City of Amritsar, Punjab
April 13, 1919 CE
Twelve-year-old Brij Lal was stuffing his face with rice in the dining area when Hukam Chand, a family friend, stepped into their home. It was noon. The boy could barely hear the hurried conversations between his parents and their guest. In the end, he practically carried his thin leaf and crept to the doorway, eavesdropping shamelessly.
“…but he just came home,” Maa was saying in a pleading tone. “It’s really not safe...”
“Hukam, you know how bad things are in the city.” That was Abba’s deeper, harsher voice, but no less worried. “We have been seeing aeroplanes fly past all day, and British soldiers marching everywhere…”
“If there’s one thing I’ve told you not to believe, again and again, Chacha , is these silly rumours,” Hukam’s voice rings with great conviction. And why not? He’s a close friend of Hans Raj who, even Brij Lal knows, is something of a leader now.
Almost unthinking, the boy shoves a last mouthful of rajma -rice, and steps out into the small hall. “Is this about the leaders? The ones the white people took away?”
His parents gasp as they turn to look at him; he chuckles. Did they really think he knew nothing about what was happening in the city? The riots going on for days; the threats about killing Indians; the whispered talk of the white people afraid of “uprisings,” whatever that meant...
“You know nothing, boy,” his father said bitingly. “No one has taken Dr. Satyapal and Dr. Saifuddhin Kitchlew...”
“See, you know their names,” Brij Lal accused. “And I heard Chacha Girdhari Lal say that they’d been taken because they were talking against the Brit...”
“Enough!” There is a silence, while Abba tries to control himself.
Then Hukam begins to speak. “Hans Raj and I want you to make an announcement,” he gets to business right away. “Around the...”
“Like what I did this morning?” Brij Lal is vibrating with excitement. “About the langar for hungry people? ‘Come one; come all; there is food in the hall’” he starts chanting, before being shut down by Abba.
“Yes, like that,” Hukam says, with a strained smile. “We...we have to do everything we can to address people. This situation cannot go on. We are humans, we have rights…”
“You want me to say all that?” Brij Lal asks, mystified.
“No, not at all. You know that walled garden, near the Golden Temple?”
“It’s a bare, bumpy ground with just a well. Not even a tree or a bush.”
“Still, that’s where we would like people to gather. Just to discuss our views. Nothing deep; nothing dangerous,” Hukam assured Abba and Maa. They looked unconvinced, but had no heart to protest any more, specially when Hukam stressed that it was for the good of the people of Amritsar.
Open invitation
As for Brij Lal, he danced into the street with his trusty drum, banging on it for all he was worth: “A meeting at 4 o’clock! Come, come one and all; come to talk and to listen; come to be with all your friends…!” Bang–bang–bang! He really does love this; passing information to everyone: shopkeepers; plumbers, cooks, his friends’ mothers; sweepers, clerks, even the random British guard with a stiff moustache. They all seemed to have big moustaches. Bigger guns, too.
His friends skipped behind him, the excitement infectious. Brij Lal wasn’t sure how many people heard him: the streets were rather empty; the shops mostly closed… but towards the end of his run, he managed to catch a crowd in the temple. Today was Baisakhi, the Spring Festival, after all. So, all was not lost. Still, he rather missed the usual fun and frolic of celebrations; everything was loud and colourful.
Maybe he’d get to enjoy some of it at the gathering, in the garden?
Almost without thought, he runs across the street, through dusty lanes, pockmarked alleys, around the large wall, through a narrow entrance and into the garden… well, a bare place with a well. God alone knew why they called it a bagh . Especially Jallianwala Bagh.
Brij Lal skipped over a few stones; waved a cheery hand at several people on balconies in the buildings nearby. A little further, he could see a knot...wait, this was more than a knot of people. There were crowds here — crowds! His message must have reached well. People listening to speeches. Ladies sitting on the ground, their dupattas casually wrapped around their heads. Children playing run-and-catch. He briefly considered joining them, before a sound caught his attention.
A steady thump–thump–thump! He knew this sound. Heavy boots, stomping on the ground. The clank of large vehicles. He turned towards the entrance. A stocky British man marched in, hands behind his back. After him came soldiers, all dressed in khaki. Heavy guns on their shoulders. Hah, these were .303 Lee-Enfield rifles. These must be the Gurkhas he’d heard so much about. Brij Lal wondered if he’d ever be allowed to join them when he was older. How smart they looked!
There was a hoarse shout; the soldiers suddenly dropped to their knees. Another shout; they raised their guns to their shoulders.
Brij lal grinned. This looked like a good show. What on earth were they going to do?
Beside him, he feels a turbaned man stiffen. Brij Lal frowns in puzzlement, and then stares at the soldiers again.
The last thing he sees are the barrels of the guns, glinting in the late afternoon sun.
Historical Note: The Jallianwala Bagh massacre (April 13, 1919) was one of the darkest moments in Indian history, when hundreds of people were ruthlessly killed without reason, by General Reginald Dyer, “to teach Indians a lesson”. It was an example of unimaginable cruelty. Brij Lal truly was a drummer-boy in Amritsar, although his eventual fate is unknown.
