A Day Not Forgotten

The sun slowly rose over the Indian capital, Delhi and with that the birds began to chirp away. Having woken up an hour early, Jawahar, a man from a middle class family, who had just moved to the city with his young wife and ten year old son, Bharat, stood over the balcony of his flat, which overlooked the narrow, crowded streets and prayed to the sun god. It had only been six months since India had received its Independence and the riots, that followed, had forced Jawahar and his family to move due to the partition and the creation of Pakistan.

“I am taking Bharat to see Bapu today,” said Jawahar to his wife Saraswati, as he poured some tea from a cup into a saucer and made a slurping sound as he sipped it.

“What has Bapu done?” asked Saraswati, as she felt concerned about her son being taken to the prayer grounds at Birla House, where the Mahatma was staying, “Because of him, Pakistan was created and because of him we lost our home and many members of our family were killed in the riots. Not to mention my sister being raped by a Muslim.”

“But look what he did,” said Jawahar, as he got up and started to put on a white shirt, “For a month, there has been no violence anywhere! He fought for our independence by taking on the British Empire! No! I want my son to see the man, who once was described as a “man in a loin cloth, with a bamboo stick, fighting the British Empire.”

“You can also tell him about the millions killed in the riots and how our family was massacred and how his aunt committed suicide after being raped by a Muslim,” said Saraswati, as she felt anger within herself as she remembered the riots that had exploded on the streets, cities, towns and villages a few months back.

“I am not going to preach violence!” exclaimed Jawahar, as he put on a loin cloth aIround himself, “I don’t want our son to be violent. For violence breeds violence. I will be back soon and then will take Bharat to Birla House this afternoon.”

“It’s dangerous,” said Saraswati, “Only a few days ago there was an attempt on Gandhi’s life!”

It was to no avail. Jawahar was already out of the flat and out of the chowl. The street was crowded with all sorts of people, some going to work, others going shopping and some just sitting, or standing around drinking cups of tea.

“Are you going to go to Birla House today, Jawahar?” asked a friend, as Jawahar walked up to the man, who then offered him a cup of hot, spiced tea.

“You know Gopal,” replied Jawahar, “I cannot believe that a few months back all of India was in flames. Houses, buildings being burnt, the slaughter of people on both sides – Hindus and Muslims, women being raped. Bapu has done so much to achieve peace now!”

“I agree,” his friend replied, “Are you going to go to the prayer meeting this evening at Birla House?”

“I am and I am taking Bharat with me,” replied Jawahar, as he finished his cup of tea and walked towards his shop.

The violence that had erupted and engulfed the whole country after Independence, had been caused by extremists. This made the Mahatma take to fasting until peace was achieved and now it had born fruit. Millions gathered and listened to him every evening, wherever he went; for he was the father of their nation.

“He will be saying prayers in the garden,” announced a Policeman, as he urged the crowd to move forward and into the compounds of the Birla residence, “Just follow the others! Just follow the others. He will be saying prayers in the garden!”

Young Bharat looked up at his father, saying that he was too tired to walk further. Jawahar picked up his son and then looked around the gardens and saw that there were Police all around but were not searching anyone for any weapons, despite a previous attempt on the Mahatma’s life in Calcutta. Minutes later, later than normal, he saw the Mahatma coming out of the House, leaning on the shoulders of his nieces.

“Jai ho!” cried out members of the public, as they saw the father of the nation walking towards them as they moved forward to greet him. Jawahar felt being pushed from behind and aside by a man who seemed eager to move forward. He looked at the man, as he moved to one side to let him go and thought it strange that the man seemed so eager. He decided to follow the man so that he could get to the front to see “the Mahatma” as he walked by.

“Jai ho!” he said, with everyone, as he carried his son on his shoulders. Suddenly he heard three gun shots and then was total silence.

“Kill him!” he heard someone shouting, “There is the murderer! Kill him! Tear him apart!”

Jawahar, ran forward as the crowd sat down and began to weep. The sound of bangles being smashed by the women could heard. Soon he saw “the Mahatma” lying on the ground with his white shawl, covered in blood and his circular spectacles, lying on the ground beside him.

“I shot him,” cried the assassin, “and he blessed me!”

Jawahar looked around and saw the man who had pushed him aside, kneel besides the body and weep. He was the assassin, Nathuram Godse, who was soon handcuffed and taken away by the Police. It was the same man who had pushed him aside.

“I was there,” said Bharat to his son, years later, as he walked out of the cinema, which had been showing the movie, “Gandhi,” “I was ten years old.”