THOUGHTS BEFORE THE DAWN
“Was it enough? Would it suffice? What else could I’ve done more?
He asked himself these questions over and over as he prowled behind the prison bars, agitated as a caged lion. The man was tall, clad in his prison khakis; a kameez and knee-length pyjamas, faded and torn. Manacles around his wrists clanked with every step, the skin beneath the iron was chaffed raw and past healing.
This cage is no different from the other, he now thought as he surveyed his newest confinement. They had hauled him here, as soon as the verdict came. The meagre fittings here are similar to that place, he noted. Not more than an old bed and a cracked shaving mirror on the wall to brighten his prison room. This place could do with some brightening though, he thought wryly; his captors didn’t bother to provide him with a lamp or lighting of any sort.
At least there was a lantern in my previous cell.
His former quarters weren’t cloistered enough, his captors must have thought. The only means of perceiving being a window, wide enough to let in a beam and adequately narrow to stall any attempt of escape, yet more than sufficient to permit in the winter breeze.
While the air in his cell was chilling, the atmosphere around the penitentiary was simmering. The senior authorities as well as the jailers were no strangers to occasional flare-ups from the inmates of Lahore Central Prison. Of the late, however, the sporadic displays of insubordination had evolved into enduring and vehement acts of defiance; the slogan of inqilab zindabad echoing incessantly like a battle cry in every hall, in every barrack, in every ear, which accompanied the sounds of banging, yelling and the general clangour.
Adding to the din, the prisoners were organizing hunger strikes in protest against the deplorable living conditions of the prison inmates, especially those under political arrest. It only made the matters worse. The jailers did their best and sincere efforts to calm the waters, with good amount of brutal crackdown, of course; but no beatings or whippings or force-feedings could repress this ardour.
He was the catalyst, he knew and so did his captors; his presence had always been incendiary among the people, both in and out of the jail. And now when that magistrate had the sentence pronounced and his fate sealed, the jailers feared the aftermath would be like kerosene on dry tinder. Hence, the pre-emption of moving him from a lone cell to a virtual dungeon. Presently, he went and stood in front of the mirror affixed on the wall. Its surface was faded, yet he could make out his features well.
Last hunger strike he had participated in, ended two weeks ago, yet the lines of starvation hadn't vanished from his face. His cheeks remained sunken, his skin wrinkled and course. Seems like I’ve aged ten years. Here and there, his face was peppered with purplish bruises, which extended all over his body.
And the beard’s lengthened some, he mused, stroking the coarse strands on his chin. His hair was matted and grimy but it had grown quite enough to tie the joora (Sikh hair bun) again. Years ago, he’d hacked off his hair and beard to benefit his obscurity when he was a free and wanted fugitive; notwithstanding the fact that his birth religion considered such an act of shingling unsavoury. But it did not matter.
My country is my almighty, inqilab my religion. His eyes, keen and lit with fervour as he prayed, seemed to shine through the darkness. Outside the prison walls, people were calling him by many names; the angrez have long denounced him a sociopath, murderer, enemy of the state, traitor…. Traitor? He almost laughed.
When I’ve ever sworn allegiance to the Raj in order to betray them?
He turned abruptly from the mirror and resumed his restless pacing around the room.
Whereas his people, his fellow countrymen…well, most of them are hailing him a hero, the bravest of insurgents, the flag-bearer of the revolution against the might of the despotic British Empire. A lion against the pack of wolves, a lion… Lions are not meant to be in a cage, though. No, lions belong in the wild, among the grasses, among his prey, among his pride. But destiny is a fickle thing, yes.
Hope the angrez aren't tempted to skin me or mount my head in a trophy room. His bruised lips curled into an ironic smile.
He shook his head. “What does it matter what they do to me after I’m hanged?” he told himself. “No, I always knew the price since the day I left home.” Home. All of a sudden, he halts his stride as an unbidden wave of agony and longing impacts his chest, threatening to recede and drown him.
A sweet agony…his expression now tremulous as memories cloud his eyes as he shuts them; sad, sweet reminisces of his village…. his childhood...running with my friends, barefoot… race across the mustard fields…. yellow flowers in such abundant bloom, looks as if the world had turned golden …... first one to reach that banyan tree wins…. Ma ji, she is smiling, waving to me from the window…Pithah ji and Chacha ji are sitting in the courtyard…talking, laughing…. something smells good…. what is Ma cooking…. Chole Bhature...…my belly rumbles….
He could almost taste it, his mouth watering….
No! His eyes open with a snap, the tears springing at the corners were clearing away his visions like fog after a rain. He steels his heart and gathers himself with a will.
If I look back, I’m lost. One fall through the beyond and he will never pull himself out, he knew. He wasn’t going to let his sorrow haunt his moments, few as they remain; tomorrow is the date set by the tribunal to meet the noose.
I’m a dying man, sort of. He felt strangely fortunate. “There are many, in this world filled with mortal perils, who have considered more than once, about their fated demise. About the timing and most importantly, the manner; and not without a little dread and uncertainty.”
“Not I. I’ve been spared from brooding over such morbidity, the British government and their jurisdiction have seen to that. I am feeling privileged on that account, though many will say otherwise and call me a nutcase.”
Yet, it was unnatural. Being a rebel did not make him less of a human. He ought to feel some angst towards his coming death. “A dead man is beyond fear, that’s what they say. Is that why I’m in no distress?” He stops beside the bed which stood against the concrete wall and collapses onto it, and stares at the dim ceiling.
He could remember several occasions long ago, when he was supposed to be afraid. Like the time, when he joined the resistance.
Satyagraha was never meant for me, no. I am a militant, long before I took up the arms.
Also, when he willingly offered his mind in hatching plans for many a guerrilla strike against the regime.
Espionage, vandalising government property, disruption of communication equipment, derailing railway tracks - anything to hurt the interests of those ‘wretches' and help ours. Robbery and raids were organised too; its sole purpose, however, was raising funds that enabled bolstering our armoury as well as the rebel cause. “We are going to rob the thieves in their den….” He remembered Azaad saying, a million years ago….
Surely, he should expect to have, at least a shred of unease, when he eagerly lent his hand in executing those plans.
The killings though. Let them call it what they will. We call it justice. We hail it as revenge. There’s nought to regret about. Except…well, Saunders was far from innocent if truth be told.
Tis true dread is what keeps people alive in times like these. But the dangers and risk of capture bothered him little. Why, he'd never felt more alive.
Far from that, rebels such as himself are taught to regard our fears as our ‘shadow' and ‘the second enemy'; we can never rid ourselves of it, yes, but neither can they let our fears tyrannize us.
And finally, when he was apprehended…... He recalled that day as if it were only yesterday….
Of late, we had to acknowledge, during one clandestine meet held at the end of last summer, several glitches in our path.
Apart from inadequate resources, the brethren of the Hindustan Socialist Republican Association were struggling with a blotched public image.
The fatal assault on Saunders triggered an immediate response; the administration, aided by police came down heavily upon the people. Curfews, lathee charges and indiscriminate arrests became the norm. Many raged against those ‘miscreants' who escaped the law, abandoning commoners to endure the wrath of the Raj.
“…. a disaster. We’d set out to avenge Lajpat Rai Saheb, but now, it seems we ‘ve only helped the British in turning the people against us.” seethed Azaad.
“And we felled the wrong man” intoned Rajguru, gravely.
“Twas wrong intelligence we got. Anyway, what does it matter? Scott or Saunders, they belong to the same pack of wolves.” said Azaad, giving his hand a dismissive wave.
“We should have surrendered ourselves. That way the people would have been spared.” Sukhdev put.
“Not to mention how much will it popularize our cause,” added Dutt.
He could almost see Azaad in his mind’s eye, pondering in his way, with forehead wrinkling and his fingers twirling that immaculate moustache.
“Aye, we do require a wider outreach among the masses,” Azaad said, agreeing. “Besides that, our means are too limited for designing any more offensive. Such guerrilla tactics shall only damage what little social backing we've remained.”
Dutt nodded solemnly and said: “Just so. Not to mention our dismal finances and no hope of acquiring a political ally. This is why we can’t afford to incite society against us. It will only hand the ‘Fhirangi’ an edge, and soon they shall proceed to uproot us one at a time, as easily as they pluck weeds in their garden.”
He recalled being in the same room, sitting a little apart from the rest, quietly listening to the conversation. Now, he spoke.
“I am thinking about what Sukhdev offered a while ago. We need the people to know about us, of our organisation, what we are fighting for, who we are fighting against. Brothers, our countrymen have always resented those ‘foreign’ devils, but the blaze has been simmering below the surface. We just need to stoke the flames.”
He recollected murmured assents from others, but Azaad merely gazed at him impassively for a few moments before asking, “What do you suggest we do?”
“An act of surrender without an attempt of escape, following an attack.”
“Another strike against the government, is that what you’re implying?”
“That, but an orchestrated one, devoid of casualties.”
“A non-fatal assault…. Where?”
“Someplace important.”
“Hmm…the British don’t lack for that. That way we can gain ourselves tremendous hype among every section of the population. Even in farther parts of the country.”
“More so, with no resulting deaths, our outrageous act will be liable for prosecution in terms of sedition, not homicide. Thusly, we shall be infamous as firebrand rebels, not as a band of murdering lunatics.”
The men burst into laughter.
A sudden, distant clang of iron-against-iron interrupted his memories. He sat up at once, perturbed.
Who comes now? He'd already been provided with his noon meal, an hour or two ago. Two large loaves of roti with a serving of palak-paneer, gulab gamun for dessert and a flagon of spiced buttermilk to wash it down.
Some places, the dying eat better than the living.
Also, he wasn’t told to expect any visitors today. Then why….
A tall balding man, jail warden by the looks of his well-ironed uniform, knee-length leather boots and a long, thick wooden baton on his hand, appeared behind the bars of his prison.
“Ram-Ram, jailer saheb.” The prisoner greeted as he rose from his bed.
The warden did not return the greeting. He was a Native, with a Marwari accent. Advanced in age, yet fit and strong. His face was tough, not hard. His bearing strict and disciplined, yet without that brutal air he'd seen often in jail authorities.
Today, the warden looked… What is that expression on his face? Trouble. Or is it...Grief…
“I’ve news for you.” began the warden without a preamble. “The Privy Council has decided to move the schedule forward.”
“Oh…” That was all the prisoner could say.
“This evening.” the warden said, answering the unspoken question. “Your comrades, Sukhdev and Rajguru, will join you too.”
The prisoner's stomach clenched. It felt like a thousand years have gone by since the last time he saw them.
My friends in life and brothers in death….
“Is there anything you want? Any letters you need to write or someone you want to meet. I can arrange.”
Is there someone left who I need to….? No, I’ve penned sufficiently to my comrades, had enough visits from family and relatives. I’m done.
The prisoner shakes his head in answer.
“None? Well… in that case, good luck. I’ll see you in the evening.”
He faltered, as if wanting to say something more. But in the end, the old warden made do with an acknowledging nod before marching away, the stomping of his heavy boots echoing across the concrete floor.
The prisoner too walked away and sat down upon the bed, feeling strangely blank.
Unawares, a thought came to his senses, penetrating through the mist of numbness…the questions he'd been asking himself a while ago…. Was it enough? Would it suffice? What else could I’ve done more?
If he were allowed to live… There was so much he wanted to do, so much he aspired to accomplish…. for his nation, for his people.
But he reminded himself why he wasn’t going to die in vain. The Fhirangi seek to make an example of him, to demonstrate what becomes of traitors who presume to challenge their might.
He couldn’t have hoped to find anything more ironic. He knew his sacrifice, as well as that of his comrades, would only serve to fuel the Revolution further. His martyrdom shall fill the Hindustani with patriotism and resolve; inflame their feelings of self-determination.
Yet, there was another thing that caused him great distress. After he was gone…. The future of his great nation…. the fate of his beloved countrymen…
Once upon a time, his motherland was proudly called ‘the Golden Bird'. Through the ages, she flew as high as the sky. But it wasn’t long when she found herself chained and her wings sliced off.
Will she ever grow wings once more? Will she be able to fly again....
He noticed his room was growing darker. The sun…He jerked back to feet. I need to see the sun. For one last time….
He went and stood beneath the window … it’s too high. What am I going to do? He thought hard and finally, it came to him. Turning towards the prison bars, he yelled for the warden. Soon as he turned up, the prisoner asked for a stool. Few minutes later, the man carried the stool and set it on the farthest side of his bedstead, nearest to the window.
He, then, climbed onto the bed before scrambling up the stool. It was a bit wobbly, and the last thing he wanted was to arrive at the gallows with a broken leg. So he braced himself against the rough surface of the wall and craned his neck to look past the window ledge.
Yes, I can see it. The sun was half-sunken, it’s hue a breath-taking amalgam of red, orange and gold. He gazed at the beauty outside, drinking in every moment, his eyes capturing every light beam, his heart overflowing with joy and gratitude.
A smile, bright as the sun, lit his face. As the last rays faded below the horizon, he realised something. True, he may not know what destiny holds for his country, no more than he could’ve known about his own.
But he gleaned one thing for certain; what is beyond his powers, he must leave it to Time and…. God. Now he was at peace because no matter how dark the dusk may be, it comes…before the dawn.
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