My Days In Prison - Karagar

By Urmila Shastri

  Mahatma Gandhi called Indians to Civil Disobedience, with his Dandi March and the plea to boycott British goods. Millions of Indians bought and publicly set British goods on fire, exhorting others to follow suit - Urmila Shastri among them. She joined the Satyagraha Movement as a volunteer for the Congress in Meerut. On 17 July 1930, twenty-one-year-old Urmila was arrested on charges of picketing and instigating university students against the government. The case went to trial and the British magistrate offered to acquit her if she apologized in court. Urmila chose to go to jail for six months.  Once again, when Mahatma Gandhi announced the Quit India Movement in 1942, Urmila courted arrest. This time, though, she fell seriously ill in jail and was denied proper treatment. She witnessed the inhuman atrocities that the jail authorities heaped on freedom fighters and other prisoners. With no other outlet for her angst, she wrote about her days there. She died at thirty-three, with a smile on her face and Gandhi's dream in her heart. Disturbing yet inspiring, this bilingual edition of Urmila Shastri's prison diary is an intimate chronicle of an epoch-making era.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperVantage
• Release date: Apr 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9789350294628

Urmila Shastri

Urmila Shastri was part of the freedom movement in India and was an active participant in the Satyagraha.

Book preview

Introduction

I congratulate Urmiladevi Shastri on writing this beautiful book about her experiences in prison. After getting married she came to Meerut with the great hope of setting up a home with her husband. However, she soon left the bliss of her new life for the sake of her motherland, accepting to go to jail with a smile on her face. In this war for freedom, our other sisters across India made similar sacrifices; they did womankind proud by displaying exemplary patriotism.

This book will be reminiscent of life in a jail to our sisters who have been there. Those sisters who unlike Urmila did not have the good fortune of going to jail will feel a certain envy on reading this book. I know that those saffron sari-clad women who peacefully boycotted British goods and picketed liquor shops haven’t suffered any less for being brave. These patriots have suffered such miseries that make the prison atrocities pale in comparison; I have been witness to those days.

Urmila has written this book in such simple Hindi and lucid style that I did not face any difficulty in reading it. So, I congratulate her again specially for that.

— Kasturibai Gandhi

Satyagrahashram

Sabarmati

1

Before Going to Prison

It was the sixteenth of July, 1930. I was making preparations to go to Kashmir. In those days, my companions in the Congress Committee at Meerut were participating in the Satyagraha movement in large numbers. It was only after working with them continuously for four months that I was finally able to take a two-month break from the demands of my post. With a heart filled with enthusiasm I imagined my beloved Kashmir, its spellbinding beauty floating before my eyes. Unable to wait any more than I absolutely had to, I had already worked out the details of my forthcoming holiday. Suddenly, I heard voices from the street – ‘Professor Pyarelal Sharma has been arrested!’

Sharmaji was one of the most respected leaders of Meerut. I was in a bind: considering the new circumstances, what would be the best thing for me to do? On the one hand was the desire to meet my family, my brothers and sisters, to relax and laze around, with the cool, soothing breeze of the valley caressing my face; on the other was the prospect of hard work in the blazing sun, labour that was most likely to culminate in prison. Unable to decide, I closed my eyes in an attempt to achieve greater clarity of thought. It didn’t work. I couldn’t make up my mind. Just then, even as I was in the throes of my dilemma, Professorji, my husband, entered the room. ‘So Urmila, have you made your decision yet?’ he asked me. ‘Think carefully. You have to make a choice. Between duty and peaceful rest, between country and family. Which will it be?’ The way the question had been framed, something in the manner in which it had been put to me, tugged at my soul. The sense of responsibility triumphed over the desire for domestic indulgence, and my decision in response to the call of duty was made.

At around 4 p.m., I was lying in my room. Professorji was sitting next to me, engrossed in a newspaper he was reading. Suddenly a thought came to me. ‘Let’s go get ourselves photographed,’ I suggested excitedly. He looked at me in surprise at the complete unexpectedness of the wish expressed, but recovering quickly answered in the affirmative. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘If you want to go immediately we could go to Sadar. A very famous photographer named Mr Mehmood has a studio there.’

I asked for an appointment with him. A servant was sent to find out what time would be suitable for us to go over. We were asked to come right away.

I got dressed and soon we were on our way. As soon as I got on to the tonga, I saw Shanta walking towards our house. Shanta was one of the members of the Women’s Satyagrahi Committee and a friend. I could see a notice detailing the boycott of foreign goods in her hand. Coming up to the tonga she asked, ‘So, where are you off to, all dressed up?’ Laughing, I replied, ‘To the end of the earth. Want to come along?’ Shanta smiled in response and got on to the tonga.

Mr Mehmood had been waiting for us. Three photographs were clicked. As we were returning we crossed three lorries full of policemen near the police station, with the DSP’s car parked in front of them. ‘It looks like the volunteers picketing liquor shops in Sadar are going to be arrested,’ Professorji said. As if coming to life at his words, the lorries rolled on towards the marketplace. Looking at me with concern, my husband said, ‘Urmila, tomorrow it will be your turn.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘My heart says so,’ he replied.

Laughing at his words, I looked at him in amusement and said, ‘How interesting! Your heart certainly says the most unexpected things at the most unexpected moments, doesn’t it?’

A huge crowd had collected at the Barfkhana field. Speeches congratulating Sharmaji on his arrest were being made with patriotic fervour. My heart whispered to me to join in the speeches. ‘It might just be your last chance to do so,’ it said. Walking up to the chairperson, Quazi Nizamuddinji, I told him that I too wanted some time to say what I wished as I might not get the opportunity to do so again. Nizamuddinji nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go ahead. Take as much time as you wish.’

Soon it was my turn to speak. I walked up to the podium, the field resounding with echoes of ‘Mahatama Gandhi ki jai’. Touched by the fervour I witnessed, my words flowed effortlessly, belief and conviction suffusing each syllable I articulated. I still remember my concluding words: ‘Who knows who will be arrested tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘Who knows whom the shining rays of tomorrow’s sun will awaken with the golden chains of imprisonment and the sacrifices demanded of mother-love?’ And as the next day dawned, the words spoken by me proved more accurate than I could have ever imagined.

My eyes opened as soon as the clock struck one. In the dark I could make out Professorji as he stood near the bed with my servant Govardhan next to him. ‘What is the matter?’ I asked him, sitting up in alarm. ‘It’s only one o’clock. Why are you awake at this hour?’

‘You will be able to stay in this house only for a few more hours, Urmila,’ he said. Even though I could not understand what he was saying, something in his tone instinctively made me sit up. Repeating my question I waited for an explanation. He told me that the police would arrive at the house to arrest me at five in the morning.

‘All right,’ I said slowly. And then, with the intention of getting my things together, I started walking down the stairs. Soon I had set aside the things I intended to take along with me. Professorji told me to get some sleep. ‘Your things will be packed by the time you wake up,’ he assured me. At around a quarter past four he woke me up. ‘I think you should get ready now.’

I got up, bathed and readied myself. At exactly five o’clock a police lorry came and parked itself in a corner at the crossing near my house. It had four or five policemen and a sub-inspector in it. A car arrived and began to blow its horn at my gate. I could see the DSP sitting in it, all alone with his driver. A few people from the neighbourhood also arrived. Raising a slogan of ‘Mahatama Gandhi ki jai’ I walked up and got into the car. Professorji accompanied me till I reached the police station. Along the way people standing on the roadside handed me flowers and garlands; accepting those tokens of their affection I folded my hands and bid farewell to them.

After a while, the car carrying me came to halt at the entrance of the Meerut District Jail near Abdullahpur. Behind us the lorry that had been following us all the way also stopped. ‘Quazi sahib is also being brought here,’ the DSP told me. I stopped near the entrance to wait for him. As another police lorry came into view I could see him sitting in it surrounded by policemen. Saying goodbye to Professorji, both of us entered the prison gates. And then, as the doors closed behind us, I was separated from the world outside for a long time to come.

As soon as