The Calcutta Review, 3rd Series/Volume 16/C R Das

by S. Khuda Bukhsh

C. R. DAS

With the death of C. R. Das one of the greatest Bengalis of our time has passed into the Beyond. A fortnight ago none could have divined that he was so near the end, and yet Fate had decreed it so. Indisposed he undoubtedly has been for some time, but there were no alarming symptoms—there was no foreboding of the catastrophe which has overwhelmed Bengal with such tragic suddenness.

The hand that so deftly guided the political destiny of Bengal is, alas, now no-more to guide her; to lead her to the fondly wished-for goal—Self-Government. His death is a national calamity; for, quite irrespective of caste and creed—all feel that a shattering blow has been dealt at India’s aspirations—a hopeless void created—beautiful Hind suddenly bereft of her crowning glory! And if this is the case in the sphere of politics—no less keen and acute is the sense of loss in the social sphere. All feel his death as a personal loss—an irreparable loss. For did he not add sunlight to day-light, hush strife, bring peace, emphasise the necessity of charity and good-will?

And if any proof of the universality of this feeling was needed—it was abundantly supplied in the funeral procession—the last tribute to the memory of the great dead—which threaded its melancholy way to the ghat on that momentous June morning. It was a moving sight—a sight such as Calcutta or any other city in India, within living memory, has not seen. All Bengal turned out to pay her homage—to mourn a national calamity. Cold and irresponsive must be the heart which was not stirred at that solemn spectacle! A people’s grief! A people’s tears! What honour can be greater? What offering more acceptable? The grief of man was shared by the sunless, cloud-covered sky, and the prevailing gloom of Calcutta was the proof of the all-pervading sorrow of the day.

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Deshabandhu

By courtesy of “ The Ilustrated Sisir It boots not to speak here of his enormous sacrifices—his selfless pursuit of a great ideal—Self-Government for India. Unique was his position at the Bar. He had mounted to that eminence by unflinchingly adhering to the great traditions of his profession. And when at its very pinnacle—with his fame resounding throughout India and briefs pouring in in unceasing flow—he determined to forsake it all, and to dedicate himself to his country’s cause—scorning worldly allurements—flinging wealth away, and, like St. Bernard, taking poverty as his bride, and spirituality as the supreme ambition of his life.

It was the compelling love of his country—the consuming eagerness to secure her dues—that determined his choice—irrevocably fixed his purpose. He was a patriot—saturated with patriotism, not like many, a make-believe one—with an easily rendible mask. His political career is only too well known to call for a detailed account here.

But what was it that gave C. R. Das that power—that influence—that primacy among his fellow-citizens? I had known C. R. Das for a quarter of a century, and knew him pretty well. To my mind there were two outstanding qualities which made him what he was, his burning love for his country, and his shining spirit of charity.

Long before he stood out before the world as a political figure of incomparable excellence, he discussed, felt, brooded over his country’s woes—uttered his country’s hopes—dreamed of the ways and means which would lead her to honorable prosperity. Was he not a preacher of India’s political aspirations even in the far-off days of his early manhood? Still in my ears ring some of the sentences of his speeches delivered in England before he was called to the Bar. They were prophetic of his subsequent career—an earnest of what was to come.

As the years passed by, this passion for his country waxed stronger and stronger—completely subduing, conquering him. Nothing could deflect him from his set purpose. The die was cast. Imprisonment—threat of exile—nothing could deter him from his course. It was on the occasion of the arrest of C. R. Das that I wrote the following lines which C. R. in one of his speeches quoted as the encouraging message of a Persian Poet (It was published as a translation from a Persian Poet):

“Faith, Fortitude, Firmness, will they falter and fail and fade in the hour of trial, in the moment of despair, asked the Saqi, in mournful strain. Or tried and tested, will they emerge from the fire of life strengthened, ennobled, purified? Never will I forsake them, answered the youth, not even were the heavens to fall. Thine, thine, said the Saqi, is the path of glory; thine a nation’s gratitude; thine, the fadeless crown. Would that courage unfailing, courage unbent, courage as thine, were the proud possession of all! For naught but courage winneth the soul’s freedom—man’s noblest, highest prize. Let courage, then, be thy Gift, O God, to this wondrous land of Love and Light.” (My Love Offerings, p. 37).

When I stated that one of the two qualities that distinguished him was the love of his country, I must add—love of country—unimpaired by any factional or communal spirit. He was too broad-minded; too acute a statesman to imagine that India could ever come by her inheritance without Hindu-Muslim love, unity, co-operation. He was always averse to the mutual Hindu-Muslim hostility which, I regret to say, is deepening, and of which we get sad, infallible proof day by day.

At the time when the Hindu-Muslim pact was a prominent political question of the day—at my table—at 5 Elliott Road—met the Hindu and the Muslim leaders of Bengal. I am not at liberty to disclose what passed at that meeting, for that would be a breach of faith, both to the dead and the living; but this much I can say, without violating any confidence—that throughout that delicate discussion C. R. Das showed a spirit of charity and compromise; an anxiety to meet the Mohamedan case; an eagerness to give the Muslims their just dues; in short, he was prepared to give any undertaking wanted that would satisfy Muslims of his good faith. About midnight we parted, but, I grieve to say, without any satisfactory result.

C. R. Das realized—what we all must needs realize—that if we wish our motherland well we must adopt and pursue a policy of reconciliation and goodwill towards all. In unity lies our political strength—in disunion our political death. Mahomedans have no more intention of renouncing their claims upon India than the English have, and this simple truth C. R. Das clearly perceived and would to God that his co-religionists realized it too!

The intrusion of religion into politics has been the bane of the East, as their severance has been the glory of the West.

But if the love of country was Chitta Ranjan’s absorbing passion—his spirit of charity was the source whence originated his broad outlook, his generous toleration, the instinct for fair-play that characterized his actions throughout his career.

But though death has taken him away—the spirit which he has infused and the traditions which he has implanted—are eternal and imperishable. And what is that spirit?—It is the spirit to break the images of false gods and to rend the veil of humbuggery. And what is that tradition?—It is the tradition to appropriate the wisdom of the West without abandoning the lead of our Eastern Sires. In other words to unite the spirit of conservatism with the Spirit of Progress—to train ourselves to a sense of responsibility and discipline—to end all mockeries and to substitute realities in their place—to work with unhesitating, unfaltering steps—for self-government—the crown and consummation of all the political efforts of civilized man.

Let us resolve to carry on C. R. Das’s work to its consummation—let us hush our differences—let us prove ourselves worthy of the torch handed over to us by him—a torch which he held with heroic steadfastness.

If there is any such thing as immortality of soul or continuity of life after death—the immortals will, assuredly, rejoice with our rejoicings and grieve with our griefs but no joy can be greater than the joy of seeing their unfinished work carried on with undeviating firmness and no grief keener or more agonising than to see it dropped or half-heartedly pursued.

Dead!—no! it is a misnomer to call him dead whose voice still lingers in our ears—whose personality still subdues and sways us—whose spirit still animates us—and whose example is our undying, enduring possession.

Immortal art thou—Chitta Ranjan—beyond death’s conquest, and beyond oblivion’s reach. Thine is the crown of immortality—thine, a people’s gratitude.

S. Khuda Bukhsh