Tales from the trip - 2

A chapter from my north India trip which took me across the beautiful states of Kashmir, Jammu and Punjab. Below is an account of my experience at the retreat ceremony at Wagah border.

On that Hallowed Ground

If you approach any Indian and ask them the first thing that came to their mind when you say the word ‘Jallianwala’, the first thought that would pop up, would be the word ‘Massacre’ – that fateful day when hundreds of Sikh people were killed on the orders of General Dyer. I felt a little uncertainty as I stepped in.

The area behind the gate was a small rectangular area where people milled around, standing against the brick walls and clicking their pictures. The original entrance of the Bagh was now re-constructed in order to avoid the crumbling structure from collapsing. Next to the entrance, a two storeyed building was constructed which served as a museum. I made a mental note to get a detour before I leave.

The original entrance to the Bagh (garden, in this case a ground) was the only entrance to the Bagh. This was the only place from where one could enter and exit the ground. I shivered as I walked through it. The walls on either side rose more than 20 feet in the air, blocking the sunlight from streaming in. It gave a feeling of intense claustrophobia. I touched the wall and almost immediately shivers ran down my spine. I could feel the weight of those bodies that got crushed on these very walls.

A few steps and I was standing on the platform that opened on to the ground. I turned my head in both the directions. The open ground was now converted into a garden. A tall memorial, dedicated to all those who had died there, was erected in honour of them in the exact centre. The platform went around the entire perimeter, creating tiled pathways for people to walk on. There were steps that descended lower on to the actual place. Staring at the ground, did I actually understand as to why those people failed to escape the fatal shooting.

The entire ground was sunk and created a depression. It was quite low than the actual level of the ground outside. It was completely walled in from all sides except the entrance from where we just walked in. A small pyramid in the centre of the platform proclaimed that people were shot from that point. The soldiers had assembled in a neat line on that exact point, where I stood right now and fired at the mass of people that had assembled in there for peaceful protests.

The paths ran around in perfect squares around the perimeter, converging in the centre towards the memorial. Flowers and shrubberies were planted along the sides of the paths while huge trees dominated the skyline near the borders, their shadows falling on the people who were lying on the grass around.

I hated the sight of those idiots lolling on the grass. Did they have no respect for this place? Did they have no idea of how many people were martyred in here? I guess they did

knew what the importance of the place but they chose to ignore it or may be in the course of time, it got eroded away from their memories. Now, the only time, we ever know or read about the massacre was in our history textbooks. The date,13^th April, has still not been accorded a place of honour in our calendars by the government in the last 65 years.

I looked for the others. Some were still dawdling by the entrance while some were reading the inscription plaque built at the side and admiring the ‘Amar Jyoti’ (Eternal Flame) burning in a copper vessel. They had immediately switched on their phones and had started clicking pictures. Frowning, I turned left and started walking towards the small rectangular house, a visitor’s gallery, created at the end of the path.

    The pillars lining the path, as it neared the gallery, were adorned with carvings of the Ashoka chakra – the symbol of peace. It was built in the same manner like the rest of the walls so as to blend it in with the garden and not alienate it. The right wall had a glass pane attached which detailed the story of the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre as told in a newspaper dated January 30, 1974 by M. S. Randhawa. I wanted to read the entire article but due to time constraints tore my eyes away from it and went inside.

Newspaper clipping outside the Visitor's gallery

      The interior of the house was a gallery of pictures of freedom fighters and a plaque denoting their contributions before and in the aftermath of the massacre. I went around, looking at those images and pausing for a few seconds to read a part of it. But the clock ticking on my wrist urged me to move on.

What caught my eye was an enormous painting which was hung on the wall situated at the very end. It overshadowed the rest of the paintings due to its size and the impact it created on visitors for indeed, the painting was so powerful, so sorrowful, so provoking that it would surely pull one in it, would take them back years and place them in the moment of the massacre. One could actually replay the event in their minds and their hearts, just by staring at it. The painting had truly captured the horror of the event.

I decided that I will not insert an image of the painting that we clicked in here for I do not wish to rob its impact away. The painting depicted the scene that unfolded that day. The mad rush of the people as they scrambled around and over each other to escape the deadly shooting from the soldiers, the heap of bodies lying like thrash around, the image of people trying to climb the surrounding steep walls in order to escape, the women and children jumping in the well – all those horrifying elements captured in a single frame of canvas.

The memorial

I stood standing there for quite some time, staring at that ghastly image. This resulted in a small crowd around the place. People had a hard time jostling around as I stood rooted to the spot. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The sounds of the footsteps faded away, replaced by the screams and the pleas of the people. The painting screamed at it.

I was standing by a window, staring at that blood drenched ground.

I closed my eyes and hid my face from Vishal and Karen who had just turned up and stood next to me, staring at the painting and lamenting the deaths. I quickly brushed away the tears that rolled down my cheeks. It saddened me to see people clicking pictures on their phones and cameras, posing in front of the painting as if it was some beautiful masterpiece. I saw Karen removing her phone. I turned my teary-eyed face, to stare at her.

“Don’t worry,” she said sadly, “I felt it too. I am clicking a picture for memory’s sake. I am not going to do anything like them.”

I realised that it was impossible to stand in the gallery any longer. I said nothing and turned to walk away. But I caught sight of a picture of Rabindranath Tagore hanging from the wall. Next to it were two more frames that showed the letter written by him to the British government, renouncing the knighthood bestowed on him by them, as a response to the massacre.

“Hey guys, come here,” I said to the others. They came and looked to where I pointed out. We all three began to read the letter. It showed Tagore’s courage and displayed his sense of patriotism by showing solidarity to those martyred at Jallianwala. Truly, it proved his mark as an Indian, for it must have taken a considerable amount of courageous thinking and steely conviction, to stand up against the government and reject their outwardly honour.  It was an honour to read the exact words written by Tagore, denouncing the government, for its shameful act and it turn, rejecting the knighthood as a sign of protest. It was a slap on the face of the Raj.

Karen quickly took pictures of all the paintings of all leaders in the gallery and of the frame hanging out. Her purpose, she stated, was to go through each one of them, on the

 journey back.

We stepped out of the gallery and continued on the path from whence we came. It turned a complete 90 degrees towards the interior of the ground. The path led to a monumental structure constructed in the side of the middle path, at that exact point where the paths to the memorial and the gallery converged.

Martyr's well

The structure was built to honour the well where screaming women and children had jumped in to escape the hellish firing of the soldier’s guns. The well was covered in aluminium fence work, the opening completely covered by the monumental roof of the structure. Bold lettering atop the structure labelled it as the ’Martyr’s well’ in Hindi, Punjabi and English.

The temple in the Bagh

    A large group of people had crowded around the monument. Almost everyone assembled around, tried to peek inside the well, trying to adjust themselves against the aluminium fence work. A plaque near the monument read:

A total of 120 bodies were recovered from this well.

I froze. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was disbelieving to learn that 120 people had died in that place. I tried to imagine the sight of people jumping in the well, the water splashing around. Their own blood mingled in with the cold water in there, their screams joining the horrendous blast of guns and the stampede of people running around. Personally, this was the dreadful part of the massacre that I had to come to terms with.

The three of us joined Neha and Priti in peeking in the well. My face was pressed against the fence. The bottom of the well glowed faintly. I peeked in for a better look. The bottom was completely covered with silver coins that must have been thrown in by countless tourists. I never really understood the significance of it.

A bullet-ridden wall

 I moved on. I walked on the pathway around the perimeter. I dreaded what vestiges of the horrific event lay ahead. And sure enough I reached the point where I came across the walls that were dotted with bullet marks. I paused, staring at those marks. The bullet marks were highlighted in white boxes all around. Many walked past me, pointing and commenting on those marks. I said nothing. I felt hollow. I failed. There was no response in me for it. Words failed me. The longer I stood there, the longer I felt cowardly and weak. I decided to walk ahead. After a few paces, the path bent around. I walked ahead and was met with a sickening sight.

Pradip, Jimit, Tina, Reema, Ashwath and Vishal were posing for pictures near the bullet-ridden walls. They were taking turns in clicking pictures of each other. I stopped in my tracks. I felt disgusted. Without a word to them, I started walking towards the memorial.

“Hey Tony,” cried someone, “Come back. Don’t you want to click pictures?”

“No,” I said, almost shouting. I did not see who the speaker was. My mind was still buzzing angrily. I bit my lip and walked ahead, finally coming to a halt in front of the memorial.

The memorial was an elliptical-shaped turret in the shape of a vertical eye. Its edges were completely round and the entire monument was constructed in red stone. There were wavy lines drawn all over it. The area around the base was sunk even lower creating a shallow base. There were four pillars all around the base, each engraved with an Ashoka chakra. Even here, people were posing and clicking pictures. Some even climbing atop the plinth at the base and posing comically. On the lawns, several families lay on the grass.

I felt devastated. I wanted to scream at all of them. This ground, this place was a sacred place. It had been the spot where hundreds had shed their blood and had been martyred

upon. It had been sanctified with their deaths. Years later, the new generation of Indians sees this place as a recreation park. It was a betrayal of their martyrdom.

“Hey, what happened?” said Tina, “You shouted back there. The others felt you were a little rude.”

I felt satisfied. This time I was able to express my discomfort and the others had noticed it.

“I just thought that being educated and all,” I said fast, not looking at her, “you all would have at least given the respect to this place that it deserves. I mean, you all posing in front of the wall which bears those bullet marks. Seriously? Those marks were made after those bullets must have escaped after piercing the bodies of those countless people.

I felt I had spoken too much. A moment’s realisation and it dawned on me. I was taking out my frustration on her.

“Tina, I’m so sorry for speaking to you like that. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in that way. Please continue clicking pictures. Whatever I said are my own personal thoughts.”

I turned my face away from her in shame. From the corner of my eye, I saw her going back and approaching the others who were walking towards the memorial. I felt mortified.

Surely, Tina would convey to the others what I had just spoken to her. I did not want a fight to break out amongst us.

“It is not like we are insensitive or something,” said Reema, under her breath.

Shit! The damage was done. The others were offended by my outburst.

“I’m sorry, Reema,” I said, “I didn’t mean to offend you guys.”

“Arrey, it’s okay,” she said, laughing, “You were right. We shouldn’t have done that.”

I felt relieved.         Although I was a little mortified by the look on their faces, I felt glad that at least I had managed to change their mind-sets. I could still hear whispers among them about the pictures that they had already taken. They were in a fix as what to do with them. In the end, they decided not to delete them. I privately resolved not to look at those pictures.

We walked around a little more. The air was still swathed with mist slowly descending on the grass and taking the form of dew. I walked further ahead and went around the ancient temple. Its outer walls were riddled with bullets. Here too, the bullet holes were highlighted in white boxes. I sighed in sadness and decided it was not worth going around anymore.

I began to walk towards the exit. It was indeed true that I had wanted to visit the Bagh wholeheartedly. Now that I was there, had looked around, had stared in the depths of the wall, did I realise how childish did that seem. I was behaving as if I was visiting some place that was interesting to know. I had failed to grasp its importance.

I was walking on that very same place where years ago hundreds of innocent civilians had lost their lives. Their deaths had transformed the place. It wasn’t just a garden anymore. It had been transformed into a hallowed ground; a place symbolising sacrifice and injustice. It pained me to see those people lying on the grass, clicking pictures and jaywalking. But this was now a generation which has grown up in the shadow of globalisation. And in the grand scheme of things has forgotten those noble deeds and those tales of wisdom.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I hastened towards the exit. The Amar Jyoti        burnt serenely against the mist. I stared at its dancing flames. When I couldn’t go on any longer, I said a quick prayer to the victims and turned my head away from the sight of the open ground, waiting for the others to join me.

------------

“Where were you?” asked Karen, “We were looking for you over there.”

“Oops, my bad,” I said guiltily, “I should have told you beforehand that I was going out

Anyway, aren’t we supposed to be heading out considering Veer gave usa only half-an-hour to look around here?”

“Correct,” said Neha, “Let’s go man!”

We started walking towards the exit via the narrow entrance passageway. Upon reaching the road outside, we stopped and waited for the others to come out. T         wenty minutes had passed by and yet, there was no sign of them. We were nearing 1 on the clock. Although I had no intention of going back in, I became frustrated at this increasing delay.

A school bus halted right next to the entrance. A number of students descended from it and stood in single lines. None of them were wearing any shoes. Their head started shepherding them towards the distant Golden temple. I gazed at their retreating backs. I noticed that a lot of people were heading towards the temple. I wondered whether it was always like this or was today a feast or a significant day. I made a mental note to ask Veer about it later.

One-by-one they started coming out. When all had assembled back, we did a headcount and realised that Vishal was not with us. I told the others to head to Veer’s car while I quickly dashed inside and get Vishal. Karen decided to come with me.

We went back inside. Karen went right while I took the left and headed towards the gallery. I knew that Vishal wouldn’t be there as he had already visited the gallery with us earlier but I still decided to poke around. He was not there. I dashed right out and saw him standing right near the exit with Karen. They beckoned me to follow them. I nodded and started to move. But just then, my shoelace broke free. In the time, I bent and tied it back, they had disappeared.

I hoped to catch with them in the passageway but found it too be overcrowded as a large group of people were walking in. I decided to go out via the building next to the passageway, thinking of it as the other way.

The moment I stepped inside, I felt my jaw drop. The room was a spacious hall which was adorned with images, clippings, posters of the events that followed the massacre. My eyes caught Mahatma Gandhi’s article on the incident in his newspaper, a picture of General Dyer, Udham Singh and his arrest from the parliament, Michael O’Dwyer. Inside a glass cabinet kept in the centre were relics of historical significance. There were blown-up posters which showed the original picture of the Bagh after the day of the shooting, a man who had lost his leg and many more.

My eyes popped out with excitement. The room was a historian’s delight, a treasure trove of knowledge and facts. There were steps leading on to the top floors which I longed to climb. Knowing that the others must have already reached Veer’s, I decided to head out.

“Where were you?” asked Vishal, “I was just telling her that we may have to go back in to find you!”

“You will not believe what I saw!!” I said breathlessly, “A picture of General Dyer!”

“WHAT!!” exclaimed Karen, thoroughly shocked, “Where? There was none of his pictures in the gallery.”

“Not in the gallery,” I said and I immediately recounted the event of how I had discovered the hall.

“We all thought that it was a building or something,” she said crossly, “You should have called us back!”

“How could I?” I answered,” You guys were out already. Besides, I was in there for like 5 minutes. I wish I could have spent more time in there.”

“Will you come with me in the evening then?” she asked me hopefully, her eyes shining with fervent excitement.

I was completely sure that there was no chance of us going back in there. After returning from Wagah, we would be shopping and eventually, it would be too late for us to even make it back before 6. I couldn’t bring myself up to tell her the truth.

“Yup, sure.”