13 July 1940, 8.55 a.m.
Udham Singh (aka Ram Mohammed Singh Azad)
I can hear them coming. I know their footsteps. Uncle Tom is heavy. His feet fall like those of a stubborn water buffalo and his breath escapes his throat in short, violent rasps. Albert, the other hangman, is slight and seems to smell of cough mixture. If I wanted I could snap his neck with one hand. But I have no wish to do such a thing any more. I am ready to meet my Maker, and I have done enough killing. I do not want to think of such things in the five minutes that remain to me.
My waking dreams are continually filled with the faces of those who died in the massacre. They do not leave me alone. I see them all – the women, the children. A river of blood flows from the killing field. The drains are full of bodies. I can see a small child, a girl, wandering through the haze, clutching her rag doll. I want to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her everything will be fine . . . But nothing will ever be the same again. Not for me. Not for her . . .
By the time I was done helping, no one was left – no dead and no injured. There were bodies in the well but we had to wait until daybreak to retrieve them, and even then we only managed to pull out a few. Those people are nothing but ghosts now. They swim around inside my head and disturb my sleep. They poke me with their bony fingers and scream at me with their disembodied voices. Soon I will join them and become what they became. I too will become one of the ghosts of Amritsar.
When they took me into the orphanage, my eyes were swollen with tears. For many years after she died, I refused to believe that my mother was dead. It took the massacre to make me realize that she was truly gone. And then all I did was replace one with another. India became my mother, and my sole reason for living was vengeance; I let ice fill my soul. I did not wish to become a murderer, but Life and Fate conspired and here I am, awaiting the hangman’s noose.
Let no one be mistaken. I go to my end with no fear. I am not about to die. Death is for those who do not believe – let them become food for maggots. When the last breath is gone from my body, my soul will leave this place and return to my home – to the golden land of the five rivers. And finally, after so many years, perhaps I will find my resting place. God knows, it has escaped me until now. I have spent this life trying to find my place. And now I know where it is. Hurry, Mr Hangman, and help me to reach it. I do not wish to wait a second longer.