The tears of the mothers and the widows of the martyrs must be felt for each day if we have any pretensions to patriotism. Mere talking or lecturing or even writing elaborate texts will not be sufficient to move towards the Mother who intangible lies to the pretender, ever eluding his advancing grasp, while she caresses her heroic child who has given himself up to fall prostrate at her hallowed feet.
Jatin Das dies in jail. His 63-day fast is ended. Now he will require no feed any more. The Crown has cowered and the martyr has been vindicated in his death. This was no emotional blackmail done to exact a demand from one's own countrymen but an uncertain adventure in the domain of the unknown against a ruthless enemy that knows no humanity towards the Indian.
Traitors that sold their mother for gold, betrayers that for commerce lived, they are buried today beneath the curse of an entire nation, while the heroes, deathless shine, more lustrous than the brightest stars, beacons for generations to come, to guide them through the troubled waters of national life, through the tempestuous times that lie ahead for a world fraught with ignorance and sin.
There was no corruption in these martyrs, no compromise in nationalism, no pretension, no perversion, no shaking hands with the enemy that molested the motherland and reduced her to death's door. These were the bright ones that were born with the blessings of the Mother, born with the mission to free her of her bondage to barbarians that looted her and savaged her children. Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev Thapar, Shivaram Rajguru --- the triumvirate of India's young eagles who set up before an entire nation what it was that revolution meant, not cringing before the enemy, begging for mercy, nor making a sham of all sense of masculinity in the shape of debilitating inconstant politics of passive resistance, an excellent irritant to the Raj, for sure, but never quite adequate a means to drive them away from their occupancy of foreign territory usurped by them through deceit, duplicity and induction of divisiveness in the ranks of the enemy. When on the 23rd evening of the month of March, 1931, they died, hanged on the scaffold where they scoffed off the earthly garb, an entire nation was stunned into silence. The dewdrops vaporised at dawn but left behind their legacy of future fruition which saw the resurrection of revolutionary activity across the country, the Chittagong Armoury Raid, the Battle of Jalalabad and finally, the Second War of Indian Independence, the INA assault on British India which led to freedom. And, in fulfilment of Bhagat Singh's dream of a non-exploitative world where men would live free and fearless, in dignity and peace, the worst exploitative machinery in human history was brought to its knees by the Indian National Army that dealt it the decisive deathblow to drive it to its doom. The British were kicked out of India and the Empire collapsed with it.
Mother, your valorous sons and daughters, who lived and died to free you, have been forgotten by the mass of West-oriented pseudo-rationalist, pseudo-liberal, heartless Macaulay's children, and one weeps to see how an entire nation has trodden the path of sheer perfidy, forgetting its debt to the martyrs. Shame on you, O my countrymen, who sit on your freedom and do nothing to glorify the fighters for the same. Yours is a freedom won in vain, for a nation that is forgetful of its heroes, in due course of time, falls into the same pitfall whence, through the flowing sacrifice of its martyrs, it had arisen. Therefore, my sisters, my brothers, take cognisance of your own historical past and, shunning this life immersed in frivolous forgetfulness, arise in glorious remembrance of them who may, even this day, lend you the virility that you manifestly lack.
End of Part 2 ... to be continued
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