Whispers of time - An untold story.

As I walked down the dusty path, in an almost barren land, sun simmering overhead, I located the building with the huge wall compound that was my destination. There was an unmistakable presence. A few goats and cows were either grazing, whatever little they could or lying in the small shelter of the shadow of the compound wall. The wall reflected the past glory of the occupants and as I neared the entrance, I could feel the unmistakable presence.

"You must have come here to know about him", I heard an unexpected voice ask me.

Startled I turned to my left, nodded my head in agreement.

"What do you know about him?", it asked me again.

"Nothing much really", I looked at the thick cover of dust which had enveloped the owner of the voice. "There is not much to gather information about him, I guess."

"Yes, there isnt. Unfortunately, a tale which could have inspired millions, a tale of love, a tale of passion and a tale of patriotism, was chronicled only by the oppressor. Do you know why he was killed?"

"I have an idea. It was because he had started the revolt, refusing to bite the grease cartridge for the rifle. Isnt it?"

"If it has to be told in one line, that is the reason. But do you really believe, that such a thing could lead to a revolt?"

"Why not? Indian brahmins, back then, were supposed to be very particular about it all. So yes."

I heard it laugh. "You really think it is all that black and white, don't you? There is more to it. Would you like to know? It is a long story and I can not offer you tea or anything else."

I nodded, "I am fine, thank you. Please do tell."

And then started the story of love, of betrayal, of sacrifice, of heroism and above all of patriotism. When it was over, the sun had almost set, and the clouds were overcast. I had goosepimples all over. Overcome with emotions, I asked, "And you have mutely witnessed it all?"

"Yes. That is what I am supposed to do. I can only hear, I can only see, I can only be passive. I can only shed a tear when someone wants to listen it from me. Thanks for listening out", said the stone before going back to its familiar deaf role, into a mute sleep, the state it had been in for I don't know how many centuries, leaving me there thinking about the story of that man called Mangal Pandey, the story of the person who ignited India's first freedom struggle in 1857 which the British historians merely termed a "Sepoy mutiny."

In the sands of times, it is but one story never told to the generations that followed.