The lament of the natives buzzed in his ears. He could do nothing but witness it. Rajat woke up as the dawn welcomed the day. It was another day to witness the depravity of the British. His eyes fell on the leather diary near the bed. He opened it and penned down his feelings about life. The diary entry goes –

January 19, 1920

When I asked my father what freedom is, there was a long pause, no answer. His face turned pale. His hesitation was quite clear on his face. But my earnest question forced him to give an answer. He said, "Freedom means to breathe freely, freedom is something to enjoy, freedom is about the power to determine action without restraint, and to sum up, it is about being free!" I was in deep shock. I have been living a life that does not have even the slightest hint of what my father’s definition about independence or freedom is. Since my birth, my eyes have witnessed nothing but cruelty and ferocity of the British. We, the people, are nothing more than puppets for the British. If independence exists as one's birth right, then why doesn't it dwell within us? Every time I step outdoors, my eyes see nothing but the long whiplashes handed out by the British officers on the natives. If this goes on for long, freedom will exist as a mere word. Having no freedom since my birth on this land called British India, I am just a body without any soul.

Every day, I just bear the harsh reality of not being independent. But there exists a dream – a dream of being free! I dream of living freely, I dream of breathing the air free from the British pollutants, dream to bring freedom into existence. But unfortunately, to make this dream a reality before I die seems to be a dream, too. I dream with no hope. As soon as the light of the dawn catches my eyes, my dreams end, with it my freedom and happiness. Every day, as I wake up, the helpless cries of the people ring in my ears, accompanied by the slashing sound of the whips. But still I want one more night to live, just to have one
more dream...

These were the last words in his diary as he suddenly fell down onthe ground, motionless. It was the bullet that had gone through his back as the British raided his house. His back was smeared with blood and he made no move.

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