The Bloody Freedom

By Shivali Pai

In the wonderful spring of every year, the winter smiles; for it’s dreams have come true and he beams until next year, he dreams yet another dream.
It was the dream of my ancestors that I live to see today. Their sweat, their longing has brought to us this spring, the flowers they painted for us, and the fruits that we feast upon today. I wonder if he looks down from heaven and watches his vision coming true. This is the story of my great grandfather, the truth of our past winter.

In 1865, it was the dusk of his life, he told a story to his only child, my grandpa. He spoke:

“ When the rivers of blood ran,
The skies and sands all stained,
Dark fears upon each heart did reign,
Only he would stand against the storm that swept sorrow across the land,
Only he would chase the mighty winds thru’ the yawning valleys of sand.”

“Stallion of the war gods”; that’s what they said about my father, and what we were expected to be, my brother and I .We were the so called royal mounts of God, born in the family of one of the most fierce battle horses of Arabia. As descendents of historic fighters only the rich could afford to own us. Amidst a sandstorm on 30th October 1836, I; Aswad was born .My brother Ab’yad followed a year after me. The tribe that owned us even proclaimed the storm to be a sign of the great arrival. As a child I hardly remember Arabia. The only memory that keeps me attached to it is the one with my father and my brother. My father would run wild and free to conquer the open never-ending sands. My brother and I would struggle to keep up and finally we would just give up. My father always tried to tell us something. As if there was some truth beyond the horizons that he wanted us to discover. I never understood until I realized what I had lost. My father always considered one word above all – “Hariyeh” or “Freedom”, the freedom that I had lost many years ago.

Then came the day which changed our destiny. We were stolen by a trader and separated from our tribe. He sold us at a high price to Colonel Smyth of Meerut and we were brought to a strange land they called Hindustan which was soon to be our home for the remaining part of our lives. The country astonished us. Coming from Arabia we could hardly believe our eyes when we saw rivers in place of sand dunes. The never-ending fields all green, yellow and colours we never imagined existed. The night was pleasant and even the wind seemed to embrace us. The land appeared blessed in every sense. The beautiful palaces, the compassionate people, the radiant sun, and the sanctuary of enormous trees, the country appeared to have a natural way of welcoming us.

Ab’yad and I were only about six and seven years old then. Ab’yad in Arabic means “white” and Aswad means “black”. Frankly, we looked like the angel and devil pair. He was the cute and petted one and I was dark and dangerous. All the children would run to pet my brother and I would have almost been invisible for them if it weren’t for my little brother who stuck to me all day night that I was noticed. The officer had a ten year old son who loved horses. He was especially fond of Ab’yad. But there was something that the officer had in store for me. He would always admire me and train me along with the other horses in the 3rd Native Cavalry. I was the darling there whereas my brother was the darling of the ladies and children! But destiny soon took away my only happiness. Owing to my potential, I was gifted to the officer’s favourite sepoy, Amar Singh. The separation from my brother broke my heart but life moved on.

Amar was a fine soldier and a gem of a person. We soon became fond of each other. Although the luxury was reduced, Amar’s caring nature would compensate for it. I was treated like a member of Amar’s family. Amar had a wife but no children and lived in a small house consisting of two rooms and a huge verandah enough for the three of us.The verandah had a charpoy, where people would generally sit and discuss matters. As days went by, I came to know more about Hindustan, it’s people and their problems. I eventually began to see the fire that lay held inside the kind hearts.

Years went by, one battle after another, and my love for the people of Hindustan grew.

For some reason I did not understand, I could sense the widening differences between Colonel and Amar. He was no longer the favourite sepoy. His visits to Colonel Smyth’s house ended and so were my chances of meeting my brother. I heard he had been taken to some other city and I never saw him again.

Every time I looked deep into Amar’s eyes, I saw myself in him. Waiting to break through and preparing himself for the final rebellion. He prepared me for the same. We had one thing in common. We both wanted to voice our views and be free. We integrated our goals and our strength.

I heard all the discussions that took place in the verandah, after night fell. As if taking refuge in the safety of darkness, people would gather in the verandah. Among them were a few sepoys, a schoolmaster, the local zamindars, a few farmers and some wise old men who spoke the most.

In the fall of September 1856, the discussions became more frequent than usual. I could see emotions of anger and hatred reflecting in their talks. People from nearby villages came and expressed their problems. The verandah soon fell short of space and the charpoy had to be removed. As usual, I overheard the conversations that took place. This time it wasn’t the usual cribbing about the East India Company’s policies or the heavy taxation. I heard things that shocked me beyond my imagination. The whining had taken the shape of an agitation. The fire had eaten more than their peace of minds; it was soon to spread beyond their control. This “fire” was a product of a great amount of suffering, humiliation, and insecurity built over a period of time by the actions of East India Company in India. Many were discontented with the methods of the Company Raj, be it a farmer who went hungry, or a zamindar who lost his land, or a king or a prince who was dethroned or disrespected, or a craftsman who became jobless, or a sepoy who feared the loss of religion. Their sentiments were hurt, ignored, and the wounds kept deepening until there was no scope of healing other than rebel. “Hariyeh” was lost and the soul grieved in its absence.

As the agony remained, new trouble was on its way. One January day in 1857 a rumour spread round at Calcutta about the newly introduced Enfield rifles. Their cartridges were said to be smeared with cow’s and pig’s fat, which had to be bitten by the sepoys before loading the rifles. This hurt the religious sentiments of both the Hindu and the Muslim sepoys.The rising wave of discontentment manifested itself in several cases of incendiarism at Barrackpur and many other military stations.

On 2 April, Kuldeep Singh a distant relative Amar arrived at Meerut. Kuldeep was a sepoy of the 34th Native Infantry at Barrackpur. He told us of the great mutineer Mangal Pandey who attacked the Adjutant of his regiment and was to be court-martialled. This incident set a spark to a fire that awakened the entire nation.Kuldeep’s regiment had been disbanded and thus he came immediately to inform Amar of the ill happenings in Barrackpur and other places like Berhampur.Amar wasn’t very surprised hearing the news. He only said, “ Let us get ready now, it is time”. The word was spread to every home that the mutiny had begun.

On 24th April Colonel Smyth called to parade ninety selected sowars of his regiment to demonstrate how they could load their rifles without biting the cartridges. But the harm was already done, the sepoys no longer trusted the Company. Although the cartridges were of the old pattern, eighty-five sowars refused to accept them. The offenders were court-martialled and imprisoned. On 9th May, The men were stripped off their uniforms and put in fetters in the presence of the whole brigade and sent to prison. This humiliation drove their sepoy brethren to frenzy. Amar prepared my curb and collected the necessary artillery with the help of other sepoy friends in the regiment. As the sun went down, Amar ordered everybody to march towards their battlefield, the prison. Then the sepoys broke into the prison and released their comrades. There was chaos all around. Houses were set on fire; many British officers were shot dead. It was a sudden uncontrolled upheaval. Amar soon realized that it was no longer possible to stay in Meerut. He called his wife and we were set to go wherever Amar told us to. Amar said “ Delhi chalo” and we were all set to leave. Delhi was forty miles away. We marched all night until we crossed the Jamuna by the bridge of boats and reached the palace of the titular king of Delhi, Abu Zafar Siraj-ud-din Bahadur Shah, a worn out man of eighty. The king though shorn of all ruling authority, was still the legal sovereign of Hindustan, and the East India Company ruled over the country on the basis of grants made by his ancestors. There was still a lingering memory of the glorious Mughal Raj, and the last representative of the Mughal dynasty was the natural choice for the leadership of the revolt. We marched into the palace grounds and waited there until Amar along with Kuldeep and a few others had managed to persuade the king to accept their offer to lead the revolt. The king’s approval meant that our revolt received a legal sanction and our struggle assumed a political colour. Henceforth we were to fight in the name of the sovereign.

Delhi seemed like a dreamy old place beyond the river until we reached there only to find how lively it was. The people were too, relieved at our arrival and the streets were crowded in no time. We were soon joined by our brethren in the cantonment and the civilian population led by the princes of the royal family. The sun was high and so were our spirits. In less than a day, we conquered the city of Delhi. Finally, the city was denuded of all Europeans; many were killed and others escaped in disguise when darkness fell at the end of the day. This victory was celebrated with booming gunfires and news went round about the end of Company Raj and the revival of Mughal Empire.

Sadly, this celebration was short-lived. Delhi was under the strong hold of the mutineers but the nation was still vulnerable to the acts of British. But before the British made an attempt to restore their authority in Delhi, rebellions broke out over a wide area covering the North Western Province, Oudh, Central India and Western Bihar. Other main centers were Kanpur, Lucknow, and Jhansi. But the British were equally determined to regain their power.After two months, a combined force from Punjab and Meerut defeated the rebels at Badli-ki-serai near Delhi and occupied the ridge on the same day. The rebels in Delhi did their best to protect the city. There were repeated attacks on British and more than twenty actions were fought during the next two months. In August, the British were joined by the Punjab Movable Column of Sikh and Pathan soldiers under John Nicholson and elements of the Gurkha Brigade.Eagerly-awaited heavy siege guns did not guarantee an easy victory against the numerical superiority of the sepoys. Eventually the British broke through the Kashmiri Gate and then began a week of street fighting. When the British reached the Red Fort, Bahadur Shah had already fled to Humayun's Tomb and later surrendered to the British.This affected the spirit of the rebellion.The British had retaken the city.The troops of the besieging force proceeded to loot and pillage the city. A large number of the citizens were slaughtered in retaliation for the Europeans and Indian 'collaborators' who had been killed by the rebel sepoys.
Amidst this chaos I was as helpless as a lamb amongst a pack of wolves.Amar was a brave sepoy and I found him exceptionally good at fighting.He fought his best but it was too difficult to fight the British for long.Injured but courageous Amar kept fighting.He fought until he realised that the British had already retaken the city, but that didn’t make him stop his efforts. Then we took a turn that lead us to a narrow street, suprisingly it was completely empty.There was a drain at the side which flowed towards us.There flowed red water from the end of the street.Amar knew immediately that we had to rescue the people there.We rushed to the end of the street.But all of a sudden at the turn, stood John Nicholson.And I was dumbstruck when my eyes lay fixed on the white horse that John Nicholson rode.It was my little brother, Ab’yad. He looked strong and magnificient like never before.But then reality hit me.Ab’yad was fighting for the British.As innocent as he was, he would stay loyal to his master for life.But how could I explain him how deadly his false loyalty is? I could see it in his eyes that he recognised his long lost brother and this moment I wished we could break our curb and run wild and free into the open lands like we did when we were younger.I was almost in a dream when all of a sudden I felt the tap on my neck. It was a command, to march forward into the opponent to attack.And as I leaped forward, there was a sound of a rifle’s fire.I stopped immediately.I saw John Nicholson riding on Abhyad rode away, but there came no tap on my neck to follow the enemy.Amar was shot.He lay on the ground, with his clothes drenched in blood.He was my master, my only companion.I bent down and tried to nudge him back to life.He only had a few moments left.He held my curb and let it open.He tapped me on my cheek one last time and closed his eyes.He had set me free before he died.He knew the importance of freedom.And I stood there, a free horse on the deserted streets of Delhi. But shocked I was at this sudden freedom.I thought:
The road to freedom was indeed full of thorns.
Every step did pain,
But had the effort been in vain?
And now I was at it’s end.
The open lands still called me,
But there lay a heap of carcasses that haunted me,
The wind was there to embrace me,
But every breath smelled of the blood of my people,
Every blissful thought shivered at the sight of my loss,
Freedom I longed for,
Freedom I had.
But when did I ask for blood?
Gone were my people,
Gone were my dreams,
All that was left,
My bloody Freedom.

“Hariyeh” was one beloved treasure that our ancestors valued most. The treasure we were taught to protect even if it took our lives to do so. My great-grandfather witnessed the winter, and here we are, born in spring. In 1947, India was finally liberated.

Our flag flew high, and our spirits shone in the light of new India,
But rivers of blood still flowed thru’ free India
A kin too firm to refuse, a sacrifice too hard to make,
Our brothers lost in the storm of gluttony,
One line on paper slaughtered many.
The green fields went barren, so did the lives of the people who survived.
Pain was befriended too long; eyes had no more tears to cry,
Freedom we longed for,
Freedom we had.
But when did we ask for blood?
Gone were our people,
But their dreams lived on,
And thus, the thorny path did finally lead,
Into yet another bloody freedom.

And as I stand tall today
The open lands still call me,
The winds still rage.
But do not forget the haunting carcasses, for only they gave us a life.
And do not shun the smell of blood, for it flowed endlessly for you.
Time and again when your freedom is lost,
Do not wait in the shadows of tyranny,
Remember the bloody freedom.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------