<p>I vividly remember August 15 from my school days. Our school would also hold Founder's Day on the same occasion. On one such day, as a 13-year-old boy, I was asked to enact Veera Pandya Kattabomman. I adorned myself with plenty of gold paper jewellery on my bare chest and head. </p><p>I delivered juicy dialogues against Jackson <em>Durai</em> of the East India Company, with whom I fought using cardboard swords that would bend and bring peals of laughter from the audience – my schoolmates. </p><p>Eventually, Bannerman hanged me from a mock-up tree that couldn't take my weight, which, ironically, might have saved the real Kattabomman if the real Bannerman had made the same mistake. </p><p>The pseudo Bannerman eventually became my brother-in-law, so there were no hard feelings. This play was reenacted in several neighbouring middle schools, and I became a minor hero. All this, I must confess, happened long before the legendary movie of the same name was released in theatres.</p>.<p>As I look back, I realise that our celebrations were devoid of the great tragedy that befell our freedom fighters, such as Kittur Chennamma, Bhagat Singh, and hundreds of others – some well-known, but most lost in oblivion. Many simple men and women gave their lives in the freedom struggle, and we only know those whose pictures we hung on our walls in the early days of freedom.</p>.<p>Books about the Cellular Jail in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, also known as <em>Kala Pani</em> – a place of no return – bring back memories of centres of patriotism where our colonial rulers inflicted endless physical and mental torture on Indian revolutionaries. Yet, our men faced all such cruelty bravely, as if they were being garlanded, and ultimately laid down their lives in service of India and her independence. This place stands as a witness to the difficulties faced by our revolutionaries, which we cannot even begin to imagine today.</p>.<p>I had a distant uncle, Swamy Appa, who lived near NR Colony in Bangalore. Along with my aunt, he was a freedom fighter and spent a long time in prison during the Salt Satyagraha and Quit India Movement. However, when we met him later in life, he had already lost his wife and was living a very modest life with his spinster daughter. </p><p>The sacrifices he made, including his job and material assets, due to his participation in Gandhian movements were not widely known. Neighbours were unaware of his past, and only the photographs on the wall testified to his sacrifices for Mother India. To him, fighting for a noble cause was its reward, and he didn't seek recognition from others. Despite his obvious and self-acquired poverty, he had a smiling face and a contented attitude.</p>.<p>There were thousands of unsung heroes who contributed to our Independence Day. Their stories, like that of my uncle, remain largely unknown, but their sacrifices will always be remembered.</p>
<p>I vividly remember August 15 from my school days. Our school would also hold Founder's Day on the same occasion. On one such day, as a 13-year-old boy, I was asked to enact Veera Pandya Kattabomman. I adorned myself with plenty of gold paper jewellery on my bare chest and head. </p><p>I delivered juicy dialogues against Jackson <em>Durai</em> of the East India Company, with whom I fought using cardboard swords that would bend and bring peals of laughter from the audience – my schoolmates. </p><p>Eventually, Bannerman hanged me from a mock-up tree that couldn't take my weight, which, ironically, might have saved the real Kattabomman if the real Bannerman had made the same mistake. </p><p>The pseudo Bannerman eventually became my brother-in-law, so there were no hard feelings. This play was reenacted in several neighbouring middle schools, and I became a minor hero. All this, I must confess, happened long before the legendary movie of the same name was released in theatres.</p>.<p>As I look back, I realise that our celebrations were devoid of the great tragedy that befell our freedom fighters, such as Kittur Chennamma, Bhagat Singh, and hundreds of others – some well-known, but most lost in oblivion. Many simple men and women gave their lives in the freedom struggle, and we only know those whose pictures we hung on our walls in the early days of freedom.</p>.<p>Books about the Cellular Jail in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, also known as <em>Kala Pani</em> – a place of no return – bring back memories of centres of patriotism where our colonial rulers inflicted endless physical and mental torture on Indian revolutionaries. Yet, our men faced all such cruelty bravely, as if they were being garlanded, and ultimately laid down their lives in service of India and her independence. This place stands as a witness to the difficulties faced by our revolutionaries, which we cannot even begin to imagine today.</p>.<p>I had a distant uncle, Swamy Appa, who lived near NR Colony in Bangalore. Along with my aunt, he was a freedom fighter and spent a long time in prison during the Salt Satyagraha and Quit India Movement. However, when we met him later in life, he had already lost his wife and was living a very modest life with his spinster daughter. </p><p>The sacrifices he made, including his job and material assets, due to his participation in Gandhian movements were not widely known. Neighbours were unaware of his past, and only the photographs on the wall testified to his sacrifices for Mother India. To him, fighting for a noble cause was its reward, and he didn't seek recognition from others. Despite his obvious and self-acquired poverty, he had a smiling face and a contented attitude.</p>.<p>There were thousands of unsung heroes who contributed to our Independence Day. Their stories, like that of my uncle, remain largely unknown, but their sacrifices will always be remembered.</p>
