The Unsung Martyr

My story is not about patriotism, neither is it about how tough the freedom struggle was, nor is it about the freedom fighters. This is simply the story about a child. A child, who was eager to know about his father. How he died seemed to be a question which was forbidden to be answered.

My home was not exactly that luxurious or spacious type. It was a simple kaccha house made up of mud. The only barrier between my family and the cold hard floor was a layer of straw. I would not exactly call us rich but we weren't under a huge burden of debt either.

Father liked it simple. That is why he married my mother; a down to earth lady, who would prefer a tiny house in a silent hamlet in valley over the noisy town or village. They both wore traditional clothes. Mother wasn't as oppressed as the villagers thought of her to be. It wasn't as if we couldn't afford to live in a proper house. It was just that my parents always preferred an environment, where I would stay away from the things in life which attractive and flashy on the outside, but deep down inside, were hollow and depressing. I wouldn't lie, I liked it that way.

We would go for picnics by the river. Father and I would fish while mother made flower garlands. That was all I ever wanted to have. We celebrated festivals just like other families, together. We were always happy when we were together. That was all that mattered to me.

I went to a government school. I wasn't that social and to top it off I had dyslexia, which made it all the more hard. I was never good at studies. Letters, no matter whether English or Hindi seemed to jumble themselves on purpose. As if they were on a mission to make me always get grades below the rest. I was never diagnosed. How could I have? But my mother seemed to know what was wrong. She would take out time to specially sit and teach me. I could never build interest. When I told her this, she ruffled my hair and gave a lovely smile. What a lovely smile on that radiant face! And with a soothing voice, she would tell me "you would need all this education in the future. It is for your own good." So I decided to work hard as much as I could but I guess it wasn't much of a difference. But I had a reason to strive harder and that reason was my mother's smile.

My father however was always a little more distant from me. He would come back home at around eleven at night; bruised and bleeding. Mother would rush to aid him, their hushed voices distant and undecipherable. I had no guts to ask him what exactly gave him those wounds. My mom's gestures at me made me stop every time I mustered the courage. The wounds were not so dangerous that he would need to be rushed to the hospital. But day by day they were getting worse, and he had started to spend the nights out. His absence brought a feeling of alienation towards him. On the days he would be home, he would be sitting with mother who nursed his injuries. He hardly talked with me. But his smile and mothers belief in him kept me assured that everything was fine.

I remember that day. That gloomy day! How can I forget that doomed day. Nothing was good about that day. Right from the morning I had that gloomy feeling that something is just not right. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. And I brushed it off as food pangs. In the kitchen while searching for something to eat, I saw the sepoys making their way towards my home. I headed towards our small garden to

Inform of them to my mother. I thought I saw her eyes flooded. She quickly cleaned her face with her pallu, smiled and said that they must have come to check for father. When I started to follow her, she politely asked me to go back inside. Obeying her, I went in. I didn't try to peek outside or eavesdrop. I knew if my mother thought it was important for me to know, and then she would definitely let me know. Besides, if father had been here, he would have told her to do the same.' Father', it rang a bell in my mind. How long had it been since he had been gone? Was it a month since I last saw him? Or was it more? I did not have enough time to process all of this within my mind, when I heard an ear piercing scream. I rushed to the garden only to find that the sepoys had left and that my mother was lying on the floor crying. Her red bangles thrown around and her sindoor smeared on her forehead. As much as I wanted to ask her what happened, I first wanted to take her inside. As I sat down, shifting her broken bangles aside, she did not try to hide her tears like she normally did. Without speaking a word, I looked at her. She didn't speak. Words eluded her. Finally when I took her inside, she stopped crying and wiped her tears. I don't know how I didn't cry myself. Here was my mother crying her eyes out, the lady who gave me courage to fight back against the harsh life. Tears evaded my eyes. They stopped at the brink of my eyes. After a moment of silence, she started to cry again. I wiped her tears holding back my own. She pointed towards my father's overcoat with trembling fingers, murmuring something. The only thing I could make out of it was that my father was no more.

A few days passed in haunting silence, the news of my father's death spread fast with the wind. Mother would lock herself up in the bedroom and cry all day long. A lady who loved the great outdoors now locked herself up in the claustrophobic room. The villagers would come over to sit condoling the death of my father bring along with them food for both of us. After a week or so, mother finally started talking to me. She didn't have the same voice. She now had dark circles underneath her bloodshot eyes. We had lunch together that day. No one spoke at the lunch. After the lunch, she picked up the plates and was heading towards the bedroom. I called for her. "Ma," I called out. Without looking back she stopped. I went to her and asked her to sit next to me. "Please sit with me ma", I said. "Today let me make tea for you". To my surprise, she did sit, that sparked a little confidence within me. I went inside the kitchen. I felt relieved. I always looked for attention of non other than my mom. But the events of the past few days had changed all that. It had shaken the very core of our lovely life. I was hard for me to take in things like this. I was on the border of sanity and insanity. The tea boiled over. I went back to my mother who looked so aged now. Without father, she had become a stranger. I tried to make small talk. I said, "Isn't the weather nice today?" " how about going out Ma?" she gave me a stern look which sort of was a mix of confusion and anger. I feared that one mistake of mine would permanently damage the relation between my mother and me. I spoke my next words with caution, "what about the cremation?" This time she spoke, "yes, the rituals will be held." "The body was cremated in the city only." She spoke something within her teeth. "Pardon me mother, but did you just say 'the cremation of the brave and fallen'? " "Yes Raju", she said, her voice clear and firm. "I should have told you much earlier". She stopped for a while and then added, "Your father was a freedom fighter".

"What?" "But wasn't he the sarpanch? "

"He was a sarpanch. That's true. But he was also a son of this motherland. And the way you cannot see me in pain, the same way he also could not see his mother in pain and hence gave up his life for his mother land. I am so proud of him. I did not stop him because he was part of this fight for freedom. Very soon our mother land shall be free". I was prepared for the worst at least that is what I thought. Alas! I wasn't. How depressed have I been since the last few days? Mourning the death of my father and feeling sorry for my mother. But all this vanished. I felt a surge of pride. My father had given his life for his motherland which he loved so dearly. "Mother", I said in a proud tone. "I will work and study as hard as I can, I will try to make ends meet. I will prove that I have the blood of a martyr in my veins. I shall take up father's responsibility and make you and my mother land proud of me." I said with pride. Now I knew the meaning of all those bruises and injuries. They came from the time he spent in jail. But now the respect I had for my father had increased manifolds. Oh! I just couldn't ever think of the smile fading from my mother's face. How could have my father seen the pain his mother land was going through. This very thought left a lasting impression on me.

Years passed by. Those years just flew by. I studied as hard as I could and worked at a nearby grocery store. At 21, I had to shift to the town for further studies. I moved out of the village and later became a historian. I joined the freedom struggle. But my struggle was the silent type. I had joined Gandhiji in his fight for freedom though truth and nonviolence. In 1945, our hard work paid off. My mother lived with me and now my mother land was also mine. But her life in free motherland was short-lived. She left me and joined my father in the heavens, both of them blessing me from the skies above. She was with him now. But I am glad that she lived her last few years, knowing that her child had walked on his father's footsteps.

You may be reading this a lot later than it all happened, when I am gone. Like many others, I also may not be part of your history books. But as I am writing this down, I lay on my deathbed taking what may be my last few breaths. At the dusk of my life, I have a satisfaction and a sense of pride for my country. As I finish writing this down the only thing I would want to tell my fellow countrymen is that many heroes have fallen for our independence. Many of them got recorded in history, but many of them died unknown. Cherish this independence every day for the sake of many who gave up their lives for your freedom. Do not fight among yourselves. Unite as Indians and together make our motherland one of a kind. Show the world that we are one. We may have driven out the Britishers but now even worse matters divide us. Whether we realize or not, caste, religion, gender, political opinion, social opinion and what not divide us Indians.