Before 1947, the streets were soaked red, in anger and martyrs while the faces struck white either terrified or colonial. My father was like any other father except he wasn’t. His smile was wry when the colonel screeched with not a hint of sympathy ‘Punish this disobedience’. His gut brimmed with pride and blood. His shroud was pale like his body. My father was like any other father except he wasn’t.
Before 1947, my mother loved botany. Slaved by drought and the British, the west was blue rather than indigo. A sea of poppies intoxicated and potted plants starved. Grains filled the potbellied rather than the sticks. She battled the sun to fetch a few grains. My mother loved botany.
Before 1947, my sister adored the idea of marriage. She’d adorn her hands with jewels and her waist with cloth, both bright orange, the same she hoped to wear on the day of her wedding. Her groom straddled not a horse but walked on two feet, dressed in khadi not whites and marched towards freedom. Who knew a few steps to independence could turn khadi to orange in a matter of seconds. My sister loved the idea of marriage soon she might have one.
Before 1947, our sweat lacked salt. We all gathered our sticks and traversed to the banks. Here we let the flames lick a pot of water to produce white crystals that were no less than gold. Generals came marching down, with faces crimson and rods of iron instead of bamboo or cane. Women, children and men alike all thrown into jail, neither air nor food available to sustain them. Their sweat lacked salt.
Before 1947, religion was not just religion and colours were not just colours. Religion was a flicker of hope, when the ‘Angrez’ divided by colour, claiming their pearl skin to be superior than ours. Each brother and each sister came together to fight this bloodbath with peace. Colours weren’t just colours anymore.
It was 1947. The soul of each martyr came alive, pride and glee struck every face in the form of tears. The country wore saffron in courage. Khadi found Swaraj. The red grass now grew green. At the stroke of midnight, we woke to freedom.
By Anoushka Chakrapani