There in the royal palace at Delhi, ~ The Emperor’s sleep was disturbed; What is that has shaken,
With a peal of thunderous commotion,
His impenetrable midnight rest;
Whose are those flaming torches,
That have set ablaze the skies
Of the powerful Mughal Empire,
In the land of the Five Rivers,
Flow so many streams of blood,
Of the bodies of these heroic Saints,
For the sake of freedom and faith
Bleed thousands of mighty breasts.
Like flocks of restless birds,
Flying out of their nests,
Groups after groups of young Sikhs
Leap into the doom of death;
The mothers of these brave martyrs,
Have anointed their foreheads with blood marks;
Joyfully they leap into death,
On the banks of the Five Rivers.
The battle of the Sikhs with Mughals,
Was verily an embrace of death.
The Sikhs caught the enemy by the throat,
And ina fierce hand to hand fight,
Struck them down with fatal blows.
They fell on them in sucha way,
As a hawk swoops down on a snake;
Terrible was the battle affray;
“Glory unto the Guru” shouted the Sikhs
From the depths of fierce calm;
The blood thirsty Mughals yelled:
Fight, fight, for Islam.
In the fort of Gurdaspur,
Banda the brave was besieged,
By the Mughal armies.
Chained in a cage like a lion
He was taken to Delhi
In the battle of Gurdaspur
Banda was taken prisoner by the Mughal armies.
In front marched the Mughal army
Clouds of dust blew up from the highway;
Each Mughal carried on a spearend,
The head of a Sikh that fought for his freedom and Faith
Seven hundred Sikhs marched on foot,
Chained in clanging fetters;
On the highway to Delhi as they walked
There was not a soul to watch,
As the wind blew pensively by.
“Glory unto the Guru” shouted the Sikhs
And forgot all fear of death.
Clouds of dust blew skyward
As the Sikhs chained and led by Mughals
Marched on the highway to the Capital.
There was an impatient struggle,
As to who should be the first,
To walk into the jaws of death;
Each tried to go ahead,
Each begged the executioner to choose him first;
From morning till sunset.
Under the executioner’s axe,
Fell all the chosen hundred,
Singing: ‘“‘Glory unto the Guru”
By sunset everyday
Were cut off a hundred heads;
By the end of seven days.
Lay all the seven hundred dead.
In the arms of Banda the Brave
The Qazi flung his little babe,
Tender and innocent was the babe,
He ordered Banda to kill his own child.
Silently Banda looked at the Child,
Passionately he embraced the Child,
Lovingly he blessed the Child,
Tenderly he kissed the babe
Looking fixedly at his face.
Then in his ears he softly whispered;
Say, “‘Glory unto the Guru” my little one,
Fear not death my son.
Inspired by these words,
The Child’s face was aglow with fearlessness,
With tender but shrill speech
He shouted loudly;
Guruji di Jai,
Kichhu nahi bhai’
Hail to thee, Guruji Hail to thee,
From fear of death I am free.
With his eyes beaming with mightly courage,
He looked at his father’s face;
On his left side struck deep the knife;
“Glory unto the Guru”’ shouted the Child,
As he breathed his last breath
On the earth he fell dead.
All who watched were struck dumb,
Banda’s body was torn to pieces,
With pincers and burning tongs;
Bit by bit he was scorched and burnt;
With unshakable courage Banda faced,
A martyr’s death that day,
Uttering not a single cry of pain.
All who watched stood dumb,
With horror sight was numbed.
History has come full circle. Sikhs are again hunted and hacked by the “Delhi court.” Congress butchers have replaced the Mughal tyrants. Blood spills on and the red flood is swelling fast to become a mighty roar that will sweep the way clear for the “Kesari Flag.” And yet another Tagore will pay his tribute to the invincible Khalsa spirit and to Sant Jarnail Singh Khalsa Bhindranwale, the true disciple of the Great Saint Soldier.
Article extracted from this publication >> March 22, 1985
