The Sea of Blood

3rd Prize 10-13 Category Junior Authors Short Story Contest 2009
 
by Anokh Singh Dhillon
   
I don’t talk about my grandfather much. Though he is long gone, I am still haunted by the burden he carried within his heart. A burden, so sorrowful, that the spirit of it was beyond sadness. He could not release this eternal regret from his heart and to console himself, he shared his misery with me. I remember the day well, although I was only ten years old.

Cold and harsh winter loomed in the evening sky, as we drove through lifeless streets, lined with bare, towering trees from London to Suffolk. The dark brick house of my grandfather frowned from its perch on the hill as we approached our stay for the holiday break. A frail man, who was my grandfather looked out through the glass and saw our car pull up on the driveway. He smiled. It could have been his first smile since days or weeks. Mother had always remarked how Grandfather never smiled as he used to after returning from his duty in India. Grandfather’s weary eyes seemed to gaze on, past our car, past the horizon, past the setting sun, and perhaps even past the far reaches of the British Empire. As I greeted him I asked as I always do, “Grandfather, can you please tell me the story of the 33 shells?” and I pointed to a jar that contained 33 bullet shells. I knew there was great mystery within the cold metal shells and this time to my surprise, grandfather surrendered his silence. He took me upon his lap and obliged my eager ears with his soldier days in India. The grimness in his trembling voice still echoes in my darkest dreams as I consumed his story that evening. Thus his dismal account began:

I was stationed in Amritsar, India under the command of General Dyre. Our regiment kept control as the native Indians had started to become agitated and restless. On April 13, 1919 we were sent to the grounds of Jhallianwala Garden, a large enclosed garden, to deal with an insidious uprising against her majesty’s empire. It was our duty to protect her majesty’s interests in this distant, eastern edge of the world.

I was in the first row of ninety men, lined up in double fashion. We were kneeling in the desert like heat, aiming our .9 caliber guns at a rebellious rising of tigers before us. All the exits of the garden had purposely been blockaded by Dyer so that none of the rebels could escape the wrath that would soon reign over Jhallianwala Garden. The tigers would have nowhere to run. General Dyer gave us the command to fire at will at the gathered assembly.

A terrible tremble arose amidst the crowd as they sensed the terror that was to be unleashed. As my fellow soldiers yielded to the menacing command, sending forth a volley of fatal bullets, my fingers froze at the trigger.

For to my eyes there was no menace in front of me to kill. Their claws were not visible, their teeth did not seem razor sharp and their roars did not terrify me.

But as I knelt at the feet of Dyer, I feared my duty to the Queen and the empire more than I feared God and my sins. I began to shoot in the air, praying my bullets will not find their mark.

“Fire low. What have you been brought here for”, thundered General Dyer.

I found myself aiming my caliber at a helpless mother tiger, grasping her cub, amidst the sorrowful scene at Jhallianwala Garden.

Time froze that moment. A vast silence filled my ears. I have fought in many battles, but grandson, the most appalling theatre of war lay on that ground, a battle deep within me, a conflict between my heart and mind. My heart told me not to shoot the innocent mother, who now was clutching her cub against her trembling body, as if willing it back to her womb for safety. But my mind implored me to finish my obligation to her majesty and the empire. I yielded to the latter, as I steadied my aim. Terror was in her eyes. Panic was in her every breath. She held her cub closer for she knew her destiny and that of her child.

A sea of blood drifted onto the dusty grounds of the gardens as my gun fired its 33 rounds of misery. In that moment of ultimate suffering, dreadful sorrow filled the deepest abyss of my heart.

I remember asking my grandfather, “why did you shoot, if the tigers were innocent?”

Silence crept in the room. An eerie tenseness seemed to erupt in the soul of my grandfather as tears flowed from his weary eyes. It seemed as if the whole world awaited the response. In halting words, my grandfather responded to the miserable burden that lurked for so many years within his soul.

Well, grandson, to refuse the order would be going against her majesty, her people, and her glorious empire. We had to eliminate them. We had to extinguish the small light of freedom that was being sparked by the defiant tigers. If, for her majesty’s empire, slaughter is necessary to instill fear into the disobedient minds of its subjects, then it must be done.

I was ten years old when my grandfather related the abject cruelty he had displayed at Jhallianwala Bagh. Years later, as my innocence withered away, I learned of the true horror that took place that fatal day in 1919. For it was not tigers whose blood was spilt at the Jallianwala Garden that day. In the name of empire, men, women, and children were slaughtered at the hands of British soldiers, soldiers such as my grandfather.

Anokh writes...

I am a bred in the bone practicing Sikh who loves to explore history, philosophy, literature, and politics in an effort to pave a path to self realization. My inspiration for this short story came from my passion for human rights and the need for the truth to be told by the underdog. In my reading of history, when I learned about the Jhalllianwala Bagh massacre of innocent Indian citizens by the colonial masters at the time, I was the most intrigued by the fact that the mastermind of the massacre received a hero’s welcome upon his return to Britain. I decided to write the story from the viewpoint of one of the soldiers in an effort to show that at the end of the day, when bullets have been fired it is human hands that have committed the foul deed, not a particular nationality, religion or colour.

 Print this page   |     Bookmark this page