This story is
fictionalized from an anecdote of Moreshwar Damle from the book Savarkar Smruti (Memories of Savarkar); Lakshmi Process Studio, Kolhapur; pages 5-6.
Patent
Patriotism
In
1925 the Government had permitted Savarkar to live at the Damle residence in
Shirgaon as there was an outbreak of the plague in Ratnagiri city. The Damle
family was very honored and happy to be of service to so great a man, but it
was not without its problems!
Savarkar was never one to rest and take
it easy. He believed that everyone should do something—be it big or small—for
the country. That was patriotism. He certainly considered spreading literacy to be very
patriotic. Being Savarkar, he had roped the four Damle teenage boys into
teaching the basics of the language to their four illiterate servants every
night after dinner. Both, the teachers and their pupils were quite aghast and
frequently kicked up a fuss—but were no match for Savarkar’s determination!
This night the servants were
particularly tired. They had done a lot of heavy lifting cleaning out and
rearranging the sheds. Squinting at the slate and making sense of the squiggles
on it was the last thing on their mind. They were all, servants and the boys,
gathered in the yard behind the kitchen.
“Moroba, not tonight—no,” said Bhiku. “Tonight
I am too, too tired.”
“It won’t do, Bhiku,” Moroba said. “I
would much rather sleep myself, but . . .”
“Arre
baba, what is this life! After all that extra work we did today, you still want
to beat some knowledge into our brains?”
“Tchhe!
You think I don’t have better things to do?”
“Well, then?”
“Let me
thi-i-i-ink . . .” said Moroba pensively, scratching his head.
“We have to give some excuse to Tatya!”
“Arre
O,” cried Khandu, “this is no time to think. Let us just rush off to sleep
before he finds us. He won’t wake us up, surely?”
“I’m not so sure he won’t!” said
Gajanan. “But good idea! Let’s go.”
And they dashed off. Hardly had they
gone a few feet when the boys heard their mother calling out to them. “Poranno, Tatya is looking for you! Where
are you?”
“We’ll be right there!” yelled Moroba.
He clapped a hand to his forehead. “That’s torn it! C’mon, Khandu, Bhiku, Babu,
Mahadev, grab your slates and pencils. We’ll get the books.”
“Oh ho ho-o-o! Rama, Shiva, Govinda re-e-e-e!” they chorused sadly.
A few minutes later teachers and pupils
were gathered on the front veranda. Savarkar was already there, checking his
watch. “You are all late today. Let us not waste any more time.”
The four servants sent an appealing
glance at the boys. Narayan, the youngest, braved a last ditch attempt. “Tatya . . .”
“Yes, Narayan, what is it?”
“Today the servants are very tired . . .”
“And how about you?” asked Savarkar.
“Me too, Tatya, and . . .
and . . .”
“Go on.” Savarkar said calmly.
“Well, we are all fed up of this daily
chore! The servants and us, too”
“Hmm!” said Savarkar, taking a quick
turn up and down the veranda. “Okay, put your slates aside for a bit and sit
down.”
Everyone complied with great alacrity.
It seemed they were going to escape, and very lightly at that!
“So you are all tired and fed up,” said
Savarkar. “Tell me, do you think the patriots locked up in the Cellular Jail
had the luxury of saying so?”
Everyone shook their head silently.
“It was their patriotism, their
participation in the freedom struggle that brought them to that horrendous
fate. Let me tell you the fate of some.” Savarkar gazed into the distance, his
face deadpan. “Chatar Singh was kept in a small cage—just like an animal. It
was hardly big enough to lie down in and barely three feet high. He lived like
that for two years plus.”
Everyone was horrified.
“Ullaskar Dutt lost his mind. He was
such a bright cheerful man, so talented. Young Parmanand was whipped bloody
with twenty lashes. Bhan Singh was beaten until he vomited blood. There were
days when at least one or the other was dying—from untreated sickness, from
hunger, from flooded lungs after a forceful feeding, from being beaten. The
days were dark and darker.”
There was a pin drop silence. Only the
chirruping of the crickets rang out deafeningly.
“And yet—yet did anyone complain and sit around twiddling their thumbs? No!”
Savarkar looked intently at them, one by one. “We spread the love of Hindustan,
secretly of course! We even started a learning center; Nalanda University we
used to call it. So many convicts learned to read and write, sometimes in
two-three languages. . . . They didn’t get fed up. Learning and
knowledge are very important.”
There was a restless shuffling of feet.
“Even in the inhuman conditions of
Andaman we achieved so much; what can we not achieve here? Should we let a
little inconvenience come in our way? Can we not exert ourselves a little for
our Mother India? Is it really that much of a hardship for you all to give up
some time to teach and learn? Is it a chore, and a boring one at that?”
“No, no, Tatya,” they said in one voice,
much abashed. “We’ll not complain again, never.”
Teachers and pupils grabbed their books
and pencils and got to work. They had never thought of it like that. However
had Tatya survived it all—and still remained so full of vigor to work for
Hindustan!
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