The Lost Treasure of Azad Hind Fauj: A Historical Mystery ǀ A gripping story from the Second World War

By Piyush Rohankar

Second World War
The Azad Hind Fauj plans to set up the Azad Hind Bank at Port Blair, after the liberation of the Andaman and Nicobar islands from the British. However, the treasure and men sent to open the branch are mysteriously lost.
A British police officer is on a dangerous mission to acquire a mysterious weapon in a forbidden island on Nicobar, which can help them win the WWII. The clue to finding this liquid is hidden in a poem.
Many British and Japanese search parties sent to acquire the treasure and the weapon keep disappearing on this forbidden island.
A son’s journey to find the truth behind the mysterious disappearance of his father during the Second World War leads him to his ancestral village in Manipur. A cache of unread letters takes him back in time.
Will the son be able to find his lost father? How and where did the treasure of Azad Hind Bank disappear? Why do people keep disappearing on the forbidden island of Nicobar?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Srishti Publishers
• Release date: Dec 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9789395192446

Book preview

Praise for the work

Most people shy away from history because trudging through compilation of complex facts does not appeal to their imagination. For the common reader, the main story and its intersecting subplots thus often get lost in the maze of those facts. Historical fiction fills this gap by focussing on the story first. Mixing imaginary characters and scenarios deftly can intensify the charm of the story, helping the author to reach out to a much wider audience.

I am excited that Piyush Rohankar has chosen to tell the story of one of the most glorious chapters of India’s struggle for freedom, which unfortunately, is also shrouded in much mystery. The Lost Treasure of the Azad Hind Fauj promises to be a thrilling read and I am sure that the riveting story will nudge its readers to think deeper about events that captured the imagination of generations of Indians.

– Chandrachur Ghose

Bestselling author and researcher

PIYUSH ROHANKAR

Srishti

Publishers & Distributors

Srishti Publishers & Distributors

A unit of AJR Publishing LLP

212A, Peacock Lane

Shahpur Jat, New Delhi – 110 049

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First published by

Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2023

Copyright © Piyush Rohankar, 2023

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, organisations and events described in this book are either a work of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, places, events, communities or organisations is purely coincidental.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

Printed and bound in India

Foreword

The genre of historical fiction has taken off in India, and how! Even in this belated changeover, not adequately covered are the periods of past that continue to shape our world. While in the West, the stories associated with the world wars have received attention year by year, Indians have lagged far, far behind.

Given that I have espoused causes related to Subhas Chandra Bose, I was somewhat delighted when Piyush Rohankar asked me whether I would like to introduce his fiction set in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands and Japan during the War. I admired the very thought of weaving fiction around an era most Indians know very little of. More so, because here was an insightful civil servant, wanting to take what he told me was a voyage of discovery.

And so, a voyage it is going to be. To the Andaman and Nicobar Islands which, as we all know, witnessed a different kind of struggle as the world hurtled into the Second World War. As a strategic outpost, these mystical islands, home to some of the most primitive and isolated tribes in the world, became a battleground for power and control, with their inhabitants caught in the crossfire. What we do not know, and what is depicted in the foregoing pages, is what the islanders saw and witnessed. As we vicariously relive those moments, we witness the resilience of the human spirit amidst the chaos of war.

Japan, the benefactor of India during the war, figures all over in the narration. There are countless stories that remain to be told, at times because they question our reliance on those floated by those inimical towards the Asian nation. Torn between tradition and modernity, honour and survival, the Japanese grappled with conflict outside and within. You will get glimpses into the lives of those who found themselves on the opposing side, shedding light on the complexities of war and its impact on individuals.

Trust a civil servant to have an eye for detail. At the same time, the author has taken creative liberty and crafted a tapestry of imaginary and semi-real historical events, interwoven with real and fictional characters whose lives reflect the triumphs and tragedies of their time. The power of storytelling reminds us that even amidst the darkest chapters of history, there is room for hope, love, and the indomitable human spirit.

May this tale serve as a reminder of the sacrifices made, the lessons learned, and the enduring power of the human spirit in the face of adversity. Be prepared to be transported to a world where history and imagination converge, where the echoes of the past resonate with the present, and where the untold stories of India, the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, and Japan find their voice once more. Enjoy the journey.

Anuj Dhar

New Delhi

Preface

One of the pleasures of being a civil servant is getting an opportunity to serve the country in the remotest of areas. Andaman and Nicobar islands happened to be one such place of posting for me at the very beginning of my career. As a bureaucrat, my life has primarily been entwined with the intricacies of paperwork, the relentless pursuit of efficiency, and the pursuit of order. Yet, amidst the mundane, I have always been captivated by the power of storytelling—a medium that allows us to transcend the boundaries of time and space, to delve into the depths of human experience.

The idea for this story took shape when I was serving as SDM (Middle Andaman) and got familiar with the culture, society and historical legacy of the islands from up close. Not only are these islands picturesque, the history surrounding these islands is so enigmatic and fascinating that it motivated me to pen down this piece of literature which is a could have been - would have been fiction based on facts. It took me three years to finish this novel that you are holding in your hand.

As a bureaucrat, I have often found solace in the written word—a refuge from the rigidity of my daily life. It is my hope that through this novel, I can transport readers to a different era, allowing them to witness the triumphs and tragedies, the joys and sorrows, of those who lived through the crucible of war.

The book narrates the story of a son who tries to trace the fate of his father through the forgotten letters written by him to his mother. In this process, he stumbles upon multiple, interlinked stories of a businessman, freedom fighters & revolutionaries, Japanese, German & British men and women, and primitive tribals set during the first half of the 20th century during the turbulent times of WWI and WWII. In this novel, I have endeavoured to bring to life the untold stories of those who found themselves caught in the crossfire of two devastating conflicts, witnessing the ebb and flow of armies, the clash of ideologies, and the resilience of ordinary people.

Through meticulous research and a touch of imagination, I have sought to illuminate the lives of individuals who were thrust into a maelstrom of chaos and uncertainty. Their stories are a testament to the strength of the human spirit, the unyielding bonds of friendship, and the sacrifices made in the name of freedom.

This stretch of literary journey is about the myriad chapters of Andaman and Nicobar Islands which either lay buried in the ruins of history or parts of which many of us have forgotten. An honest attempt has been made to mix fiction in the cauldron of facts while refraining from any kind of partisanship with any religion, nation or individual. However, events and lives of historical figures have been fictionalised to make this novel an interesting read and readers’ discretion is advisable.

So, dear reader, I invite you to embark on this journey with me. Let us traverse the landscapes of history, guided by the flickering light of human resilience, and discover the echoes of the past that continue to resonate in our present.

Yours sincerely,

Piyush Arun Rohankar

Chapter 1:

The Red Fort Trials

Post-World War II:

Public Prosecutor: How did you know that the Andaman and Nicobar Islands were ceded to the Provisional Government of Azad Hind?

Lt Col Selvam: My authority for the statement that the Andaman and Nicobar Islands were ceded to the Provisional Government of Azad Hind came from a broadcast from Tokyo.

An enormous crowd had gathered at the Red Fort to witness the prosecution of Azad Hind Fauj soldiers. The British viceroy had deliberately kept the trials open so he could send a message to the traitors of the Crown.

The Lt Col looked unruffled. His words and attitude were eloquent. He didn’t care to convince or elaborate. He wouldn’t be believed at this rigged trial, he knew that.

Prosecutor: I put it to you that the Andaman and Nicobar Islands were never ceded by the Japanese to the Provisional Government of Free India.

Lt Col Selvam: I would not have gone there if they had not ceded.

Prosecutor: I put it to you that all they did was promise to hand over the islands after the war was over.

Lt Col Selvam: No.

Prosecutor: I put it to you they said during the war they would only transfer such departments as did not interfere with the defence of the island.

Lt Col Selvam: That is true.

Prosecutor: I put it to you that the only department completely handed over to you was the Education Department.

Lt Col Selvam: The only department which I took over was the Education Department.

Prosecutor: Did you refuse to take over the other departments?

Lt Col Selvam: Since the Police Department was not handed over to me, I was not prepared to take over the other departments except the Education Department.

Prosecutor: I put it to you that a branch of Azad Hind Bank was to be opened in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands.

Lt Col Selvam: Yes, that is true. But it was not just a branch. The idea was to shift the entire headquarters of Azad Hind Bank to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, and elaborate plans were in place to do so.

Prosecutor: What do you mean by elaborate plans?

Lt Col Selvam: By elaborate plans, I meant manpower was organised and funds allocated to shift the headquarters of Azad Hind Bank from Burma to Port Blair.

Prosecutor: What do you mean by funds?

Lt Col Selvam: The money issued by the Provisional Government of Azad Hind with money collected as taxes and donations, and precious metals donated by sympathisers of our cause.

Prosecutor: Why were the headquarters not shifted to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands as planned?

Lt Col Selvam: Because the ship carrying the manpower and funds needed for the Azad Hind Bank never reached the islands.

Prosecutor: Why could it not reach the Andaman and Nicobar Islands?

Lt Col Selvam: As the Japanese informed us, the ship sank just when it was about to reach the islands.

Prosecutor: What do you mean, the ship sank?

Lt Col Selvam: Just that. The ship sank in the vicinity of the shore. Nobody knows where exactly.

Prosecutor: Are you telling me that there is a treasure down there? Has no one tried to retrieve it?

Lt Col Selvam: The treasure is there, somewhere. And no, nobody has tried to retrieve it from its watery grave. After World War II was over, Azad Hind Fauj had other priorities. Like staying alive.

Lt Col Selvam looked steadily at the prosecutor, his face devoid of expression. For some reason, the prosecutor lowered his eyes.

Chapter 2

Key to a Past

In the 1970s:

The crackling of the red burning coal in the meiphu kept the room warm.

Sister, is it warm enough for you? Should I…? Ayo left his statement incomplete because his elder sister pressed his palm. Her trembling hand pulled him closer with all her might.

Brother, no amount of warmth can comfort or cure what grows in my… said Wonya, her heaving cough not letting her speak.

Ayo sat next to his dying sister as she lay bundled on a wooden bed covered in a blanket. He tried to offer her warm water kept in a grey Burmese clay kettle. It stood next to the bed on an old wooden log used as a table. She refused it with a half-wave of her hand which fell listlessly on Ayo’s thigh.

Her half-closed eyes were fixed on the key that hung around Ayo’s neck on a wooden necklace. Until yesterday, Wonya wore it around her neck. Ayo had always seen her wear it.

Only yesterday, Wonya’s trembling hands had put the key around his neck.

We belong to Chatric. First Father left Mother, then she left us. I brought you to Imphal. This key opens the lock to our home in Chatric. It belongs to you now—with all the memories it holds. Promise me that you will go there when I am gone and bring those memories to life. Remember, those are the only roots you have. Don’t disregard them. You will need them even more because I will no longer be there to hold you together. Promise me you will go!

I will go, sister, I promise! said Ayo, placing a kiss on her forehead, sealing the promise.

Ayo could feel the weight of the key hanging around his neck as he saw the pastor preside over the final ritual. The coffin was lowered into the grave as people dressed in black, whispered amongst themselves in the cold Imphal sunlight. They walked over to Ayo to convey their condolences and left the cemetery.

***

Ayo stood alone in the Mantripukhari cemetery wondering what memories lay dormant in their house in Chatric. He could not stop thinking about his father, whom he had never seen, not even in pictures. Wonya had hardly mentioned him. The chirping of the birds and the peace of the cemetery calmed his mind. He pushed all his perplexing questions aside.

Chatric, he said to himself, I’m coming. I’m coming home! A restless excitement stirred within him!

***

Swinging his backpack on his shoulders, hoping he had remembered all the essentials, Ayo bid goodbye to his wife. His wife wanted to join him, but someone had to look after the pigs. He promised he wouldn’t be away for more than a week.

The winter morning sun shone on his HMT wristwatch which read 6 a.m. He had 78 kilometres to cover. He knew the journey wouldn’t be easy. The roads, where they lived, were in a bad state. On one such non-existent patch on a sharp turn on the hills, the bus carrying his mother and his twin brothers had fallen into a valley 25 years ago.

The state transport department bus halted at Kamjong for lunch. The journey was bumpy and the bus was festooned in mud. This was his first visit to Kamjong. Ukhrul was the farthest he had ever travelled. Although he was tired, Ayo didn’t feel hungry as excitement filled him at what lay ahead.

He reached the last point the bus could go to. For the rest of the journey, 16 kms, he would cover on a Kenbo motorcycle, riding pillion.

The cloth covering his mouth fluttered in the wind as the Kenbo passed through cracked topsy-turvy roads. The guy riding the Kenbo applied the brakes to allow a speeding Shaktiman truck to go past. Unfortunately, the bike skidded. Both fell on the road and the Kenbo lay a few metres away as the Shaktiman truck whizzed past it!

It was a narrow escape! Except for a few bruises and scratches on their hands and scuffed-up trousers, they were unhurt. They would have continued their journey, but the Kenbo had a flat tyre. Ayo was in a hurry to reach the village, but felt bad for the guy riding the Kenbo.

It will get dark if we drag this motorcycle. Let’s ask someone to give us a lift, suggested the Kenbo rider. Ayo couldn’t agree more. A few taxis went past, but they were loaded with people and goods. No Shaktiman trucks were passing by either.

Where is one when you need it! thought Ayo.

Why are you travelling to Chatric? asked the rider.

It’s my village, my home. I belong to Chatric, answered Ayo.

How come I never saw you then? asked the rider.

Because it is the first time I am visiting it! Ayo said.

Strange to call a place home if you are travelling there for the first time, said the rider. The rider lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, and offered it to Ayo.

I was born here. But soon after my father died, my mother, siblings and I moved to Imphal, said Ayo.

What is your name, brother? asked the rider.

Ayo Jamang.

My name is Angam. I know about your family. Long back, your family and my family were neighbours. Your desolate house still stands next to ours.

But that was ages back. You were probably not even born then. How do you know my family? asked an astonished Ayo, suddenly taking notice of the physical appearance of Angam who was short and skinny, with long salt and pepper hair and wrinkles on his flat face.

Everyone knows your family in the village. Chatric is a small village and everyone knows everyone. After taking a puff, Angam said, Your father was a soldier in the British Army. He went to fight World War II from which he never returned. Your mother and siblings were left alone. This is what I heard from my father. My father knew your father. They were friends.

Can I meet him? asked Ayo.

Sorry, brother! He is long dead, said Angam. Where are you planning to stay in Chatric? You know anyone there?

In my own house! I have the key, Ayo said, showing Angam the key that hung around his neck.

Angam laughed as he took a drag from the cigarette.

That place would be full of cobwebs, dust and insects. Feel free to stay at my place and break bread with my family, Angam offered.

Ayo nodded. The sunlight was getting dimmer, and the rural road flanked by asymmetrical trees and bushes on both sides was buzzing with the noise of insects. In the distance, the distinct harsh noise of a Shaktiman truck struggling on a slope grew.

Chapter 3

Forgotten Letters

In the 1970s:

The scraping noise of the old rusted lock opening made Ayo happy. The key still worked after a quarter of a century! Angam stood behind him, holding a candle casting shadows on the wooden walls of the house. He pushed the heavy wooden door but like an old warrior still giving his last bit, the door resisted for all it was worth, ultimately giving in.

Brother, morning would be a better time to explore your house, Angam said.

The flickering candlelight illuminated the ramshackle room, showing thick cobwebs hanging there in large swathes. The journey had exhausted them. Ayo found Angam’s advice sound. He locked the house and wore the key around his neck again.

Angam’s house was made of wood and bricks. A feeble old woman lay on a low wooden cot. From her wrinkles, Ayo estimated her to be in her late eighties. Her weary eyes scanned the room for the sound made by their entrance.

The skull of a buffalo with its horns intact hung on the white-painted brick wall behind the wooden cot. Her eyes rested on the stranger in the room. Ayo could feel the weight of her gaze and then suddenly she grunted as if trying to say something. Angam went to the old woman and went down on his knees to hear what she said. Ayo could only see her lips moving for a few seconds followed by Angam whispering something, shaking his head.

Mother is asking if you are Mashun.

Who is Mashun? asked Ayo innocently.

Did you just wake up from a coma, brother? It’s your father’s name! said Angam, shocked.

In all these years, he had never heard Wonya mention their father’s name even once! He was stunned to realise he had never asked her!

Angam and Ayo sat on small bamboo stools holding porcelain plates in their hands, the steam rising from the hot rice, pork curry and boiled vegetables. While eating, Ayo’s eyes fell on a black and white photograph on the wall. In the large frame, he could see himself! Nonplussed, he stared, his food forgotten.

Angam followed Ayo’s gaze and understood why he stopped eating.

There are a lot of things you will discover about your family and your father tomorrow, brother. But I pray, please eat properly and rest. You look very tired, said Angam.

Your mother knew my father? quizzed Ayo.

Of course, she did! said Angam while mixing yellow dal with rice and king chilli chutney. Seeing that Ayo was quiet hearing this, Angam continued.

My mother waited a long time for your father to return. But he never did! Everyone here in the village thought that he had died during the fight with the Japanese, but… seeing that his wife was making signals for him to shut up, he ended his statement abruptly. But the gesture had caught Ayo’s attention.

Please complete your statement, brother. I need to know, said Ayo.

You have known enough for today starting with discovering your father’s name. You need to eat and rest, said Angam.

But it was too late. The fire had been stoked.

Ayo kept his plate down and got up from the stool and made his way outside on the small lawn edged with many flowerpots. It was cold and he missed the warmth of the meiphu that lay burning inside. Angam followed him outside with a crimson woollen shawl given by his wife.

Wear this, brother. It’s very cold and you might fall sick.

Ayo gladly accepted the shawl, but still refused to speak.

I know that you need answers, but finish your dinner first.

I don’t feel like eating, Ayo blurted out.

"See, the only thing I know about your father is that he abandoned your family and settled down with another woman in some unknown country. I have never met your father so I can’t tell you what sort of a person he