Ahead of the recent Operation Sindoor, the Union Home Ministry ordered a nationwide mock drill—an eerie rehearsal for a scenario the nation hopes never to face: war. Across India, sirens were meant to blare, warning citizens and testing nerves. But in West Bengal, especially in Kolkata, silence reigned. The reason? Most of the city’s air-raid sirens had long rusted into obsolescence, their ageing frames stifled by years of neglect.
Yet, amidst this stillness, one siren remains defiant—one voice still echoes.
Nestled within central Kolkata is a siren that has survived the trials of time. A relic of the Second World War, it is not encased behind museum glass, but continues to serve a purpose. For 80 unbroken years, this siren has roared unfailingly every 23rd of January—the birth anniversary of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose.
This story, however, is not merely about a surviving wartime artefact. It is about the family that keeps its memory and message alive.
The guardians of this historic war cry belong to the lineage of Gopal Mukherjee, more popularly known as Gopal Patha—a man whose dual identity as meat merchant and freedom fighter earned him a revered place in the city’s lore.
A nephew of the revolutionary Anukul Chandra Mukherjee, Gopal carved out his own niche in Kolkata’s turbulent past. When communal violence erupted in the city on 16 August 1946—a day now remembered as The Great Calcutta Killing—Gopal did not stand by in silence. From the humble confines of a local wrestling club, he mobilised a 800-strong resistance force to protect the city’s Hindu populace. It was not a campaign of retaliation, but a desperate shield formed out of patriotism, duty and resolve.
Gopal was no ordinary follower of Netaji—he was a devoted disciple. In 1945, even before India’s independence, he introduced a unique ritual: the Bharat Mata Puja.
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This was not the Bharat Mata idol seen today. This was a symbolic portrayal—chained and wounded, yet wielding a sword in one hand. Before her stood Netaji, adorned in military uniform, solemnly accepting the sword—a striking invocation for liberation, not through prayer, but through revolution.
The puja was no mere household observance. It spilled onto the streets, unfurling into a grand procession that spanned a week, beginning on 23 January. The march would always be led by the old World War-II siren. A second, handheld siren would accompany it, both creating a haunting chorus echoing through the neighbourhood.
Though the scale has diminished over time, the sentiment endures.
“We still preserve this siren as a family initiative,” says Shantanu Mukherjee, Gopal’s grandson. “There’s a legacy behind it. My grandfather believed that if you can do even a little for your country, it’s a matter of pride. We carry that belief forward. If the country ever needs it—in a war drill or real danger—this siren will speak again.”
Gopal’s granddaughter, Niharika Mukherjee, adds, “This puja started in 1945, from the mind of my grandfather. The idol we worshipped wasn’t political. It was pure patriotism. Netaji wasn’t just being honoured—he was being armed. This was the Bharat Mata of my grandfather. Fierce. Shackled. Unyielding. It’s not the same as what we see now.”
As India hurtles towards modernity, often forgetting its past in the rush, the old siren stands silently, waiting. It may be rusted. It may be outdated. But when it wails, it carries with it the memory of a city once aflame with resistance, and the devotion of a family that refuses to let that fire die.
In the shadow of skyscrapers and smartphones, one family still listens for that sound—the sound of a nation that once stood ready to rise.
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