Hi, Everyone! As a
tribute to Babarao (Ganesh) Savarkar (June 13, 1879 – March 16, 1945) on his
birth anniversary, I am posting an excerpt on him—one of the scenes I utterly
enjoyed writing—from my novel on Savarkar Burning
for Freedom:
“We
work with him on the freedom plan and make sure the rights of the Hindus are
not sacrificed, then.” Babarao checked his watch. “Oh well, let us wait and
see! The older kids must be home from school now. I am going to take them all,
even little Chapala, to the beach. Baby Nima is only a few weeks old—it will
give Vahini a break.”
The
little troop headed for the beach. Just as they were about to turn into the
beach lane, they heard shouts: “Babarao! Babarao!”
They
stopped, surprised. Two figures were coming toward them practically at a run.
“Mohite!
Namaskar,” said Babarao.
“Ah
… Babarao … ah … namaskar!”
Mohite,
of a plump figure, was somewhat out of breath with the short sprint. “We just
missed you at the house. My friend here, Kambli, wanted to speak to you.”
“Well,
let us get to the beach first, shall we? The children can play as we talk.”
At
the beach, Babarao warned the children to stay close and away from the water.
The currents didn’t make it safe to go in.
“Babarao,”
said Ashok, “we will build Shivaji’s fort!”
Babarao
beamed. “That’s my boy! Go for it.”
The
older boys scavenged for some coconut shells to dig with. Prabhat watched over
the little ones; no easy job, what with the twinkle-toed Harsh and the ‘I love
to eat sand’ Chapala! Babarao settled down on a rock outcropping as the kids
began the serious work of building a fort.
“Now,
Kambli, what is it you want to talk about?”
Kambli
was obviously a Congress member—wearing khadi and sporting the oval cap
popularly known as the ‘Gandhi topi,’ a Congress member uniform.
“Well,
Babarao … well …,” he said, smoothing his clipped mustache nervously. Unlike
Tatyarao, who was soft-spoken and in control, Babarao was known to be
excitable. His grip on the stick looked a little ominous—not, of course, that
there was ever a time when he had used it on anyone. But he wouldn’t like today
to be the first time! How stern Babarao looked; those sharp, deep-set eyes and
thick eyebrows—quite ferocious!
Babarao
banged his stick in the sand. “Kambli! We don’t have all day! Get on with it!”
Kambli
came to with a start. “Babarao … I don’t think it behooves you to call the
Mahatma a traitor.”
Babarao’s
eyebrows snapped together; a wave of anger rushed to his head. He strove to
master it. It wasn’t the first time anyone had said this to him, and it won’t
be the last! Kambli stepped back two paces.
“I
don’t say it without proof, Kambli! You have read Karandikar’s articles on the
Gandhi-Muslim conspiracy?”
“Yes,
yes I have.”
“Oh,
you are a doubter then, are you?”
Babarao
jumped up, groped in his jacket pocket, and whipped out a piece of paper.
“Here, read this. I keep it in my pocket just for people like you. You will at
least believe the evidence of your eyes, won’t you?”
“We-e-ell,”
Kambli opened his mouth to argue.
Babarao
rustled the paper impatiently. Prudently, Kambli took it. That paper was a
cutout of an article written by Swami Shraddhananda, a religious Hindu leader.
In the months before he was murdered, he had written a spate of articles
exposing the shenanigans of Congress. One of the articles was particularly
noteworthy. The Swami had met Maulana Mohammad Ali, leader of the Khilafat
Movement, Gandhi’s bosom buddy. Mohammad Ali mentioned to him a plan they had
been hatching to get King Amanullah of Afghanistan to invade India and
overthrow the British. That the Muslim hordes from the north should subjugate
Hindustan would be the very worst fate. The Swami was horrified, but there was
more. As proof, Mohammad Ali showed him a draft of the telegram that had been
sent to the King. To the Swami’s horror, he recognized the writing to be the
distinctive writing of Gandhi …!
Mahatma
of the Indians secretly betraying India to the age-old enemy, Afghanistan …!
The Mahatma, who swore against secrecy, publicly reviled the revolutionaries
for their secret operations, himself plotting and scheming, not for the freedom
of his country, but to deliver her into more monstrous hands than the British …!
Swami
Shraddhananda saw fit to publicize this atrocity in an article.
“Ye-e-s,”
Kambli was saying, still looking at the paper, “indeed, I have to believe my
eyes”—he looked up straight into Babarao’s eyes—“even so, you are unwise to say
such things about the Mahatma. He is the uncrowned King of India. Are you not
afraid of being entrapped and thrown into jail, of being sent to the gallows?”
Babarao
laughed sarcastically. “I have been down that road with the British—and without
fear. All the might of the British didn’t divert me from my cause, from truth
and justice—you think fear of the Mahatma will do the trick? Ha!”
This
squashed Kambli; he and Mohite took their leave. Babarao took a deep breath to
calm himself. The kids were getting a bit tired too.
“Who
wants to hear the stories of our great kings?”
“Me!”
cried everyone.
Little
Chapala climbed on to his lap. His pristine clothes were all sandy now, but he
didn’t mind. They spent a pleasant hour. The kids listened raptly. Babarao
always had wonderful stories and never tired of recounting them. Stern
taskmaster he undoubtedly was; everything had to be just so! But when it came
to kids his heart was mush.
* * *
Author, Burning for Freedom, a novel on Savarkar
www.anurupacinar.com
