neerrr
Ink, blood etc.
“RUN.”
That was the only warning before the shots rang out. He whipped out his gun and shot at the turban that had just become visible through the window. The man screamed and fell.
“THIS WAY.”
Rushing across, he picked up the papers and ran.
An hour later the two of them stood in the deserted warehouse.
“Jaidev?”
The other man shrugged, his eyes going cloudy all of a sudden. Bhagat’s legs buckled under…
“Bhagat you are bleeding!” Shiv exclaimed. That was when he noticed the dark stain. What about the papers?! He whipped them out. There was a smear of blood on the first page. An exclamation escaped his lips.
“What are these papers?” Shiv asked, even as he yanked open the shirt to examine the wound.
Shiv had come to the Centre only today and hence had no idea of what Jaidev and he had been working on. Fleetingly, he wondered whether the police had followed Shiv to the Centre. He flung aside the thought, all that was immaterial now.
“Small biographies of those who have died for our freedom.” He gasped out. The pain was immense. “Anwar sahab said he would publish these in his journal. I need to give him the papers today.”
“Not today,” Shiv said, cleaning the wound. “The police are searching for us.”
“You don’t understand Shiv,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “Imprisonment, fines, destruction of press and livelihood….how many publishers take such risks? And it is important that this…. be published. People have… to know of the sacrificesssss other have made. If we… have to make a connect with the massessss, these….
“Yes I know,” Shiv said shortly, “but first I need to get a doctor for you.”
“Please Shiv, first deliver these papers….risalah goes….press today…. tomorrow….. too late…Please….”
*
Shiv hurried towards the dawakhana. He had already delivered the papers. Would the blood smeared page be legible? He shook his head. All this was so typically Bhagat. Only he could have so much faith in the written word. Ideas and thoughts have to be circulated. How else would the people rise up as one? Inspiring actions written down would motivate…. He staggered as the bullet struck. Falling forward, he wondered who will get a doctor for Bhagat now, or whether Anwar sahab was safe and would print or….
*
“What is this?” The man asked, handing over the journal to his elderly colleague.
The latter looked at it disinterestedly. “Shahadat: special issue of the journal Raahgir. It was banned by the British. This must be one of the confiscated copies.”
“So do we keep it?” The younger man questioned, his stomach was growling and he thought longingly of the paranthas in his tiffin.
“What for?” His colleague replied, extracting wax from his ear. “How many can read Urdu now? It will simply clutter up the little space we have. Besides who is interested in these men?”
He threw the journal down at the pile near his feet.
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“RUN.”
That was the only warning before the shots rang out. He whipped out his gun and shot at the turban that had just become visible through the window. The man screamed and fell.
“THIS WAY.”
Rushing across, he picked up the papers and ran.
An hour later the two of them stood in the deserted warehouse.
“Jaidev?”
The other man shrugged, his eyes going cloudy all of a sudden. Bhagat’s legs buckled under…
“Bhagat you are bleeding!” Shiv exclaimed. That was when he noticed the dark stain. What about the papers?! He whipped them out. There was a smear of blood on the first page. An exclamation escaped his lips.
“What are these papers?” Shiv asked, even as he yanked open the shirt to examine the wound.
Shiv had come to the Centre only today and hence had no idea of what Jaidev and he had been working on. Fleetingly, he wondered whether the police had followed Shiv to the Centre. He flung aside the thought, all that was immaterial now.
“Small biographies of those who have died for our freedom.” He gasped out. The pain was immense. “Anwar sahab said he would publish these in his journal. I need to give him the papers today.”
“Not today,” Shiv said, cleaning the wound. “The police are searching for us.”
“You don’t understand Shiv,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “Imprisonment, fines, destruction of press and livelihood….how many publishers take such risks? And it is important that this…. be published. People have… to know of the sacrificesssss other have made. If we… have to make a connect with the massessss, these….
“Yes I know,” Shiv said shortly, “but first I need to get a doctor for you.”
“Please Shiv, first deliver these papers….risalah goes….press today…. tomorrow….. too late…Please….”
*
Shiv hurried towards the dawakhana. He had already delivered the papers. Would the blood smeared page be legible? He shook his head. All this was so typically Bhagat. Only he could have so much faith in the written word. Ideas and thoughts have to be circulated. How else would the people rise up as one? Inspiring actions written down would motivate…. He staggered as the bullet struck. Falling forward, he wondered who will get a doctor for Bhagat now, or whether Anwar sahab was safe and would print or….
*
“What is this?” The man asked, handing over the journal to his elderly colleague.
The latter looked at it disinterestedly. “Shahadat: special issue of the journal Raahgir. It was banned by the British. This must be one of the confiscated copies.”
“So do we keep it?” The younger man questioned, his stomach was growling and he thought longingly of the paranthas in his tiffin.
“What for?” His colleague replied, extracting wax from his ear. “How many can read Urdu now? It will simply clutter up the little space we have. Besides who is interested in these men?”
He threw the journal down at the pile near his feet.
Poll Rate this entry