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Last encounter with Bhagat Singh


Deep Jagdeep Singh

At two o’clock at night, I was contemplating with my eyes closed to write something dedicated to Bhagat Singh’s anniversary. The bird of imagination had just opened its wings and I saw a shadow coming out of the clouds of smoke in the world of thoughts. The worrisome wrinkles were shining on the forehead of the divine soul. Before I could ask anything, he signalled me to write as he dictates and my pen started running like a bullet train on paper, he started narrating-

Artwork by Gurpreet Singh, Artist, Bathinda, Punjab, India

First of all, I would like to request the politicians, political parties, organizations and dignitaries of our country not to dump the piles of garlands around the necks of the statues of me and my comrades, because I am already feeling suffocated in the country’s hostile environment. It becomes difficult to breathe under the mountain of garlands for the entire year or so. Moreover, you will only come to check on us only on March 23rd or September 28th, until then the pile of withered flowers will suffocate us to death.

After this, I want to ask for forgiveness of the common people of the country whom we freed from the slavery of foreigners and slaved them to Brown Sahibs. All we could do was to leave you with the option to choose the owners of your destiny yourself through voting rights.

He was speaking in his usual aggressive tone. Then he began to explain his real concern:

I went to Parliament to find out about the state of the country, but no one was there to receive or attend to me. Instead of knocking on any door or bothering anyone, I went inside the upper house. Suddenly my eyes fell on a file lying under the crag of dust and debris. My eyes left wide open as I went through each page. I was blown away by the long list of scandals, riots and black acts of men clad in white Khadi.

At one point I felt like I was seriously broken. I thought that I was the culprit of all those who came forward, kissed the gallows and took the bullets in their chests on one call of mine. I felt that our sacrifice went in vain. But once again my spirit to fight the war of freedom challenged me.

Contemplating, I went down the market and raised the slogan… Long live the revolution! Inqilab Zindabad! but to my utmost astonishment, no one responded to my call for revolution. I wonder where were those bands of youths, who had earlier laid their lives at the sound of my slogan of revolution. Who sprawled the streets with their fists in the air and songs of freedom on their lips. Where were those brave men who used to bring the mountains down to the knees with their thundering voices?

I was lost in thoughts once again. Where did those youths of my country go? I tried to find them in schools, colleges, libraries, theatres and parks. I knocked at each door down the lane from wall to wall. I was stunned and shocked to see the plight of young boys and girls of my land.

When did the youth of my country, beaten by unemployment, become slaves to drugs? What happened to my homeland? When did it happen? I don’t even know. Where was I sleeping all that while? Exhausted, I was about to return to my grave when my eyes fell on my poster on the wall of your room.

I realised that I had to come here once again. I pledged, then and there, that I will wake up all my youth and ask them to take an oath not to sleep peacefully until they free the country from poverty, hunger, corruption and dirty politics. Now onwards, I am here on a mission, to wake everyone up. You need to help me with this. Go and apprise all of them, to wake up!

Boy and Girls, wake up, Bhagat Singh is calling!
Wake up!
Wake up!!
Wake up!!!
he echoed while walking towards the horizon and then gradually immersed in the crimson light of dawn.

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