A Life Immortal 307Rama Murti’s house, where his wife placed it on a high table with in-
cense burning on both sides and a stack of flowers in front. A tiny pho-
tograph of Netaji was placed on top of the urn.^7
Late that night, Habibur Rahman arrived at Mrs. Sahay’s home,
some two miles from Rama Murti’s residence. After exchanging greet-
ings of “Jai Hind,” Ayer bombarded Habib with questions. Habib’s
melancholy narrative corroborated what Ayer had been told by the
Japanese colonel. Their plane had halted for refueling at Taipei on Au-
gust 18. The passengers took the opportunity to have something to eat.
Within minutes of takeoff from Taipei, there was a sudden deafening
noise. Habib thought at the time that an enemy fighter had taken a pot
shot at the Japanese bomber. He learned later that one of the propellers
of the port engine had broken. The plane nose- dived to the ground
and Habib blacked out. Once he recovered consciousness, he saw that
passage to the rear of the plane was completely blocked by luggage
while a fire raged in the front. “Aagese nikliye, Netaji!” (“Please get out
through the front, Netaji!”), Habib called to his leader. With both his
hands, Netaji fought his way through the fire and Habib followed.
“When the plane crashed,” Habib told Ayer, “Netaji got a splash of pet-
rol all over his cotton khaki, and it caught fire when he struggled
through the nose of the plane.” He stood outside the plane with his
clothes burning and tried to unbuckle the belts of his bushcoat round
his waist. Habib’s hands were burned in the pro cess of trying to help
him. As he was fumbling with the belts, he looked up and his heart
nearly stopped when he saw Netaji’s face, “battered by iron and burnt
by fire.” A few minutes later, they lay down exhausted on the ground of
Taipei’s airfield.^8
The next thing Habib knew, he was lying on a hospital bed next
to Netaji. For the next six hours, Netaji slipped in and out of con-
sciousness. During those hours he never once complained about the
wrenching pain he must have been suf fering. In a delirious moment, he
called for Abid Hasan. “Hasan yahan nahi hain, Sab, main hun, Habib”
(“Hasan is not here, sir, I am here, Habib”), Habibur Rahman ex-
plained to him. The Japanese doctors made superhuman efforts to save
his life. Netaji was convinced that he would not survive. He told Habib
in Hindustani that his end was coming very soon. He had fought for