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

say is correct. For when the Mahatma is seen standing outside the prison wall and near its gate, it is precisely the time when he is released after running his sentence. He thinks of coming out and showing himself on the day when the Government lets him out of the prison. A young Chinaman was later put in a cell near my own on the charge of selling cocaine. He danced, sang and frolicked for he imagined that within two days he was to be free. I had not the good fortune like him of cherishing that hope. Does a shot wound you? The Chinaman knew the name of Sun-Yat-Sen. As I talked to him I knew that he was not unfamiliar with my name. He could not believe his eyes when I told him that I was that Savarkar of whom he had heard. How could a big man be contained in the ordinary cell of a prison! His idea of a big man was that he must be a man of abnormal size. Ordinary people have always similar notions of greatness and when they see that the great man before them does not come up to their notion of him, they are often shocked and disillusioned. So the Chinaman put me the question, "Does a gun-shot pierce your body?" I answered, "No doubt, it will." And a deep disappointment was visible on his face. Another sepoy asked me, "How many days and nights were you swimming in the sea?" Of course he meant at Marseilles. I answered, "What of days and nights? I swam only for ten minutes before I reached the shore across." This reply gave a rude shock to his admiration for me, and to the miraculous powers he attributed to me. If I had bragged and lied to him, he would not have received any shock, but the barest truth that I told him seemed to put him out. My habit of reporting correctly what happened at Marseilles had lost me many friendships in life and their reverence for me. Within a week I was despatched from Calcutta elsewhere. I did not know to what prison I was being taken. In the train I had the same experience that I had on my way from the Silver Jail to Port Blair. People used to put in my compartment fruit and newspapers from station to station and quietly went away. Sometime they would gather in large crowds to have a look at me. From the scenes I witnessed as I passed through, I could not help thinking that the news of my departure from Calcutta must have been communicated abroad by wire. As our train reached Nagpur and beyond, I saw newspapers with big headlines announcing my release from the Andamans and expressing their joy for the event. I also saw leaders and articles written upon it. A person sitting on a bench behind me in the same compartment had held a newspaper open and was reading it. He held it deliberately in a manner that I may also be able to see it. The writing was in Marathi and the Anglo-Indian officer in charge could not make any head or tail of the writing. The impression gathered from what I read in the newspaper was

that the report indicated that I would be released within a week. But I knew how the matter stood at the time. The gentleman in question was travelling by the same compartment out of deep sympathy for me, and helped me the best he could, without being noticed by the officer-in-charge. He read the news items aloud that I could follow him. The Anglo-Indian officers in charge gave me no trouble on the way and at last I reached Bombay. Our train reached Nasik at night, as I learnt from the words 'Nasik', 'Nasik' falling upon my ears. The shutters of my compartment had already been let down and I was seated in the centre between officers on either side. In the next compartment some passengers from Nasik got in. Twelve years had passed since I had left Nasik and now I was passing it in a train! A new generation had grown up during the interval, and who was there that could know and recognise me after such a long interval? And yet the word 'Nasik' itself raised such a flood-tide of thoughts in my mind. So many send-offs and entertainments on that very station; journeys to college and back, and packets of fried grains mixed together; water-melons, faces of friends lit up with joy, friends who had come on the station to see me off to England, and their tears of leave-taking; their cries of "Victory to the Goddess of Freedom"; and now their transformation into prisoners in fetters; and some of them sent to the gallows,—these pictures passed rapidly before my mind not unlike the moving pictures of today in a cinematograph. In Bombay I was put straightaway on a steamer. At the end of the voyage, I was again locked up in jail at about ten o'clock at night. This was no other than The jail at Ratnagiri. I can no more describe in detail and one after another my experiences in the jail at Ratnagiri. Circumstances prevent me from doing it. The main reason for my reticence is that they are very recent matters and concern a jail in our own province. I shall finish the whole by stating what I have to say about the matter in the briefest outline. The first two or three weeks in the jail at Ratnagiri passed away very badly for me. In the Andamans during my last days I was given well-cooked food and milk along with it which had helped to improve considerably my digestion and my general constitution. I was just looking up and had recovered from serious illness, when, sent to Ratnagiri jail, milk was denied to me, even in the small quantity that was allowed to me in the Andamans. And I had to fall back once again upon the usual ration of prison-life which was hard and ill-baked bread. This bad food had brought on continual illness to me for two years in the Andamans, and I was almost dying. The most experienced doctors had therefore prescribed for me milk and well-cooked food, as I have already told my reader in a previous chapter. But now my representation proved of no avail.

To add to my misery, I was kept here all alone, segregated from other prisoners and locked up in the solitary cell assigned to me. All the concessions granted to me after twelve years of imprisonment at Port Blair were now withdrawn. They had given me in the Silver Jail at the end of that period full clothing, freedom from hard labour, mere writing work to do, paper and pencil to write with, and liberty to mix with others. Here I was made to wear the prison uniform which was given me on the first day of my sentence; I had on my chest the iron plate marking the year of the completion of my sentence—1960—, and I was put in solitary confinement. This change from the Andamans to Ratnagiri was so unbearable to me, as I felt that I was made to start running my sentence from its very first day. Again, I could get no news here of my elder brother. Methought that he must have been passing through the same ordeal as I. My condition here made me remember my friends in the Andamans with greater poignancy. The work given me was that of cotton- spinning. Not being habituated to it, I could not finish it in time. I was not allowed to read and I found time dull and heavy. The last impulse of suicide You may wonder, 0 Reader, but every moment in this prison was an agony of mind. For twelve long years—nay, since the time I went to England —life had been for me a series of unexpected, unendurable mishaps and dangers, a continuous torture to my body and soul, with the result that my mind had been stretched on a rack all the time, and my nerves were completely shattered. And this new and additional strain on them was like the proverbial straw. I feared that it would end in utter collapse. One day I felt so dejected that my second thoughts could not come to my rescue. How long should I bear such life? What was the use of such a life? It was no use rotting thus now. Suddenly in this mood of mind I got up. High up in that cell was a barred window as in the jail of the Andamans. I thought out in my mind how to reach my hand to that window and how to put an end to my life by hanging myself by a rope to its bars. The thread of my life was to be snapped by straining it from the bars of the window above my head. The cord tied to the one was to break the thread tied to the other. My mind was overcast with complete darkness. And every moment that passed deepened the gloom and added to the darkness. I am writing these pages in imprisonment at Ratnagiri. Only within call from that place is the jail where I experienced the most tragic moment of my life, very similar to one or two experiences during my fourteen years' stay in the Andamans. This was the last and the darkest of these moments. But it was day when this last fit came upon me. And I had to wait for the night to act accordingly . And during the interval, I gradually recovered the usual balance of my mind. I argued with myself as follows, "In the Andamans, from Indu Bhushan to

Professor Parmanand, you had dissuaded several of the Bengali, the Punjabi and the Sikh political convicts, who had suffered as many agonies as you do now, from committing suicide. For the same reason you must desist today from putting an end to your own life. According to your own precept, you must exact cent per cent compensation for such an act. You must at least kill one enemy of the country as an exchange for parting with your own life. But is it possible now for you to act up to that precept? The night came and. I spent the whole of it in reviewing my whole life and its outcome. I was completely absorbed in that task. I scanned minutely with as much detachment and concentration of mind as was possible for me, the steps I had taken one by one towards reaching the supreme ideal of my life, and other minor goals subservient to it, and dictated by particular circumstances through which I had to pass. I definitely visualised my duty in relation to them, and I outlined the course I was to follow in the light of that duty. I must bear it all Therefore, I decided to suffer all, to endure all as a supreme national duty in the situation of the moment. I was also to continue doing what little I could, while bearing all that I could not possibly avoid. What cannot be cured must be endured. That was my final resolve. From the following day, I took up the thread of the poem that I had begun in similar conditions of loneliness years ago, and I planned the writing of the story of my life from the day of my arrest in England down to my removal to Ratnagiri. I brought together all its threads in my mind and working-out its outline in my mind, I divided it into parts and chapters and headings and committed the facts, recalling them one by one, to memory as if I was immediately putting them down on paper. I repeated the process page by page, concentrating my mind fully on the events as I recalled them. I, then, recorded them, with a piece of pointed brick, on the walls and stones of my prison- house using all my leisure from my usual work for that purpose, and according to the opportunity I got for executing the task. These jottings of the principal topics in my story occupied me for successive months, and I accomplished the work full of zest and earnestness. This work is the outcome of that task Those writings on the wall and those jottings from memory have given birth to these printed pages. During the three months that I was busy with the task a great change came about in my circumstances. I got better food to eat. The Calcutta weekly 'The, Capital' had written an article connecting my name with the German plot of the submarine Emden. My brother having threatened the Paper with prosecution, it

apologised and withdrew its statement. This affair laster for a few days since my arrival at Ratnagiri, and I also received parcels sent to me by members of my family. The trouble of the Khilafat Some convicts from Sindh and other parts of the country, involved in the Non cooperation movement and the Khilafat agitation, both Hindus and Mussulmans, came to the Ratnagiri jail soon after my arrival there. Their notions of the Khilafat movement, of Hindu-Muslim Unity and of politics in general struck me as vitiated and eccentric. And I had to carry on endless discussion with them on these topics and vigorously attack their misconceptions. A few days after, I arranged in that jail for talks and for weekly lectures and meetings on the line I had followed in the Andamans. We were together at Ratnagiri for a year and a half. When I happened to meet them for the first time, I happened to hear one of them shouting that "the Mussulmans had not done the atrocities in Malabar that were being fathered upon them." Another friend echoed loudly that "it did not matter in the least if they had done them; whatever had happened should be treated as dead past; Hindus may convert themselves to Islam; what mattered most was Swaraj and it must be won." There was no end to the perversion of the definitions of truth and non-violence among them. I may narrate here an episode of a political convict in this prison as a specimen of the mentality of almost all the non-cooperating and the Khilafatist patriots I came across in this jail during that time. The confusion of Gandhism We used the devices that we had employed in the Andamans to get at news in the jail at Ratnagiri. We could thus procure scraps of newspaper from outside carried to us through dust bins or by prisoners sent on work outside the prison. My friends among the non-cooperators often used to read these scraps as I read them also. Twice or thrice some of them were found reading them while moving about in the open court-yard. One of us warned them against this practice, as we were forbidden to read newspapers in prison, and if noticed by officers., our secret would be out, and all means of getting them would be instantly stopped. To this a non-cooperator replied, "Do you mean to say that I should read this in secret? I am a non-cooperator. Whatever is done secretly is against the doctrine of truth and I will not do it." We did not argue the matter with him. We only stopped giving him any scrap of paper to read. He was in rage with us. And he told us that he would report the matter the next day to the officer, telling him that they were smuggling newspapers in the jail in the same manner that some prisoners were smuggling tobacco. To hide a fact was sin, which no non-cooperator, as a follower of truth, would commit. We told him that he knew when he was reading those scraps that he got them from a secret source. Why did he read them then if he felt that it went against his concep-

tion of truth? Why did he not say he should have nothing to do with such a course? And was it not a betrayal of confidence on his part to tell the officer the name of the prisoner who had rendered that service to him? If this were truth, then Narendra Goshen must be worshipped by him as a sincere non-cooperator. No doubt the man was taken aback by this counterargument. He did not act as he had threatened. But he kept on maintaining that getting news in a secret manner was a sin, that founders of secret societies like Mazzini were all sinners. He asserted that whatever a non-cooperator did, he did openly, and there was no secrecy or cowardice behind his single action. He went about spinning long yarns on the subject. One day, in order to make a fun of him, we adopted a plan just when we were dining together. The gentleman in question always managed to eat a 'Chapati' by flattering the cook in charge, while all of us were being served at dinner with rice. On the day in question, while the gentleman was eating his 'Chapati' as usual, one of us raised an alarm that the Superintendent was coming. The man instantly concealed the 'Chapati' under a dinner plate near him and began quietly eating his rice. There was a roar of laughter raised around him, and all began cross-questioning him. "0, fellow, is it not a sin to conceal the 'Chapati' as you have done it? Is it following truth, according to your article of the creed, to eat the 'Chapati' stealthily?" Another answered on his behalf, of course, ironically, "A non-cooperator lover of truth does not regard it as a violation to eat a small 'Chapati' even stealthily, to feed his stomach. For that is an act of necessity, while your getting news surreptitiously and reading it is violation of truth as harmful to the national cause. "Surely it is no cowardice to eat forbidden food in order to live; that is not a lie or an evil act. To lie for the sake of a nation is, surely enough, an unpardonable sin, and an act of down-right cowardice." I would not have referred to the story if it were an isolated and exceptional incident. But I found this attitude but too common among the non-cooperators and Khilafatists I met in this jail. Hence I found it worthwhile to mention it in this narrative. That they may take in correctly the situation in Malabar I spoke to them in several lectures on that momentous topic, dealing at large with the whole history of the question. Our friends in that prison were dead against my Sanghatan movement. I convinced them of their inconsistent attitude in the light of the unity they were working after. For the larger unity was impossible so long as we were weak and divided among ourselves as Hindus. As to discussion on politics there was no end to it here.

The Shuddhi Movement at Ratnagiri Before long I discovered in the jail at Ratnagiri that the Pathan and the Muslim convicts sent there from Bombay were practising the same methods of converting the Hindu juvenile offenders to Islam that were current in the Andamans. The officers of the prison had no inkling about the matter. As I knew their ways and means of doing this business I at once forestalled it. I started the Shuddhi movement to reclaim such converts for Hinduism. Two old prisoners from U. P. and some juveniles I reconverted into Hindus. I gave all the monetary help they needed. In course of time a high dispute arose over the matter. The controversy was carried up to the Superintendent of the jail. There were at the time too many Muslim prisoners in the jail including Pathans and Sindhis. They made things hot for the Maratha warders and their superior officers. I had to join battle with them. Some of them were my immediate neighbours in that jail and they threatened to give me a sound thrashing. I give here one instance in point, to show how they harassed me. Some of them started proclaiming "Bang" at dawn just to annoy their Hindu brethren. All of them were worse characters and notorious thieves and robbers, and they never did their Namaz and never uttered the name of Allah. Yet they shouted out early in the morning inviting Muslims for prayer and disturbed the sleep of the rest of us. It became a great nuisance and when the Superintendent remonstrated with them they pleaded that it was a matter of religion and he dare not object to it. The superior officers could do nothing to stop them. Then I tried my own remedy against the nuisance. I took in hand two of the worst Hindu convicts, the ring-leaders of dacoits and thieves in that jail. One of them had passed his whole life there. Four or five times he had been heavily sentenced on charges of theft and had at last come to regard this prison as his home. He had lost his one tooth and was advanced in age. I tutored him to utter the name of Ram with a loud voice so soon as the Muslims began to cry "Bang". He sang couplets from Tulsidas and in uttering Ramanama, raised his voice louder than the Muslims. The warders would rebuke him sternly when I would intervene and say, "why should you object to his prayer? Either stop all of them or let every one be free to pray as he likes." If a Mussulman prisoner was found doing his Namaz at night, the Hindu followed suit with his Bhajan. The Mussulmans were full of fury but they were helpless to prevent us. As they disturbed the sleep of the Hindus, the Hindus paid them back in their own coin. So the whole dispute ended by itself. One nuisance cancelled the other. What punishment could not stop, counter-goondaism had silenced. I silenced a Khilafatist editor-prisoner by a similar counter-move. He used to touch water for the Hindus on the plea that Muslims were as much human beings as they. I entirely agreed with him on the point and I called upon an untouchable and scavenger to dip his pot and take water from a vessel of water for the Muslims. And the Khilafatist who was preaching broad humanitarian principles at once went at the untouchable and would not touch the water as being unholy for the Namaz. When I had exposed them two or three times they quietly took their water from a Hindu water-carrier and stopped touching the water reserved for the Hindus.

Riot in the Ratnagiri Jail During this period a great quarrel arose between the insolent Pathans and the cunning Sindhi Mussulmans on the one side, and the Jail Superintendent on the other. The point in dispute was about the strict enforcement of prison-discipline. And the matter came to such a pass that these goondas decided to break into a riot to checkmate the Superintendent. In the riot they had conspired to beat all the Hindu prisoners in the jail, including the sepoys, the warders and the political convicts like us who were leaders of Sanghatan in that jail. One day after our usual meal was over, the Mussulmans suddenly kicked up a row and began attacking the Hindus. Having already warned the Hindus beforehand against this onslaught, they were ready to meet it though it had come on sudden. Some Hindu warders got a beating to the point of bleeding, but the Mussulman goondas did not go unscathed. They also got their share of sound hammering. They began to leave out and to flourish their sticks and fisticuffs, and in order to attack us sought to force their way inside the chawls. I stood ready near my room to meet them and all along incited the Hindu prisoners to take the offensive against them. In the meanwhile, somebody sounded the alarm-bell. A regular fight ensued between the two sides along with the usual cries to accompany it. The Superintendent came on the scene followed by a posse of soldiers. He threatened to give order for shooting. The Mussulman goondas were in a fright. They were all rounded up. Most of them had received sound thrashing from the Hindus and were bathed in blood. Prosecutions were launched, trials followed, and the rioters were duly punished. The Hindu warders who had saved their fellow- prisoners and themselves from the attack and had fought on the side of law and order, received their due meed of praise. This incident and its sequel made those who were considering me an outcast because I was the leader of the Shuddhi movement, converts to that movement. And soon we succeeded in converting a Mussulman to Hindu faith. Of course, for this sacrilege, the Mussulmans dragged me into a suit. After the usual argument and counter-argument, the court decided against forcible conversions on either side. Thus ended the Mussulman's game of converting Hindu lads to their faith. I was always on my guard against those who had designed against my life. The prisoners who had before this worked for the Khilafat movement as its partisans and had subscribed freely to its funds, now became champions of the Shuddhi and the Sanghatan movements. Their eyes were opened to the truth of the matter by what they had witnessed with their own eyes in this prison. And as they began at last to examine everything through the insight given them by the Sanghatan movement, their politics changed from non-cooperation into responsive co-operation. Out of this jail and free, they became in their respective provinces staunch supporters of Hindu Sanghatan. As in the Andamans so at Ratnagiri, I went on with my work of instruction for the ordinary prisoners in that jail. Some of these I taught myself. I gave from my own purse prizes and scholarships to encourage them to read good books. The prison library had no books worth the name. I petitioned to the Bombay Government for the sanction of books

and at length succeeded in getting from them a grant of five hundred rupees for the purchase of books for the library. I made a list of books, and I sent the list through the Superintendent for approval by the educational department of the Government. And after the list was approved of by that body, the books were at once purchased and kept in the library. The prisoners developed great fondness for reading them so that during the course of a year and a half the Superintendent had to make a special mention of it in his report as the main cause of the remarkable decline in that jail of the propensity of the prisoners to quarrel, fight and come to blows.

A public holiday for the Muslims on the day of Id, was marked in the jail by the permission to them for general prayer. The prayer was led on such an occasion by a Moulvi from outside. The Christian prisoners had a similar privilege on their great holidays. Only the Hindus were without this right. The political convicts therefore petitioned to the authorities that the Hindu prisoners be granted a similar concession to celebrate their public holidays. The Government granted the permission asked for, and we decided to celebrate the Gokulashtami day as a great Hindu holiday. We fixed upon holding a Kirtan that day, and the Government did not object to it. They gave us things to eat suitable to the fast that we observed and the Kirtan was done in the jail as a public function.

The practice overthrown

As has been already pointed in another place the manner of sending prisoners to answer the call of nature in prison administration was extremely barbarous and highly objectionable. There was no partition and no door to the latrines arranged in a line, and the prisoners were made to sit down rubbing shoulders with one another. There was no roof overhead either in the rains or in the hot seasons. No water was allowed to be taken into the latrine. All were to get up after the function and to go to a water-tap at a distance to wash and clean their parts. The political prisoners agitated for reform in these matters with the result that this hideousness and dirt disappeared for good and the prisoners began to lead a clean and disciplined life. There was improvement in food and the general mode of living, and order was strictly maintained as laid down by the prison regulations.

One more thing was being carried out in the jail at Ratnagiri. It had remained unfinished in the Andamans. When I knew that I could no longer do any national work I had resolved upon, as the reader may remember, to finish a poem and had begun composing it in my own mind. But as other work grew upon my hands, this project lay in abeyance. At Ratnagiri I resumed the task and completed the poems that I had proposed to write. I gathered together the smaller poems previously composed by me. I wrote longer poems and gave a complete notion of what I meant by 'Hinduism'. Some of the writings I had already despatched home from the Andamans. My brother brought out from these writings complete editions of three poems which were.

Kamala, Saptarshi and Gomantak. These three poems were published anonymously. The fourth was a miscellany of my minor poems which had also gone to the press but it contained so many misprints as I was not on the spot to see it through, and I stopped its publication altogether. The miscellany was entitled 'Virahoswasa", the sighs of separation. I had to withdraw the complete edition of that book from the market. 'Kamala', 'Saptarshi' and 'Mahasagara' were portions of the epic which I had contemplated to write. These survive as independent poems themselves, but the main tree of which they were to be branches is not yet even in the process of creation. It was been so with me—work that is undertaken under duress is often part finished and part destroyed. After the completion of these poems I wrote my work on Hinduism in English which my friend Mr. Kelkar of Nagpur was kind enough to publish. In the early days of my stay in the Ratnagiri jail I was not given a single book to read. After a time I got the works of Ramdas to read. Of these 'Dasabodha', and miscellaneous poems I had already perused in my younger days. But as my edition of Ramdas contained only these, I read them over and over again in the jail. Later on they gave me other books and also writing material so that I could do both reading and writing to my satisfaction. I read many great books from beginning to end during this period, like the life of Prithvirai, Puranas like 'Bhavishya Purana', and Vedic India by Das. One day I casually enquired after the health of my elder brother when I learnt that his condition was serious. My brother after being separated from me at Calcutta was put in the jail at Bijapur. My younger brother had gone to see him, when he was told that he could enter the prison and see his elder brother only if he would change his Khadi garments. My brother, of course, refused to accept the condition as highly insulting to himself. He carried the matter up to the Governor and got it cancelled. My elder brother suffered terribly in the jail at Bijapur. He was confined in a dark, damp and deserted room all by himself. I heard later on that a political convict had been seized with madness in that very jail. The room had a very bad reaction on my brother's mind and he was removed thence to Ahmedabad. Here he suffered less from solitariness, but he received no treatment and nursing for his growing disease. And at last his hardy constitution and his equally strong patience broke down under its terrible inroads. He was then removed from the jail to the prison-hospital. We got information about it through the daring of a political convict in that prison. So my younger brother visited the place and found my brother almost on his death-bed. But his fortitude was remarkable. Nothing could shake it.

When I learnt the news I felt definitely that my elder brother was passing away without being helped, that he was slipping from our hands. Well, all of us were sojour- ners here and all had to leave the place sometime. Life was no better than a halt in a caravansari for a day or two. But my brother was dying inch by inch, having suffered and toiled and wasted himself for others, and there was none beside him at the last hour to put an affectionate dropful of water in his mouth. It was the jail that had admitted him, and it was the jail that was swallowing him up. Alas! methought, it was the enemy that, at long last had done him to death! He did not kill him with one stroke, but by a process of slow torture. These had finished him. I could not contain myself. I could hardly breathe, so overwhelming was the feeling of it all. At that bitter moment, as was the habit with me, I sat up and composed myself. I maintained a quiet frame of mind, and recollected myself. And then I put to myself the question, "Where was the use of all this fretting and storm? My brother dies of hardships imposed upon him by our enemies. He is a victim to the enemies of our country! What help was there now but lamentation over individual loss? Can I avenge myself for it? Nothing but wailing and enquiry! I had made up my mind as soon as I was free to avenge myself on those who had victimised my brother, and then I would celebrate his death anniversary. That would be an example to others to do likewise. I felt calm in my mind after I had taken this solemn vow. The perturbation was gone and I was my former self again. But Baba was released . A few days after this incident, news came that my brother had been let off from the prison. I was full of joy at the news. He got his discharge but had to be brought home in a senseless condition. But that was of no account, methought; the Government had at last saved the expenses over his funeral, by setting him free. And the members shall have at least the consolation of paying for it when he dies in the midst of them. Because that was also a matter of doubt. Hence his release was better than his death in that jail, any way. It was not release only. It was a rebirth for him from death-in-life in the prison. By the grace of God and as good fortune for the country that lover of his country began gradually to improve in health, and a wave of joy passed over the whole country. That very year, I believe—though I do not remember correctly at the moment— the Congress session at Coconada adopted a resolution demanding my release. The resolution was moved from the chair and was passed nem con. It was a moral gain for all the efforts of my younger brother and for similar agitation of patriots in full sympathy

with all the political convicts in the country. I was transferred from the Andamans to Ratnagiri in 1921 and in 1923, I was removed from that place to the Yeravada Jail. That is at least my impression. I cannot be too sure about the dates. I had no opportunity and no time to check the dates. I must say about the whole narrative, that there may be discrepancies, here and there about the dates, though in general they may be pretty accurate. Meeting with friends from the Andamans This was my second visit to Yeravada Jail. First I was put there in 1910 and for the second time now in 1923. In those days the prison was full of convicts sentenced in the Mulshi Satyagraha case. They came and they went, all of them political prisoners. Some were punished with whipping. Those who had remained behind used to tell me of their severe ordeal in the Yeravada jail. There were in it prisoners hailing from Sindh and Dharwar who had taken part in the Non-cooperation and the Khilafat movements. Hindus and Muslims, political convicts they were all of them. The most wonderful fact of them all was that I met there my friends from the Andamans whom the Government of India had ordered back to India. Sikhs of the Lahore case and several others on transportation for life to the Andamans I met in the prison. I was strictly forbidden from inter-course with any of them, though I managed secretly to see them, and it gave me as much joy as I would have felt to meet the members of my own family and my near relatives. With tearful eyes, we greeted one another. In the Andamans we had suffered together. Any one of us could have won freedom in a day by the betrayal of our friends, by giving away the secrets of our society, or by putting the noose round the neck of fellow convicts. But God had saved us from such evil temptation. We revolutionaries had stood our ground bearing tortures as painful as a row of elephants pricked in the head by the goad of their rider. They stand rooted to the spot under its severest blows, so we stood up, firm and unshaken, to all the mental and physical pain inflicted upon us. We could not take a step forward. We would not go a step backward, so we stood obstinately where we were planted. No doubt we were cornered and at bay. And all around us were hurled "slings and arrows" of misfortune. The newcomers—the non-cooperators and the Khilafatists looked down upon these seasoned soldiers, these fighters and revolutionaries, as sinners, because they were members of secret societies, and conspirators. The Non-co-operators and the Khilafatists had not seen even two years of prison-life. They were raw, vainglorious men, and they bragged of their suffering before those who had passed through ten years or more of transportation for life in the Silver Jail of the Andamans— the brave Sikhs who had never winced under the severest hardships! They vaunted of their worthless 'Satyagraha' and of their short imprisonment for it before these terrorists and presumed to despise them!

I speak from the top of trees I began here to criticise severely all these followers of Gandhi that their eyes might see clearly. I put collyrium in their eyes. They hated the name of Hindu Sanghatan as detrimental to the nation. I denounced fiercely these honest but perverse notions. I would go up a tree, others would gather in the courtyard opposite, and political prisoners would keep a watch occupying strategic positions around them. Thus we carried on discussions on politics from day to day. I was then transferred to the courtyard itself, when every alternate day regular meetings were held and discussions carried on to disillusion these novices of their strange notions on politics. I followed the same method here that I had adopted in the Andamans, holding meetings, giving lectures and arranging discussions. Gradually all of them joined in them. Winning Swaraj by Charaka, supporting the Khilafat movement as the duty of the Hindus, and ridiculous definitions of non-violence, I exploded them all by invincible logic and by an appeal to history. And these honest young patriots were at last won over to our side from their jejune politics, and from their inexperience and ignorance of the world around them. I made them follow the line of politics and political action that we had laid down for our national soldiers in the Andamans. And these non-cooperators now began to adore the very Sikhs and other revolutionaries whom they had despised before. They confessed that theirs was the real courage and self-sacrifice in the cause of the nation. These newcomers and patriots had false notions instilled in their minds about Hindu Sanghatan, and they had opposed them in all sincerity and zeal. I argued with them, informed them, talked to them, I explained to them the principles behind our agitation until at last they had become the staunch supporters of our work. Major Murray My removal to Yeravada synchronised with the appointment of Major Murray as an Inspector of the jail at Yeravada. He was Superintendent of the Silver Jail when I was in the Andamans. And he rose from that position to be the Inspector General of Prisons in the Punjab. And now he had come to Yeravada. I cannot say if he had been appointed to the place deliberately while I was there, or it was a mere coincidence. It was a thick rumour that he had been sent there as he knew me well, and all about me in the past, and that he was to report to the Government his opinion about my release or non-release. Whatever it be, all political convicts in Yeravada jail welcomed his appointment. For Major Murray had good insight into human nature and was of free and open disposition. It was during his time as Superintendent in the Andamans that political convicts had gone on strike several times and as such he had fully gauged their strength and temper as a class. He had always acceded to our just demands and had never wielded his authority or enforced discipline to the breaking point. He knew when to yield and never let matters to be carried to extremes. As that was his policy in the Andamans, it rejoiced us to see him rule over Yervada.

Chief of the Quinine Depot As soon as he took office he removed me from my cell and appointed me as a chief in charge of the quinine factory in that jail. He gave me permission to teach boys and other workers in that factory. I began to arrange and add to the library at Yeravada as I had done at Ratnagiri. I removed the worm-eaten books from the boxes which were the library at Yeravada and replaced them by new ones. I made a complete list of books I needed and got permission of the Government to purchase them for the library. Thus I had arranged to stock in the Yeravada library the choicest books in Marathi and Hindi languages. I do not know if the books that I had ordered had actually come in that library, for I did not stay at Yeravada long after my proposal. Shuddhi at Yeravada Along with other activities in that jail, I also started the Shuddhi movement there. I only mention one instance as a specimen of that work. One of the officers here hailed from Madras and dressed himself in tip-top European style. He was a Christian and was proud of his changed religion. He was the doctor of our prison. We had long discussions on the subject and at last he was inclined to be reconverted to Hinduism. But he was a married man and had Christian wife. While young the gentleman had dined once or twice with a Christian and so Hindu Brahmins had ex-communicated him. All these facts he had revealed to me frankly in the process of our conversation and discussions with the result that he had decided to become a Hindu. But what was to be done after his con- version about a wife to set up a home for him? His Christian wife had almost deserted him. He went straight with a note from me to my younger brother in Bombay. And the Hindu Missionary Society arranged for his reconversion. In Bombay he happened to know a nurse who was a Christian like himself. She agreed to be a Hindu along with him. She was an unmarried woman, so both agreed to be united in wedlock, the woman in need of a husband and the man in need of a wife. So their Shuddhi and marriage took place in Bombay on the same day under the auspices of the Hindu Missionary Society. The doctor returned to Yeravada with his new wife dressed as a Hindu. With his religion he had left behind his European dress. Instead of a hat he had put on a turban and dhoti had displaced the trousers. Verily he looked like a Poona Brahmin, when he appeared at Yeravada with his new dress. His door-step was adorned with 'Rangoli'. And the portraits of Ram and Krishna hung on his walls. The vermilion paste marked the forehead of the wife while the 'tilaka' shone on the brow of the husband. The doctor put me the following question, "Mr. Savarkar, would you mind telling me what more I need to be distinguished as a Hindu?" "Nothing more", I answered with a smile, "well, you may finish it with a 'puja' of Satyanarayana."

And he performed the Puja. All the clerks, the peons and the villagers in Yeravada received invitations for the 'puja' and the 'prasad', and as I had already prepared their minds for it, they had all gone to his house for the occasion. The doctor, who was for twenty-five years out of the fold of Hinduism, now really felt that he was admitted back into it. And he wrote letters to that effect to his own people in Madras. I used to be informed many years after this incident that the man and his wife had made a happy home for themselves as converted Hindus. Major Murray, our former Superintendent in the Andamans and now an Inspector in the Yeravada jail, often used to ask me what I was going to do in life after I had become a free man. I gave him always a set answer, and that was that it depended always on the circumstances in which I happened to be discharged and which alone could shape my future course. The question and the answer never ended there but were invariably followed by a prolonged discussion about the future. And then I would conclude the whole argument with the proposition that if I were released unconditionally I would take my full part in the politics of the country. "What kind of politics?"— that was the question which inevitably followed. I had, then, to say that it also depended on circumstances of the hour. If the reforms were to bear good fruit and naturally led to the further enlargement of powers granted to the people, I would be for responsive cooperation and work out my goal through the path of peace and constructive constitutional work. If a ban were put on me not to participate in politics for a few years, I would spend the years in other fields of work open to me. I told Major Murray that it was my duty as a follower of responsive cooperation, to accept such conditions as would enable me to do better and larger work for my country than I was able to do during the years of imprisonment. I would be free thus to serve my mother country, and I would regard it as a social duty. This was not a new phase with me. I used to talk to the officers in the Andamans, when they discussed the matter with me in the same vein. But nothing so far had come out of these talks. And I naturally concluded that this discussion would follow the way of all previous conversations on the subject. I had entertained no hopes from the discussion. Of course, human being that I was, I had been exerting my utmost to get free. On the other hand, not banking upon fond hope, I went on with my day-to-day public work in the prison with such patience as I had at my command. A meeting with Sir George Lloyd One day when I was in the prison-hospital for the treatment of acute pain in the stomach and indisposition, a trusted officer sent me word that Sir George Lloyd, the Governor of Bombay, was coming to see me along with two or three big officials during the course of that week.

The reader remembers the visit of the Home Member of the Government of India, Sir Reginald Craddock and the talk he had with me in the prison of the Andamans. But this had not solved the question of my freedom from that jail. I took it for granted that this visit would not help me in any way in that business. I put before the Governor of Bombay in my meeting with him at Yeravada practically the same view that I had expressed several times before it and to several officers who had interviewed me on the subject of my release. All of them seemed to be dissatisfied with the conditions I had offered to accept. But the Governor, after he had heard me, expressed general satisfaction at what I had told him. Then we discussed together current politics. In that I expressed the same views that I had put down in writing, and had told orally several times and to several persons. I concluded in the following words, "I was compelled to be a revolutionary and a conspirator when I had discovered that there was no peaceful or constitutional method open to me to attain the goal I had in view. But if the present reforms prove to be useful for the furtherance of our hopes in a peaceful way, we shall very willingly turn to constitutional method and pursue gladly the constructive work on the principle of responsive cooperation. Revolutionaries as we were described to be, our policy was as much of responsive co-operation as that of those who swore by other methods. We will utilise to the full the present reforms in pursuance of that principle and with a similar object in view. National good was our sole objective and if peaceful means served that end, we had no reason to cling to our old ways". But was this convincing enough for the Government concerned? Will it believe in our bonafides? What then were we to do in the matter? Still, for a stipulated period, I agreed to take no part in politics, that is, in active, day-to-day, politics. In prison, I could not, of course, do any politics at all. But when outside I could do other kind of work, educational, religious and literary and serve my country in diverse fields. Generals, as prisoners of war, cannot conduct the war and come on the battlefield.. They are let off on parole after signing the pledge, like Lord Krishna, who agreed that he would not wield any arm during the continuance of the war. And it is considered no humiliation on their part to do so, and they consider it their duty to do so, in order that, later on, their services might be available to their nation by way of leading and guidance in other work. Taking this view of the whole matter, I had advised political convicts in the Andamans to sign a similar pledge to avail themselves of the general amnesty which ]had accompanied the new reforms. And hundreds of them had won their liberty by signing the pledge. Hence there was no objection for me to sign a pledge of enforced abstinence from current politics. A similar pledge could not obtain freedom for me in the past as they made too much of my past history and of my association in that past with active revolutionary movement in the country. And they had insisted that I should render a full

account of them to the authorities. But I told the Governor of Bombay not to rake up the dead past, not to ask me any question about it. Let the dead past bury its dead, and the hatchet be buried along with it. Let him and let me talk of the future. The past had been filed and recorded once for all on either side. Let us think of the future. The Governor did not close the discussion after this categorical statement by me. He kept the topic of release open. He assured me finally that he would do his very best for my liberty on the condition of abstinence from active politics during a stipulated period of time and on condition that some years of my liberty shall be spent like a man on parole within a prescribed area. He added that he would place the whole matter before the coming Governor, Sir Leslie Wilson. With this definite promise to me Sir George Lloyd bid me good-bye and left the prison along with the other officials who had accompanied him. He had treated me very cordially and had appreciative words for me during the course of the interview. I must say here that Major Murray had strongly supported the case for my release.

A Lecture series on our Martyrs

Many days had passed since this interview, and I had begun to think that this was to be another tilting at the wind like similar and many experiences of the past, lost and vanishing into thin air.

I did not fail, however, to carry on my usual round of self-imposed tasks in this prison. I pursued them with a determined will. I have already narrated on an earlier page how the latest arrivals in this prison—the batch of non-cooperators and Khilafatists— were absolutely ignorant of the history of the revolutionary movements in the country and of the political upheaval following these movements. There were among the newcomers some sincere patriots fired by the desire to serve the country. I started a lecture-series on the history of these movements, so that they might learn and profit by the knowledge. I gathered together all of them and expounded to them the meaning and implications of that term political unity, and also elaborated on the consolidation of free India. I gave them full scope for carrying on a debate on these momentous questions. Both Hindus and Mohomedans attended the lecture and took part in the discussion. Among the Muslim prisoners there were some who happened to be distinguished leaders of the country. And Mahatma Gandhi himself was there beyond the adjoining wall. And consequently prisoners over here who often went and saw him often conveyed to me his opinions on the subject. I never minced matters in attacking his gospel and method of non-cooperation as also in exposing the inside of the Khilafat movement with which it was mixed up.

A Lecture on Madanlal Dingra The last of the lectures in that series fell on the last day of my stay at Yeravada. And the subject I chose for it was the life of Madanlal Dingra. I had already spoken to them of other martyrs to our cause, of those of the Abhinav Bharat Mandal who had either died or had been sent to the gallows. The newcomers had began to appreciate the work of these dead heroes and to feel reverence for them. It was growing day to day till it had reached its height. Some fifty of them had come together in my room and on the verandah to hear me speak to them in that secret meeting. Men were posted at all points to be on the lookout for a possible visit by the officers of the jail. My remarks on the thrilling episodes in the life of Dingra made the political patriots who heard me feel the same thrill passing over their frames. Just as I was in the heart of my subject, one of our men came to us and warned that the gate was being opened and some one was coming. The gathering instantly dispersed and each went his way as if nothing had happened. They had just reached their respective quarters when a sargent seemed to call me. He took me to the head office of the prison, a discussion began between me and the Superintendent about my release. I told him that I was fed up with such endless talk, and that he should inform me if there was any specific order about it, for it was all that really mattered. He said that he had received an order in which were included all the conditions that I had accepted for my release from jail. I retorted that I had mentioned the conditions all these years and I could not understand why the Government should make such a mountain out of them. The draft statement In a moment the Superintendent took out a sheet of paper and wrote on it the conditions of acceptance which I had been proposing all these years, and along with it he handed over to me a written statement that he had received from the Government. I read them both. Referring to my letter in the "Echo of the Andamans" written in 1920 (See page 88 to 89 of that book), I told him that I was willing to make a statement on that line, and that the statement from Government had to be modified accordingly. I was told by the Superintendent to draft such a statement. He warned me not to introduce any radical changes in it, but just a few as would make the course smooth for my release. He expressed a wish that on no account should I let this rare opportunity slip from my hands. I drew up my statement. I had added some sentences to clarify the original statement. The Superintendent, having found it too lengthy, abbreviated it. The words that I had introduced in my statement and the meaning thereof I have given in the book

"Echo from the Andamans" at pages 88 to 93. The Superintendent assured me that they would be interpreted exactly in the sense I had used them. So I agreed to the omission of a few sentences I had inserted in my statement. The statement was despatched to the proper authorities and I returned to my room in that prison. Now the complexion of events seemed to have changed and I could almost say that before long I was going to be free. My friends in the prison and all others were beside themselves with joy. But I often reminded myself and them of the word 'almost', that I was almost sure that I would be free, and none should entirely depend upon it. In my life I had been so many times disappointed so many times had hopes proved dupes!

End of Chapter XII

CHAPTER XIII The last night of my sentence 5th January 1924 was the last night of my imprisonment, of the sentence of transportation for life passed upon me. But I write it so definitely now. I could not say so on the night that I was in the Yeravada jail. If the night was going to be the last night in that jail and if I had known it to be so, if it was to be the very last in the period of sentence passed upon me by the court, how I would have drawn a pleasant picture of the night that was to follow! At the same hour tomorrow I would be stretching myself on a bed in a room with window all open to the light of the moon without, and without any warder patrolling along the corridor to disturb my sleep. And if that was not going to be my last night! Well then, may it not be so, for some night was sure to be my last night in the prison, the night that will take me away from this world for good. It was terribly cold that night. Though it was the month of January, we had a sharp shower of rain and we had no sufficient and warm clothing, no blankets to protect ourselves against that cold. Two coarse blankets were not enough to ward off the cold. And the clothing was altogether scanty and the shower of rain had added to the cold weather. Sprays of water began to pour in through the windows of my room, and sleep, in that condition, was impossible. Whatever clothes I had were wet all through. I put myself in a far-off corner of my room, folding up my body and wrapping the half-wet garments as close to it as I could. I kept on napping and dozing in that plight till daybreak. I had passed so many nights in prison in that condition, having my sleep as I coiled myself up in the corner of my cell. I remember this night vividly as it proved to be my last night in prison. With the morning began my usual routine. I was giving some ten political prisoners an account of Dingra's life which I had to leave unfinished. For on that day, I found no time to arrange for a full meeting and to lecture before it. Just then I received a call from the Superintendent to meet him in the office. At the same time a trusted man sent me a message that I was free. The political convicts who had stayed with me, worked with me, and suffered with me, in whose company I had passed so many years of my hard life in the Andamans, were full of joy at the news. Their eyes shone full of tears. But I trembled that I was leaving them behind in that prison. They heartily congratulated me. The Sikhs among