She jumped in to well. I jumped into the well.
I was unconscious. I was dead. I was dead inside. Everything flashed in my eyes. Pictures of the hall, the ground were coming in front of my eyes. All my questions were now being answered. Now I knew how a father can behead his daughter. Now I knew how all those people be spectators and not object. Now I knew how a girl can come in front to get slaughtered. Now I knew how her face can portray pride in death. Now I knew it was not a rampage. Now I knew why everybody was satisfied. Now I knew why every one of those girls came forward to get beheaded. Now I realise why my sister put her duppata and guth away so my father’s sword finds it easy to cut through. Now I was feeling proud. I was feeling satisfied. They all died in honour. They all sacrificed their life for the sake of honour, for the sake of a rich heritage which made them Sikhs. They all were martyrs. Sacred martyrs!
But I was not dead. I was not drowned. My mother was not dead. She was not drowned. We jumped into well. But we were alive. The well was already full of women and children. Hundreds of them have jumped into it before us. They filled it up. We were now lying on their bodies.
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