The grandmother, Jai Kaur was sure that her newborn grandchild was a lucky mascot as his arrival was followed by the release of her three sons from the prisons.
Somehow she had decided to call the baby ‘Bhagat’. Her daughter-in-law also liked the name. The grand old man’s face was wreathed in smiles. The six year old elder brother of Bhagat never ceased squealing in delight at the sight of his baby brother. The baby’s full name became ‘Bhagat Singh.’ Baby Bhagat’s toothless smile would make his father Kishan Singh forget his and his brother’s travails intermittently. He made up his mind to stay out of the trouble’s way. His father was getting too old to hold the domestic front.
Thus, little Bhagat started growing up in the family that was suffering the British brutalities. The air was loaded with the hatred for Englishmen. Often the hatred was laced with seething anger. The talks of the family members would invariably come around to the slavery of the country, freedom politics, British atrocities and the sufferings inflicted on the family by them. Patriotic fervour was the only painkiller they had.
Such atmosphere was bound to influence the growing Bhagat. He had seen his youngest uncle Swaran Singh die slowly before his own eyes. The daring deeds of his another uncle Ajit Singh amazed the child. In his child mind uncle Ajit Singh rose like a phantom hero on whom the mighty British could not lay their hands. The child adored him. How he wished to meet him! But he never did.
Child Bhagat naturally imbibed the anti-British feelings and patriotic spirit.
Then, there were his aunts, one was living a life of virtual widow and the other was young childless widow. The aunts adored Bhagat. They found great solace in fondling, cuddling and kissing him. Fawning over the kid filled their empty lives with some kind of activity of human relationships.
The child had begun to understand their tragedy. He learnt to weep with them to share their sorrow.
Bhagat would often wipe the tears of the aunt, Harnam Kaur and console her, “Don’t grieve, aunt dear. Pray for my becoming youngman fast. I will wage a war against the British and bring back uncle Ajit to you. I promise to do that!”
The aunt would hold him tighter and weep overwhelmed.
Thus, for lullabies Bhagat heard the sobs and the cries of his sorrowing aunts. In place of fairy tales he was told the gruesome tales of the torture of freedom fighters by the British. His tormented family was the living proof. The boy was coming up with growing hatred for British rulers.
The harvest of guns
It was planting and sowing time. One day Kishan Singh was going to his fields to supervise the planting. He had decided to grow mango grove in a section of his lands. Suddenly, the five year old Bhagat arrived on the scene to grab his father’s finger. He too wanted to go to the fields. The father nodded his approval.
On the way, they were joined by an old friend and co-activist Nand Kishore Mehta.
They walked on foot discussing the political situation and some personal matters. Along walked Bhagat thinking of his own little affairs and seeing things around curiously. He was wearing a pink patka covering his hair and bun.
They were cat walking over the embankments of the fields. Bhagat looked excited and his big eyes sparkled. He stopped to watch the hired hands planting the mango saplings. To the son’s query the father revealed that the saplings being planted would grow into mango trees and bear fruit. Once in the field the kid let go of his father’s finger and ran off. He was stumbling, picking himself up and then running again towards the far corner of the field.
The field workers watched in amusement. Mr. Mehta smiled. Father looked indulgently at his son’s prank. Then, workers got busy in their work. Sardar Kishan Singh and Nand Kishore Mehta resumed their conversation forgetting about prankster Bhagat.
After sometime, Kishan Singh looked into the direction his son had fled. He was looking hard as if puzzled. Nand Kishore automatically followed his gaze. In the far corner little Bhagat was bent on his knees performing some task in dead seriousness lost to the world.
Nand Kishore remarked, “What? Is your son doing farming so early in age? What’s he doing?”
“Don’t know,” Kishan Singh replied and took steps towards that direction to find the answer. His friend Nand Kishore followed him. Soon they reached where Bhagat was.
Bhagat ignored them. He was too busy planting small sticks of some dry grass stalks. Kishan Singh and Nand Kishore watched in amusement after exchanging puzzled glances. The kid was working very feverishly in great excitement.
Nand Kishore broke the silence, “What are you doing, son? Won’t you tell us?”
“Sh…ssss!” the kid grandly warned and revealed, “I am planting guns.”
“Guns? What for?” Kishan Singh asked.
Bhagat confided, “To fight the British. They keep my uncle away. I must drive the white man out. My uncle won’t have any problem returning to our free country.”
“Oh!” Nand Kishore exclaimed.
The two elders stared at each other. They realised that the kid was not as innocent as they had assumed. He had grown beyond his years and was already in the mould to follow the family tradition of fighting the British. Kishan Singh shivered.
He promised a lot of real guns to his son if he went to school regularly and became an educated young man. They took the kid home luring him with more promises.
Nand Kishore said to his friend, “I think someday he will make us proud of him. Note down my words.”
He believed that Bhagat already had cast the die of his future.
