Fiction: Aruna tries to warn Ayaz of an impending massacre of the crowd gathered at Jallianwala Bagh

Mahatma Gandhi called for Satyagraha, non-violent opposition to the Rowlatt Act. He honestly believed that a peaceful resistance would change the minds of our colonial masters while keeping us locals out of physical harm. The current administration was concerned, rumors of a revolution were taking root, spreading like wildfire.

Gandhi-ji called for a number of cities in India to unite in the first all-India protest. Local residents suspended their business activities, spending the day fasting, praying, and holding peaceful public meetings against the Black Act. In colloquial terms, it was known as a hartal. Shopkeepers and traders would remain closed as a sign of their opposition.

The civil disobedience to protest the Black Act was known as the Rowlatt Satyagraha. A deliberate intention to disturb the daily life and affairs of the city. Specifically, the British residents. It was imperative that the British administration woke up and took notice. The exercise appeared to have achieved its desired effect. British housewives had to strategise on how to stock their kitchens.

“Can you pick up a few extra mangoes when you visit the bazaar?” Mrs Simeon had asked my mother somewhat out of breath, scurrying over to us, holding her hat to her head.

We were laden with shopping bags on our way home from the market. It appeared to be a chance encounter, but I had the feeling that she’d been waiting for the opportunity to corner us.

“With talk of the hartal and all, shopkeepers may not be receptive to me.” Her voice sounded somewhat patronising.

Mrs Simeon, the proverbial gossip, always made it her business to keep an eye on me. She was aware that my friend’s shop was well stocked with mangoes.

Ma put down her shopping bags, smoothing out the folds of her bright, blue saree and moved a wisp of grey hair from her eyes. She cocked her head to one side. “The shopkeepers will not receive anyone during the hartal.” She smiled. “They will close their shops to everyone.”

“Yes … yes, of course.” Mrs Simeon nodded. “I just thought that perhaps they might … sell to you, being a local and all.”

I held back a laugh since Ma’s gaze seemed dumbfounded. She fidgeted with the edge of her saree. Something I often did with my dupatta. Obviously, I had subconsciously picked up the habit from her. A sign that neither of us knew how to respond. Even though she kept her distance from the British memsahibs, Ma made it a point to maintain good relations with them. Given our history and that we’d been given our home by a British officer, Ma insisted that we show extra gratitude. However, often she went overboard, to the point of appearing obsequious.

“Perhaps, I can make a special request to the local fruit-sellers,” she whispered.

“Not much of a point in doing that,” I stated. “The hartals are to close all business activities and to everyone.”

Why wouldn’t Ma stick to her principles? Making life difficult for the Britishers was the whole purpose of the hartal. She looked at me with a pleading gaze.

“Maybe we can ask our friends for help,” she suggested. “Like Amrita Singh.”

I shook my head. “Ma, no. Amrita already said her shop will not be selling to anyone.”

“It’s just a few mangoes,” Mrs Simeon said harshly, as if to satisfy her imperious vanity. “It is the season. What will they do with them? Let them rot? Or send the fruit to other cities?”

“All the cities of Punjab will participate in the hartal movement,” I said. “They’ll sync up with Mahatma Gandhi’s objectives, and Amritsar will be no different. That means no mangoes for anyone, season or no season.”

“Oh, that Gandhi!” Her face took on a darker tone and she frowned. “Sod it then. I’ve had enough.” Mrs Simeon pursed her lips and took leave with a brusque nod of the head.

Ma remained silent. It was clear she was torn between the principle of the Rowlatt Satyagraha and keeping up her self-professed dutiful relations with her British neighbours.

On March 30th, a group of several thousand Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs gathered in Jallianwala Bagh to discuss the state of affairs, all under the guidance of Indian National Congress leaders Dr Saifuddin Kitchlew and Dr Satyapal. I attended the event as did Ayaz. It was interesting to watch the visible change in Ayaz’s body language. His political activist persona took over the amorous Ayaz whom I had fallen in love with from our interludes at Rambagh.

“I don’t know how Dr Satyapal will manage to address this crowd,” he said.

We eyed the men preparing to speak from a makeshift stage.

“Manage what?” I asked. “You mean in terms of what he says?”

“No, in terms of saying anything at all,” Ayaz whispered. “The British administration of Punjab has prohibited him from speaking to the public.”

“But he did so two days ago,” I replied. “Near Hall Gate when I was riding home from school.”

“It happened yesterday,” Ayaz said. “They’re concerned about his influence over the local Amritsaris.”

Dr Kitchlew stepped forward. His mid-parted hair smooth with pomade and neatly tucked behind his high-collared white shirt, juxtaposed with the quivering ends of his perfectly waxed moustache.

“Will we ever be prepared to sacrifice personal over national interests?” Dr Kitchlew asked. “You were read the message of Mahatma Gandhi. Countrymen … come prepared for resistance! No blood or death. The resistance will be a passive one. Be prepared to act … be prepared for jail!”

The crowd cheered. “Satyapal-ji ki jai! Kitchlew sahib ki jai!” Their shouts filled the air.

The two Congress political leaders were successful in uniting the crowd; however, the British administration didn’t like what they were watching. Newspaper headlines and radio anchors reported against the unison. Regardless, violent or passive, Indians should not sacrifice themselves for a national interest. The idea was horrifying. To shake the British rule was more dangerous than violence.

Following the meeting, Dr Kitchlew was ordered to refrain from further public speaking. A huge disappointment as it disrupted the flow of political meetings; curbing the influence of our local heroes proved to not be the answer. There had to be a better way to calm the woes of the British administration. The meetings were broken into smaller groups, each facilitated by a designated member of the local Congress Party. Despite the efforts of the British administration, the people of Amritsar remained resolute. The hartal would continue as planned.

Excerpted with permission from Vermilion Harvest: Playtime at the Bagh, Reenita M Hora, Jaico Publishing House.