मेरा आजीवन कारावास / माझी जन्मठेप (स्वातंत्र्यवीर सावरकर - काले पानी का ऐतिहासिक संस्मरण)

from the 'Gadar' were freely sung and all came out in their respective chawls and stood
listening to them; prisoners, warders, petty officers, jamadars and all.
Well, we went even further. In the shade adjoining the' prison factory, they had
begun to learn and practise the art of wrestling as a pastime after their day's work. Among
the newcomers, there were one or two trained and renowned gymnasts who readily
agreed to undertake the task.
During the course of instruction, I had, sometime, very strange and unwelcome
experience. And not unoften, it amused me. Among the Gujarati prisoners, I found that I
had to bribe one of them with a little tobacco that he should offer himself to teach
Gujarati to a Mussulman fellow-prisoner. There was a Brahmin prisoner from a village in
the Punjab who struck me as a double-distilled rascal. He was one of the convicts in the
Punjab riots. Well, he not only demanded the usual fee of tobacco to teach a fellow-
prisoner, but occasionally claimed as his special charge for doing the work, a portion of
the milk that came to me from the hospital as my ration of food every day. And yet he
always shirked the task. When he found me nearby, he did his lessons in a loud voice.
Otherwise, he avoided it as much as he could. The Brahmin had passed his fiftieth year
but had not overcome his childish pranks. If I failed to give him tobacco, he would
straightaway tell me that he had lost the slate and pencil, though I knew but too well that
he had concealed them. And when my back was turned upon him, he would sing a skit
which ran thus: "The Babuji is duped, duped is the gentleman Babuji." I was amused by
it, and if I wanted him to repeat it to me, I had to give him another pinch of tobacco for it.
Others threatened to thrash him for this joke at me, when I had to intervene and let him
go. I still hum the tune to myself: 'Babuji is taken in; the gentleman is taken in'.
Several times I had to run after them with slate, pencil and horn-book, to make
them learn. Some systematically avoided me as a pest. I remember giving a lesson in
Gujarati alphabet to a forty-year-old peasant, from that province, Jiva by name, forty
times before he could learn it. The rest of them burst with laughter, but the best of it was
that Jiva had learnt the lesson. They were so dull, so averse and so ignorant. But they had,
all of them, hearts of gold. Pure, devoted, simple, humble and obedient they were, except
in learning what I wanted them to learn, and what I insisted on teaching them. They had
wounds from bulletshots, all of them, which now survived as stains or scars. I always
used to pass my hand gently on these scars and say with pride, "Behold our soldiers and
the medals they wear. They are more precious in my eyes than medals of gold. They are
more honestly won than those, and will last for ever.
Exit Mr. Barrie
Where was Mr. Barrie when all these changes were going on in this prison, in all
the bustle of its political prisoners? Where was now, the demi-god of Port Blair, who