“আমরা যেন সেই জাতি,

যাদের পায়ে শিকল পরালে, তারা শিকল ভাঙে গান গেয়ে।”

("We are the kind of people who, even when shackled,
break the chains—singing as we do so."— Kazi Nazrul Islam)

In the fierce winds of India’s fight for freedom, some names pass like storms—brief but unforgettable. Saroj Kanti Guha was one such soul, a young revolutionary whose name may not echo in today’s politics, but whose sacrifice helped shape the heartbeat of a nation yet to be born.

Hailing from Bengal, Guha belonged to a generation of youth who refused silence, choosing the path of armed resistance under the inspiration of the Masterda Surya Sen. In a time when patriotism meant facing prison, exile, or death, Saroj walked with quiet resolve—one among many who chose duty over safety, and ideals over fear.

This post revives the memory of a young rebel who dared to dream aloud when others whispered, and who gave his life not for glory, but for the freedom of generations yet unborn.

Saroj Kanti Guha

Saroj Kanti Guha (1912–1985)

Born 1912
Koyepara, Raozan Upazila, Chittagong District, Bengal Presidency, British India

Died 9 October 1985
Durgapur, West Bengal, India

Occupation(s) Revolutionary, political activist, social worker

Organization(s) Indian Republican Army, Jugantar, Communist Party of India

Known for Chittagong armoury raid, attempted assassination of Magistrate Durno, Cellular Jail imprisonment, tribal rights work

Movement Indian independence movement

Criminal charge(s) Waging war against the Crown, conspiracy

Criminal penalty Life imprisonment with transportation

Criminal status Participant in Chittagong armoury raid; released in 1946

Saroj Kanti Guha (Bengali: সরোজ কান্তি গুহ) (1912 – 9 October 1985)Saroj Guha was a fearless Indian revolutionary who played a prominent role in the Chittagong armoury raid, standing shoulder to shoulder with his revered mentor, Masterda Surya Sen. Born to Nandalal Guha, a pleader at the local subsidiary court, Saroj was drawn into the fire of revolutionary idealism in 1927 through the inspiration of Ananta Singh, a towering figure in Bengal’s struggle for freedom. Driven by a burning desire to liberate his motherland, Saroj did not hesitate to steal family jewellery to fund the cause, embodying the spirit of sacrifice that defined an entire generation. He also took part in training women in physical education—under the guidance of Ananta Singh’s sister, Indumati Singh—thus extending the revolution beyond traditional gender lines.

With unwavering resolve, Saroj participated in key revolutionary actions: the raid on the police lines armoury, the Chittagong armoury raid, and the legendary battle at Jalalabad hills. For nearly 32 months, he lived a life of secrecy and risk, culminating in a daring assassination attempt on District Magistrate Durno in Dhaka, seriously injuring him before vanishing from the scene. Eventually captured in Noakhali on 3 August 1932, Saroj was tried alongside Ambika Chakrabarty in the Supplementary Armoury Raid Case and sentenced to transportation for life to the dreaded Cellular Jail in the Andamans—a fate that many revolutionaries wore as a badge of honour.

An expert marksman, Saroj also took on the mantle of mentor, guiding younger patriots like Haripada Bhattacharya, who later assassinated Khan Bahadur Ahsanullah. After enduring fourteen long years of imprisonment, Saroj was repatriated in January 1938 and finally released in 1946, just before India’s tryst with independence. He was also one of the six courageous young men who received direct training from Ananta Singh, forging the core of a revolutionary brotherhood that refused to bow before British tyranny.

Early Life and Background

Saroj Kanti Guha was born in 1912 in the serene village of Koyepara, nestled in Raozan Upazila of the Chittagong District, then part of the Bengal Presidency. He hailed from a family deeply rooted in patriotism and learning. His father, Nandlal Guha, a respected lawyer at the Chittagong Court, chose to abandon his legal practice in solidarity with Mahatma Gandhi’s Non-cooperation movement, a bold act that reflected his commitment to the nation’s cause. Revered in the region not only for his legal acumen but also as the former tutor of Deshpriya Jatindra Mohan Sengupta, Nandlal’s influence loomed large in nationalist circles. Saroj’s mother, Kusum Kamini, was a nurturing presence at home, and Saroj was the eldest among five siblings, destined to carry forward the family’s legacy of courage and conscience.

Revolutionary Activities

Joining the Chittagong Group

After passing his matriculation examination in 1927, Saroj Guha threw himself wholeheartedly into the revolutionary struggle under the leadership of Masterda Surya Sen. Still a student at the time, he joined the Indian Republican Army, a secret revolutionary force dedicated to overthrowing British rule through direct action. On 18 April 1930, Saroj became one of the valiant participants in the historic Chittagong armoury raid, a bold, coordinated assault on British military installations aimed at crippling the colonial regime’s hold over the region. He also fought heroically in the Battle of Jalalabad, where young patriots stood their ground against the might of the British forces in a desperate yet defiant confrontation.

In the lead-up to the planned attack on the European Club in Chittagong in 1932, detailed reconnaissance was crucial. The surveillance mission was carried out under the guidance of Surya Sen, and among those entrusted with this sensitive task were Shishir Kana Guha and the courageous Pritilata Waddedar. Disguised as ordinary civilians, they spent two consecutive evenings quietly studying the layout of the European Club in Pahartali, blending into the surroundings with remarkable composure as they prepared for the strike against this symbol of British elitism and racial arrogance.

Saroj, having already played a frontline role in the Battle of Jalalabad and several armed operations following the 1930 raid, remained deeply engaged in the strategic planning and coordination of revolutionary missions. The spirit of resistance ran through the veins of his entire family—his brothers, including Montu Guha, were involved in the freedom struggle, and even the home of his aunt, Binodini Dasgupta, in Koyepara, became a secret refuge for revolutionaries. That household, like many others in Bengal, stood as a silent stronghold in the battle for independence.

Such was the threat Saroj posed to the British Empire that a reward of ₹500 was placed on his head after the Chittagong armoury raid—a price the colonial rulers hoped would silence a firebrand they could neither catch nor quell.

Mentors of Saroj Guha: Surya Sen and Ananta Singh.

Role in Fundraising

Call for Arms and the Need for Funds

In the turbulent aftermath of the Chittagong armoury raid and the fierce Battle of Jalalabad, Saroj Kanti Guha, along with his fellow revolutionaries, went underground, following the strategic instructions of Masterda Surya Sen. The movement, though battered, was far from broken. It now required funds to regroup, rearm, and strike again. Trusted by the senior leadership, Saroj was approached by Ananta Singh, who urged him to help raise a sum of around ₹200—an amount desperately needed to procure revolvers and ammunition for forthcoming missions. Saroj, ever committed to the cause, rose to the challenge without hesitation.

Meanwhile, internal strife was escalating within local Congress circles in Chittagong. A contested election, involving members aligned with Surya Sen’s revolutionary faction, spiraled into violent clashes with rival groups. In the midst of this unrest, tragedy struck—the brave Sukhendu Bikash Dutta, a close associate and fellow fighter, was killed. His death sent shockwaves through the movement and underscored the pressing need for unity and swift action. The revolutionaries could not afford to pause.

Saroj was entrusted with the solemn and strategic duty of accompanying Sukhendu’s body to Chitpur in Kolkata, where, under the cloak of mourning, he was to also facilitate a critical arms deal. But such an operation demanded immediate funds—resources that were not readily available. Forced to act quickly and covertly, Guha began seeking discreet ways to raise the necessary amount, all while shielding his intentions from his unsuspecting family. It was yet another example of the silent sacrifices made by young revolutionaries whose very lives became weapons in India’s war for freedom.

The Chhanahara Jewellery theft

At a critical juncture in the movement, Saroj Guha’s aunt, Hemnalini Dutta, and his elder sister, Champal Prabha, arrived from Kolkata to celebrate the annual Durga Puja at Hemnalini’s in-laws’ estate in Chanhara village. Hemnalini, belonging to a zamindar family, had brought with her an impressive collection of gold jewellery, intended for the grand festival. As Saroj laid eyes on the ornaments, an audacious idea took root—he would redirect this wealth toward the revolutionary cause.

With approval from Ananta Singh, a daring plan was set into motion. Saroj would accompany his relatives to Chanhara and, once there, surreptitiously take a wax impression of the key to the jewellery safe. A local locksmith would then prepare a duplicate key. Ananta assured him that revolutionary comrades would be stationed nearby for assistance, but Saroj was to stay inside the house after the operation to avoid arousing suspicion.

Upon reaching Chanhara by boat, fate seemed to favour Saroj—he was allotted the very room where the jewellery box was first stored. However, his initial attempt was thwarted; the ornaments had been shifted. The following morning, feigning illness, he sought permission to return home but was persuaded to stay by his concerned aunt. Later that day, when his young niece entered the room with a bunch of keys tied to her sari, Saroj seized the moment. With calm precision, he borrowed the keys, accessed the safe, and carefully recovered the ornaments, hiding them in a cloth bag. After returning the keys, he quietly slipped away from the house—his mission complete.

Saroj journeyed on foot to Julda, then boarded a boat to the Sadarghat Club, where he handed over the ornaments to Ananta Singh. Though they had hoped to raise ₹200, the value of the recovered jewellery was nearly ₹1,000—a windfall for the struggling underground network.

Back in Chanhara, Saroj’s sudden disappearance caused alarm. His aunt dispatched a servant to the Guha residence in Chittagong, only to be relieved by the news that Saroj had returned home safely. A few days later, when Hemnalini attempted to open the jewellery safe, she found it empty. Panic spread through the household, giving rise to confusion and suspicion. Yet the truth of what had transpired remained a secret.

Training, Physical Skills, and Revolutionary Mentorship

Saroj Kanti Guha was widely admired among his fellow revolutionaries in the Chittagong underground movement for his extraordinary physical prowess, agility, and expertise in various forms of combat. According to the memoirs of Ananta Singh, Guha played a pivotal role in the Sadarghat Club, a covert training ground where young revolutionaries honed their skills in physical culture, self-defense, and armed tactics. Singh remembered him as a natural athlete—swift, strong, and impressively disciplined. Whether it was gymnastics, boxing, stick fighting, or jujutsu, Saroj moved with such speed and precision that he left both comrades and mentors in awe.

Yet, what made him even more remarkable was his quiet dignity. Behind his strength lay a calm and humble spirit, unshaken even in the face of danger. He was not just a fighter but a mentor, taking it upon himself to train the next generation of patriots in hand-to-hand combat, firearms, and self-defense techniques. Among his most notable students was Haripada Bhattacharya, who would later carry out the assassination of Khan Bahadur Ahsanullah, a colonial official deeply reviled by the revolutionaries for his oppressive policies.

Saroj’s mastery of weapons and his unwavering commitment to discipline earned him immense respect within the Chittagong revolutionary ranks. He was the kind of leader who led not through words, but by example—a warrior in spirit, a teacher in action, and a silent torchbearer of India’s burning aspiration for freedom.

Operations in Dhaka

In the aftermath of Ahsanullah’s assassination, a bold sense of urgency gripped the revolutionary leadership. The time had come to take the battle deeper into enemy territory—Dhaka, the colonial nerve center of Eastern Bengal. It was Masterda Surya Sen himself who entrusted Saroj Guha with a mission of high stakes and higher secrecy: to travel to Dhaka and establish contact with Binod Bihari Chowdhury, the battle-hardened hero of Jalalabad, now living a life of shadows and coded whispers.

In the clandestine corners of the city, Guha and Chowdhury met under the cover of darkness and began shaping a daring plan—to launch a direct attack on the European Club, a smug emblem of British arrogance and racial segregation. The very idea crackled with defiance: to strike where the rulers felt most secure, in their own fortified sanctuaries.

But the fire of intention was not enough. The ground reality proved harsh. At the time, only seven or eight armed comrades were available in Dhaka—too few to ensure success in such a dangerous undertaking. Reluctantly, the decision was made to call off the mission, not out of fear, but out of pragmatism and strategic patience. Yet the very act of planning such a strike in the capital city was a message to the Empire: the revolution was not a flicker—it was a storm gathering strength, waiting for the right moment to explode.

The Durno Mission

With the European Club attack shelved, the revolutionary flame sought a new target—one more direct, more symbolic, and more fearsome in its challenge to British authority. The leadership set its sights on none other than Leslie George Durno, the District Magistrate of Dhaka. A high-ranking officer of the Indian Civil Service (ICS), Durno had, in the eyes of the revolutionaries, become a living symbol of colonial arrogance and state-sponsored repression. His name evoked resentment among students and civilians alike, particularly after the assassination of Police Inspector-General Lowman by Benoy Basu at Mitford Hospital. In the brutal crackdowns that followed, Durno’s hand was seen everywhere.

The decision to assassinate him was not taken lightly—it was a deliberate act of retaliation, a message that colonial terror would no longer go unanswered. The mission was meant to shake the very foundations of the British administration in Dhaka, reminding them that no uniform, no title, no empire could shield those who oppressed the people of India.

Mr. L. G. Durno, born in 1892, had been educated at Rugby School and University College, Oxford. He joined the Indian Civil Service in 1921 and steadily climbed the ranks, serving in various administrative roles across Bengal. By 15 November 1930, he was installed as District Magistrate of Dhaka—a position that made him both powerful and a prime target in the eyes of the underground movement. His past could not protect him. The revolution had placed him in its crosshairs.

Attempted Assassination of Magistrate Durno

On the fateful afternoon of 28 October 1931, Saroj Kanti Guha stepped into the heart of danger, executing a meticulously planned assassination attempt on Mr. L. G. Durno, the District Magistrate of Dhaka. This act was no isolated gesture of rebellion—it was part of a broader revolutionary design to strike terror into the heart of British authority, targeting those who orchestrated colonial repression with impunity. By Guha’s side was his trusted comrade, Ramen Bhowmik, equally committed to the cause and ready to risk everything for the freedom of the motherland.

The chosen day was a Saturday, when government offices closed early—a detail that made timing critical. Guha and Bhowmik took up position near a small sweet shop, adjacent to Messrs. Roy and Company, a liquor store on Nawabpur Road that Magistrate Durno was known to frequent. The trap was set. The revolutionaries waited, poised like hunters in silence.

Soon, a motorcar halted before the liquor store. Bhowmik advanced to confirm the target’s identity. With a calm born from conviction, Guha emerged from the shadows, dressed in a khadi dhoti and shirt, embodying both the simplicity and ferocity of India's struggle. He aimed at the driver and fired the first shot—lethal and precise. As chaos erupted, he turned his revolver on Mr. Durno, unleashing a hail of bullets into the vehicle. After emptying his first revolver, Guha drew a second, continuing the barrage until twelve shots had rung out—a deafening cry of defiance in the heart of the colonial city.

Panic swept through the area. Screams pierced the air. Shopkeepers ducked, and pedestrians fled. In the ensuing chaos and confusion, Guha and Bhowmik melted into the crowd, their mission complete. Slipping away amidst the terrified throng, they made their way to the riverbank, boarded a boat, and vanished into the night, heading toward Tripura. From there, they disappeared into the underground network in Comilla, leaving behind a stunned and shaken colonial administration.

The attack on Durno was not just an act of violence—it was a political thunderclap, a message that the days of British invincibility were numbered, and that India’s sons would strike where it hurt most—with courage, precision, and fire in their hearts.

Saroj Kanti Guha was, by nature, a daredevil—fearless, instinctive, and unflinchingly bold. Even towering figures like Masterda Surya Sen and Binod Bihari Chowdhury, who provided him shelter in Tatipara, Dhaka in the days leading up to the Durno assassination attempt, spoke of him with admiration tinged with awe. “Whatever task was entrusted to Saroj, he would accomplish it—by hook or by crook,” they would say. It was not mere praise—it was a recognition of his unyielding resolve, a quality that made him indispensable in the most dangerous missions of the underground movement. For Saroj, success was not an option—it was an oath.

Injuries Sustained by Magistrate Durno

Mr. L. G. Durno was left critically wounded in the wake of the daring attack. Multiple close-range gunshots were fired with deadly intent—one bullet grazed his chest, while another struck with terrifying precision at his right temple, causing catastrophic injury. Bloodied and shaken, the once-confident magistrate had been reduced to a figure of human frailty, the symbol of colonial might now clinging to life.

Swift medical attention followed. At the Dhaka hospital, an urgent X-ray examination revealed the devastating trajectory of the bullet—it had entered through the temple, ripped through the right eye, and finally lodged in the upper jaw. The result was severe facial trauma, permanent disfigurement, and irreversible damage to his vision.

Recognizing the gravity of the injury, colonial authorities rushed Durno to Kolkata for advanced treatment and surgical intervention. Eyewitness reports noted that he left Dhaka that very afternoon, fully conscious but gravely injured, flanked by anxious medical staff. The once-dominant magistrate was now a wounded relic of an empire under siege.

The attack left Durno partially disabled for the rest of his life, and its psychological scars ran just as deep. For the British administration, this was more than a personal blow—it was a rattling wake-up call. The façade of control had cracked, and fear crept into the colonial corridors of power.

In response, the British unleashed a wave of counterinsurgency. Dhaka was plunged into repression. Mass arrests, brutal interrogations, and civil rights abuses became the order of the day. But with every crackdown, the fire of resistance burned brighter in the hearts of Bengal’s youth, proving that for every act of colonial vengeance, a new revolutionary would rise.

Aftermath and Repression in Dhaka

Colonial Crackdown Following the Durno Attack

In the wake of the assassination attempt on District Magistrate Mr. L. G. Durno on 28 October 1931, allegedly orchestrated by Saroj Kanti Guha, the British colonial regime unleashed a wave of terror upon Dhaka. Though Durno survived—with grave injuries including a spinal wound that left him partially paralyzed—the imperial response was swift, ruthless, and utterly indiscriminate.

The city was thrown into siege. The colonial police stormed through neighborhoods, arresting men without warning, without evidence, and without cause. Beatings, midnight house raids, and public humiliation became everyday horrors. Not even women were spared—homes were violated, belongings ransacked, and outrageous abuses committed, particularly against the marginalized and voiceless.

Some forty individuals were rounded up, their fates sealed in silence. Families were shattered overnight. Citizens were dragged from their homes under cover of darkness, denied any formal charge, and often refused access to legal counsel. Among the many targeted was Shrish Chandra Bandyopadhyay, a respected Congress leader, and his son—both of whom were imprisoned in Dhaka Central Jail for an extended period, despite the absence of any proven connection to the attack.

At the helm of this repressive machinery stood Mr. Ellison, the Additional Superintendent of Police, whose name became synonymous with cruelty. Under his watch, civil liberties were crushed, and nationalist circles across Bengal erupted in fury. His methods—brutal, excessive, and lawless—drew harsh condemnation from across the political spectrum.

But the British had miscalculated. For every home they raided, for every voice they tried to silence, a thousand others rose with renewed resolve. The empire may have struck back—but Bengal had awakened.

Subhas Chandra Bose in Dhaka

As reports of civil rights violations and police brutality in Dhaka spread like wildfire, public outrage began to swell beyond Bengal. In a bold and decisive move, a fact-finding committee was constituted during a public meeting at Albert Hall in Kolkata on 6 November 1931. The gathering brought together towering nationalist leaders, including Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose and Jogeshchandra Gupta, determined to uncover the truth and hold the colonial administration accountable for its reign of terror.

The very next day, on 7 November, Subhas Chandra Bose set out for Dhaka, travelling via steamer to Narayanganj, intent on witnessing the situation firsthand. But the British authorities, fearing the power of his voice and presence, struck pre-emptively. As soon as Bose stepped ashore, he was detained by the police, denied entry into Dhaka, and forcibly sent back to Chandpur, then Kolkata. His arbitrary detention—a blatant violation of civil liberty—sparked fury across Bengal. Ananda Bazar Patrika, in its 8 November 1931 edition, carried the news prominently, fanning the flames of public indignation and exposing the colonial government's deepening paranoia.

At the center of the storm stood Mr. Ellison, whose name had already become synonymous with tyranny in Dhaka. His brutal campaign against civilians, students, and political workers had left a trail of broken homes and bleeding hearts. But history had not yet finished with him.

A few years later, while serving as Superintendent of Police in Comilla, Ellison met a violent end—assassinated by revolutionary Shailesh Ray, a devoted member of Surya Sen’s underground network. The act was no random strike; it was retribution, born of rage and memory, executed in the name of those who had suffered under Ellison’s iron hand after the failed assassination attempt on Durno.

The revolution had not forgotten. Justice, though delayed, had found its mark.

Trial, Conviction, and Imprisonment

Second Chittagong Armoury Raid Trial and Arrest

The Second Chittagong Armoury Raid Trial commenced on 1 January 1933, a calculated legal offensive by the British colonial government to crush the last embers of the armed resistance that had ignited on 18 April 1930. This was not merely a courtroom proceeding—it was the Empire's answer to revolution, aimed at silencing the brave hearts of Chittagong. Among the principal accused were stalwarts of the movement: Ambika Chakrabarty, Hemendu Bikash Dastidar, and the ever-elusive Saroj Kanti Guha, each of whom had etched their names into the blood-stained pages of India’s freedom struggle.

For nearly 32 months, Saroj remained underground, living in disguise, eluding capture with unwavering nerve and resolve. But on 3 August 1932, his journey in the shadows came to an end. He was arrested in Dhabalpur village, Noakhali District, where he had assumed the identity of Sailesh Ray, a humble private tutor—a false name masking a man marked by history. His capture marked the culmination of an exhaustive manhunt by British authorities who had long feared his return to the battlefield.

In the days before the attempt on Durno’s life, Saroj had reportedly taken shelter at the home of Bhairab Ghosh, a quiet yet loyal sympathizer of the revolutionary cause. But in colonial India, even compassion was punishable. Once Saroj was officially listed among the absconders, Ghosh and his son Girindra were both taken into custody. Though Bhairab was spared further punishment due to his advanced age, Girindra Ghosh paid the price for solidarity—sentenced to two years of rigorous imprisonment and fined ₹1,000 for the simple act of giving sanctuary to a fugitive hero.

Though intelligence reports of the time strongly suspected Saroj’s involvement in the assassination attempt on Mr. Durno, the court failed to produce conclusive evidence. Despite whispers, despite warnings, no conviction followed. The case remained suspended between truth and legend, much like the life of Saroj himself.

The judgement

On 1 February 1933, the British regime delivered its cold and calculated verdict. The Special Tribunal pronounced a death sentence on Ambika Chakrabarty, one of the fiercest spirits of the Chittagong uprising. The judgment sent shockwaves through nationalist circles, but the Calcutta High Court, perhaps fearing public uproar, later commuted the sentence to transportation for life.

For Saroj Kanti Guha, too, the weight of imperial justice came crashing down. Though his role in the resistance was indisputable, his youth saved him from the gallows. Recognizing his age, the court refrained from issuing the death penalty. Instead, they condemned him to transportation for life—an exile to the dreaded Cellular Jail in the Andamans, where countless revolutionaries had been buried in silence behind iron bars and barbed wire.

It was not mercy, but strategy. The Empire sought to break the body without martyring the soul—to erase without igniting. But in sentencing Saroj, they only strengthened his legacy, turning another young rebel into a symbol of undaunted resistance and sacrifice for Bharat Mata.

Imprisonment in the Cellular Jail and Torture

Following his conviction, Saroj Kanti Guha was deported to the infamous Cellular Jail in the Andaman Islands—the colonial empire’s most feared prison, reserved for those whose spirit they could not subdue. From 1932 to 1938, he endured the harshest conditions known to any political prisoner: isolation, starvation, and brutal torture designed to crush the will of even the bravest.

Among the many trials that Saroj Kanti Guha endured during his incarceration in the Cellular Jail, one tragic incident left a lifelong scar—not inflicted by whip or chain, but born of neglect and quiet cruelty. Unlike the common image of unrelenting torture, prisoners in Andaman were at times allowed limited recreation, and football matches were among the few activities permitted as part of a controlled routine.

It was during one such game that fate took a cruel turn. While playing, a brick fragment—either from the worn-out field or nearby structure—struck Saroj’s eye, causing immediate pain and trauma. He was rushed to a nearby hospital in the Andamans, but there he encountered a different form of violence: medical apathy.

The attending doctor, known to harbor hostility toward political prisoners, showed utter disregard for Saroj’s condition. Wrong treatment was deliberately administered, and what might have been a minor injury turned catastrophic. His cornea was permanently damaged, and Saroj lost vision in his left eye—not from the accident alone, but from the systematic neglect of a regime that treated patriots as pariahs.

It was a wound that symbolized more than physical loss—it was the cost of being a revolutionary under colonial rule, where even medical care became a battlefield of discrimination and vengeance.

Yet, even in darkness, Saroj Kanti Guha saw more clearly than his captors. His one remaining eye burned with the vision of liberation, and his maimed body stood as a living testament to the unspeakable cost of freedom.

Cellular Jail inside; Bottom: Cellular Jail front gate.

At the Cellular Jail, cruelty did not always come with shackles and whips—it often arrived in the form of exhaustion, disease, and deliberate neglect. During one such grim phase, prisoners were made to crush coconuts in a kolu ghani, a primitive oil press turned by human labor. The work was backbreaking, the hours endless, and the only sustenance provided was coconut water and pulp—often contaminated, laced with bacteria like Shigella, E. coli, or parasites like Entamoeba histolytica.

It was this vile mixture of overwork and poisoned nutrition that led to Saroj Kanti Guha’s debilitating bout of infectious dysentery, sometimes so severe that he passed blood in his stool. His health deteriorated rapidly, and though he survived those dark prison years, the damage lingered long after his release.

Once back on the mainland, his condition worsened, and it seemed the revolution would lose one of its finest sons not to a bullet, but to disease. His father, Nandalal Guha, heartbroken yet determined, sent Saroj for treatment to Cox’s Bazar and Dhaka, placing him under the care of a devoted family member—the mother of Saroj’s nephew. With unwavering compassion and attentive nursing, she pulled him back from the edge of death, and Saroj slowly regained his strength.

But amidst this battle for life, tragedy had already struck home. Kusum Kamini, Saroj’s beloved mother, had passed away before his return. Consumed by grief and despair, convinced that her son had perished in the hell of the Andamans, she died with his name on her lips, unaware that he was still alive. Her sorrow became another quiet martyrdom—one more life claimed by the long shadow of colonial cruelty.

Despite the inhuman conditions and years of physical torment, Saroj Kanti Guha’s resolve never wavered. Within the cold, suffocating walls of the Cellular Jail, he found purpose anew—joining hands with a collective of imprisoned revolutionaries who transformed their captivity into a continued battlefield of resistance. Between 1936 and 1937, Saroj became an active participant in underground efforts within the jail: hunger strikes, secret coordination, and organized protests were mounted to defy the British attempt to break their spirit.

These defiant acts weren’t just personal—they were political statements, echoing beyond the prison walls and rattling the conscience of the colonial state. The revolutionaries may have been chained, but their ideals were uncontainable.

In January 1938, Saroj was finally brought back to the Indian mainland, a move likely influenced by evolving colonial policies and the mounting pressure to scale back the political deportations that had become a symbol of imperial brutality. Yet even then, freedom was still denied. He remained behind bars, his sentence stretched by bureaucracy and fear, until 1946—a full fourteen years of incarceration, endured with a fierce dignity that no prison could suppress.

Post-Release Hardship and Surveillance

Upon his release in 1946, Saroj Kanti Guha returned to West Bengal, not to a hero’s welcome, but to a life of struggle and shadows. Alongside him came fellow former political prisoner Nagendranath Dey, known for his role in the Bathua Action Conspiracy Case. Both men had given their youth, their health, and their freedom to the motherland—and yet, in independent India’s twilight years under British rule, they were met with destitution, hardship, and suspicion.

The colonial intelligence apparatus never loosened its grip. Saroj, though never convicted in the attempted assassination of Magistrate Durno, remained under a cloud of surveillance. Intelligence files from the 1930s referred to him as being "strongly suspected" of having executed the attack—a label the Empire clung to, despite the absence of hard evidence.

But Saroj carried this burden as he had all others—in silence, with the calm fortitude of a man who had already paid his price. What the British saw as suspicion, history would remember as courage. And though the trappings of power passed from imperial hands, freedom still bore the faces of the forgotten revolutionaries, like Guha, who had lit the fire in the darkest of hours.

Later Life and Legacy

Post-Release Life and Social Work

After enduring fourteen years of brutal incarceration, Saroj Kanti Guha emerged from prison in 1946 and chose to dedicate the rest of his life not to power or recognition, but to the upliftment of the forgotten and the marginalized. Settling in West Bengal, he became actively engaged in social welfare, focusing especially on the rights and rehabilitation of tribal communities, whose voices had long been silenced by both colonial and caste hierarchies.

In the spirit of many former revolutionaries who sought new ideological homes in independent India, Guha joined the Communist Party of India, channeling his lifelong defiance of injustice into grassroots activism. It was a natural evolution—from armed resistance to class-conscious reform, from fighting an empire to fighting inequality.

One incident from this period stands out as a testament to his enduring sense of justice. In a remote tribal region, Guha intervened to stop the forced marriage of a young woman from the Mogs (Arakanese) community to an elderly man. When all efforts to halt the injustice failed, Saroj took the extraordinary step of marrying the woman himself, not for convention, but to safeguard her dignity and autonomy. It was an act of principled compassion, emblematic of a life lived in service of the oppressed.

The couple had a daughter, who later settled in Durgapur, West Bengal. Saroj’s legacy lived on not only through his revolutionary past, but through the quiet moral courage that defined his post-prison life—a freedom fighter in every sense of the word, even after the war was won.

Remembrance and Personal Accounts

Saroj Kanti Guha’s name lives on—etched in stone and memory. At Serial No. 287 on the Central Tower of the Cellular Jail Memorial, his name stands among those who were deported, tortured, and defiant, commemorating the indomitable spirit of those who dared to dream of a free India.

In the 1970s, during a government-sponsored program honoring surviving freedom fighters, Guha returned to the Andaman Islands—the very place that had once been his prison. Among those who welcomed him was Pranob Sircar, grandson of revolutionary Rajani Ranjan Sircar. During the visit, Guha and a few fellow veterans were hosted at the Sircar residence in Anarkali, Port Blair, where local residents gathered in reverence, their presence a living tribute to sacrifices made in silence and blood.

It was not merely a homecoming, but a moment of quiet history unfolding.

Later, in the presence of family and friends in Bardhaman, Guha personally recounted the daring attempt on Magistrate Durno’s life, breaking years of silence with solemn honesty. He would later share the same story with Rajani Sircar, offering a rare, firsthand glimpse into one of the boldest and least-known acts of anti-colonial resistance.

Though the account never gained widespread attention, it was preserved in the Bengali memoir Ami Subhash Bolchhi by Shailesh Dey, where it appears on page 282—a hidden jewel of revolutionary history, passed on not through headlines, but through the voices of those who lived it.

Final Years

Despite his pivotal role in some of the most daring episodes of India’s freedom struggle—from the Chittagong Armoury Raid and the Battle of Jalalabad to the assassination attempt on District Magistrate Durno—Saroj Kanti Guha faded into the margins of independent India’s public memory. Like so many of his comrades who had risked everything for the nation, he lived out his later years in humble obscurity, far from the spotlight of awards or recognition.

On 9 October 1985, Saroj Kanti Guha breathed his last—a quiet departure for a man who had once stood at the storm-front of revolution. His passing was largely uncelebrated, unsung, a silent end to a life that had burned so brightly in resistance.

Legacy

Saroj Kanti Guha is remembered today as one of the youngest and most fearless disciples of Masterda Surya Sen, and a steadfast member of the Chittagong revolutionary movement that sought to shake the foundations of British colonial rule through armed resistance. His daring participation in the Chittagong Armoury Raid of 1930, the Battle of Jalalabad, and the assassination attempt on District Magistrate Durno in Dhaka, cemented his place among the boldest youth revolutionaries of his generation.

Guha was revered not only for his unflinching bravery, but for his exceptional skills in firearms, combat, and self-defense. Fellow revolutionaries, including Ananta Singh, praised his discipline, agility, and sharp instincts. Whether operating as an arms courier, training others in physical tactics, or functioning under aliases like Shailesh Ray during covert operations, Guha demonstrated an uncommon blend of strategic intelligence and physical courage.

In the years following independence, Guha withdrew from public acclaim, choosing instead a path of social service, particularly among tribal and marginalized communities. Though partially blinded during his imprisonment in the Cellular Jail, and having endured torturous conditions and years of forced exile, he never sought accolades. His quiet activism, carried out far from the limelight, reflected the same values that once led him to take up arms: justice, dignity, and resistance against oppression.

His name is now etched at Serial No. 287 on the Central Tower of the Cellular Jail Memorial, a solemn recognition of the young man who once walked those prison corridors with unwavering resolve. His story, largely absent from textbooks, survives through oral histories and memoirs, most notably Shailesh Dey’s Ami Subhash Bolchhi.

In the 1970s, when he returned to the Andamans as part of a government-organized program for political prisoners, local residents gathered to honor him, their quiet reverence a fitting tribute to a man whose life was a testament to sacrifice without expectation, and patriotism without spectacle.

Remembrance

Although the films Khelein Hum Jee Jaan Sey (2010) and Chittagong (2012) sought to capture the spirit of the Chittagong uprising, they omitted the remarkable role of Saroj Kanti Guha—particularly his daring attempt on the life of District Magistrate Durno, one of the most audacious acts of individual defiance during the movement. Yet, his story has not faded into silence.

His legacy is lovingly preserved by his family, especially through the efforts of his nephew Ajoy Sen, the Vice President of Surya Sen Bhawan in Jodhpur Park, Kolkata, and the son of co-revolutionary Bidhu Bhusan Sen. Ajoy remains deeply committed to honouring the memory and contributions of his martyred uncle, ensuring that Saroj Kanti Guha’s name lives on in the hearts of those who still draw inspiration from Bengal’s revolutionary past.

Saroj Kanti Guha passed away on 9 October 1985, largely unsung and uncelebrated by the nation he helped liberate. Yet in the pages of history—and in the memory of every soul who cherishes freedom born of fire—he remains a shining symbol of youthful courage, sacrifice, and unwavering patriotism.

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Bibliography

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Surya Sener Sonali Swapna by Rupmoy Paul.
Chattogram Yuba Bidroha by Ananta Singh
Chattogram Biplaber Banhishikha by Shachindranath Guha.
Bharate Santrasbad by Nanda Mukhopadhyay

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Rebellion Without Applause: The Life and Death of Saroj Kanti Guha