Remembering an old mutiny

I'll never forget the day that I first saw the Mutiny memorial, in Delhi. Erected in memory of the British soldiers who gave their lives to the mutiny, it was later re-instated with the names of the Indian soldiers who lost their lives, carved onto the walls. I've been there many times since... but I'll never forget the day that I first saw the building.

My companion and I, started our walk from Kamla Nagar, a street swarming with students and shoppers. A little way towards the destination, you step into roads forgotten today, and rarely visited. It is almost like stepping into a different place... a part of the north campus of Delhi University, but yet not in correspondence with it.

You can see it from far... red, tall and erect. A monument to a rivalry, and a battle fought to settle it, one among many that seems to fuel human existence. The names of soldiers whose blood the memorial stood for, etched over the scratched off names of others who died beside them.

The mutiny memorial stands quietly, at the edge of the thriving university, the majesty of its meaning lost in the hustle and bustle of the daily life of the 'future generation'. It stands in a quiet, secluded spot, which once was the battle ground for the revolt of 1857, in Delhi, India. A monument to the story of a battle the truth of which is never to be known... lost in the various translations to the languages of the defeated and the victorious alike.

I stood there, gazing at the tall building, with its red in stark contrast to the green around... wondering. What was it that I shared with them that shed their blood for a rivalry known to me from history textbooks? The air they breathed, the moisture that kissed their wounds and the sand that soaked their blood, all different... all being carried away by the waves of time even as I stood there. I gazed at that building, which along with me shared space, a void, with soldiers who fought a battle... one of thousands that defines our existence today.