For Indians of today, the history of Andaman and Nicobar islands usually spring up as an aching and relevant memory for very particular reasons. The notorious cellular jails of Kalapani operated by the British and the atrocities and controversial political developments associated with them are not mere footnotes in Indian history. They reverberate to this day in nationalist politics and propoganda. However, what's often looked over is the fact that the Andamanese people too, whether the natives or the descendants of the settlers from the colonial period, had stories to tell. Stories of oppression, liberation, manipulation and collective trauma. Interestingly, that story cannot be solely narrated through the usual critiques of British imperialism. This time, we shall look eastward, and witness the consequences of the blazing sun rising in the Andaman Sea.
The year was 1942, a momentous period that saw the epitome of Axis aggression in both the Pacific and Atlantic fronts. The second world war had reached a point of no return with offensives and counter offensives redefining the geopolitical theatre with every passing minute. Meanwhile, the Anti-colonial and Anti-imperial struggles across the world had also started to reach their zenith. In India, the decades of Gandhian non-violence, parliamentary pressure, leftist revolutions, uneasy alliances and changing political priorities had all culminated to create an extremely hostile environment for Britain, arguably the most important player amongst the Allies. However, the majority of the nationalist leaders were unable to separate the fight against fascism and the fight against colonialism as two separate evils that must be dealt with accordingly. For example, Gandhi argued that the Japanese threat in Myanmar was but a byproduct of the British presence in the subcontinent. So to cull the evil of the former, it was necessary to cut the roots of the latter. Likewise, the arguments tried to be as nuanced as possible, largely because of the uncertainties surrounding the war. A direct call to "Do or Die" against the British would only come months later.
Except for one notable individual.
Subhas Chandra Bose.
From his early days onwards, Bose was an ardent critique of "moderation" in resistance. This was particularly evident in his preference of associations, like the confrontational Swarajists, that included socialist leaders like Jawaharlal Nehru. However, while it would be difficult to compartmentalise Bose's views as Communist or Socialist, what he inarguably was, is a Militant Nationalist. Most of his speeches were sentimental, emotional and strikingly anti-colonial, and they were primarily aimed at attracting the young bloods of India.
Interestingly, one such young blood, the famed Communist revolutionary Bhagat Singh (21 at the time), had a few things to say about Bose's sensationalisation of the national struggle. In his essay titled Naye Netaon ke Alag Alag Vichar (New Leaders and their Different Ideologies), Bhagat Singh compared Netaji Bose and Jawaharlal Nehru, and opined that Bose was not the figure that the young minds in India should follow to a future, for the future will be shaped by the kinds of Nehru. Bhagat, with utmost respect, considered Bose to be a master of misplaced emotionalism, "who is giving the young food for their hearts, and only their hearts." He would then go on to criticize Bose even further, saying "Subhash Chandra’s are the thoughts of someone who wants to replace one regime with another," drawing eerie comparisons with religious revivalists in India who were at the forefront of Anti-imperial struggle in the early days.
In other words, it wasn't a secret by any stretch that Bose would've gone to whatever length necessary if he believed there to be a Swaraj at the end. By the late 30's and well into the first phase of World War II, Bose had started arguing that the British preoccupation should be used as an opportunity to destabilize The Raj.
The only question was who would support him. He had already resigned from the Indian National Congress for ideological reasons. But surely, other leaders would agree with the cause?
As mentioned earlier, the nationalist leaders in India at the time outrightly refused to look at the whole situation through a black and white lens.
And when Bose realized that his much respected peers and idols, even Gandhi himself (whom he would later call Mahatma) had no interest in supporting his risky endeavours, he peeked straight into hell.
To Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan.
The reasoning was simple. Enemy of my enemy is a friend. The Axis powers stood against the Allies, Britain was an Allied nation, and the British were his oppressors. There began Bose's travels to Axis territories to gather support for his efforts back home, especially in terms of military resources and political alliances. Although there is much to discuss about his creativity in Europe, let's focus on his most successful endeavour of all, which also happens to be the most relevant to our discussion.
The Japanese arrival at India's Eastern frontiers.
While the Imperial Japan was notorious for their oppressive regimes across East Asia and Southeast Asia, complemented by the evils of indifferent torture, massacres, sexual violence, and the acts unimaginable to an empathetic brain, all Subhas Chandra Bose saw was a "political opportunity. " The biggest threat to Britain in their Western Pacific cocoons and South Asian territories was unquestionably the Japanese imperial might. Since the late 1800s, right after the Meiji restoration and the rapid industrialization, Japan had shown relentless political and nationalist ambition. Now, when allied with Berlin and Rome, they became a threat the British simply couldn't control. Winston Churchill all but panicked when the Japanese army reached Myanmar, and he started blockading Bay of Bengal and reallocating the rice meant for the region, aiding the acceleration of the notorious famine.
As for Bose, his Azad Hind government was formed with the Japanese help, and they passionately supported the invasion of Myanmar and their further push into India, all in the name of ousting the British (given, the Myanmarese and the Thais wished for the same).
At the same time, the Japanese ships had crossed the Strait of Malacca and entered the Andaman Sea. With only a few outposts and not enough personnel or material to defend against a full-scale invasion, the British officials and other elites abandoned their posts and fled to Bengal and Myanmar.
Thus, the islands fell into Japanese hands in March 1942. For Tokyo, they were not just tropical outposts but critical nodes in a defensive arc across the Indian Ocean. For Subhas Chandra Bose and the Indian Independence League, they represented a symbol. A foothold on Indian soil to project the dream of Azad Hind, a free India. What more, the Japanese even gave the titular governance to a body set up by the IIL, but we will come back to that later.
It is under this background Bose would travel to Port Blair in December 1943, ceremoniously raising the tricolor and renaming the islands Shaheed (Martyr) and Swaraj (Self-rule).
But behind this symbolism, life for the islanders turned into a long night of fear. And questions soon arose in the Andamanese conscience regarding their future.
Who was the Shaheed? Whom exactly had the Swaraj?
The Japanese occupied the islands from 1942 to 1945, until the Allied victory. At first, there was some cautious optimism. Islanders, many of whom were descendants of convicts and settlers brought by the British, believed that an “Asia for Asians” might offer relief from colonial neglect. Yet very soon, the occupation revealed itself as an iron cage.
Food shortages became acute. The Japanese diverted supplies for their military needs, leaving locals to scramble. Fishing was restricted and trade collapsed. Starvation stalked entire villages.
But hunger wasn't as deadly as suspicion. The Japanese military police, the dreaded Kempeitai, saw spies and saboteurs everywhere. The most trivial rumor could lead to arrest, torture, and execution. Islanders were dragged to the Cellular Jail not as freedom fighters against the British, but as victims of their supposed liberators.
One testimony recalls how families were forced to bow to Japanese soldiers and supply them with livestock, coconuts, and even young men for labor. When villagers protested, they faced beatings or worse. A famous such incident occurred in the case of a young man called Zulfiqar Ali, who fired an air gun at the Japanese who were raiding his property. He went into hiding, but the Japanese let out violent attacks at the villagers, until he was caught, dragged in public, his hands beaten until they broke, and then, shot to death. The memorial stones in Andaman tells the stories of many such unfortunate souls.
Regardless, for the Japanese, Port Blair was a base to monitor Allied movements, and the islands became one of their many peripheries where discipline was enforced through terror.
The atrocities reached their nadir in 1944, when a group of prominent Indian residents—teachers, doctors, local leaders—were arrested on charges of espionage. They were tortured brutally, and some executed. Among them was Diwan Singh, the head of a so-called "Peace committee" under the IIL, looking into the affairs and wellbeing of the occupied populace. His “crime” was merely being suspected of links with the British. He was beaten and tortured until he died. The brutality was so arbitrary that entire communities were silenced. Survivors later recalled that even whispering discontent could mean disappearance.
It is here that the myth and the memory begin to diverge. Bose visited Port Blair in December 1943, escorted with pomp and ceremony by Japanese officials. He declared the islands liberated and renamed them. But he did not, or perhaps could not, venture beyond the carefully choreographed itinerary. He saw no prisons, no gallows, no hungry villagers, no Kempeitai interrogations. He didn't even see the members of Azad Hind being detained during his visit. Interestingly, right after he left, more than 40 Indians, including the members of IIL, would be arrested for suspected espionage against the Japanese and then executed in cold blood. This event too, famously known as the Homfreyganj massacre, either went over Bose's nationalist eyes, or was deliberately ignored like the Holocaust.
Today, the Andamans bear quiet memorials to that period. The ruins of Japanese bunkers, a handful of plaques, and scattered oral histories. But outside the islands, the memory has been overshadowed by the larger, more glamorous narratives of World War II, the freedom struggle, and a window to the India that "could've been" with the Japanese help. This is why it always, for the lack of a better word, baffles me, to see people use the names of Subhas Chandra Bose, Bhagat Singh and Nathuram Godse (of all people) in the same sentence as an "othering" argument against non-revolutionary leaders of the time. If the three had met in person, they all would disagree with each other, and the two of them would react "not-so-respectfully" to the third. I will leave it to the reader to figure out which one's which.
This is not to diminish Bose’s role in India’s freedom struggle. His determination, his charisma, his refusal to accept British rule as inevitable, all remain part of the complex fabric of India’s nationalist history. But to romanticize a hypothetical triumph that never was is to betray the lived reality of those who bore the cost.
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