Scattered like a pearl necklace on the ocean floor are the beautiful islands of Andaman and Nicobar. Celebrated worldwide for their sublime beaches and turquoise blue sea. Time seems to stand by as the waves splash out on it's sandy shores. No man who set foot in these islands ever returns the same. One loses a part of self to these bewitching islands. But these waters and it's inhabiting lands were not pristine as ever... Once they played the role of dreaded harrowing dungeon of the British empire. The name itself struck fear in the hearts of millions of Indians. As I recall my childhood memory, once while my Grandpa told of these lands and that transpired here during India's freedom movement shook me so deep that even today the word makes me shiver ... "Kalapani".
As we stood by it's gate, an ageing man in his late 50's approached us. Introducing himself as our tour guide, Mr. Singh led us in. His deep set eyes and graying hair gave him a weary look. Don't be mistaken, his spirited words still has the rejuvenating charm of a storyteller whose voice captivated one and all. He walked along side us but I don't know how I couldn't see him in figure...instead he felt like a guardian spirit of those cells that has come to our company. We walked along and his stories followed...
Words that escaped his lips drifted us away into a distant past that slowly played like a monochrome movie... "Welcome to the infamous Cellular Jail or as most people prefer to call it Kalapani."
"I have been touring people here for around 26 years now but every time I step into it's courtyard I have a feel of persecution that looms over me. The jail talks to me. My great grandfather was deported here in late 1890's as a punishment for his rebellious actions. After his jail term was over, he was released and he decided not to return to the mainland. I guess he was in love with this place", he chuckled.
His voice reverberated at times but he never lost his narrative skills.
"This way please", he guided us to the vast open courtyard of cellular jail. The view that unfolded infront of our very eyes was beautiful in it's own sense but the fact that it was witness to the horrific fate of it's inmates sent chills down our spine. To our right was an open gallery with rows of seat overlooking a raised platform with a throne like chair plonking the center stage. Next to it was a grim representation of a human figurine tied to a plank. Whip-lashing the prisoners was a routine, as our guide explained us.
"The prisoners who spent their terms here were cursed souls I would say, Sir. Their days started early at 6 AM. Dragging their battered bodies they were forced to work for 12 long hours a day. Their prime task was to collect coconuts, peal them and extract oil. Every individual had to meet their designate quota of oil by the end of the day or else...", he paused to take a deep breath. Pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket, he whipped some sweat from his forehead.
"It's quite humid today, sir.", He said.
I nodded. Repeating the same action myself.
He laughed and added, "Would you like to wear woolen garments on such a day, that too when you have rashes throughout your body?"
I returned his laugh, "Mr. Singh, why would I love to torture myself!!!".
"Some people do Sir. Some people did." his eye had a straight look now. Laughter vanished.
"If the prisoner couldn't meet the quota of the day, they were strapped to that very plank that you see there. Whip-lashed countless times. And if that was not enough they were made to wear jute clothes for the night. The itchy fibers rubbing across their slashed blood dripping skin. And yet they loved it. Patriotism was not a virtue for them, it was like breath."
My heart skipped a beat, the humid air suddenly felt cold in the back of my neck. Respect and pride of being an Indian had a whole different meaning now.
Infamous Cellular Jail
Sun was in it's late afternoon phase when our cruise ship harbored at Port Blair. The stories of Kalapani that my Grandpa narrated me during my bedtime lullabies still lingered somewhere in my subconscious mind as me and my wife stepped foot on this iconic island. It was all different from what my childish mind had pictured it to be. The dense forest that I had imagined were now replaced by a modern township. The mud paths and overhanging vines were nowhere to be found among the intricately laid roads. The tall and withered brick-walled jail with dark rooms stood infront of me as a humongous modern day building with two towering minarets guarding the wrought iron gate that had once welcomed the freedom driven brave souls.
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| The Entrance of Cellular jail |
Words that escaped his lips drifted us away into a distant past that slowly played like a monochrome movie... "Welcome to the infamous Cellular Jail or as most people prefer to call it Kalapani."
"I have been touring people here for around 26 years now but every time I step into it's courtyard I have a feel of persecution that looms over me. The jail talks to me. My great grandfather was deported here in late 1890's as a punishment for his rebellious actions. After his jail term was over, he was released and he decided not to return to the mainland. I guess he was in love with this place", he chuckled.
His voice reverberated at times but he never lost his narrative skills.
"This way please", he guided us to the vast open courtyard of cellular jail. The view that unfolded infront of our very eyes was beautiful in it's own sense but the fact that it was witness to the horrific fate of it's inmates sent chills down our spine. To our right was an open gallery with rows of seat overlooking a raised platform with a throne like chair plonking the center stage. Next to it was a grim representation of a human figurine tied to a plank. Whip-lashing the prisoners was a routine, as our guide explained us.
"The prisoners who spent their terms here were cursed souls I would say, Sir. Their days started early at 6 AM. Dragging their battered bodies they were forced to work for 12 long hours a day. Their prime task was to collect coconuts, peal them and extract oil. Every individual had to meet their designate quota of oil by the end of the day or else...", he paused to take a deep breath. Pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket, he whipped some sweat from his forehead.
"It's quite humid today, sir.", He said.
I nodded. Repeating the same action myself.
He laughed and added, "Would you like to wear woolen garments on such a day, that too when you have rashes throughout your body?"
I returned his laugh, "Mr. Singh, why would I love to torture myself!!!".
"Some people do Sir. Some people did." his eye had a straight look now. Laughter vanished.
"If the prisoner couldn't meet the quota of the day, they were strapped to that very plank that you see there. Whip-lashed countless times. And if that was not enough they were made to wear jute clothes for the night. The itchy fibers rubbing across their slashed blood dripping skin. And yet they loved it. Patriotism was not a virtue for them, it was like breath."
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| Swatantrya Jyot |
We paid our silent tribute to our freedom fighters at the the eternal flame of "Swatantrya Jyot", that perpetuates the memory of our brave heart heroes who made the ultimate sacrifice.
The courtyard was lined by two wings of three storeyed building converging at the central bell tower. Each storey had a long row of cells aligned in series facing the courtyard. Sensing our curious gaze our guide continued...
"This Jail was build between 1896 and 1906. Though the first batch of prisoners were brought here after the first revolt in 1957 the "Sepoy Mutiny". The British Empire grew more concerned after the mutiny, they feared that this fire would spread across the country. They found it necessary to shift away the freedom fighters to a distant land, to avoid further conflict. Thus, infamous "Kalapani" was born."
"1200 kilometers of open sea, no land mass around. Escape was a not even a thought. First batch of around 200 freedom fighters arrived in Andamans in 1857. Journey through rough sea and inhuman conditions of transportation took their toll. It is said that, many of them succummed to the torturous treatment. In the years that followed there was continuous inflow of prisoners.The initial prisoners were used to construct the jail complex that you see today. Bricks were brought in from Burma, as the island did not have good soil to manufacture bricks. The prisoners were employed to cut down coconut trees to be used for construction purpose. Their shackles were their curse, sometimes these prevented them from escaping the falling trees and were crushed to death. The ones that died were the lucky ones, the ones that were hurt or crippled were left to die of their injuries. Death came slow ,bringing with it a party of pain." Pausing a while, he sat down on bench nearby. I handed him some water. Thanking me, he gulped down some water... he took a deep breath. I asked him if he was fine.
"I am all fine. Just,the stupid old age, sir", he said.
A feeling of guilt overshadowed me for bothering him for the tour."Please take some rest Mr. Singh. We will tour around ourselves.", I said.
He handed over the water bottle back to make saying, "If I stay back here, how will you know what this jail has to say? Who will tell you the truth of our freedom? ... It's not my job, sir. It is my legacy and I will have to carry it on.". For the second time in the day I fell in love with my nation and the extraordinary souls that I share this land with.
Raising a finger to a low roofed long building with wooden windows he said, "That building over there, houses some of the artifacts and figurine that depicts the daily activity of the prisoners and their punishment devices. If you wish you can pay a visit, Sir. I will wait here."
To my relief, he decided to give his old body some much needed rest. We paid a visit to the place. There were figurines of people working on hand operated oil mills and coconut scrappers. At the end of the hallway were three figures with different types of prison wear, each with shackles and rods bound around. Thoughts of real humans in them was quite disturbing. Slightest movement with all these would have been a painful task, I imagined. The punishment plank in the courtyard was visible from the fishnet wooden windows of the hallway. The screaming figure that was tied to it had inexpressible agony on his face. Slashing whips, sticks on bare bodies and screams that followed were symphony that these walls had been accustomed to. But today it all lay silent. The voices that ran across these premises were lost in time. Stories are all that prevails today.
On our way out, we met our chaperone sitting on the same bench where we had left him a few minutes back. Questions and thoughts were storming our mind.
I spoke up, "This is cruel. This is insane. How can someone do this to another human being!!! How could the Jailer and custodians be so inhuman?"
Mr. Singh was back to his storyteller mode now... "David Barry", he uttered with a glint in his eyes.
To be continued...
The courtyard was lined by two wings of three storeyed building converging at the central bell tower. Each storey had a long row of cells aligned in series facing the courtyard. Sensing our curious gaze our guide continued...
"This Jail was build between 1896 and 1906. Though the first batch of prisoners were brought here after the first revolt in 1957 the "Sepoy Mutiny". The British Empire grew more concerned after the mutiny, they feared that this fire would spread across the country. They found it necessary to shift away the freedom fighters to a distant land, to avoid further conflict. Thus, infamous "Kalapani" was born."
 |
| The Courtyard, Cellular jail |
"1200 kilometers of open sea, no land mass around. Escape was a not even a thought. First batch of around 200 freedom fighters arrived in Andamans in 1857. Journey through rough sea and inhuman conditions of transportation took their toll. It is said that, many of them succummed to the torturous treatment. In the years that followed there was continuous inflow of prisoners.The initial prisoners were used to construct the jail complex that you see today. Bricks were brought in from Burma, as the island did not have good soil to manufacture bricks. The prisoners were employed to cut down coconut trees to be used for construction purpose. Their shackles were their curse, sometimes these prevented them from escaping the falling trees and were crushed to death. The ones that died were the lucky ones, the ones that were hurt or crippled were left to die of their injuries. Death came slow ,bringing with it a party of pain." Pausing a while, he sat down on bench nearby. I handed him some water. Thanking me, he gulped down some water... he took a deep breath. I asked him if he was fine.
 |
| Statues representing the Routine works |
A feeling of guilt overshadowed me for bothering him for the tour."Please take some rest Mr. Singh. We will tour around ourselves.", I said.
He handed over the water bottle back to make saying, "If I stay back here, how will you know what this jail has to say? Who will tell you the truth of our freedom? ... It's not my job, sir. It is my legacy and I will have to carry it on.". For the second time in the day I fell in love with my nation and the extraordinary souls that I share this land with.
Raising a finger to a low roofed long building with wooden windows he said, "That building over there, houses some of the artifacts and figurine that depicts the daily activity of the prisoners and their punishment devices. If you wish you can pay a visit, Sir. I will wait here."
To my relief, he decided to give his old body some much needed rest. We paid a visit to the place. There were figurines of people working on hand operated oil mills and coconut scrappers. At the end of the hallway were three figures with different types of prison wear, each with shackles and rods bound around. Thoughts of real humans in them was quite disturbing. Slightest movement with all these would have been a painful task, I imagined. The punishment plank in the courtyard was visible from the fishnet wooden windows of the hallway. The screaming figure that was tied to it had inexpressible agony on his face. Slashing whips, sticks on bare bodies and screams that followed were symphony that these walls had been accustomed to. But today it all lay silent. The voices that ran across these premises were lost in time. Stories are all that prevails today.On our way out, we met our chaperone sitting on the same bench where we had left him a few minutes back. Questions and thoughts were storming our mind.
I spoke up, "This is cruel. This is insane. How can someone do this to another human being!!! How could the Jailer and custodians be so inhuman?"
Mr. Singh was back to his storyteller mode now... "David Barry", he uttered with a glint in his eyes.
To be continued...
