A Child’s Cry in Jallianwala Bagh

 I still remember that dreadful day, though I wish I could forget. I was only ten years old when the horror unfolded before my eyes. My name is Arjun, and I lived with my parents in Amritsar. It was the festival of Baisakhi, a day of joy, but it turned into a nightmare I will never erase from my heart.

My father took me to Jallianwala Bagh that afternoon. The open ground was crowded with men, women, and children. People spoke about freedom and justice, but I didn’t understand much. I only knew that we were there to listen to speeches, and my father held my hand tightly as we walked through the narrow entrance.

Suddenly, a strange silence spread across the crowd. I turned my head and saw soldiers blocking the exit. A tall man in a uniform, later I learned his name was General Dyer, stood on a raised platform. Without warning, he lifted his hand, and then—the gunshots began.

Loud cracks filled the air. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. Then I saw people falling, screaming. My father grabbed me, pulling me close as we tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. The bullets rained down like a deadly storm. I saw a mother covering her baby, her body shaking before she collapsed. An old man tried to crawl to safety, but he stopped moving after a while.

My father pushed me towards a well. “Jump, Arjun!” he cried. I hesitated, but when I saw his face—his eyes filled with fear—I obeyed. I leaped into the darkness, landing on something soft. It was bodies—so many bodies. Some groaned in pain, others lay still. The well was supposed to save us, but it had become a grave.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. The gunfire eventually stopped, but the cries of the wounded filled the air. When I was pulled out, the sight before me was worse than anything I had ever seen. The ground was soaked in blood. My father was nowhere to be found.

I searched for him among the dead, calling his name. But he never answered. That day, I lost my father, my innocence, and my faith in humanity. I was just a child, but Jallianwala Bagh turned me into something else—a witness to a massacre, a voice for those who could no longer speak.

Even today, when I close my eyes, I hear the gunfire, the screams, and my father’s final words: “Jump, Arjun.” And I wonder—how could a place of celebration become a field of death? How could men with guns turn against unarmed people? I may never understand, but I will never forget.