EKTA

The Warrior
By Nandita Krishnan

‘I may never forget, but I need not constantly remember. I was a victim. I am a
survivor.’
- Survivor Psalm

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 PART ONE
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
April 13th, 1919

17:30 hours

A midst the flames of revolution that sparked up like little matchsticks

across the nation, one family in Amritsar was gladly looking forward to
a new start – a new year. And hopefully, a ray of sunshine peaking
from the dark clouds of oppression.

The heart-warming festival of Baisakhi was upon the civilians of India. The
family of Tanejas hurried to get dressed, eager to join the rest in the celebration.

“Have you seen my chappals, Ekta?”

“By the cupboard! Arjun, come on, finish your milk.”

The boy rushed towards his mother, grinning up at her. He had very recently
lost his front tooth and was one of the first four-year-olds in the locality to do
so. And thus, extremely proud of himself.

“Mumma, I think my other tooth is going to fall!”

Ekta smiled down at her son, adoration swirling in her tired eyes, accentuated
with the bags beneath them. She had stayed up late last night; the news of her
cousin being killed during a protest the day before was imprinted fresh in her
mind.

The reports stated the cause of death as a heart attack.

While Arjun was munching on his parathas, Ekta combed his hair from behind.
She tried to tame his curls the least she could. Her husband, Kabir, walked in
smiling, an incense stick in his hand. He spread the smoke emitting from it over
Arjun and Ekta. A short prayer for well-being and prosperity left his lips.

“It’s an auspicious day,” He grinned wide, “Happy Baisakhi!”

Ekta’s whole being gushed with warmth. She truly was grateful to have been
blessed with such a loving family. Deciding to put her worries and grief aside,
she was ready to enjoy this day to the fullest.

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Arjun’s demeanour was as jovial as always. The boy jumped around his parents,
urging them to go outside. The sound of the hymns was booming through the
streets, clearly audible from even inside their house. It only added on to his
excitement.

Hand in hand, they walked through the only narrow entryway into the barren
land, crowded with a thousand more people.

Jallianwala Bagh.

Arjun immediately spotted his neighbourhood friends, and rushed to meet them,
but was held back. Kabir sternly gazed down at him, a silent command for him
to stay with them. Ekta squeezed his hand.

“You have to stay with us. We don’t want you to lose you in the crowd.” Arjun
only pouted.

Several small mats were spread across the area for each family to sit. Food was
being passed on and shared with everyone. For the first time in a long while,
Kabir and Ekta felt at peace.

A man, clad in khaki pants and a loose shirt stood in front of them. With a
lopsided smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes, he spoke:

“Our brothers and sisters from the countryside have come today,” he patted
Arjun on the head absent-mindedly, “Today is a silent revolt.”

Kabir nodded once, “For Satya Pal and Saifuddin. Inquilab Zindabad.” The man
echoed his words, before disappearing into the sea of people.

Ekta scanned the surroundings, recognizing several people. The woman down
the street who would always give food to the pigeons, the parents of Arjun’s
many friends, her own far away relatives and many more.

Beside the large well situated in the middle of the arena, many danced and sang.
Ekta looked at Kabir, who was gazing at the scene with pride.

“I yearn for such moments now,” he said. “United. Pure. Free.”

Ekta agreed with him wholeheartedly. But something felt amiss. Enthusiastic
chatters and loving comments reached her ears, but there was an underlying
tension in the air which she couldn’t comprehend. Her heart felt at peace, but
her mind warred against it. ‘Be vigilant’, it seemed to tell her.

She shook her head. Today, she will be happy.

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Arjun was finally allowed to play in the open, under the condition that he would
always be within either of his parent’s line of sight. Kabir went forward to catch
up with a few of his colleagues and Ekta was soon met by her close friends.

Their conversation started off with the usual greetings. They complimented
each other on their choice of outfits and exchanged pleasantries. Ekta nodded
occasionally and laughed where needed. There was an ominous nagging at the
back of her mind, but she forced it down and willed herself to engage more.

“Revolutions have been rising at a rapid pace now,” said one of the women
talking to her. “The situation is worsening every day.”

Dalair, a woman of valour, scoffed. “Well, what do you expect? The Rowlatt
Act that General Dyer has passed ought to be the most atrocious thing I’ve ever
heard!”

Ekta’s eyes widened at the blatant display of emotion. What Dalair said was
inadvertently in the subconsciousness of all, but it was never spoken so
vivaciously in everyday conversations – least of all by a woman.

Softly, she spoke, “Is it alright if we’re loud?” At the perplexed raise of Dalair’s
eyebrow, she hastily added, “I mean, I’ve heard they’re keeping us under
surveillance.”

Dalair put a hand on her hip, and in typical Dalair fashion, flipped her long
braid over her shoulder. “The worst they can do is kill me. And God forbid, if I
let my life before that be lived in their shadows – cowering like a wet cat.”

Ekta didn’t know how to reply to that, so she didn’t. Instead, the rest of the
ladies continued the flow of the conversation.

“Speaking of boldness, Ali Jinnah is said to have stepped down from his seat.”
said Maira. “He attacked the government directly. Went as far as to call them
uncivilized!”

“As he should. Hans Raj has rightfully set up the stage today for revolt.” Dalair
muttered. Ekta figured it wasn’t meant to be heard by the rest. She secretly
smiled.

“We’ve lost many in the war,” Maira continued, a forlorn look in her almond
eyes, “And the taxes have not been kind.”

“My husband is struggling to pay for food. Food, of all the things-”

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“It’s sad, to be honest.” interrupted Dalair, “I wish our kids didn’t have to
experience all this.”

“Oh, Ekta. I heard about your cousin,” Ekta, who has been silent all this time,
stiffened. “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.”

A strained smile painted itself on her lips. She didn’t blink, afraid that the tears
pricking the corner of her eyes would betray her and fall. She didn’t want to
look weak; she was not weak. So, with that forced smile, Ekta spoke:

“Waheguru.”

And then the shots fired.

She heard the first bang and watched as all the smiling faces around her
morphed into ones of horror. There was a ringing in her ears, and if there were
more bullets consequently shot, she didn’t hear them. Ekta didn’t have time to
process what exactly was happening around her before she frantically searched
for her son. She screamed his name, her eyes darting everywhere in a dire
search.

I should’ve never let him go.

Ekta’s body slumped against the others. She fought hard to maintain her balance
– only one thought in her mind. She needed her son. She needed her husband.
Kabir. Arjun. Kabir and Arjun – oh god. People were lying limp at her feet.

The dust in the air stung her eyes, but she didn’t blink. Not once, because she
was afraid of losing that one desperate second of hope. And then she saw it.

Blood.

A strangled gasp left her lips. The air in her lungs terrifyingly seemed to be
lacking. Every worst-case scenario ran through her mind like a rapid montage.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t feel. She couldn’t cope with this.

Her state of panic was broken through by a sharp tug at her arm. Hazy vision
slowly clearing up, she was finally able to breathe again.

Maybe we’ll be fine.

Ekta’s friends were nowhere to be seen. And she didn’t try to find them. All that
she could focus on was the familiar touch of Kabir’s strong hold. He gripped
her to him, tightly. His arms encased her whole figure, covering her as he
prayed continuously and thanked the heavens above.
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Tears fell freely like waterfall from Ekta’s eyes. She sobbed into her husband’s
chest. She felt so overwhelmed, and she didn’t even know where her son was.

Arjun.

“Arjun,” She breathed out, clutching Kabir’s chest. “We need to find Arjun. We
need to save him. Oh god, Kabir, my son. I need my son, Kabir. Please,”

With every word she spoke, another bullet fired, another Indian died.

“I think I see him,” Kabir spoke, and loosened his hold on Ekta, not quite letting
go, “I’m going to go get him. Stay here.”

Ekta protested, whimpering as she weakly tried to hold on.

“I’m going to be right back, Ekta. It’s all going to be okay. We won’t lose our
hope, we will be okay.” And then he was gone.

Ekta sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand and fell to her knees. She tried
to block the sounds by covering her ears, tried to block the screams and the
scent of blood in the air but it was all too overwhelming. Still, she didn’t dare
close her eyes and kept them trained on Kabir’s back. Ahead of him, at a
distance, she saw Arjun, standing shock-still in place. He didn’t move, not one
inch and kept his eyes transfixed on his father.

My brave boy.

Ekta waited. She waited to hold her son in her arms and tell him how much she
loved him and promise him that they would get out of here just fine. She waited
to be comforted just one more time by her husband and know that no matter
what, they would always be together.

She waited till Kabir’s white shirt was stained red. She waited till the same
bullet pierced Arjun right through his chest. She waited till she saw the life
slowly, painfully leave his shining eyes.

She waited till she couldn’t take it anymore and broke down.

———— ❈ ————

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 PART TWO
THE MEANS TO AN END
November 12th, 1919

15:00 hours

“Na daleel, na vakeel, na appeal! We are being neglected of the bare minimum
in this era!”

Shouts of anger, determination and indomitable fighting spirit rose beneath her.
The ground shook with the sheer momentum of the people’s chants.

“Inquilab Zindabad!”

“Long live the revolution!”

“We’ve been humiliated in our own streets, in our own land,” yelled Ekta,
“Forced to crawl in front of the whites! What wrong did we do in trying to save
our people from the filthy hands of Britishers?”

The mass of people roared. They had gathered in secret in a lone basement of
the abandoned houses – one of the few places in the city of Amritsar that the
officials had not yet spotted.

Ever since the bloodshed seven months ago, there had been a major upheaval of
emotions. There had been no warning, no former alert. The horrors that
transpired on that eventful day could never be forgotten.

“Today, we stand together and fight, with all that we have, for a better
tomorrow. We will not be scared; we will rise above this fear. They should be
afraid of us – for we are crores of people joining hands in this battle and they
are a mere lakh. We’re not alone.”

Men, women, children, adults, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh – there were no differences
here. This was a fight of every Indian. For India.

She raised a fist in the air, her stance radiating with fortitude and her eyes hard.
“Ekta Ke Saath!” Cheers amplified, but gradually faded upon an interruption.

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A lull silence shadowed over the booming crowd when a foreign voice reached
Ekta, who was standing atop a make-shift stage. Many heads turned and low
mutters filled the void as they took in the scene.

There, at the small entrance, was Naveen in his wheelchair. Ekta’s stiff posture
relaxed slightly as she saw him. He had been one of the few who escaped the
Bagh, albeit losing his ability to walk in the process. She clenched her fists.

“Didi,” He said, his breath coming out in short puffs and his eyes wide,
“They’re calling for you…and anyone else who was there that day.”

“Oh,” Ekta said and turned her gaze to the crowd, scanning all the familiar faces
before looking back up. “They’re looking for eyewitnesses now?”

“Better late than never.” Someone said, and Ekta couldn’t help but agree with
that in the back of her mind.

“I suppose. Who all are coming with me to give an account of what happened?
It’s time we tell them that we lost not just 300. End the lies.”

No one uttered a word. Ekta held her scoff of disbelief back but pursed her lips
in silent contempt. So much for the revolution. They couldn’t even dare to talk
to the Britishers. Everyone had anger simmering deep in their being. Only some
became a voice.

Without another syllable spoken, Ekta marched out of the basement arena with
her head held high. She patted Naveen’s cheek twice and closed the battered
door behind her. Dalair was waiting for her on the other side, her once clear
face marred with scars. She smiled at Ekta who gladly reciprocated the gesture.

“You’re on your own,” said Dalair, adjusting her dupatta. “I already gave my
testimony. And trust me, I had a lot to say to them.”

Despite herself, Ekta laughed and nodded in agreement. “I bet you did. How
about some chai at my place tonight? It gets a little lonely.”

Dalair’s tough eyes significantly softened but she didn’t comment on Ekta’s
situation. Ekta, who had lost all her family in the span of 10 minutes, right in
front of her eyes.

She appreciated Dalair’s understanding demeanour. The pity and sympathetic

looks were not what she needed. What she needed was a revolution – a
revelation among her people that enough was enough.

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“Absolutely,” Dalair said, “The country needs voices of reason. Voices which
will be heard. I saw how no one stepped up just now. I just hope we get past this
state of terror.”

There was a hidden message in the words she spoke. Dalair was an intimidating
woman who held power and authority wherever she stood. Ekta had, over the
past months, observed that even with her persona of steel there was a place in
her heart where she cared. A lot.

Right now, Dalair was letting her know that she was there. That they would get
through this.

Ekta only smiled.

***

16:30 hours

“Can you tell us what exactly happened during the events of 13 th April?” asked
one of the men.

“Of course,” Ekta said, her lips twitching in scorn, “It was Baisakhi. A very
auspicious and exquisite festival for me and my people, mind you. Not that you
would care.”

“Mrs. Taneja, we understand where you’re coming from – we really do. But it
would do us both a whole lot of good if you cooperate.”

“It’s miss.”

“Pardon?”

She fiddled with the stray fibres in her kurta and smiled. “It’s Ms. Kaur. I’m
sure you’re aware I am a widow… now that your General murdered my
husband.”

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss.” Said another authority sitting there.

Are you? She wished to ask but decided against it. The odds weren’t in her
favour. Not right now. Not here.

Ekta inhaled before continuing what she came here for. Being in the same room
as those responsible for her grief did things to her.

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And she feared how long she would be able to stay without cracking her facade.
Or worse, lashing out.

“We went to Jallianwala Bagh to celebrate. Like we always did. It was

completely peaceful, and everyone was enjoying themselves. Until the only
entryway and exit to the area was blocked by troops.

“We didn’t understand what was going on at first. There were thousands of
people there – elders, relatives, friends, kids.” She willed her voice to not crack.

“I heard General Dyer. He was shouting at the army to fire. To fire at the most
crowded part of the area. When one group ran to one corner, the troops fired
there. When we dropped to the ground, they shot there. We were innocents. All
we wished for was a happy new year

“It went on for eight minutes. Or was it ten minutes? I don’t know. All I could
see at that point was the dead body of my husband and my bleeding four-year-
old.”

There was a pause, in which Ekta continued to fiddle with the cloth. Finally,
someone spoke.

“How would you roughly estimate the number of people injured? And the
number of deaths?”

Ekta’s head snapped up to meet the eyes of the man. Her resolve hardened and
she spat her next words were laced with utmost venom.

“That’s all you care about, don’t you? The statistics, the numbers. What you’ll
need to show to the big guys up there in England. Have you no humanity, your
excellency? Do the lost lives of a thousand humans – forget Indian or British –
not bother you? Does is not matter that one of your men, without warning,
ordered ninety soldiers to start fire?”

Dalair’s distraught face when Ekta and the other survivors had pulled her out of
the well flashed in her mind.

‘I was in a pit of corpses.’ She had said.

“Punjab has been put under Martial Law. Any gathering of any sort was strictly
prohibited.”

Ekta leaned forward in her seat, “Forgive me if I sound too forward but if the
martial law – which hardly anyone had any idea about – was so strictly

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imposed, couldn’t you put one poster on the walls of the Bagh? The place where
most gatherings take place?”

She shook her head and rose from her seat. “I’ve said all I wanted to. But I do
wish you know that you have blood on your hands, your excellency.”

***

March 15th, 1940

14:00 hours

Revolts spread like wildfire.

Sweat trickled down in trails of adrenaline down the side of her forehead. Ekta’s
feet thudded across the gravelly roads, the warm wind breezing past her in a
wisp. Head to toe, dirt and dust clung to her body. She had to leave. Run.

She tasted freedom. The sweet essence was bitterly contrasted with the blood in
her mouth. One thing was for sure, Britishers packed a good punch.

Behind her, stomps echoed like drums. Ten men? Fifteen? All after one woman.
Ekta let herself smile for a moment.

She wasn’t doing this for revenge. Yes, she lost Kabir and Arjun, because of the
Britishers. But there wasn’t vengeance in her heart. Neither did she want to
avenge Dalair, who lost herself due to a ‘heart attack’ when the troops broke
into her home. All she wanted – needed – was change.

They were shouting and shooting at her – aiming at all angles but not her body.
Ekta knew they wanted her alive. Her death won’t come easy, it would be slow
and agonizing. Torturous.

They tried to put out her fires, and she burnt them. She shattered their pristine
reputation in a gathering of more than a thousand. Shouted out to all of India
and openly protested. Revisited the horrors of Jallianwala Bagh even though it
physically ached remembering.

But the world needed to know.

Britishers had their jolly time in India, and now they needed to leave.

Of course, they would want her to suffer. They wanted her restrained – in all
aspects of the matter.
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But with each shackle that broke, so did the British Raj’s resolve.

They could kill her, and a hundred more fighters but they could never kill their
spirit. It would live on, for centuries and more.

A sharp, stinging pain coursed through her entire build. Ekta cried out in pain
and clutched her shoulder where the bullet had grazed her. More like penetrated
through.

It was then, that the clear booming voice of Naveen – now a strong, young
revolutionary – yelled.

“Lieutenant O’Dwyer has been reported to be deceased by our Udham Singh!”

Ekta found herself stopping in her tracks. A million feelings ran through her,
much like that day but in a drastically better sense now.

It overwhelmed her. Happiness, relief, satisfaction, awe, peace.

She could vaguely feel the harsh jab of a gun being pointed at her head.

She was content.

The officers cuffed her hands behind her back and threw her on to the ground.

It’s all worth it.

A foot on her back. Her vision blurred.

We will win.

They kicked her because they could.

We deserve to be free.

She felt light-headed. A lot of blood was lost.

I’ll meet Kabir and Arjun soon enough.

“You have the right to remain silent…” Everything went black.

Free India.

———— ❈ ————

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 PART THREE
THE END
March 18th, 1940

18:00 hours

Ekta Kaur was sentenced to death without a trial.

In the days that followed her arrest, she was kept locked up in cellars and
starved. Interrogations were frequent. The authorities wanted to know what
conspired behind the scenes of all revolts. They came and went, but she either
never spoke a syllable or simply spoke two words: “Inquilab Zindabaad.”

Ekta, however, adamantly demanded to have a hearing in the court. Or at the

very least, be given the honour of saying her last words to her people. The
people of India.

With the help of persistent supporters and her own tenaciousness, she spoke to
the nation.

“I speak to you today, for the last time. I am one voice and even if I cease to
exist in the next hour, which I will, there are a million more. Me and you –
together, we will continue to fight in this war. Destiny awaits us. We were not
meant to be imprisoned in our own homeland; we were not meant to be
oppressed.”

She turned towards the men eyeing her with disdain. Time’s a-running. She
shifted on her toes.

“Our India has encountered a number of unwanted guests – all trying to control
her. Their stay has been long overdue. British India must come to an end. I
recognize how diverse we are. Right now, I speak to every Indian – Sikh,
Hindu, Muslim. We may be different, but our fight is the same.”

“Each and every one of us has their own rights, their own voice. Use it. Exercise
it, exploit it but never let it be suppressed.

“There have been crimes against humanity,” She cleared her throat. She smiled
and her hollow cheekbones glowed as she lifted her fist in valediction and grit.

“To Freedom and beyond – Ekta Ke Saath!”

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 ***

August 15th, 1947

A New Dawn

Seven years forward, India is set to spread her wings.

During and before this period, freedom fighters have fought valiantly in all
forms. Be it through the medium of arts, non-violence, or armed rebellion.

People have died and survived in the name of the nation. The same nation
which, for the first time in two hundred years will bask in the splendour of the
words – freedom, peace, and democracy.

The journey to achieve Independent India has been a long haul and is still not
over. The road filled with bumps, cracks, blood, and death will finally see a ray
of sunshine.

India had not the most ideal condition at this stage. The wars and exploitation of
the British Raj had teared down the once glorified nation into a land of poverty
and famine. Everything good encompasses a sadness.

Our founding fathers stepped forward to create a land where sorrow and anguish
was no more. Liberty, fraternity, equality, and justice were the foundational key
points in their endeavour to form a progressive India.

From Rabindranath Tagore to Sarojini Naidu. From Lala Lajpat Rai to Mahatma
Gandhi. From Bhagat Singh to Rani Lakshmibai. On this day, we pay homage
to every Indian who fought for us – our Azadi.

The possibilities were endless. The fresh start Ekta and her family looked for
before their demise was set upon the country.

A ray of sunshine peeking through the dark clouds of – not oppression, this time
– but uncertainty of the future.

Naveen sighed. A large portrait of a woman standing with her head high was
hanging in front of him.

“We have finally achieved what you fought for,” He murmured to himself, and
absent-mindedly traced his palm over the plaque beneath the painting. Cursive
letters encased in gold.

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Brought out of his reverie by a tug on his shirt, he shook his head and looked
down.

“Papa,” the brown eyed wonder stared up at him and opened her mouth wide, “I
lost a tooth!”

Naveen laughed and swiftly picked the girl up, propping her on his hip. He
showered her with praises and was met with her soft giggles.

In that moment, he realised just how much he wanted his daughter to be as free
spirited as the woman she shared her name with. Naveen smiled and held his
toddler close to himself.

“Never lose your sense of self, Ekta. We are all meant to be free.”

———— ❈ ————

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