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

an admirer of the virtues that characterise an Englishman." "I tell you that I am an
Irishman", he replied, "to let you know that I also have taken my part in activities like
yours for the liberation of Ireland. I was young then as you are now. But since that time I
am a changed man. Look here, I tell it to you as a friend" he continued, "you are young
and I am pretty old in years. I have seen many more winters than you have." I smiled
and interrupted him, "And don't you think that, perhaps, that may be the reason of the
change that has come over you? Not increasing wisdom but dwindling energy?" The man
was non plussed and he retorted, "You are a lawyer and I am a layman, and I have but
little education. But you are a prisoner, and I am the gaoler of this prison So don't reject
my advice as useless. Murders are murders, and they will never bring Independence." "Of
course, I know it, but may I ask you, why don't you convey this to the Sinfeiners in
Ireland? Besides, who told you that I had favoured murders?" He, Allen, changed the
subject and said, "The Superintendent will be here presently. It is against the rules that a
man in my position should discuss politics with you. But my heart feels it poignantly that
a man like you, educated, scholarly, and famous, should find himself in the company of
the most hardened criminals in the world. It was thus that I was impelled to talk to you.
Let by-gores be bygones. I have nothing to do with them. I ask you to observe strictly the
regulations of this place. You are a prisoner here and it is my duty to warn you about
them. Don't break them and I will not interfere. Otherwise I shall have to punish." What
unconscious humour it was that he should be talking to a political prisoner like me, and
yet be warning that I was not to break my rules of prison- discipline in this place !
"I would give you one more tip" and it is this:-|"You will be involving yourself
in a terrible mess if ever you try to run away from this place. The prison is surrounded on
all sides by vast, dense, impenetrable jungles; the cruellest of aborigines make their
abode in them; they are cannibals. If they catch you, they kill you, and make a meal of
tender, young bodies like yours, as easily as we may eat cucumbers! Do not, please, treat
it as a joke; don't Chaff; the Jamadar here will tell you if it is not true." The Jamadar
saluted him, of course, and said, "Every word of it is true, Sahib."
" I know it but too well", I added. "The first book I ordered and read, when I knew that I
was to be sent to the Andamans, was the Government Report of these islands. I fully
realise that Port Blair is not Marseilles."
" So far so good, act as I like, and I shall prove myself useful to you. Jamadar, take him
in, and show him up to his room on the top floor of barrack number seven Lock him up."
End of Chapter VII

CHAPTER VIII
The First Week in my cell
The Jamadar led me to Chawl No. 7. On the way lay a big reservoir of water. The
Jamadar asked me to take my bath there. I had not taken my bath for four or five days My
body was full of sweat and dart. The sea- voyage had done it I was delighted with the
permission to bathe. But I had no garment to change. The Jamadar gave me a piece of
cloth no better than a suspender. I had never entered my bath in that naked condition.
What then? Was I not to wear it for bath and for my labour all my life here? The mind
revolted, but then said, "Fool ! did not a saint like Ramdas use the same apparel? The
world knows what you carry within it. From whom are you hiding it now? Has not
Milton described it as honour dishonourable'?" There was a sect in Europe which
considered it a sin to wear clothes For Adam and Eve never wore any. Their followers
adopted the same mode of life. And they called themselves Adamites. Even today, if not
for religion, then for hygiene, colonies of men and women in certain regions of the world
go about as nudists except in the cold season. They expose their bodies to sunlight as a
matter of health. For, certain doctors in the West condemn the practice of excessive
clothing as harmful to a man's health. In Europe they wear too many clothes for fashion's
sake They seldom expose their bodies to sunlight From berth to death they wrap
themselves up in clothes; and the health of these people had suffered So doctors had
opened, and the people had followed them I was thanking all this over whale I was
donning the strap of cloth that was given to me by the Jamadar. The Jamadar had
watched, with delight, the trepidation and shame of many a person here when he was
called upon to take a bath in this dress or absence of dress. But he was disappointed in me
and, perhaps, he set me down as the most shameless of them all ! I went to the tank and
was about to dip my pot into it, when the Jamadar cried out, "Not so here, you are a
prisoner, you first stand up, I will say, `take the water' you will then bend down and dip
the pot in the reservoir I will their say, 'rub your body clean'; then you will clean it with
your hands. I will say, 'have one more'. You will dip your pot for a second round, and so
on. The whole bath has to be finished in three pot-fuls of water." This order of the Pathan
Jamadar simply surprised me. I was a resident of Nasik, a place of pilgrimage where
hundreds bathed freely on the bands of the Godavari. I was accustomed, however, to the
ritual of the bath finished with scanty water. I laughed to myself and finished my bath
here in the same mood. That was a pious act done within my sea, this I had to do when I
was transported beyond it One was white and the other was black water ! That was all the
difference between the two The priest here was my bearded Jamadar and a Mohammedan
! As I poured the water on my person I felt a strange sensation. I shut my eyes and could
see nothing. I felt like burning all over the body. "Was the Jamadar wrong in his recital?",
I asked myself. Just then, I happened to gargle my mouth, and, instantly, spewed out the
water. Was it salt water I was bathing in? The tongue tasted it as salt. I asked the Jamadar
about it. He retorted, "Was ever sea- water sweet?" It was then that I realised that I had a
sea- bath here Sweet water is scarce throughout the Andamans They all use sea-water for
bathing, for washing clothes, and for several miscellaneous purposes. And the water is

conveyed in pipes and stored in the reservoir for such use.
The whole body had become sticky The hair had become hard and stiffened. It
was better I had not bathed in at. But I thought over again, and realised that it was to be
my daily habit in this prison In London and Paris I had enjoyed the luxury of a Turkish
Bath. Should I not enjoy in India the pleasure of the "Andamanish Bath", by way of
change? The expiation of all my sins as a patriot and nationalist could not be done by
washing in warm water and with soaps and fragrant oils and under shower- baths It has to
be done in pots of sea-water drawn from the reservoir, with the mantra of the Jamadar
priest: "Now dip the pot for water", repeated by him thrice, and no more.
I put on my clothes and walked on till I came in front of a three-storied building
of stone and mortar. It was solidly barred from top to bottom. Every floor of it had
separate rooms equally barred. The building had no wood- work in it. It was entirely fire-
proof. It had broad steps reaching up from one floor to another. It was all white-washed
and clean without. The stair-case and the symmetry of the rooms gave it the appearance
of a big, roomy mansion. And the heart delighted at the sight."This was then shawl
number seven. It was here I was to stay on the top-floor, and in a room all to myself, and
barred and bolted from without", I said to myself. A fine place this, me thought, I shall
have free and fresh breeze to breathe in. I shall have plenty of light in it. If this tenement
had been my own, I would have gone down as a rich man in my society And for four
months in summer I would have used it as a pleasure-resort, with this fine green court-
yard around it. If I drive away from my mind the notion that it is a prison after all, I can
still be happy in it. Speaking for its use alone, it is true enough that the pleasure or the
pain of it, as the Vedantist puts it, arises from the fact that it does or does not belong to
me. Let me then be entirely indifferent to the notion of mine and thine, which is the seed
of ail our miseries in this world. As far as in me lees, I shall try to be indifferent about it,
and derive all the joy that I can from it The building is mine so long as I occupy it. It is a
fine building and I pay no rent for it. What if they call it a prison? Let me pass my days in
it as happily and as long as I must.
But, then, how long and for hoe many days? Ah! there is the rub !
According to prison regulations I may be free within six months. If the gaoler is
particularly harsh to me, then, at the most, within a year. The warders had told me that
three years were the limit here. The Silver Jail knew not a single instance of a prisoner
being detained within its portals for more than three years. Hence I concluded that I
would be let off after three years But facing the worst, as it had been a rule of life with
me, I took it for granted that, at the longest, they will confine me in this room for a period
of five years. I, therefore, decided to accept the situation, stay in this fine building for five
years, and spend the time in composing the epic that I had already planned in the jail at
Dongri. This I took as the Government order as well as a matter of personal choice.
I was revelling in this play of fancy when I climbed up to the third floor of the

building, and stood near the door of my room. The whole of that crawl was emptied of its
inmates because I was to come there. There were a hundred and fifty prisoners in that
chawl. Only three warders, the worst of their kind as being tale-tellers, sinners, men of
evil propensities, dare-devils, and, for that reason, in the good books of their Officers,
were retained in the whole building as guards on me. The rest of the prisoners who had
denounced them were ordered to vacate the place All three of them were Mussalmans-
two Baluchis and one Pathan. All political prisoners had Mussalmans for their warders.
And myself was especially given in their charge, Those who were detailed to keep watch
and ward on my room took great pride in that mission. For, thereby, they could boast all
over the settlement that they were in the special confidence of their superiors. They were
appointed to their place because the Officers wanted through them all the Information
that they could get about the political prisoners in their charge-their possible
machinations and their secret communications. And the Officers could use the warders as
convenient tools to perpetrate any kind of cruelty, to trump up any kind of charge against
the prisoners in their charge. They were apt for these nefarious deeds and, being of so
much service to them, the Officers usually connived at their gross misdemeanour and
their Immoral action, if only they held in check their Hindu prisoners and succeeded in
terrorising them. A large portion of political prisoners in that jail being Hindus, and I
being among them, these warders were regarded by us as the greatest terror of our lives.
It was not unlike the visitation and Influence of a malignant deity. We were Hindus and a
Hindu warder may be kind towards us. Hence the authorities put upon us Mussalman
warders who reported our movements to them either in an exaggerated form, or Invented
stories about us and systematically and heartlessly maltreated us to curry favour with
their masters. Since the time that the Silver jail began to be filled with political prisoners,
the Hindu warders had fallen from the favour of their masters, and had, consequently,
suffered in their rise and promotion.
Moreover, the Pathans, as a rule, were bigoted Mohomedans, and were especially
notorious for their fanatical hatred of the Hindus. The Officers had pampered them to
serve their own ends. To persecute the Hindus was natural to them The result was that
they began to harass them all the more and justified their action by reporting fibs against
their fellow-prisoners-the Hindu warders. "Barrie Baba" as the gaoler was called, would
never countenance or entertain any complaint against his own favourites. Consequently,
the Pathan warders had nothing to fear in that quarter Not only did the Hindu warders
suffer in promotion and disfavour, but the Muslim warders succeeded more and more in
ousting them from their jobs and replacing them by their Pathan brethren. The Pathan
always sides with a Pathan. This fact, if it had been a fraternity of good men, would have
been a blessing. But here it helped them to connive at the persecution practised by
prisoners of their own community against the Hindu prisoners in the jail For the Baluchi,
the Sindhi, and the Pathan prisoners had warders belonging to their own religion while
the Hindu prisoners were systematically denied that favour. So that the Hindus suffered
doubly. First, from their fellow-prisoners, the Muslims, and secondly, from their Muslim
warders. Since our admission in that prison, the situation in this respect, had considerably
worsened. The Hindu prisoners and the Hindu warders had a hell of their lives in that
place. How these happenings had their inevitable repercussions, the reader will know in
the course of this narrative and in its proper place. We have barely referred to this matter

here precisely because the reader may grasp their significance later on. The Pathans, the
Sindhis and the Baluchi Muslims, with a few exceptions, were, one and all, cruel and
unscrupulous persons, and were full of fanatical hatred for the Hindus. Not so the
Mussalmans from the Punjab, and less even than they, those of Bengal, Tamil province
and Maharashtra. But the fanatical section always belittled and held up to laughter their
co-religionists from other parts of India. It twitted them as "half kafirs." And this constant
jibe compelled them, very often and perhaps Inevitably, to follow in the foot-steps of
their wicked brethren. That emulation did not help them, however, to ingratiate
themselves into the favour of their masters, the European Officers. They were always
inclined to favour those who were, according to them, their best servants, that is, tyrants
and persecutors of prisoners in their charge.

That was one of the reasons for placing me under the close supervision of the
most seasoned of these Pathan warders. He worse the designation of Jamadar or Petty
Officer, that is a warder, who was himself a prisoner, promoted to a higher rank in the
settlement There were three such Jamadars appointed to the task of keeping a close
supervision on my movements. The Jamadar who had brought me to my quarters in this
crawl, handed me over to these warders, closed the room, locked it, and went away.

Next morning these warders presented themselves before my room and
announced that the Sahib was coming and I was to stand up. I came to the door, which
was nothing but a barred entrance into my room. Mr. Barrie had come up with his
European friends. He had acquired a special Importance with them since my arrival in
this gaol. The Europeans in the locality, men and women, were naturally curious to see
me and talk to me. And for that purpose they had to burn incense before the demi-god,
Mr. Carrie. Mr. Barrie pretended that he was taking them to my room under great risk,
and they had to request him, again and again, before he would accede to their
importunities. He brought them here under great secrecy, and showed me to them from a
distance and, sometimes, allowed them to approach me closer, all the whale making a
show that he had done them a great favour and that he was indeed anxious how to explain
it to his superiors or how to get over the hurdle. With a solemn air he marched them away
always ending with the expostulation: "That will do ! That will do." The intending
visitors had to go to Mr. Barrie's bungalow fifteen tames over, before he would yield to
their cajoling. I know many a European sergeant and his wife and daughter who had to
flatter him thus.

The word "Sarkar" made me wake up and stand before the door according to
prison regulations. The first thing I could see through the barred entrance was not Mr.
Barrie but the protruding part of his nether region- the stomach. For it bulged out defiant
of the world, and ran before him, as it were, to display its circumambient rotundity, not
dissimilar to the spherical apparatus in the class-room to explain to the school-children
the size and shape of mother Earth Over this circumference, Mr. Barrie had fled his
leather-belt. And it marked faithfully the equatorial line on the Earth's surface.

The Indian Mutiny discussed
Mr. Barrie began his talk with me in the following words:-"They may be telling
you that I am your jailor. Is it not?" I only smiled. He added, "And I assure you I am your
friend." The European friends who had accompanied him remained silent. For Mr. Barrie
never allowed any one to talk to me directly, except some like him, and to whom he
could not deny that privilege. "I like to converse with an educated man like you.
Therefore, I come here, sometimes, without any particular reason to do so. They say that
you have written an account of the Indian Mutiny of 1857. Am I right in it?" While he
was uttering these sentences, I simply listened, with a smile on my lips and an eye upon
his countenance. I found out that he had opened the conversation to sound my mind upon
the subject, to press the key and start the music. I was Inclined on my side to let him go
on and listen, as I felt that the talk may afford me relaxation from the very dull time I had
in the solitude of this room. However, I intervened, "I have read a number of books on
the Indian Mutiny. That is a fact. " Don't you feel fed up with those monsters of cruelty?
Can you put up with their monstrosities? What horrors have alley not committed? My
father was himself a victim of that Mutiny He used to tell us that the wicked Nanasaheb
had personally tortured English women and put into their mouths XXX. Will you not call
them monsters? What else are they?" I asked him if his father was an eye-witness of the
scene. He replied, Instantly, that a colonel was an eye-witness when such things
happened in Lucknow, and he had reported them to his father "Then, it must be a down-
right lie, for Nanasaheb was not then at Lucknow. He was in Cawnpore when English
men and women were Imprisoned at Lucknow " Pretending not to hear me, Mr., Barrie
continued, "A thousand Instances like this have happened." I replied, "Very true, but
there are also a thousand canards to keep them company And as the Instance you have
quoted has proved to be a hear-say, so it may be with others as well "
One of the visitors who appeared to be a polite gentleman intervened to remark,
"But, on the whole, don't you think that Nanasaheb, Tatya Tope and other mutineers like
them were selfish men? Will you not recoil from them with contempt?" To him my
answer was, "If you desire to discuss the Indian Mutiny with me in this place and when I
am a prisoner here, I am ready to do so You must forgets however, for the time being,
that I am standing before my jailor, and concede that I am your equal. Otherwise it will
be like shutting up my mouth whale you indulge in criticism against my country and its
past history in a manner Insulting to her That will be entirely a one-sided affair to which,
as gentlemen, you will not subscribe. It will be not only despicable conduct but an act of
utter cowardice." Mr. Barrie said, "By no means, Mr. Savarkar. I have already told you
that I have come here as a friend. Discuss the matter freely."
"Then, I express my opinion without any reservation. I know that you regard me
as an extremist As such you will find my views altogether one-sided and unpalatable. I
open this discussion to make you think if they are really so. I have never concealed them
and I find no reason to conceal them now. This is purely a question of history and if I am
to suffer for my opinion on it, I shall not hide it, for I shall never tolerate any one

distorting the history of my country and misrepresenting the principal characters in it. For
to put up with such distortion. I regard as timidity and a sin. The British Government had
itself appointed a Commission to review a report on the actions of Nanasaheb in this
Mutiny And the report has completely exonerated him. The charges made against him, in
the particular episode you have mentioned, have been found by the Commission to be
baseless and exaggerated statements. They were declared to be emanations from the
wicked brain of some soldiers in the English camp at the time."
Who, pray, is not selfish?
"You have described Nanasaheb and Tatya Tope as selfish men." "Yes, for
Nanasaheb wanted back his Raj, and Tatya wanted to pass for a hero", said the visitor. I
replied, "Yes indeed, but is it not true also that victor Emmanuel wanted to be the King of
Italy, that George Washington desired to be the first President of the American Republic,
and Garibaldi wished to be a hero? But strictly speaking they all fought for the
Independence of their own country!" "Then, you also raised the revolt to seek
independence" Mr. Barrie interposed. "That is a different issue altogether The Indian
Mutiny of 1857 does not necessarily justify any revolutionary activity today Nor are we
precluded from any such action on the ground that nothing of that kind had happened in
1857 The inference on either side is not only absurd but foolish as well " The visitor, it
seemed, had read a book or two on Indian Mutiny. He retorted, "Then you mean to say
that the slaughter of English women at Cawnpore by the mutineers is a concocted story "
."I have never said that" I answered. "It is a fact and it is a deplorable fact But the issue is
who was responsible for the carnage, and how did it at all happen? The women in that
prison-camp were first treated as prisoners of war. And this is proved from the evidence
of the survivors, and of those who had independently testified to the fact. I have
reproduced that evidence in my work on the subject. When the British army marched on
Cawnpore, it set fire to the villages round about Allahabad and kept them burning. And in
that fire were destroyed the females of those who had participated in the Indian Revolt
The news inflamed the Indian regiments that had joined the Mutiny. Meanwhile, the
English women who had been confined as prisoners of war, had sent secret missives to
the army marching on Cawnpore. Their messages happened to be intercepted by soldiers
in the Indian Camp. All this had contributed additional fuel to the fire that was already
burning, with the result that you describe as the wholesale slaughter of English women by
Indian soldiers.
Both are equally guilty or not guilty
If we are to regard these act: as blameworthy, we must blame in an equal measure
the excesses of the British army, which were partly responsible for these actions. Do you
regard Cromwell's action an Ireland, the massacre he carried on at Drogheda, as an act of
monstrous cruelty? Are you ashamed of it? In times of fierce national crisis and
revolution, such things are bound to happen. And however regrettable in themselves the

incidents may be, they do not Justify the perversion of the motive behind such struggles
and revolts. Nanasaheb's forces may have put to the sword many an English woman
without his sanction or knowledge. But what of ten tames as many women burnt to death
in the campaign of fire and loot that the British army had carried in the villages round
about Allahabad? Statues have been erected to the Generals of this army in England Neile
writes in his diary about it, 'It was my duty to follow this policy of cruelty for the good of
my country.' Cannot the same words be used in defence of excesses perpetrated by the
army of mutineers? If at all there is guilt in these actions, both the sides are equally
responsible for it, more or less, or we must exonerate them both from such a charge. The
visitor said on this, "I grant that the revolt was a War of independence I also admit that
allegations made by one side against the other in that struggle are mere fabrications The
Indian soldiers may not have committed all the Indecent ants that are being attributed to
them. But what is the moral that we may derive from it now? What is the lesson we are
learning today?"
"That is none of my business. I have discussed the whole position in the spirit of
history. I am not going to descant here on its present-day applications. I think I have said
enough on the point consistent with my position today. I cannot go into that question
further at the present moment."
"Well, we shall leave it here today. Some other time we may open it again," Mr.
Barrie concluded, as if spontaneously, and left the place, after enquiring sympathetically
about my health.
An experiment in verse
For two days after, I had no work to do in my cell. I asked for books to read, and I was
told that I would get them only after a month or two of observation of my conduct as a
prisoner. Not a soul moved here with whom I could exchange a word. I resumed my
originally planned work of composing poems. I continued with what I had already done
elsewhere. But I had no means with me in this place to do the kind of literary work I had
intended to complete. It taxed my mind to the utmost to keep it going. For a single date
and a single right word, I had to scratch my brain for weeds together. However brilliant
the fancy, I had to abandon it for want of material to translate it into beautiful and apt
imagery in words. I had to draw exclusively on the stores of my memory for anything I
could think or write. For years this was the only capital I could use.
The first secret missive
It was the fourth or the fifth day of my residence here. No other prisoner was let into the
whole building from whom I might gather any news. I had just finished my morning meal

and I was resting in my room. It was afternoon. Suddenly I heard a stone knocking
against the bars of my room. The stone fell on the ground. It was again hurled at me. It
came through the bars and fell right in front of the door. I was standing and went forward
to see what it was when the warder, who had thrown it at me, directed me to pick it up.
He at once disappeared from the scene. I packed it up and found a piece of paper bound
up to the stone. It was a massive to me. I opened the note when I heard a hue and cry in
the compound below. I got up considerably startled. I came forward and saw my warder
calling out the petty officer above him. I at once concluded that it had something to do
with the stone Evidently the Pathan warder must have seen another warder throwing the
stone up to me. And he was calling the petty officer either to batch him or to search my
room to find out what it was that he had thrown. In a moment the officer was near my
door. I could not make up my mind to destroy the missive. For he who had brought it to
me at such a great risk must be knowing that it had some important news to convey But I
could not conceal it either, for there was no place to do it. In a minute they will open the
lock and if they discover the letter all those implicated in the act were bound to suffer.
The warder who had brought it, the man who gave it to him, and myself, its recipient,
will all be involved in the crime. I resolved, whale I stood in the corner of the room with
my face turned to the Jamadar, and yet hiding my body from him, to secrete it on my
person where the Jamadar could not find it I had no other alternative in the matter. I
turned it in a manner that the writing on it might remain clean and Intact The petty officer
came in. He questioned me in a high and insolent tone about the letter. He asked me who
had picked up the stone. I answered that I knew nothing about it. The Pathan warder at
the door was lost in brown study as he feared no danger whatever, when the stone was
being hurled at me. The noise of the stone had roused him from his day-dream, and he
saw the warder below beckoning on to me. Suspecting something amiss, he raised the cry
that had brought the Jamadar to my room The warder was a Hindu, and anything that
could damn him was a gain to the Pathans, for one of them could easily take the place of
the dismissed man That was another reason for all this hullabaloo. The petty officer was
also a Mussalman. He searched me through and through. He searched my shorts and my
waist-coat. He pressed them all over with his hands. And at last he found nothing. Nor
did they discover anything on the Hindu warder. And the matter ended there.
A warning
After they had left the place and after I had assured myself that everything was
normal, I took out that paper and read it. The note described to me the situation in that
prison, and warned me to be very cautious. Convicts in the Manik Tola Bomb Case in
Bengal and three or four editors of Swarajya at Allahabad were all the political prisoners
in the jail at that time. The man who had sent that note to me was one of that number and
an old Bengali friend of mine He specially warned me to trust none for the mere reason
that he was a political prisoner. He had hinted that some of them had turned into
Government spies whose only business was to propitiate the gaoler in order to save
themselves from the hard labour of turning the oil-mill. They had not only communicated
to him the names of the conspirators who were out, but had started backbiting those who
were in. Such men should by no means be trusted, and no confidence should be given to

them. That was what the paper conveyed to me.
This division in the Bengali revolutionary camp did not surprise me. For I knew
that their leaders' arrest had dispirited them and the convicts were busy exposing one
another and betraying the cause even in the jail at Calcutta. This was, indeed, an
unpardonable action and disgraceful apostasy. All the same, it was folly to tar them all
with the same brush. There were many among them who stall showed high courage and
were staunch in their loyalty to the cause And even those, whose unbearable hardships
had made them fail, must be given their due for past service, for sterling patriotism, and
for their sincere sacrifice for the side they had taken None can forget their solid qualities,
and, yet, be just to them.
The spies at work
The ring leaders in the Bengal Conspiracy Case who, as convicts, had been
transported to the Andamans, found it hard to bear the trials of prison-life and thought,
naturally enough, to somehow escape its harrowing experience Some of them, therefore,
conspired to spy on the movements of their colleagues and disciples, and even on me,
who had come there but lately and who knew them not They reported us secretly to the
prison authorities. They had no scruples about their doings. They did not hesitate to carry
on this nefarious business. But we must remember that they were led on to it by the
horrible sufferings, the Insults and humiliations, and the physical tortures that they had to
endure in this prison. Those, who do not bend or bow under these bludgeonings, have,
alone, the right to cast any stone at them; not a Tom, Dick or Harry, who comfortably
sits in his arm-chair, and keeps on barking at the world.
I had known similar backslidings among political prisoners and conspirators in
Ireland, Russia and Italy, and in similar circumstances of physical pain, mental agony,
and moral disgrace. And in some Instances the backslidings and apostasy were more
disgusting than I had known in my own country Not only politics but religion also had
such examples to show and to hold up to shame. It was, therefore, unwise to brand a
community or a province as particularly guilty of that crime. And it was worse still to let
oneself be depressed by it.
"Say it out"
Hence I was not shocked by what I had read. On the other hand I pitied those who
had been frightened by it I may give here a specific instance in point A prominent
Bengali conspirator, who was not more than thirty at the time, used to discourse to his
loyal disciples on the Bhagvatgita in order to Impress upon them the mortality of the
body and the immortality of the soul He would quote in support the famous text . "No

weapon can slay it, no fire can burn it " The young men who heard him had become
fearless of death and were ready to face the worst ordeal for the cause they were
championing. But when the leader and fiery writer was himself sentenced to
Imprisonment in this jail and saw its stone- walls, and had to faint one day under the
grinding labour of running the oil-mill, which even two powerful bullocks could not go
round easily, then the body avenged itself upon the soul by trampling it underfoot. His
courage failed him and he could no longer bear the hardships of that labour. Again, it was
not a question of a day or two. It was a prolonged agony of a life-time. To refuse to work
meant added labour and increased agonies. In this dark despair, life cried hoarse to be
spared that labour at any cost. What was the way out of it? Where was the outlet from the
enclosing walls of these unbearable calamities? There was only one way and one gate.
The way was fifth and the gate narrow. That was to report against one's fellow-
conspirators. That board-"Say it out"-was ever hanging on the road and pointing to the
gate. And who, do you thank, carried tales about this man's despair to the authorities? A
friend and no one else. And that friend again, who had himself desired a similar escape !
The matter was reported by the gaoler to the authorities in Calcutta. At last. fine promises
were made him in order to trap him completely in the net A drowning man is known to
catch at a straw So our Bengali writer and preacher went in jail and fell To enact the
drama, the gaoler one day brought in that jail the highest officer of the island. The
political prisoners were busy going round the mall. The Officer came to the entrance of
this man's cell. The man shouted, "a petition, Sir " The Officer echoed, "What do you
want?" He proceeded a few paces, returned and awaited the prisoner. The latter knelt,
folded his hands, and prayed. "Do what you will, Sir, but free me from these tortures; that
is all I beg of you ." The Officer replied : "You may report to the goaler." The curtain was
rung down on the scene, and the drama ended.
The betrayal
After the Officer had gone, the gaoler sent him ink and paper as pre-arranged. The
man started reporting on the Calcutta Conspiracy Case. He gave all the information about
it, right or wrong, true or false, as suited his purpose. Naturally, all the other persons
involved in the Conspiracy regarded the action as a cruel betrayal. And the man himself
had the conscience to feel that he was doing a bad act, though he was too enfeebled in
mind to desist from it. He wrote a letter to his friend as follows’ “I can no longer bear the
suffering. The only alternative to it is suicide. I attempted it, but dare not attempt it again.
You may kill me as you have killed other betrayers of the cause before this. I will not
blame you. I must propitiate the Officer by betraying you. I must give him all possible
information in order to save myself from the tortures of the body. I have lost control over
my mind.” He sent this strange epistle to his friend and passed the other letter, with the
names and Information in it, to the jailor.
On the third day he was taken off from the hard labour of turning the mill and
given the lighter work of picking oakum. He was neither removed from his cell, nor let
off from the prison.

The man had, at least, the honesty of feeling that he was doing a reprehensible act,
and of acknowledging the fact. Two of his other partners in the act had parted company
with their conscience. These found, in my coming to that prison, an opportunity of their
life-time. To report everything about me to the jailor, to Invent stories for that purpose
when truth had proved of no avail; anyhow to compass the end of redding themselves of
the hardships of the prison-life, though they trembled in the act; to prove false to
themselves-all this they achieved without the least compunction of the soul. So much
were they lost to all sense of shame and decency. It was thus caught between these two
inescapable alternatives. I continued my life here on the horns of a dilemma Whosoever
reported against me at once became the favourite of the jailor, and got some facility or
another in this prison. So to carry tales about me had become, with some of them, a
regular and fashionable business. It was no surprise to me that mean and wretched
fellows should ply this trade But that these decent men, coming from respectable
families, should have stooped so low in order to make their lives easy, and to get some
concessions, here and there, was, Indeed, a surprise and degradation beyond my
imagining But they did it, making hay whale the sun shone ! Every facility that they had
won by this means was an added burden to my suffering in the jail. But that story I shall
unfold, as I go on, in this narrative.
The note sent on to me had a reference to all Intrigues of prison-life. One section
was reporting against the other, and the warning was conveyed that I should be on my
guard against the traitors. The letter was couched in a spirit of sincerity and earnestness.
I, therefore, decided that until I had convinced myself of the facts, I was to cherish no
suspicion in my mind about those who, in the past, had proved themselves bold, fearless,
sincere and devoted servants of their country. And even if I knew that they had fallen
now, I was to cast no aspersion upon their character and on their former service. The only
thing I was to do was to walk warily in my contacts with them and throughout my stay in
this prison.
Pardon me, please; enough of it'
A day or two after this incident, I saw a crowd of prisoners, excluding political
prisoners, gathered in the fore-yard of my shawl. Two hundred in number, they were
employed in the work of peeling, breaking and cutting to pieces the coconut fruit
gathered, in a heap, before them. From his sequestered place on the third floor of my
crawl, the Pathan warder was looking on with eager eyes. He felt a hungering for a
coconut or two from that heap. His mouth watered to drink the water and to eat the
luscious sweet Inside it. His appetite was whetted by what he saw right under his nose He
was a favourite with his master, and who will not fear him? Who dares deny him what he
asks? The Pathan went down into the court yard, and slapping a prisoner in the face,
charged him of eating a coconut. "Look at his mouth, it is too full of it," he fired By this
threat at the outset, he had created an atmosphere, as he felt, favourable to his game. For
he was confident that none could say no to him, if he were now to ask for the choicest
fruit from that heap. The king of fruit is known in the producer's parlance as "Dahi-

Naral"-that is a coconut fruit full of curd-milk-sweet Inside it. Presently, he saw the fruit
secreted in the hand of a Madrasi man who was a recent arrival in that prison.
Straightaway my Pathan warder went up to him and said, "O, you scoundrel, hand over
that fruit to me." But the Madrasi man seemed to be recalcitrant. He was the most
notorious dacoit in his part of the country He was a Tamil and, before being sent here for
transportation, he had seen life in many a prison and many tames in his own province He
was sentenced here for only ten years' imprisonment which he treated as a trifle. He did
not know Hindusthani and could very well put off the importunate warder by pretending
not to understand him He faced up to him and ejaculated "Ille, Ille"-meaning that he had
no fruit with him. That was his peculiar way of putting off any one who happened to
press him He had secured the particular fruit by palming off an anna worth of good
tobacco to the prisoner whose business it was to break the coconuts. How can then a
hardened criminal like him part with his booty to this Pathan Warder? But the haughty
warder was sure in his self-importance, that a mere Hindu dare not deny him what he had
asked. The warder abused the Madrasi prisoner and ordered him to part with the coconut
forthwith The Tamil man at first proceeded on the principle of discretion being the better
part of valour. Piteously he wailed, "I have not it, surely, I have not it", pretending
ignorance and feigning madness. The Pathan was furious. He flew into a rage. As the
quarrel was with a Hindu, it soon turned into a question of religion, and fanaticism put
the fat into the fire. He showered abuse after abuse upon his victim. He called him names.
"Kafir, scoundrel, let me uproot his tuft of hair', were some of his choicest epithets. "A
Hindu, a villain, yes, I must pull it out", so he went on And he put his hand to the Tamil
man's sacred tuft of hair. Being ignorant of Hindusthani, he seemed to be confounded by
the Pathan's ejaculations and outburst. He thought that the Pathan was asking him to do
some good piece of work, and that he was angry because the latter was not doing it. But
when the Pathan treed to wrest the fault from him, tile Madrasi prisoner came to close
grips with him. It was a veritable wrestle and tug of war between the two None of them
cried out halt after it had begun. For both of them had fastened their attention on the bone
of contention which was the "curd-milk-coconut".

The whole crowd was enjoying the scene and the Pathan was having the worst of
it. The crowd began to titter and Jeer, and the game was getting too hot for my warder.
Instantly, he lifted his bludgeon and gave a heavy blow on the Tamil man's head. He also
wrenched his turft of hair and had almost uprooted it. The Pathan kept on raining blow
after blow, and showering abuse after abuse 'Kafir, scoundrel" was the constant refrain.
All of a sudden, the scene changed The prisoner had lost his temper. Without uttering a
word and putting his hand straight to his antagonist's beard, he lifted him bodily off the
ground and dashed him down in the dust. The Pathan measured his full length upon the
earth and the Hindu prisoner sat firmly on his chest. He planted his knee upon it, and
gave slap after slap Into his face. The crowd watched the fight with gaping eyes. It did
not raise any alarm, for the Pathan man was extremely unpopular with one and all of
them. I was watching the whole show from my room, and I was nearly bursting into
laughter. The Fez which the warder wore, his turban thereon, all lay in the dust on the
ground. Muttering within his laps, the Tamil prisoner was stall belabouring him. He had
held fast his beard, and was slapping him in the face. The Pathan broke down completely.
No more abusive words danced on his lips. The coconut? There was no more of it.

Instead was the rider belabouring his mule under the stride. Two or three minutes had
thus gone and the Pathan, while the slaps were stall hot in his face, begged of his
opponent to halt. "Enough, enough, my man, enough, I beg of you, enough." These were
the words that trembled on his laps, so done up was he by the hard drubbing that the
Madrasi had given him. But this exasperated him still more. Showering abuse for abuse,
the prisoner rained fisticuffs on the head of the Pathan. It was the dialect that had made
confusion worse confounded. The Pathan had said in Hindusthani-Maph karo-pardon me.
The Madrasi caught only the first letter of it Ma, which in Tamil meant mother He took it
as the most insulting abuse that one man can utter to another. And so he attached the
Pathan all the more vehemently, never understanding that the fellow was all along
begging for mercy. "Ma", "Ma", replied the prisoner, and at every repetition felled him
with bludgeoning blows. At last the inevitable had happened. The petty officer had
arrived, the crowd rushed on the scene, and the combatants were separated. The Madrasi
kept on gibbering-saheb-hum-tum-mar-with gesticulations, which Indicated that if the
Pathan were to take the complaint to the gaoler, he will not stop short of throttling him.
The Pathan is constitutionally a bully and a coward; the threat of the Madrasi, one better
than him, completely unnerved him. Again he had broken the law himself, for he had left
his post on the top-floor, and gone down into the crowd to purloin a coconut That must
go against him. So he ended the quarrel there, and, adjusting his dishevelled hair and
turban returned to his place on the top-floor of my building. So was his greed satisfied.
For three or more of the sweet coconuts, he had received blow after blow on his mouth
and had to swallow them quietly.

"What's the matter? Why this hulloballoo?" I asked him. The warder replied
haughtily, as if I had not witnessed the scene, "O, Sir, there was a man there, the rascal
that he is, who wanted to steal the curd-milk- coconut". I gave him a sound thrashing."
"Well done". I answered, "a thief, and, at that, one who would thieve again, and also in
prison! He deserved what he got". The Pathan and myself knew well who the thief was,
and who gave the thrashing.

End of Chapter VIII

CHAPTER IX
EARLY HISTORY OF THE POLITICAL PRISONERS
The Cult of the Bomb
The first batch of political prisoners sent to the Andamans consisted of Bengalis
Involved in the Manik Tola Bomb Case, and two gentlemen from Maharashtra, namely
Mr. Ganesh Savarkar and Mr. Wamanrao Joshi. Soon after them came another batch of
six persons from Bengal Implicated in the trial for political dacoity. Of all these, three
from Bengal and two from Maharashtra happened to be sentenced to transportation for
life Others, who were all of them Bengalis, had been sentenced for three to ten years'
Imprisonment. When I reached the Andamans there were the Bengali persons I have
mentioned, and four editors of Swarajya from Allahabad with seven to ten years'
Imprisonment against them. The latter were sentenced for sedation and treason against
the Government and, not like us, for revolutionary crime against the State. Some of these
editors were deadly against all revolution and had not even understood its theory or
known its practice Their association with us had this advantage, that they had begun to
know both the theory and practice of revolutionary movement and had begun to
sympathise with it. I must be satisfied with this general statement today for I do not
recollect now the trials in which these men were Involved, their names, and their opinions
on the Issues in question I remember another being there in addition to those I have
already named. As the majority of the first batch were Bengalis, we were all, in prison-
parlence, known as Bengalis Later on, the number was swelled by an influx from the
Punjab in their hundreds, and several frown other provinces as well So we came to be
designated now by the hybrid name-the Bomb- makers.
Politicals or Men of the Tongue
Those who had never heard the name-political prisoner-could not understand what
it really signified. Thousands of such prisoners could, on the other hand, form a distinct
notion of bomb-throwing and hence the generic name of bomb-throwers by which all of
us were recognised in the jail at Andaman. Whenever Mr. Barrie had to send for any one
of us or all of us, he would order the Jamadar in the following words "Go and fetch
Bomb- golawalla No 7" or "Go, and gather quickly all the bomb- throwers and shut them
up." All understood that order and did accordingly. When I had entered the place, I
enlightened my fellow-countrymen on the distinction between the bomb-thrower and the
political prisoner. told them we were not charged with the crime of bomb throwing. We
were charged and sentenced for agitation to fight the Government, and win and establish
Swaraj. Some of us no doubt used pistols and bombs and rifles, but others fought only
with their pens. Many had not even seen a bomb; what then of using it ! What we all of

us, exercised most, was our tongue You should, therefore, call us men of the tongue, if
not men of the pen. Surely the appellation 'bomb-thrower' does not fit us. To this, my
disciples answered humorously, "Tell us then the right name for you, we shall adopt it."
"We are rightly called political prisoners. If you cannot easily utter it, then abridge it if
you please in your vernacular as Raj-Kaidi." This word was picked up quickly, and they
could pronounce it easily. Henceforward "political prisoner" became our common
designation. Mr. Barrie did not welcome the change. He never put up with it. If any one
addressed us as 'Babu', Mr. Barrie would shout at him, "What Babu, who is Babu here?
They are all prisoners, you fool." Mr. Barrie, of course, distinguished between prisoners
who knew to read and write and those who did not He had no objection to call the former
'Babus.' But he resented that name being bestowed upon us How then will he allow others
to call us political prisoners?
'D' Ticket
"You are not political prisoners"-that was Mr. Barrie's slogan to the end of the
chapter. If any prisoner pronounced that name in his presence, the Sahib would go at him,
"Ah! What political prisoner? There is none here of that kind. They are all of a common
class like you. Ticket No D marks the so-called politicals, as it brands you all and the
worst among you." The letter D signified 'dangerously.' And the badge that we wore had
this letter inscribed on it. The clothes we were given to wear also had badges with that
letter. With all Mr. Barrie's objection to these appellations, from the first day to the last, I
came to be known as "Bada Babu " Even Mr. Barrie, at tames, would say, "Go, Havildar
and fetch here the Bada Babu No 7 " As my fellow-countrymen in that prison learnt to
distinguish between ordinary prisoners and political prisoners, they all called us by that
name. The word had the smell of Swaraj and that was why Mr. Barrie hated the word. On
the other hand, I desired to stamp the word Swaraj upon their hearts. So I particularly
stressed the point that, when referring to us, they should all mention us as political
prisoners and, in course of time, that word became a current coin in the terminology of
the Silver Jail.
An offering to a cruel deity(A sop to Cerberus)
The political prisoners in the Andamans, before my arrival there, were all put
together in one crawl. They had one Pathan warder to watch over them. The hard upper
covering of the coconut fruit was broken into pieces, dried in the sun and was given to the
prisoners to pick out threads from them. 'Picking oakum' is the technical term for this
kind of hard labour in the prison This labour was hard enough but was not so exhausting
and soul- racking as the grinding mill to which they were yoked later on. Ordinary
prisoners who could hardly spell the three 'R's were employed in this prison for light desk
work and they at once became 'Babus ' But political prisoners were shut out from that
work and given hard labour the kind of which their hands had never done. Surely they
knew better the art of reading and writing than the prisoners who had hardly spelt its

rudiments. Perhaps, this was their very disqualification for clerkship within the prison-
door.
Though picking oakum was a task hard enough, its tedium was relieved by the
company of prisoners working in the same crawl. An educated man desires company and
association with his equals and, therefore, this mode of working was a solace to him. One
or two of these prisoners were ailing and milk was provided for them. It was given to the
Pathan warder as an offering to God. And the God -the Pathan-on that account was less
cruel to them. All these factors made prison-life for political prisoners less endurable than
it is today. My elder brother was in the same chawl.
Months passed on in this manner when a high official from Calcutta came to the
Andamans to Inspect the prison. When he saw the political prisoners picking oakum in
the same tenement and in one another's company, he was, of course, put out by it He
passed severe strictures upon local officers for ordering things in this manner These men,
he said, were not ordinary criminals-the thieves, the robbers, the murderers, the dacoits
and others of that fry. They were entirely submissive and, therefore, praise- worthy men.
But political prisoners! They are the worst prisoners in the world and they must be treated
in this prison in a way that will break their spirit and completely demoralise them This
high policy the official from Calcutta had Impressed thoroughly on the mind of the rude,
matter-of-fact, soldierly Officers prison-life for today.
The Oil-Mill
And everything changed since that time in this prison. A new era had begun. The
political prisoners were split up, and put in different crawls, and one in each cell of that
shawl If their talk with another excited the slightest suspicion, handcuffs were put on
them, and they were subjected to all kinds of punishment. On the tank for a bath or in a
row for their meal, if they merely signed to one another to Inquire after health, the
sentence for that infringement was to keep a man standing with handcuffs on, for seven
days. And to crown it all, the sentence of picking oakum was substituted by work round
the grinding oil mall. Yes, they had determined to break our spirit and to demoralise us.
So they gave us that hard work to do for two months continuously, then one month on
picking oakum, again the grinding work on the mall. We were to be yoked like animals to
the handle that turned the wheel. Hardly out of bed, we were ordered to wear a strap of
cloth, were shut up in our cells and made to turn the wheel of the oil-mill Coconut pieces
were put in the empty and hollow space to be crushed by the wheel passing over them,
and its turning became heavier as the space was fuller. Twenty turns of the wheel were
enough to drain away the strength of the strongest cooly and the worst, brawny badmash.
No dacoit past twenty was put on that work. But the poor political prisoner was fit to do it
at any age. And the doctor in charge ever certified that he could do it! It was the medical
science of the Andamans that had upheld the doctor ! So the poor creature had to go half
the round of the wheel by pushing the handle with his hands, and the other half was

completed by hanging on to it with all his might. So much physical strength had to be
expended on crushing the coconut pieces for oil. Youths of twenty or more, who in their
lives had not done any physical labour, were put upon that labour. They were all educated
young men of delicate constitution. From six to ten in the morning they were yoked to the
wheel which they turned round and round till their breath had become heavy. Some of
them had fainted many tames during the process. They had to sit down for sheer
exhaustion and helplessness. Ordinarily all work had to be stopped between ten and
twelve. But this 'Kolu' as the oil-mill labour was called, had to continue throughout. The
door was opened only when meal was announced The man came in, and served the meal
in the pan and went away and the door was shut. If after washing his hands one were to
wipe away the perspiration on his body, the Jamadar-the worst of gangsters in the whole
lot-would go at him with loud abuse. There was no water for washing hands. Drinking
water was to be had only by propitiating the Jamadar. While you were at Kola, you felt
very thirsty. The waterman gave no water except for a consideration which was to palm
off to him some tobacco in exchange. If one spoke to the Jamadar his retort was, "A
prisoner is given only two cups of water and you have already consulted three. Whence
can I bring you more water? From your father?" We have put down the retort of the
Jamadar in the decent language possible. If water could not be had for wash and drink,
what can be said of water for bathing?

Must finish your quota

What of bath? Even of our usual meal it was the same story. The dinner being
served, the door of the prison-cell was locked; and the Jamadar was upon us to see, not if
we had dined well, but if we had not already begun our round of the grinding oil-mill !
He paraded through the shawl, halting before each room and announcing to its inmates in
bad and threatening words that, come what may, the usual quota had to be completed by
evening. He added that otherwise the prisoner would get a sound thrashing from him and
some additional punishment from his superior. When we heard this shouting, while we
were just at our meat, the morsel in our hand would not go down, and we had to stop
eating all at once. For every one of us had seen how a man who had failed to do his quota
had a belabouring of kicks and fisticuffs from the august Jamadar, in addition to his
bludgeoning him with the stick. The anticipation of this terror took away all appetite,
though we were, all of us, indeed, very hungry. We got up, and began our work of
pushing the handle and going round the mill like a yoked buffalo, with perspiration
dripping down from our face, and its beads falling into the dish we were carrying in the
other hand. I have seen prisoners working in this pitiable condition-swallowing, anyhow,
the food in their plate, and running round the mill at the same time. The claims of hunger
could not be put off while the demand of labour was equally excruciating. The work of
the 'Kolu' had to be carried on in this condition till five o'clock in the evening with the
hurried meal preceding it, the mode whereof I have already described. Out of a hundred,
only one with a callous body could hardly complete his dally quota of thirty pounds of
cocoanut oil. The rest took two days, at the least, to crush so much oil out of dried
coconut pulp. The novitiates, the simpletons, the Inexperienced, and the honest were the
greatest sufferers in the process. They always got the severest beating from the Jamadar,

when they poured out before him the quantity of oil they had crushed from the substance;
and they went back to their cells with tears in their eyes and groaning with pain. I see
their weeping faces vividly even to this day!
The 'Kolu' work at night
In spite of this, if any day none of them could finish the quota allotted to them for
the day, Mr. Barrie would come upon the scene, when they were all sitting down for their
expected evening meal, and announce to the assembly that there would be no grab for
them, as they had not done the work; and none would get anything to eat till he had
finished his quota. Imagine a prisoner rising with the day; beginning his work at six;
tolling at it till eleven; and continuing it without rest till 5 o'clock in the evening; with the
morning meal half-finished and hurriedly gulped down or hardly eaten at all; and you will
realise the cruelty and injustice of this punishment, if you can at all picture it to yourself.
For it beggared description. Some forty or fifty persons could not go through their work
with all their will to finish it. But Mr. Barrie would not realise the hardship and the
harshness of the imposition He would bring his chair in the shawl, sit upon it, and would
see the slackers, as he imagined these fifty helpless creatures to be, going on with their
work far into the night. The rest of the prison was, of course, closed for work at night,
and no one dared report against Mr. Barrie that this part of the Chawl was being treated at
night to this grinding piece of work. If any one dared he was sure to be falsely charged
for some offence and put to trouble. Everywhere was the stillness of night; but here the
mill creaked on till 8 or 9 P. M. In the meanwhile, Mr. Barrie dozed in his chair; woke up
at intervals, his mouth full of abuse, and cursing the labourers that they had not yet
finished their day's work." Woe be to them", he would exclaim, "punish them now; do not
reserve it for the morrow; cane them, Jamadar, within an inch of their lives; the
scoundrels are idlers they are slackers, no mercy on them." And presently he would doze
again and snore.
Pretext of ailment
None was spared, among political prisoners, from the rack of that Inhuman toil.
Most of them were unaccustomed to any kind of physical labour; the best part of them
were college youths; some had not turned sixteen or seventeen; they were tender in age
and body. But they were forced, for months on end, to do this grinding work-Kolu. Their
tortures knew no bounds. Among them many had fallen ill, and preferred death to this
work. As they became worse, they were declared to be feigning illness. If their bodies
burned with high fever, they were shut in their own cells and were never taken for
treatment to the prisoner hospital, for they were all "honourable men"- political prisoners
! The thief, the dacoit, the cut-throat had his bed in the prison hospital but not the poor
political prisoner! That was the ethics of prison-life at Port Blair ! Fever, motion,
vomiting were obvious diseases. But not so, head-ache, heart-ache, stomach-ache and
heavy breathing! If political prisoners showed such symptoms, then the diagnosis was

invariably that they were feigning! And the reason given was-they were shirkers. The
most hardened of convicts in this prison knew drugs that would make them vomit, pass
motions, and even to burn with high fever. And they would use them cleverly when they
desired a transfer from the prison-bed to the hospital-cot; no doubt about their feigning in
order to avoid work. But if the prisoners preferred 103 to 104 degrees of high temperature
to their work on the oil mall, then the fault was not of the prisoner but of the inhuman
torture that was such work. And to such racking toil was a political prisoner yoked as
soon as he had crossed into the prison ! And worse stall, if he really fell ill as the effect
of his work, he was sent mercilessly back to it with the reason that he was only feigning
it. To such kind of soul- racking labour was my elder brother yoked. And he was the first
to be yoked to it, because he belonged to the first batch of political prisoners transported
to the Andamans.
An experiment to tame him
My brother was suffering from hemicrany as a chronic complaint even while he
was free. The hardships of prison-life, physical and mental, with the added work of the
grinding mill, had not subdued him, but had made him fierce and fearless. Not a word
had escaped his lips about his fellow-prisoners, no piece of Information could thus be
wrung out of him, and he never prayed for any leniency from the authorities. That was
why Mr. Barrie was persistent in his efforts to 'convert' him, though he had no scruples to
treat all political prisoners as if they were animals in his menagerie. In this plight and as a
result of Mr. Barrie's coaxings, one day the hemicrany came down upon him with a
vengeance. As the day went up with my brother's work round the grinding mall, his
headache also pursued him with an increasing pain. He could not bear the heat of the sun,
and yet the sweating work had to be carried on, for the Jamadar was ever behind him
shouting "Crush, crush, grand on at the oil- mill, don't relax; for I know nothing but to get
the work done. Go on." Overborne by this, my brother petitioned to the Superintendent
on his rounds that he was suffering from a severe attack of hemicrany. The
Superintendent said that it was not his business to attend to him, and the doctor should be
sent for. The doctor was an Indian and would say, when he did not find the patient
suffering from fever, that there was nothing wrong with him. He directed that the patient
should be referred to the jailor. The thermometer, of course, did not register fever. And
there was no other test there to detect hemicrany. Hence it must be feigning, especially so
with a political prisoner like Ganesh Savarkar.
I alone can say who is ill
The doctor realised the untruth of his statement. But he was more afraid of Mr.
Barrie than of lying. For he knew that the former would constantly goad him in these
words:-"Doctor, you know but too well that you are a Hindu and these political prisoners
are Hindus. There is no knowing when they will let you down. If any one sees you
talking to them without my permission, he may report you to the authorities. So, please,