FIFTEENTH AUGUST—THE DATE that had been etched into our consciousness over the last few months—was now just two days away.
It was being said that 15th August would bring an end to the servitude endured by Indians after almost two centuries of British rule. It would usher in a new dawn, one where Indians would finally be independent. It would mark the transition of power from the British to Indians themselves. Some were even speaking of the magnanimity of the Angrez, citing their decision to advance the date of their departure by some nine months, from June 1948 that they had promised to August 1947.
Both the provincial governments and the union government were making extensive arrangements to celebrate this historic day in a befitting manner. The excitement in provinces like UP and Madras had already reached a fever pitch. They announced that they would mark the occasion by releasing thousands of detainees from their jails, so that those who had spent years languishing behind the dank prison walls would also be able to participate in the joyful celebrations of a new dawn.
It was announced that the national flag would be unfurled aloft all government buildings, and the parapets of those buildings would be lit up ceremonially. The chest of every Indian swelled in pride as he heard these declarations and waited in anticipation of the big moment.
But what about our blessed Land of the Five Rivers, of the five Pandavas? With dead bodies lined up in every other house, a funereal atmosphere had settled over the city of Amritsar. Instead of songs of patriotic and nationalist fervour, heart-rending cries mourning the loss of loved ones could be heard in every lane, and mohalla. The unrestrained use of guns, bombs, kirpans, lances, and daggers had created a catastrophic situation for the residents. While many had become inured to the ebb and flow of violence over the last few months, conditions now had deteriorated beyond anyone’s expectation, beyond even their comprehension. The Congress party had recognized the gravity of the situation and warned that Hindus and Sikhs living in vulnerable areas should not participate in any festivities because the nectar of joyful celebration could quickly turn into a life-threatening poison.
But can we actually call these festivities a celebration of independence? Would 15th August really see our motherland become independent? What a complex question to pose when the limbs of this independent mother are being amputated before our eyes and we are now fighting to get a larger share of those limbs? When preparations for this amputation over the last six months have seen us become so adept at beating each other in this game of fire and blood? When these celebrations of independence are being planned amidst stockpiles of bombs and guns, lances and kirpans?
Sure, the celebrations of independence are a wonderful occasion and we admire the festivities as we stand ankle-deep in the blood of our brothers, as thousands of bombs and huge quantities of weapons and explosives of every kind are being stockpiled—not just in our homes but also in our places of worship, as our men are again readying themselves to use them against their brothers.
Our head spins in wonder as we step back and look at the enthusiasm and energy with which these celebrations are being planned. Martial law is to be imposed in eleven districts of Punjab and other arrangements are being put in place to make sure that nothing unpleasant happens when the limbs of Mother India are being hacked. Leading members of our communities, meanwhile, are sharpening the spears of Hindu Mahasabha and Direct Action because they feel that the Congress High Command has been unjust to them, that they have received a smaller piece of Mother India’s body than they expected. The Sikhs are convulsing with their own anger over the division, complaining that the large and fleshy thigh from the leg that was Punjab has gone to Pakistan, while they were left with just the spindly calf. The Muslim League, to be sure, had some reason to rejoice over the part that they had received but they viewed the celebrations with the jaundiced look of one who is observing a wedding at his enemy’s home.
How did the jubilant songs of independence sound to those whose ears were still ringing with the haunting cries of thousands of innocent victims, whose eardrums had become accustomed to the loud reports of gunshots and the deafening boom of exploding bombs? For them, the joyful tunes were like hymns in blood, the celebrations were like a game of fire.