The Massacre

I drew a sharp breath as I dipped my pen in the ink for the fifteenth time. I stared at the blank paper and it stared back at me. As I kept my pen down, my thoughts wandered yet again.

 I could hear the silent cry and drop of tear, far away somewhere, of the newborn upon just becoming  an orphan, the sister upon her last ‘rakhi’, the mother upon the loss of her only son. At a time where everybody was losing, who was to gain?

 My wet eyes brought me back, I stood up from my desk and walked out to sit on the front porch. I looked up to the sky which was on the brink of a storm. I picked up my copy of ‘Mahratta’ and opened up to the front page. The headlines greeted me with nothing but disappointment. It read--- 

 

 “The Amritsar Massacre. Darkest Stain Of British Rule. 370 Dead and 1200 Wounded.” 

To look at it another second was unbearable. The loss wasn't something new to me. Abba gave away his life so that his country could live. Just as we were recovering from his death, news of the Jallianwala Bagh was received. To think that it was a coincidence that Dada was present there at that very moment is insane. Amma sent me with whatever saving we had left to see whether Dada survived. She was sure that her God would not do such unjust with her. 

 Somehow she thought Dada was not among the 370 but 1200. And there was hope, until this morning.

 My blood boils when I think of how the British have injured my family. It is a dagger to the heart.

 A scream of mental pain which hurts more than any physical pain. I am proud of my father and  brother for they were the brave knights of this country who lit the lamps of hope in the dark cavern of those white leeches. And so... should think my mother and sister.

 I walked back inside as it had started to rain heavily. I went to my desk and this time filled the blank piece of paper---

 

Dear Amma,

 I have reached Amritsar and I am well. I am sending a little money with the post. I hope this helps.

 I am glad to tell that Dada is now a son of Mother Earth. His friends tell me he died thinking of you. And I have decided to follow Abba and Dada's paths.

 I promise to return only after quenching my thirst for blood. Till then.

Yours Affectionately,

A Son and a Brother