DOWN MEMORY LANE
Hope on the horizon
SILLOO MEHTA
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What was it like to grow up in the 1920s in the tumult of the independence movement.
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Thus ended two school girls’ valiant gesture for freedom more than half a century ago
After 62 years of Independence, at last there seems hope of a prosperous, just and egalitarian India emerging. Where all resources will be directed to the betterment of the whole nation and where the marginalised will be uplifted and the weak empowered.
When this feudal subcontinent was ruled by a handful of Britishers, I was growing up in Bombay in the 1920s amid the tumult and passion of the freedom struggle. It was a schizophrenic experience. Gandhiji was worshipped as no Indian had been before and the names of Congress leaders were household words. Large crowds gathered to hear inflammatory speeches and were assaulted by lathi-wielding mounted and foot police. Black Marias waited for the arrested men and hundreds were hustled off to jail for taking part in illegal demonstrations.
We as children were strictly forbidden to go near the neighbouring maidan where these meetings were held. But it drew us like a magnet. We rationalised our safety by keeping to the periphery of the grounds and racing for the safety of home whenever the waves of white figures were driven in our direction by the belabouring police.
The same maidan was transformed into an English hamlet every Wednesday afternoon during the three months of the monsoon.
Sporting crowd
A part of it was reserved for the Mud Sports. Rows of cane chairs were laid out and arrangements made for tea and drinks for the Sahib-log. The khaki-clad syces with their splendid horses, ayahs shepherding pale, blond children, cheerful riders and spectators, all belonged to another world. There were races and games, tent pegging and equestrian musical chairs to the tunes of a police band. The latter item was a prime favourite. The riders trotted to vivacious music-hall choruses till they were lulled into complacency. Suddenly the music stopped and there was a wild scramble to dismount and grab the chairs. As the field narrowed the chairs were placed further apart. Soon only two contestants were left and then the band really displayed its repertoire. It played on interminably till one almost fell asleep. Sudden silence woke the spectators to the furious finish as the finalists raced to the winning seat. Next in popularity was tent-pegging — a skilled sport demonstrated by service officers and their men. It was thrilling to watch them galloping down, lances raised, backs bent, eyes glued to the tiny peg in the ground. Warm applause also rewarded the stunt riders of the mounted police as they charged through hoops of fire.
This was not our only glimpse of Nirvana. Adjoining our bungalow was the British Officers mess. There were frequent parties. The garden would light up the air with the rich smell of cigar smoke and we would steal forth in our nightgowns to crouch behind the hedge. The colourful uniforms of famous regiments vied with the shimmering silks and satins of the women’s gowns. Periodically, the ayah made futile attempts to drag us home. “Look, I’ll count up to 100 then you must return.” This we encouraged because somewhere after 50 she would get lost in the maze of her own counting and we would make her start afresh. Avidly we drank in the sights and sounds and scents of the alien culture. When at last dragged to bed, our heads were full of lovely women in gorgeous gowns and handsome men in scarlet and black, all madly whirling to Viennese waltzes’ not at all different from the Hollywood fantasies that were our staple week-end entertainment.
Our parents took us to the movies every Sunday. They were silent films. A pianist set the mood. When he was replaced by a gramophone, there was more variety. For some reason, the “Caliph of Baghdad” was a popular piece. Even now when I hear it, visions of galloping horsemen flash across my mind, or Valentino in a tent making torrid love to a safari-clad Englishwoman, long skirt, veiled topi and all. What he emoted in the desert, Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks swashbuckled on ships, jungles and stately homes. How those romances thrilled us. Tired and sleepy, we jogged home in an open gharry smelling of hay and cracked leather and enjoying the cool night air after the stuffy cinema. The tassel of the coachman’s red fez swinging with the carriage hypnotised our drowsy gaze.
Flag of protest
School next day was a jolt into reality. The atmosphere of the convent was stiffly British, the education excellent and discipline strict. We heathens paid double the fees of Christian scholars. The hierarchy of the school comprised European, Anglo-Indian and Indian girls. Some, of course, were more equal than others. Politics was taboo. We lived in a ferment of patriotism outside but no whisper of disloyalty was tolerated at school. Gandhiji was a non-person and, as for the political turmoil outside the gates, it may as well be happening on another planet.
Into this Outpost of the Empire, my best friend and I decided to raise the flag of freedom. At that time, buttons of Gandhiji’s portrait were very popular. One day, we bravely wore ours to school knowing well that retribution would be swift and painful. The teacher peered at the portrait with exaggerated interest, as though it were some rare species of flora. Then she ordered us to report to the sister superior. The Principal was a tall, stern nun, normally of few words. After one glimpse of the buttons she lashed at us in a torrent of anger. “Either you remain loyal, devoted subjects of the King Emperor or you can join the rebels. There is no room for traitresses in my school.” Reduced to pulp, we sadly removed the buttons, washed away our tears and returned to an unsympathetic classroom. The English girls ignored us and the Indians, to avoid contamination, literally drew in their skirts. Thus ended two school girls’ valiant gesture for freedom more than half a century ago.
Many years later, far from Bombay, I remembered this episode with a smile. It was August 1947, Independence Day, and, like millions all over India, we were out on the streets to celebrate. Everywhere there was colour, gaiety, and movement. Families dressed in their festive best chattered expectantly of the fireworks and the illumination that were to light up the evening. As for us, the roads were so jammed with fellow-citizens that our open Morris could scarcely crawl. Hands reached out to us from pavements and everywhere the joy was palpable. No-one was a stranger that day, everyone a brother. We talked, laughed, exchanged sweetmeats and shared wild hopes for the future of our newborn country. For one shining moment in time the ecstasy of freedom had united us with a happiness beyond compare, unalloyed, peerless, never to be repeated.
The writer (aged 91) is a freelance contributor to national newspapers and magazines. E-mail: silloo.mehta@yahoo.co.in
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