by chandelier lamp posts. An interesting story about him goes that he did not simply glance around to check if things were in good condition – he would lift the corner of a carpet to see if the floor had been swept.”

Mirza’s work was widely appreciated and he received several honours during this period. He was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1922 by the British Government for his services to India. He was knighted in 1930 and was further appointed a Knight Commander (KCIE) in 1936.

He continued working even after the demise of Krishnaraja Wodeyar IV in 1940, under his successor, Jayachamraja Wodeyar. However, he resigned in 1941 over differences.

Mysore’s Loss Becomes Jaipur’s Gain

In 1942, Mirza travelled up north, almost 2000 km to the ‘Pink City’ in Rajasthan with the purpose of serving as its Prime Minister.

He went beyond the walled city built by Maharaja Sawai jai Singh in 1774, to commission the building of educational institutions like schools and universities, medical colleges, and hospitals among others.

With his experience as the Diwan of Mysore and carrying out industrial development in Bengaluru, he knew the importance of commerce. To this end, he facilitated the development of a market square outside the walled city, but also helped businessmen set up manufacturing units in the city.

The walled city was not well connected to the railway station. Hence, as Prime Minister, he commissioned the construction of a road connecting the walled city to all the important points.

There is an interesting story around the naming of this road as well. After the road was built, Mirza wrote a letter to Maharaja Sawai Man Singh and proposed that the road be called His Highness Sawai Man Singh Highway. But to his surprise, he received the following response:

“I would like to name a road after you if you will agree, as I feel Jaipur owes so much to you already for all the improvements you are making, and although your name will be associated in other connections in time to come, the town improvement is already widely known and associated with you. I should like to call the road after your name.”

In 1945, he reigned from the position at Jaipur and a year later, he became the Diwan of Hyderabad in 1946 when Mir Osman Ali Khan made him an offer. During this time, the partition of India was being discussed and he was completely opposed to it.

He resisted the idea of ‘Great Pakistan’ proposed by Muhhamad Ali Jinnah because he believed in an unified India. So, when he took on his new role, he tried his best to negotiate the Standstill Agreement with the Indian government viz-a-viz the princely state of Hyderabad.

The Standstill Agreement was a document that needed to be signed by princely states for accession to the Indian government. Ismail here, wanted the process to be amicable and devoid of any kind of confrontation. However, Nizam Mir Osman Khan was completely against acceding to India and this clashed with Ismail’s stance. This resulted in him resigning from his post in 1947.

Personal Life and Legacy

Mirza was married to Zeebundeh Begum Shirazi. It was a marriage fixed by their parents. Zeebundeh Begun also majorly contributed to the cause of women’s education. She founded the State Women Conference in 1926 and pioneered a womens’ movement in the Mysore Kingdom.

They had one son, Humayun Mirza, and two daughters, Shah Taj Begum and Gauhar Taj Begum. His grandson Akbar Mirza Khaleeli followed in his footsteps by becoming an administrator and cracking the Indian Foreign Services and serving between 1959 to 1994.

Mirza passed away at the age of 75 on 5 January 1959 in Bengaluru. Before that, however, he encapsulated his experiences as an administrator in a memoir published in 1954. The memoir was titled, ‘My Public Life: Recollections and Reflections’. Here he speaks about how public parks and gardens are beneficial for individuals living a community to lead full and happy lives.

He also states that India lacks great open spaces and speaks of how cities like London and Paris can be sources of inspiration to beautify our towns and cities.

Throughout his life, Mirza Ismail illustrated how positions of power can be used for the betterment of society. Although Ismail may not live amongst us, his legacy lives on through the beautiful gardens he created and the iconic buildings he commissioned.

Also Read: When Savitribai Phule & Her Son Gave Their Lives to Save Bubonic Plague Victims

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share?

Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com

Connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

Our history is replete with stories of elaborate big game hunts, particularly of tigers and leopards, that were a favourite pastime of royal families in the Indian subcontinent. These events were often staged to showcase their royalty, power, wealth and, of course, machismo.

Officers of the British government routinely hunted down these wild cats with reckless abandon, alongside their Indian vassals that ruled over nominally sovereign ‘princely states.’

Post-independence, however, the killing of tigers escalated. Hunters from around the world gathered in India with local travel agencies promising them marquee trophies of animals including tigers, elephants, lions and the rhinos, amongst others. And leading the pack were the Maharajas.

Serious scientific research in the field of wildlife conservation only began in the country when renowned wildlife biologist, George Schaller came to India in the 1960s. Prior to his arrival, most of the stories surrounding wildlife were written by Britishers who were working with the Raj when hunting was allowed whether he was Jim Corbett or anyone else. People were fascinated more with the aesthetics of tigers and eventually killing them, and we saw the gradual disappearance of the strongest cats from the gene pool.

After visiting a series of forest areas like Kanha, George Schaller wrote a popular book titled ‘The Deer and The Tiger’ published in 1967, which offered a detailed account of the ecology and behaviour of Bengal tigers and four species of the hoofed mammal.

However, wildlife conservation in India really took off in the early 1970s, which saw the enactment of the Wildlife Protection Act (1972), the establishment of Project Tiger (1973), signing onto the Stockholm Declaration (1972) and Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species (CITES) of Wild Fauna and Flora (1973).

Kailash Sankhala, the first director of Project Tiger, would go on to play a fundamental role in turning the tide for wildlife conservation in India, particularly of tigers. He was probably the first Indian field officer who did real field research work in understanding the secretive lives of tigers from their behaviour, population dynamics to daily activities.

Early Life

Born in Jodhpur on 30 January 1925, Sankhala studied biology in college despite his father’s wish that he study engineering.

Following college, he did his Master’s from Jaswant College in Jodhpur before earning a postgraduate degree in Forestry from the Indian Forest College in 1953. The same year he joined the Forest Service in Rajasthan, a “place that shaped me and my future career,” wrote Sankhala in his book ‘Tiger! The Story of the Indian Tiger.’

“Before his passion of conservation was ignited, he was responsible for issuing hunting permits. One day sometime in the early 1950s, he killed a tiger which transformed him. It was a real turning point. He was riddled with guilt, which eventually led to him becoming a conservationist. He spent the remainder of his life protecting the tiger and its habitat,” says Amit Sankhala, the Managing Director of the Bandhavgarh Jungle Lodge, and grandson of Kailash Sankhala, in an email interview with The Better India.

It’s something Kailash Sankhala notes as well. “Even today, the scene is as fresh as it was that morning, and the open eyes of that tiger have haunted me all my life. To overcome my guilt, I have dedicated my life to the cause of tiger preservation,” he writes in his book.

In 1956, he sent a letter to the Wildlife Board of Rajasthan with an appeal to stop the shooting of tigers and thus became one of the first conservationists to speak up for their protection.

Nearly a decade later, when he was appointed Director of the Delhi Zoological Park, he convinced the Indian Board of Wildlife to institute a system that would track the export of tiger cubs, requiring exporters to clearly explain how they obtained them.

For the Tiger

It was during his time as the Director of Delhi Zoological Zoo from 1965 to 1970, when his work around tigers really began to pick up. Despite protests by the local media, he stopped making animals perform for the general public while revamping the quarters where tigers were kept more like their natural habitat. He also started conducting some of his initial research on tigers nearby and travelling to different parts to get population estimates.

In 1967, he investigated the sale of tiger and leopard furs in markets across Delhi and published those findings on the front page of The Indian Express. Two years later, he pleaded before the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) to protect the tiger whose numbers were rapidly declining.

In fact, by gathering public support on this issue in the national and international media, he persuaded the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi to ban tiger hunting altogether. Even some of the Maharajas saw the wisdom of this plea.

“Going on Tiger Hunts, was a regular pastime of the Maharajas. They could never imagine that one day there would be Indian jungles without any tigers in them,” says Amit.

In May 1970, he was awarded the coveted Jawaharlal Nehru fellowship for his project titled ‘The Controversial Tiger: A Study of Ecology, Behaviour and Status,’ which truly enabled him to jump with both feet into the field of wildlife conservation. Under the fellowship, he set out to conduct an all India study to understand how many Tigers were still alive in India.

By September 1970, he had convinced Dr Karan Singh, the Minister of Tourism and Civil Aviation, to ban the export of tiger, leopard and panther skins or the products made from them.

For the next two years, he travelled across India to study the dwindling tiger population. Amid his project, Anne Wright, a leading voice for wildlife conservation, published an article in May 1971 titled Skin Shops, which describes in some harrowing detail the illegal selling of tiger and leopard skins in Kolkata. This was once again part of a concerted effort to raise the issue of tiger conservation into mainstream discourse.

After she was convinced of the problem by British conservationist Guy Mountfort, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi established India’s first Task Force on Tigers, headed by Dr Karan Singh. The Task Force on Tigers also included Kailash Sankhala, Anne Wright, Dr MK Ranjitsinh, an authority on wildlife, and Zafar Futehally, a naturalist and conservationist.

Months later on 9 September 1972, the parliament passed the Wildlife Protection Act for the protection of plants and animal species.

It was a landmark piece of legislation which among other things, facilitated the creation of wildlife sanctuaries and national parks, strictly restricted and regulated activities in them, besides banning the hunting of wildlife.

A few months later in April 1973, Prime Minister Gandhi established Project Tiger to “protect and restore natural habitats of tigers and to track and protect the remaining wild tigers in India” and handpicked Sankhala as its first director.

“My grandfather would spearhead Project Tiger by starting with nine tiger reserves. A major task was to relocate villages outside national parks so that there could be safer habitats for Tigers. The task was serious—setting up an administration, which will oversee the relocation of villages, creating park boundaries and developing community partnerships so that it’s all done in a harmonious manner,” says Amit. He held the post of director until 1976. However, his pioneering role in tiger conservation wasn’t merely limited to being the director of Project Tiger.

“The hallmark of his contribution, which many don’t know about, is the field research he conducted on tigers. When you read his book ‘Tiger! The Story of the Indian Tiger’, you will understand how scientifically he studied the animal. He would spend hours observing how tigers would behave, how they secrete pheromones, how they would mark their territories and the different calls they would make. All this initial research on tiger ethology and ecology was very well documented by Mr Sankhala. In my opinion, this is his most important contribution, which most people don’t underline as they should,” says Ramesh Pandey, a senior Indian Forest Service officer, speaking to The Better India.

Did his research, however, translate into on the ground conservation efforts?

Pandey seems to think so. “If you see a tiger in the jungle, it’s demeanour is one of composure and real poise like a monk. The needs of this very secretive animal are minimal. If you provide closure to a particular area of the forest, the tiger will breed, come out of distress, mark its territory, increase its range and manage on its own. By providing closure, you mitigate the scope for biotic pressure. It has immense potential to bounce back and adjust to adversity. In my opinion, he could see the composure the animal exhibited and that if it was provided with enough protection, nature would take care of the rest,” he says.

In India, much of what is understood about the practical aspects of conservation like territoriality (how animals use space to communicate ownership), overlapping of areas, prey-predator dynamics, provision of better habitat, food, shelter, water and the cover regime have primarily emanated from Sankhala’s work and experience.

“The tiger is a wanderer with no definite plan in mind. But within his ‘home range’ he has a mental note of such features as day shelters, waterholes and places where food may be expected. (His periodical reappearances at these places is sometimes interpreted as visits to guard his territory.) He seldom leaves his home range except to pursue receptive tigresses or when driven by desperate hunger,” Sankhala once wrote.

Project Tiger: From Sankhala & Beyond

Despite stepping down as Director of Project Tiger in 1976, he continued to study and write about tigers (published three books in total alongside other works on wildlife conservation) and worked as the Chief Wildlife Warden of Rajasthan from 1978 to 1983.

After a lifetime of service to wildlife conservation, he was awarded the Padma Shri in 1992. He sadly passed away two years later on 15 August 1994, at the age of 69, but the legacy he leaves behind is immense.

Project Tiger began in April 1973 with 9 tiger reserves and a mere 268 tigers. Today, there are 50 tiger reserves across India and their numbers have grown beyond 3,000. However, much credit for this significant rise in tiger population must also go to the institutional mechanisms that have been put in place the past 15 years.

Despite the introduction of the Wildlife Protection Act (WPA) in 1972, the concept of conservation initially was only about delineating a particular area, giving it more importance and calling them national parks and sanctuaries.

In declaring an area as a national park or sanctuary, these spaces are given legal protections with provisions that those who violate the WPA will be sued and punished. But the WPA did not provide any prescription for conservation measures that could be taken.

What authorities earlier did was refer to national parks and sanctuaries as ‘tiger reserves’ even though that phrase held no legal value.

Moreover, Project Tiger was just a project which financially assisted tiger reserves declared by their respective state governments by giving them technical and miscellaneous guidelines, support for capacity building, training, scientific research, monitoring of tigers, census, etc.

However, everything changed with the news that tigers had disappeared from the Sariska Tiger Reserve in December 2004. There was a massive hue and cry all over the country surrounding the rapidly depleting numbers of tigers. Post-Sariska, a Tiger Task Force was constituted under the leadership of environmentalist Sunita Narain, who made some significant recommendations. The results of these recommendations were substantial.

A statutory body called the National Tiger Conservation Authority (NTCA) was set up in December 2005 to run Project Tiger. Moreover, tiger reserves actually became legal entities with core (inviolate areas with no human habitation) and buffer areas.

“Every management plan of tiger reserves today has to be approved by the NTCA. Earlier, states could write their prescriptions, but not anymore. The standard operating procedures (SOP) to be followed in tiger conservation have been clearly defined. Every year, you have to do camera trapping for population estimates, and every four years we are doing an all India tiger estimation involving the Wildlife Institute of India, where we come up with the photographic estimation of the total number of tigers in tiger reserves. We are working on how to establish functional wildlife corridors and how we can connect two meta-populations (a group of populations that are separated by space but consist of the same species) of tigers. We are also working out how tigers coming out to adjoining areas that are not protected are living and inhabiting there,” informs Ramesh Pandey.

A lot of the success in conserving tigers in India today is down to establishing this very institutional framework post-Sariska. Project Tiger is not just a project now, but a system which has all its verticals institutionalised from management, monitoring and evaluation, scientific research, SOPs prescribed and foresightedness of how to go ahead.

Yes, steep challenges do remain like rising human-animal conflicts, convincing populations living near protected areas the economic value of conserving tigers and other wild cats, establishing functional corridors for meta-populations and preventing further fragmentation of forest areas thanks to growing linear infrastructure (power lines, communication, roads).

But there is hope because in the words of Kailash Sankhala, “There seems to be something about India’s soil that inspires conservation and humbles man as only one thin thread in the web of the grand process of nature.”

Also Read: Wild Karnataka: India’s Landmark Wildlife Documentary That Took 4 Years to Create

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

While slavery was formally abolished by the 1830s in British colonies, what came in its place was a system of labour that was as bad if not worse.

“As for slavery, which ended in British colonies by the 1830s, the plantation islands ruled by Britain started experiencing severe labour shortages, especially with the reluctance of former slaves to continue as wage labour at the rates that prevailed during slavery. With the planters failing to turn labour powerfully into a commodity, they sought ‘an alternative and politically acceptable form of unfree labour’, which was to be found in the indentured population from British colonies like India,” writes Sunanda Sen, in a 2016 academic paper published in Social Scientist, a journal published by the Indian School of Social Sciences and Tulika Books.

The British colonialists established the indentured labour system in 1838 as a cheap source of labour to their colonies after the formal abolishment of African slavery in 1833.

“Indians, under an ‘indentured’ or contract labour scheme, began to replace enslaved Africans on plantations across the British empire, in Fiji, Natal, Burma, Ceylon, Malaya, British Guiana, Jamaica and Trinidad,” says this explainer in the UK National Archives.

This practice was not merely restricted to British colonies. French, Dutch and other European colonies that had large plantations also fully utilised the harsh economic and social conditions in India to lure the dispossessed into their trap.

Some estimates suggest that nearly 1.2 million Indians were displaced from their native land to the colonies between 1838 and 1916 under this system. These labourers were popularly known as ‘girmitiyas’, which is derived from ‘girmit’, a corrupt form of the English word ‘agreement’.

The terms of this agreement stipulated that the labourer would not pay for his passage to a foreign land where they would end up working, but instead agree to provide labour for a fixed period in return.

Everything from wages, work hours, housing and medical facilities was specified in these ‘agreements,’ which prima facie, appeared fair, but in reality, were exploitative and tapped into their desperation for work.

So, in many ways, what primarily emerged was a system of bonded labour or what some have called ‘second slavery.’

The Story of Totaram

Totaram Sanadhya was one such girmitiya who landed in the sugar plantations of Fiji in May 1893. By the time he arrived, about 12,000 labourers had already made the voyage. By the time he left the island, he was accompanied by nearly 61,000 of them.

Born in 1876, according to his account published as Fiji Dveep Mein Mere Ikkis Varsh (My Twenty-One Years in Fiji), Totaram was a native of a village near Firozabad in present-day Uttar Pradesh.

Barely 11 when his father passed away, Totaram and his brothers had no option but to earn a living. Leaving home in 1893 in search of work, he was lured in by an arkati (recruiter) near Allahabad looking for labourers willing to work in a foreign land.

“Look, brothers, the place where you will work you will never have to suffer any sorrows. There will never be any kind of problems there. You will eat a lot of bananas and a stomach full of sugar cane, and play the flute in relaxation,” said the arkati according to Totaram’s account.

Desperate for work, Totaram signed up.

Three days later, he was among the 165 people brought before a magistrate, who just asked them whether they had agreed to go to Fiji or not and processed their applications. The entire session lasted only 20 minutes, and the magistrate made no effort to explore the matter any further. There was nothing said about the terms of employment to the workers except for the vague promise of 12 annas per day as they were about to board the ship in Calcutta.

When Totaram reached Nausori, the small plantation colony that became his home for the next few years, he knew the arkati had sold him a mirage.

Living in squalid quarters infested with rats and mosquitoes, the food rations he and his fellow recruits received were miniscule, as compared to the back-breaking work expected of them.

There were times when he felt suicidal, but he found solace in reading texts like the Mahabharata and Bhagavad Gita. Eventually, others within his girmitiya community began to address him as ‘Panditji’ as he would narrate tales to them from these epics.

Despite all the hardships, he found a way to survive.

“Girmitiyas were eligible for promotion during their labour tenure and some land once their contract ran its course. Totaram was a smart man who got his promotion when he was under contract and also claimed his right to land once his tenure was up. He also had business acumen and hence soon became a prosperous farmer. That he was a natural leader of man is evident from the way his life panned out,” says Karthik Venkatesh, Consulting Editor at Westland Books, who has in the past written on the subject, to The Better India.

From a labourer, he was promoted to the position of ‘sirdar’ (overseer), married the daughter of a fellow-labourer, eventually earned his freedom and became a sugarcane farmer.

Agent of Change

Using his newfound position and influence in the Indian community on the island, he began meeting other labourers and taking note of how they suffered from poverty, starvation, misrepresentation by the arkati and horrible working conditions.

Taking notes from his own experience as well, Totaram understood that this system was as exploitative as slavery which stripped many of his fellow Indians of their dignity.

In 1910, he issued a petition urging the British authorities to establish schools for the children of girmityas and sought greater representation for the Indian community in the Fiji Legislative Council. Fortunately, around the same time, the popular opinion against this exploitative system of labour had dramatically turned back in India, notes this Firstpost column.

Two years after his petition, a news story appeared in the Bharat Mata publication narrating the story of Kunti, a woman who escaped sexual assault by her overseer by jumping into a river.

Although she was saved, the story outraged many Indians, and several leaders of the freedom struggle repeatedly spoke out against the girmit system in the press and their multiple representations to the Viceroy. During the same year, Totaram and a few others wrote a letter to Mahatma Gandhi asking him to send a qualified English-speaking lawyer to the island in helping organise Indian labourers there.

By December, Manilal Maganlal Doctor had arrived and ended up winning multiple concessions on behalf of Indians living there and overseeing the abolishment of the indentured labour system itself before he was finally deported from the island in 1920.

Totaram, meanwhile, returned to India in 1914, and his published work, alongside an extremely critical report by CF Andrews and WW Pearson, forced the British colonialists into abolishing this exploitative system of labour in 1917.

However, as a consequence of this system, there are many Indian communities settled across the Caribbean islands, South Africa, Mauritius, Fiji and even Malaysia, who have now lived there for generations.

In 1922, Totaram joined the Sabarmati Ashram and passed away in 1948.

“The story of the girmitiyas is one of pain and deprivation to start with. But in time, many of their descendants have done very well for themselves. Totaram’s story is important because his was a life of resistance, not one of passive acceptance. That the British were instrumental in creating a slavery system should be known to all. And when that story is told, Totaram’s story is bound to come up since he played a key role in ending that system. He is akin to a second Abraham Lincoln, in a manner of speaking. The message and legacy of his life is to resist injustice, oppression and demand liberation,” says Venkatesh, speaking to The Better India.

While Totaram may not find a place among the giants of the Indian freedom movement, his contributions towards bringing an end to the second wave of slavery must never be forgotten.

Also Read: ‘Why Should We Be Dumb?’ How One Monk’s Speech Changed The History of Ladakh

(Edited by Gayatri Mishra)

Like this story? Or have something to share? Write to us: contact@thebetterindia.com, or connect with us on Facebook and Twitter.

The history of printing in India dates back to 1556 when Jesuit missionaries from Portugal set up the first printing p