Opinion

The Sailor Song Of Rebellion

The revolt that shook the Raj. First-hand memories of the Royal Indian Navy mutiny of February 1946.

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The Sailor Song Of Rebellion
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February, in 1946, saw the Royal Indian Navy mutiny, a spectacular uprising if ever there was any and one of the closing notes of an Empire that was born on the seas in many ways. It has all but faded from public memory. Hiten Bhaya, 94, is one of few people who have first-hand memories of it. He was part of the navy’s armaments department in Bombay at the time. Later, he went on to serve the Indian government in various capacities, last of which was as a member of the Planning Commission. In this piece, he recalls the revolt that shook the Raj:

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It’s difficult to recall a day 68 years ago when you are 94. But the RIN mutiny, which many believe was the last nail in the Raj’s coffin, wasn’t just any other day. And I happened to be a proximate eyewitness to this momentous event. On February 18, 1946, ratings at the HMIS Talwar, a shore establishment for signals training, went on strike, protesting against the inedible meals and searing insults to which they were regularly subjected. The revolt spread like wildfire. Some mutineers took up arms; others took to the streets of Bombay. Ratings famously pulled down the Union Jack on rebel ships, replacing it with flags of the Congress, the Muslim League and the Communist Party of India.

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Unlike the sepoys of 1857, who were a heterogeneous group, the RIN ratings were by and large educated, well-trained and well-armed. The British adm­i­nis­tration was not so much perturbed by the peaceful civil disobedience movement (satyagraha) launched by Maha­tma Gan­dhi as by the spectre of an insur­rection in the modern Indian armed forces, which they had themselves trained.

Some explanation is needed as to how I, a civilian, could have been an eyewitness. I hope memory serves me well. World War II was ending on the western front, but the eastern flank was still facing the threat of the Japanese advance. Singapore had fallen, and the Japanese army was pushing towards India. Under the circumstances, the allied command had set up the South East Asia Command. One of the decisions of this command was to strengthen the RIN, considering the long and vulnerable coastline of India. This was to be achieved through the addition of a destroyer and frigates to the naval fleet and by opening armament depots along the western and eastern seaboards. Acco­rd­ingly, the British Admiralty set up office in Bombay and an armament depot in Butcher Island (now Jawahar Dweep).

This was about the time I was in Bombay, staying with my sister in Dadar and looking for a job. As a result of the Quit India movement, the University of Patna was closed down, rendering me, a recently appointed lecturer in English, jobless. My father was killed in the 1934 Bihar earthquake; my responsibilities had increased manifold. At the time, the only jobs that were open were in the defence services. One day, I came across an advertisement saying the British Admiralty was looking for an Indian officer for the recently set up armaments department in Bombay. I applied, and was called for an interview. After the interview, I walked back all the way from the Bombay docks to Dadar to save the bus fare. When I reached home, I found to my surprise a telegram asking me to join immediately. I joined the RIN’s armaments department as its first and only Indian officer on April 3, 1944. Other than gun-mounting and some other trials, this department did not require much time at sea, so it was staffed with civi­lians. Barring the head—the director of armament supply (DAS)—no one else wore uniform.

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Vice-Admiral Katari taking over as chief of the navy of free india from

Our office was on the western end of the docks and the entrance was through the Gun Gate, just behind the Asiatic Society Library. On the western side were the naval barracks, where the RIN ratings lived. Our office was a makeshift affair. You had to climb a wooden staircase to get there. The British officers sat inside cubicles with their personal secretaries, the rest sat outside under the watchful eyes of a dour DHCO (departmental higher clerical officer).

On that fateful day, either Feb 18 or 19, I took the train from Dadar, and as usual wal­ked some distance past Flora Fountain and Mongini’s. I entered thro­ugh the Gun Gate and climbed up the steps to the office. After some time, we heard a volley of shots. At this point, our chief, who always kept a stiff upper lip, especially in front of the ‘natives’, suddenly got up, ran down the steps and got into the station wagon (reserved for carrying British officers to and fro). Without waiting for his colleagues and officers, he drove straight to the Naval Officers’ mess, where some Adm­i­ralty men were quartered. Then it became quiet. I got out and crept down the steps to see what was going on and noticed some bullets lodged on the wall on which our woo­den staircase was fixed. The lull in firing, I later discovered, was due to the presence of a senior Indian naval officer, Capt Bhaskar Sadashiv Soman (who later became chief of naval staff).  He’d walked in, facing flying bullets, and persuaded them to lay down their arms. An inquiry committee was constituted to look into the grievances of the Indian ratings.

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Later that evening, I went to Apollo Bunder—the Gateway of India. Everything was quiet. Thereafter, I was taken by some friends to the flat of one of the activist supporters of the mutiny. I learnt that the morning’s event I witnessed was but a small part of a well-orchestrated chain of strikes and demonstrations. No wonder the British government was rattled. By February 22, the mutiny had spread to naval units across the country. Some 20,000 sailors, 20 offshore establishments and over 70 ships are believed to have been involved. That British prime minister Clement Attlee announced the Cabinet Mission to India just a day after the mutiny erupted is testimony to the mutiny’s perceived threat.

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The revolt was as spectacular as it was short-lived. Nei­ther the Congress nor the Muslim League supported it; the strike committee surrendered after talks with Vallabhbhai Patel. Hundreds of mutineers were jailed or dismissed, never to be reabsorbed by the armed forces of independent India or Pakistan. Never were the ratings celebrated as heroes.

Within a year and a half of that day, India became free and the RIN became the Indian navy. On the day of independence, I was with my wife-to-be on a little hillock called Antop Hill. Suddenly, the sky lit up with fireworks and I knew we had become free. I owned a small car, a dkw two-seater. It had seen many owners, and wouldn’t start without pushing. That day, I had kept it on the slope of the hill so it would start easily. My wife and I jumped into the car, which dutifully rolled down the hill. Jubilant, we drove to Marine Drive and joined the stream of cars going to the secretariat. In another two years, I became the first Indian director of armament supplies, despite the note to Vice-Admiral Ram Dass Katari by the last British Admiralty DAS, saying the Indian navy would be “taking a grave risk” by Indianising this crucial department. I remember Katari retaliating with a note saying, “I’m willing to take the risk”. In 1958, Katari became the first Indian chief of naval staff. That day of the RIN mutiny was symbolic, in a way. It marked the exit of a Britisher from a tricky situation and the entry of an Indian to take charge.

As Told To Vijayanka Nair

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