. . .in the middle of the Second World War,
I was walking down the Silver Market of Old Delhi
when I heard the sound of firing.
Making my way towards it,
I turned a corner
and came upon a small crowd
defying an even smaller band of English soldiers.
An elderly man of the poorest class,
dressed only in a loin cloth,
broke away from the crowd
and ran towards the soldiers.
One of these pointed an automatic weapon towards him,
but the man did not stop.
He was shouting
in a confused and hysterical manner
and it seemed to me
that he was not in possession of his senses;
no doubt, as so often happens with Indians,
the excitement and the previous shooting
had loosened his grip upon his nerves. He ran on,
full tilt towards the soldiers.
The Englishman with the automatic weapon
pressed the trigger
and the Indian fell prone,
jerking his legs
in a fashion that was almost ludicrous
and drumming with his fists on the ground.
In a few moments he lay still, dead,
with blood spouting
from a series of wounds on his body.
I noticed that the small of his back
(for he died on his face)
was torn in several places
from the bullets which had passed through.
The crowd dispersed.
They had been demanding that the English leave India.
The man lay in the roadway
in his blood,
until a street-cleaning cart,
requisitioned for the purpose,
bore him away.
Found by GR in:
AULD DELHI
...I the mids o the saicont warl weir,
ah wis daunerin throuch the siller mercat o auld Delhi
whan ah heard the brattle o gunfire.
Airtin taewarts it,
roondin a cunyie
a cam on a thrang o fowk
defeein a pickle bourach o suddron sodgers.
A bodach o the puirtith cless,
cleedit anely in a loin claith,
brak frae the crood
heidin fir the sodgers.
Yin sodger pyntit a gun it him,
bit he didnae stop.
He wis skirlin
he wis aw throuither
fegs ah thoucht
he micht be gyte;
nae doot, as aften kythes wi Indians,
the tirrivee o the umquhile brattle
hud lowst a grup o's mynd. He stooried on.
Straucht fir the sodgers.
The Englishman wi the gun
chirtit the tricker
an the Indian cowpt ower, liggit agroof,
yerkin's legs
gye pawkie lik
an thrummin the yirth wae's nieves.
Or lang he liggit deid,
wi bluid spootin
frae the monie sairs on's bouk.
Ah glisked the sma o's back
(fir he deed on 's neb)
wis riven whaur the monie bullets hud brust throuch.
The crood skailt.
They'd been protestin thit England win awa frae India.
The chiel liggit in the causey
in's bluid
till a scaffie's cairt
brocht in aince errand
cairriet him awa.
(Leagan Béarla na hAlban: John McDonald)
