Book Excerpt: Vermilion Harvest - Playtime At The Bagh: By Reenita Hora

Amritsar—Playtime At The Bagh

The alley leading up to the bagh spilled over with people and families scrambling to get inside for the Baisakhi festival. Carefree and joyous, they were ready to fill the harvest air with gidda-dancing and unassuming cups of tea and parathas. It was obvious that no one had heard of Colonel Dyer’s proclamation, and the politicians speaking at one end of the garden were only part of the picture.

As the city was under joint military and civilian control, Dyer had combed his way through the streets with Deputy Commissioner Miles Irving and Deputy Superintendent of Police Plomer. Together, they claimed to have advertised the proclamation that there should be no gatherings, which proved to be ineffective. However, they took only a partial route through the city.

Jallianwala Bagh itself was not much more than a barren piece of land where families gathered for respite from their busy week or rest after praying at the Golden Temple. An irregular quadrangle surrounded by aging houses—three trees and a well on one side and a small shrine on the other. It was surrounded by a five or six-foot wall on all sides with just one narrow opening that served as both an entrance and exit. The only way to get to this opening was through a narrow alley flanked by equally high walls. The other gates, no larger than a door, were locked shut.

It was four o’clock by the time Amrita, Gopal, and I arrived at the mouth of the alleyway leading to the narrow entrance of the bagh. The crowds were milling at the entrance, many at the behest of street vendors luring children with treats and trinkets. Channa sellers, balloon sellers, and oversized pathans were crying, “Punjabi dieting di maa di.” The aroma of hot chole bhature, the classic Amritsari chickpeas and puffed breads cooked on open- air tavas, drifted through the crowd. The perfect snack for the harvest festival.

We waited at the mouth of the alleyway, watching the families pass. We were hoping for a glimpse of our men. Gopal became restless at the sight of the goodies.

“Mumma, Mumma, can I have a phugga?” His mouth and eyes widened with fascination at a balloon seller showing off his collection of red, yellow, blue, and more to mimic the colors of spring.

“Hmm,” Amrita said. “Let’s get inside,” she whispered. “There’ll be plenty more to choose from in there.”

We jostled our way through the crowd with Gopal. Inside the bagh, families were strewn around the grounds picnicking, playing games, or relaxing. I couldn’t tell how many were there, but it was well in the thousands. Never had I seen the bagh this crowded.

I scanned the crowds, noticing a group of elderly men gathered together playing rummy in the northwest corner. A group of housewives was belting out Punjabi harvest songs to the beat of a dholki. A woman hit the side with a large stirring spoon. Somewhere else a group of pre-teen children played pitthu, a local game combining hopscotch, tag, and langdi tang. I glanced around the periphery, my eyes resting at the scene playing out in the southeast corner. Several groups of kurta pajama-clad satyagrahis were tracking Gandhi-ji’s movements and retracing the course of events in the city over the last few days.

Amrita and I scoured the grounds for Ayaz and Gurcharan Singh. Amrita heard her name.

“Amrita, Gopal, why are you here so early? I thought you weren’t coming till later.” It was Gurcharan Singh.

Amrita faced him, tears welled in her eyes.

Gopal made a beeline for his father’s legs, wrapping his arms around them. Gurcharan Singh lifted Gopal, staring into his small face with almost hypnotic fascination.

“Ki gall hai, mera sher?” What’s happening my little tiger?

“Jeeo-ji, where have you been?” Amrita stated. Her fear- stricken eyes scanned the area. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“I’ve just arrived from college. We were going over the agenda for the four-thirty meeting,” he replied.

“Jeeo-ji, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Amrita said, casting a rabbit-eyed glance at me.

“What is it?” Gurcharan Singh asked.

“They are threatening to take action on our gatherings,” Amrita said. “You have to call off the meeting.” She said it louder than she intended, and a few turned to glance in our direction.

“Don’t be foolish, Amrita,” Gurcharan Singh frowned. “We are just about to begin.”

“Please, Jeeo-ji,” Amrita said, alarm ringing through her voice. “There is trouble brewing. They are threatening action.”

“Who is threatening?”

“The Britishers,” she said, lowering her voice.

But Gurcharan Singh was not one to have his vision blinded by clouds of despair. He waved her off. “They’ve been threatening us for a while now. Nothing has happened and nothing will.”

Amrita cast her eyes my way, imploring for advice. “But, Jeeo- ji, it can happen. They listed you as a revolutionary.”

Gurcharan Singh studied us. He was speechless for a long moment.

“Aruna was stopped by a soldier last night who confirmed it.” Amrita looked at me. “Aruna, tell him.”

I nodded to support her words. I was willing to step into the conversation to stand by my friend in what looked like a streak of hopelessness. “He told me last night when I was walking home. Colonel Dyer set up camp at Rambagh, and he has issued a proclamation calling for no gatherings of a political nature.”

Gurcharan Singh brushed us off as though we were flies buzzing in the way of his mental peace. “Yes, yes, we are aware of that.”

Did he mean the accusation of being revolutionist or Colonel Dyer’s plans? I wasn’t sure which one, but he didn’t give me the opportunity to ask.

“As long as we do not agitate, we are fine. We’ve been hearing that all day. But anything that is peaceful, they will not have a problem with. It is Baisakhi after all.”

“No, Singh sahib,” I replied. “This is something new. Something issued just yesterday. Last night, I think. Under these circumstances, it will be hard for him to see what is peaceful or not.”

I glanced at the narrow alley of the bagh. As I dreaded the thought of seeing a soldier in uniform, a small part of me wanted to see one so I could say so. Recognizing the perverse duality of my thoughts, I sighed.

Gurcharan Singh had little tolerance for what the British were or were not thinking. He glared at me. Ayaz was overly thoughtful sometimes, Gurcharan Singh was the opposite. “Are you speaking for them now?”

His words hit like an arrow of ice. I lost my stance, but only for a moment. I knew that this would one day arrive. The moment that my friends would doubt me.

“Singh sahib, please—” I began.

But Gurcharan Singh was not listening to reason. “No, seriously, Aruna. Your attitude has been nothing but negative. As though you are ardently against everything that Gandhi-ji is saying.”

“Jeeo-ji!” Amrita’s dupatta fell from her head, but she looked too shocked to do anything about it.

I bit my lip. How I wished Ayaz were here. Though equally adamant in his views, he was far less reactionary than his friend Gurcharan Singh.

“No, Singh sahib,” I stated. “You know that’s not true.”

“Well, that’s what it seems like,” he said. “Ours is a peaceful cause. Your own Ayaz Peermohammed is taking the lead.”

My own Ayaz? A shooting star took life and then died somewhere in the open space of my mind. “That’s why I am here. Where is he? I need to find him. To stop him. To stop all of you.” Gurcharan Singh’s wince confirmed that I had said the wrong thing. Not that my intent was wrong but I had conveyed it incorrectly—using the wrong words.

“All of us?” he asked slowly. “Are we now a different breed of humanity?”

Alarm flashed through Amrita’s eyes. She had heard these words before. If not these very words, then others very much like them—ever since the tongawala pigeon-holed me into an us versus them situation.

Reenita M. Hora is an Indian–American writer, screenwriter, and audio producer. She won the Eric Hoffer Book Award Grand Prize and Chanticleer International Book Awards.

Excerpted with permission from Jaico Publishing House.