When the bullets ripped apart hundred legs, few could cater to those, since amidst the sanguinary atmosphere, there had been raging a fierce battle; a battle, not over a bibelot, but over issues of existence. The shuffling of the MG-42s from the encroached Himalayan peaks came down as disastrous cacophonies that shattered life beneath. But the united men, though could hardly manage a vantage point, did not stop. Hundred corpses rolled down with heaps of snow down the mountains and were hidden from the world in an instant. But some could not be daunted, some could not be crushed. As more bit the dust, so rose their passion for triumph. And none could stop them.
Why myriad martyrs were born was because in the book of our history, lay the names of those intrepid band of men and women, who had only one dream in their whole lives—not of becoming an engineer, not of becoming a king, but of freeing their country of the king. Millions, regardless of caste, creed, and religion, gave their blood in the wake of ultimate freedom for our country. Some smiled at the sight of death, as India looked toward the choking of the black-draped neck, while some fought till death. Many heroes were born and many heroes died.
On this very midnight of the 15th of August, 1947, India was freed from the fetters of two hundred years of British hegemony. It was a night when India awoke in the spirit of freedom; freedom, as dreamt of, in every sphere of life, from corruption, from crime, from poverty. On the next morning, the flag of Great Britain couldn’t be seen in any corner; while the Tri-colour Flag blew on the ramparts of the Red Fort and the wind that had shaken the British edifice, seemed pleasant.
