It was Baisakhi.
A festival of harvest, of hope –
When fields are full,
And hearts even fuller.
Men in turbans,
Women in bright colours,
Children running with joy,
At Jallianwala BaghÂ
The air was alive with celebration.
Then –
The gate closed.
And the Bagh, once a space of joy,
Became a chamber of death.
Bullets tore through the summer air.
There was no sky after that,
Only smoke,
Only screams.
People ran, but there was nowhere to run.
The walls were too high.
The exits too few.
The well, once a source of life,
Took in the bodies
Of those trying to escape.
He stood above,
A man without mercy,
And ordered the fire to continue –
Even as backs turned,
Even as silence replaced the dying cries.
It did not end that day.
Not really.
It carried forward –
In silence,
In the pages of history books,
In the eyes of those
Who still visit
And place a hand
On bullet-pierced walls.
Jallianwala is not just a place.
It is a wound.
And a witness.
And a voice that shall never
Be forgotten.