Sunday, June 10, 2007

Hope....

The light of the lamp stood firm and bright, amidst a storm and lightening night. And there in a cot lay a lady, with a shade of melancholy. Her eyes wore a moist look. Sitting in her rickety chair, she gazed nervously at the door.

Long years ago, the Mahatma had done the unthinkable, calling off the nation-wide freedom movement. ‘We are not ready for freedom, yet’, he exclaimed.

‘I fear not the thought of treading the gallows for it will only take me closer to martyrdom’, Ajit spoke in a huff and ran out of the house after hearing about the Mahatma’s withdrawal. His nonchalant talk of martyrdom often left his widow mother thinking if he knew what it really meant to be a martyr. And what a martyr meant for a mother.

Everyday he left for his usual chores – party meetings, addressing school and college students, recruiting youth for his party’s army to fight the British – all of which made his party a tuft of ‘Inquelabis’. He often spoke of a manzar, ‘where blue skies filled with dotted clouds would smile on the earth below. Men, work with pride. Women a mirthful treasure at home. And, kids, the reflection of a charming nation.’ Dream. Most certainly for him.

On a cold, foggy day, Ajit was caught by surprise. He was hiding in a lone decrepit house on the border of Amritsar when troops of the British army lay siege to the house. After a few hours of skirmishing, Ajit ran out of ammunition. Troops were now high on his heels.

In Ajit were bestowed the hopes of many, the dreams of many. He was the savior of his tribe. One who was soon forgotten and his memories buried in the wounded soil. The country eventually did realize freedom, not without erstwhile streets becoming rivulets of blood. Blood that bore no identity. A bit had been achieved but much more lost.

His mother was now a pale existence of her former self. 17 years had passed since she had heard of Ajit. As many years had passed since she had smiled. Her mind would constantly construct pictures of her young son, fighting the British, walking through streets full of people who with pride claimed to know him, and, dressed in white kurta and dhoti. She was old now. Her memory was beginning to deceive her. She could not remember how he smiled, what clothes looked best on him.

How the Inquelabis bled for their motherland but forgot about their mothers, this irony never escaped her. ‘At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom…’ announced the just anointed Prime Minister. Words that hit her over. To her freedom meant nothing, she had lost everything. All that was left was a red thread that Ajit wore around his wrist as a mark of his grit. A few pieces of paper, scribed on them were Urdu poems. A half-torn, half-worn-out picture of a scrawny boy who looked little like Ajit.

She now lived on hope. A hope to see her son. A hope to let her tears stream down. A hope to meet death. A hope.

Tu na rona ke tu hai Bhagat Singh kee maa

Mar ke bhi laal tera marega nahin

Doli chadh ke toh laate hain dulhan sabhi

Has ke har koi faansi chadhega nahin”

3 Comments:

At June 12, 2007 at 9:42 AM , Blogger Unknown said...

I don't know what is more painful: the anguish of the mother or the fact that there are so many unknown names who contributed to the freedom movement and now we rememeber just a few.

You know what I always wonder is that do humans only realise the true of essence of freedom when they are in bondage? Bondage means slavery, then whether that was to the Britishers in those days or today is to Westernization. I am sure mothers who lost their sons to the freedom struggle can rest in peace because the mothers who are loosing them to the upheavels today don't even have the one thing... which is hope.

 
At June 12, 2007 at 12:52 PM , Blogger ivid said...

Great write up Mr Arora. Good fusion of fiction with history. There would have been so many Ajits whose mothers would have kept on waiting till their last breath. And thats how we are living in this free and sovereign state of India.
It indeed is painful that we have forgotten such martyrs who laid their lives for the country. They were simply exemplary acts of courage and selfless service for the nation. But alas thats how times have become we are living in the age of short lived memories.
I dont think however that having schools and collegs named after martyrs or streets and cities named after them of having a holiday on their martyr/birthday makes any sense or is a way of remembering them. What would matter most would be to imbibe in the same principles and beliefs for which they stood for and eventually laid their lives.
We the gen X do get inspired by movies like Rang De Basanti but that is so shortlived. By the time we are out of the theater all that josh has just fizzled out.
So lets us be the examples who we have admired. The rest woulod take care of themselves....

 
At June 12, 2007 at 9:41 PM , Blogger Saraswati said...

Great perspective, from a mother's eyes. Which mother must he serve. I love the irony of "the Inquelabis bled for their motherland but forgot about their mothers."

Sweet!

 

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