The grass was an unusual shade of red. I looked around, puzzled by this unfamiliar hue that had replaced the usual brown earth beneath my feet. In my right hand, I held a sword, a formidable weapon, yet my heart remained strangely calm despite the ominous crimson surroundings. I knew the reason for this eerie color—it was all blood.
My brown eyes gazed ahead, unwavering, as if peering into the future. Then, abruptly, I awoke, drenched in sweat, my heart racing. It was just a dream. Still shaken, I called for my mother. She hurried into my modest room, dressed in a vibrant saree, likely in preparation for some impending festival.
"What's wrong Krishna?" she asked, concern etched across her face as she settled beside my small bed.
"Was it another bad dream?" she inquired with soothing calmness.
"Yes," I replied, my nerves gradually settling.
"I don't understand why you keep having these dreams," she confessed, her hands still trembling slightly.
"It's alright, everything's fine," I assured her.
"Go and have a bath and get ready; i Will prepare the food. We're celebrating Baisakhi today."she said
I cherished my mother's comforting smile, and it helped ease my anxiety. Baisakhi was a significant festival in our region, celebrated with great fervor. It marked the beginning of the harvest season and was an occasion for communal joy and gratitude.
"Put on something nice; we'll probably go somewhere with your uncle and cousin today to celebrate."
"Okay, Maa," I agreed.
As my mother made her way to the kitchen, I took a moment to reflect on our small, modest house. My room consisted of only a single bed and a small box containing my clothes. My father had passed away when I was just a child, according to my mother, due to an illness. However, I couldn't help but doubt her account, as my memories of my father painted a picture of a robust, healthy man—tall, with broad shoulders. I had inherited his eyes.
We also owned a small farm behind our house and a few cows. We weren't wealthy by any means, but we managed to put food on the table and clothe ourselves—a privilege in these times of exorbitant British-imposed taxes that left most families with scant resources.
Like every child, I aspired to join the fight, to become a freedom fighter.
Shaking off my reverie, I recalled that today was the 13th of April, 1919, and I needed to get ready for Baisakhi.I stood at a height of 5'4", my youthful frame indicating age of 15. Hints of puberty were evident, with the beginnings of facial hair beginning to show on my face, expressive brown eyes carried a glimmer of curiosity and youthful vigor. Being of Indian origin, complexion bore the warm, rich tones of brown, with a touch of fairness that gave my skin a healthy glow.
well-groomed, jet-black hair was neatly parted from one side of his head to the other, lending an air of tidiness to his appearance. My face assumed a triangular shape, with a broad forehead that easily caught one's attention I retrieved an almost-new kurta and matching pajamas, placing them neatly on my bed. The kurta was white, extending almost to my knees.
After a quick bath and change of clothes, I hurried downstairs to eat before my mother grew impatient. My cousin brother, two years my senior at 18, greeted me.
"Krishna, looking sharp. Going to meet a girl?" he teased, a smug grin on his face.
Blushing, I responded, "Nothing like that. Ma asked us to wear our best for Baisakhi. What are our plans today?"
"Papa," he replied, referring to our uncle, "mentioned that we'll visit the temple around 1 pm and then head to Jallianwala Bagh for the celebration."
I smiled at the prospect. "Okay, when are we leaving?"
"We'll visit the temple first, around 1 pm, and then proceed to the Bagh afterward."
"Okay, Bhaiya," I replied, content with our festive plans.
Our small, close-knit family made the most of what we had, and today's festivities promised to be memorable. I informed my mother that I was going to meet my friend, Raj, and assured her that I would be back in time for our temple visit.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Darting out of the house before my mother could assign any farm chores, I made my way to Raj's house, shouting from outside, "Raj!"
He emerged, dressed in worn, ragged clothes. A smile spread across my face as I spotted my best friend. "Any plans for today? We're going to the Golden Temple and then to the Bagh."
"Probably the same," he replied. "I'll be going with my father. Will you meet us there?"
"Sure. What should we do until then?"
Raj glanced around and replied, "My father mentioned that we might participate in a protest against the Britishers at the Bagh."
I pondered this for a moment. "I'm not sure if peaceful protests are achieving anything against them. They keep imposing new laws every week. Why should we continue to protest peacefully?"
"Yeah, it's frustrating," Raj agreed. "But let's leave that aside for now. So, finally turning 16, huh?"
I chuckled, realizing he shared my sentiment. "Yes, finally! I wish birthdays came around 2 or 3 times a year."
We exchanged amused glances, both secretly longing for the same thing.
As we roamed the streets, observing people and soaking in the festive atmosphere, we overheard soldiers announcing a curfew beginning at 8:00 pm. It was nothing new;curfews had become a daily occurrence, limiting our freedom in our own homeland. The Britishers and their oppressive regime had long fueled our anger and resentment.
We went to a park near our houses, exchanging mischievous looks as we made our way to the corner of the park. There, we had hidden wooden swords, which we had purchased by saving money from a carpenter. After digging them out, we engaged in a spirited duel. Raj displayed formidable strength, while I prided myself on my speed, at least in my own estimation. We sparred for the entire hour, and although I acquired a few bruises, we always ensured they were in inconspicuous places. I successfully parried most of Raj's strikes, but the ones that broke through stung intensely. On the other hand, I landed numerous strikes on him, but they lacked the power I desired. As we wrapped up our duel, both of us were left tired and drenched in sweat.We liked to play makeshift freedom fighters in our free time. I contemplated the need for an additional bath before heading to the temple.
By 1 pm, I reached home, leaving Raj at his house.
Sneaking into the house i heard noise from the kitchen, so mom was there,i quickly went into the bathroom at the common bathroom at the back, the sweat had mostly dried due to cold breeze but i still washed my face and removed any mud from my hands, no need to leave any clues behind, drying my self i again exited the house and made a show of coming back now.
"I'm back," I announced upon entering.
My mother was also ready to go, dressed in a beautiful blue saree with her hair neatly tied in a bun, her head covered by her saree pallu. She looked radiant.
We visited the temple, offering prayers for a bountiful harvest, and I silently prayed for the end of British rule. However, I knew that the latter wish was a distant hope.
We indulged in langar at the temple before my mother performed seva (selfless service). By 3 pm, we set off for the Bagh, a normally ten-minute walk now taking us thirty minutes due to the swelling crowd.My uncle and cousin were scheduled to join us at Jallianwala Bagh
As I navigated the bustling streets and observed the vibrant preparations for Baisakhi, my mind wandered to the historical context of our times. The British Raj, which had a stranglehold on our beloved Bharat for nearly two centuries, had left an indelible mark on our nation's history. The British, driven by imperial ambitions and a thirst for economic gain, had systematically exploited our land and resources. Their imposition of heavy taxes had pushed families to the brink of poverty, and the ever-present British control over our daily lives was stifling.
I couldn't help but recall pivotal moments in our history, such as the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857, when Indian soldiers rose in rebellion against their British officers. Though ultimately suppressed, it was a significant step towards our quest for independence.
Despite enduring curfews and restrictions on our freedoms, our resilience grew stronger with each passing day. Peaceful protests, led by iconic figures like Mahatma Gandhi, had become a cornerstone of our struggle for freedom. Yet, it was becoming increasingly evident that a more assertive approach was needed to break free from the chains of British oppression.
Amidst the festivities of Baisakhi, I couldn't ignore the undercurrent of longing for true independence that flowed through our society. As we embarked on this day's journey with our family and friends, we carried with us the weight of history, a history that spoke of both suffering and unwavering determination. It was a history that fueled our collective spirit, and we hoped that, one day, it would propel us toward the dawn of a free and sovereign Bharat.
Jallianwala Bagh was a vast expanse, enclosed by ten-foot-high walls with a single entrance. Thousands of people had gathered, and we scanned the area for my uncle. Instead, I spotted Raj, waving excitedly with his sister, Jyoti.
"Have you seen my uncle?" I asked Raj.
"Yeah, they were near the well," he replied.
My mother began leading me toward them, but I insisted, "You go on, Maa. I'll stay with my friends and find you in fifteen minutes."
"Alright, just don't get lost," she admonished, smiling at my assertion of maturity. "I won't, I'm almost 16," I responded with a hint of pride.
As my mother left, I greeted his younger sister, Jyoti, who was a year younger than us. She stood at 5'2" with long black hair, her presence captivating. Though I admired her beauty, I refrained from mentioning it in front of Raj.
While Raj and I chatted, I noticed people running frantically, and the distant sound of gunshots echoed through the air. A sense of dread washed over me, and I instinctively turned toward the commotion.
In a matter of seconds, chaos erupted. The once jubilant crowd now fled in all directions. Someone shoved me to the ground, and I fell to my knees, struggling to rise amidst the stampede. People fell around me, trampled and crushed, blood spilling onto the ground.
Frozen with fear, I watched in horror as a woman fell before me, her life extinguished in an instant. Bodies piled up, and I felt powerless, the ground beneath me painted a haunting shade of red. The relentless sound of gunfire filled the air.
Summoning my resolve, I attempted to stand four times before finally succeeding. Desperate to find my mother, I pushed my way through the frantic crowd. The well seemed to be in the opposite direction of the fleeing masses, but I knew that was where I had to go. The Jallianwala Bagh, spanning approximately six to seven acres, was now drenched in the crimson hue of blood, with no respite from the relentless gunfire.
With no other option, I jumped into the well. There were so many people inside that it became impossible to stay afloat, and I had no idea how to swim. Panic set in as more people continued to jump in. I struggled to remain on the surface, but it seemed futile. Slowly, the relentless press of bodies pushed me below the water's surface. Never in my young life had I imagined that I might meet my end by drowning in a well.
That was the last thing I remembered before losing consciousness.
I awoke to a buzzing sensation in my head, my head above the water and someone's body below my feet helping me stay afloat. There was something in my vision that I couldn't read, yet I somehow understood what it said:
Welcome to the Multiverse