Vibrant hues coloured the streets, 

Beats of the dhol added charm,

Bhangra dancers swayed to the beats,

Baisakhi… a time to rejoice.

 

Men and women,

Young, old and toddlers too,

Danced their way into the garden,

To listen to their leaders.

 

Dressed in their traditional best,

The gathering looked festive,

Far from being a protest,

It seemed like a meet and greet.

 

Then came the villain,

In the form of General Dyer.

Ruthless that he was,

Sealed the exit and ordered a fire.

 

Clothes turned red,

Earth soaked in blood,

And choked under her children,

Who, like a deck of cards, just fell.

 

Cries of despair filled the air,

And celebrations turned to mourning,

The bagh, a garden of peace,

Became a graveyard of the deceased.

 

Red colour replaced the vibrant hues

And cries, the beats of the dhol,

Corpses were scattered all over

Baisakhi… a time to mourn for Jallainwala Bagh.

Written for Story Scrapers NaPoWriMo2026

Image Courtesy – Self