Rendezvous with Siraj-ud-daulah (by Sudipto Basak)
A Travelogue set in 1973 at the historic heartland of
West Bengal
(Based
on true experience of my father Sh. Nitai Chandra Basak)
The sun was keeping longer and
the nights have started to shorten. The mornings were still misty as the stone
cobbled narrow streets of Hathibagan in North Calcutta lazily brought itself to
life from the slumber of late night addas. Dipping his rusk in his tea,
with a newspaper in hand, Nitai heard the familiar sound of tense debate
filtering thru the slow chugging of a tram nearby. The Naxalite movement has
torn the city of Calcutta in sides that has started to draw blood. The debates
on Marxism have taken centerfold from the coffee houses to class rooms and to
the evening gatherings around the beloved carom tables.
As he made his way towards the
morning sparring session, adjusting the dark belt on his white ‘karate gi’
Nitai, a stocky teenager with a thick mane of curly hair, felt the friendly pat
on his shoulders. “So, exams over! Now what’s the plan?” asked Rouben, Nitai’ s
lanky tall and broad framed friend catching up behind him.
Inspired by the iconic Bruce Lee
who brought the clandestine art of martial arts to the world, a student of
Chemistry and a full time tutor, Nitai and Rouben, had taken up Martial Arts
Lessons in one of the many mushrooming Karate classes in the city of joy which
was quickly becoming a city of processions.
“Let’s check up with Kamal, I think
we should do an outbound.... Its high time!”, Nitai said as they made way for
the human heighted large wheels of a two-wheeler, in the narrow red façade alley,
pulled by its long handle effortlessly by a skinny dark sexagenarian with
almost 10% body fat of that of the plump businessman sitting atop it. “So, you do
have something in your mind... because, I know Kamal won’t”, smirked Rouben.
As the middle flicked below the
index finger, the striker slid smoothly on the freshly powdered board and found
its mark. The long haired tall teen with shining golden chain on his neck
chuckled as the white coin slid into the intended pocket. As he took the
striker again eying his next target, Kamal asked, “Why Murshidabad?”. The
affluent and the carefree youth stroke again, this time in vain. Taking the
striker in his hands now and adjusting his eye line below the glowing bulb on
top of the carom table, Nitai retorted “You have any better plans?”. “Obviously
not!” added Rouben. Clueless and confused, why he even asked the question at
the first place, Kamal the most affluent of all said “No I mean, yeah, who
cares!”.
They had never thought even in
their wildest dreams that an historical excursion would culminate to this
untold adventure. As they kept treading along mindlessly towards an abyss of
darkness, the entire day’s trip was flashing thru Rouben’s mind. They had come
via train from Calcutta in the morning and have visited all the various tourist
spots in the small town of Murshidabad. His legs hurting, he wondered whether
his friends too were feeling the tire in their legs due to the long walk from
Hazarduari to Khushbag. As the three friends had walked past the tomb of
Lutfunissa Begam, Sirj-ud-daullah’s dedicated wife, Nitai had told “There was a
time, this town held more significance in the heart of Bengalis than
Calcutta.”.
A town forgotten in the history
books is more than just the ‘Battle of Plassey’. It was the capital and flag
bearer of the grandeur and pomp of the Nawabs of Bengal. The ‘his-story’ of
Murshidabad is more humane and passionate than the one presented in the history
books. A classic tale of human aspirations, ambitions, jealousy, betrayal and
in the end overpowering of Calcutta over Murshidabad.
The fall of Murshidabad and the
defeat of Nawab Siraj-ud-daulah in the skirmish at Plassey, which was glorified
by historians with the epitaph of “Battle”, at the hands of the English East
India Company, earmarked the beginning of 200 years of British rule in the
country.
“He was arrogant and cruel they
say”, Rouben had said matter of fact. “well, we may never know, because most of
the history has been written by the English and there is a serious dearth of
accounts written by Bengali historians on him”. Nitai had told.
A thought had crept in the mind
of all three that they have been misled.
“It’s unusual that we are unable to catch up with the old man”, Kamal broke
the dreaded silence. “Come with me, I will take you to the station”, remembers
Kamal, reminiscing the fact that they had followed an unknown old man with a
face which they couldn’t make out, in the dead of night to guide them to the
Railway station from Khushbag, the tomb of Siraj-ud-daulah. Nitai spoke “Why did we even follow him in the
first place?”. A question whose answer no-one seems to know.
“O Babu! Where are you all
going?”, a voice reverberated from the shade of a tree nearby. Least expecting
another human being in such a dreaded night, half excited, half panicky Nitai
Blurted out “We need to go to the station!”. The plump middle aged man with a
bidi in his hand smiled and asked “Then why are you heading to the opposite
direction…. turnaround and this path will lead you straight to the station.”
Confused, Rouben said “But that
man ….” pointing in the direction of the old man and then realizing he was
gone.
“O Babu! Don’t follow any old man…head
straight on this path and you will be able to catch your train”, the man said
as his tone hardened. “Then where does this path leads to”, Nitai was making
sure the new information was correct.
“He was taking you to his grave,
to the tomb of Siraj-ud-daulah”. He said with a hard stare. This didn’t go down
well with the already terrified teenagers as they turned around and took to
their heels, sprinting till they reached station. With Kamal in sudden high
fever and Rouben injuring his leg badly on the stairs of the station, the three
took refuge in their berths, tired and terrified carrying their only luggage,
the memory of their rendezvous with Siraj-ud-daulah, the last independent ruler
of India.
-Sudipto Basak
-Sudipto Basak
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