Independence Day History Series#3: The pens that fought an empire

When we remember India's freedom struggle, our minds often go to the brave men and women who faced bullets, prison and the gallows with unwavering courage. But there was another battle being fought alongside them: a battle of words.

At a time when India was longing to breathe free, writers, poets and journalists became the voice of a nation waiting to awaken. Their poems ignited patriotism, their songs united hearts, their newspapers challenged British rule and their words gave countless Indians the courage to believe that freedom was possible. They proved that a pen, guided by conviction and love for the motherland, could shake even the mightiest empire.

Every corner of India has its own literary heroes. Some are celebrated across the nation, while others are remembered only in their own state or language. Yet, each of them added a verse to the story of India's freedom.

Who is that writer or poet or journalist whose words have left the deepest impression on you? Is there someone from your own region whose contribution deserves to be known by every Indian? It could be a poet, novelist, journalist, playwright, lyricist or newspaper editor. Tell us about them, share a favourite poem, song, speech or quotation, and let us discover the voices that kept the flame of freedom burning.

This is the third thread in our Independence Day History Series, where we come together not just to remember the milestones of our freedom struggle, but also the countless people whose courage, ideas and sacrifices shaped the India we proudly call our home.

Let us pay tribute to those who fought with their words and remind ourselves that before India won its freedom, it first had to awaken its spirit.

Jai Hind! 🇮🇳

Tagging some more and inviting you all to take part in this special series' discussion.

Before everyone starts sharing their favourites, let me begin with mine which is "Pather Dabi" by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay. For me, Pather Dabi is far more than a novel. It is a powerful reminder of the fire that once burned in the hearts of countless Indians who dreamt of freedom. Through the unforgettable character of Sabyasachi and the revolutionary movement he leads, Sarat Chandra captured the spirit of sacrifice, courage and an unshakable love for the motherland. When the book was published in 1926, its revolutionary ideas and anti-colonial message alarmed the British Government so much that it was banned. But banning a book could never silence its message. In fact, it only made more people eager to read it. The novel continued to inspire generations of young Indians who longed to see their country free. As a Bengali, Pather Dabi holds a special place in my heart. It reminds me that literature was not merely a source of entertainment during the freedom struggle, instead it became a weapon of resistance, awakening minds and strengthening the resolve to fight for independence. I would highly recommend this timeless masterpiece to anyone who wishes to understand not just the revolutionary spirit of that era, but also the emotional depth of the freedom movement.

Kazi Nazrul Islam’s poem “Bidrohi”( The rebel), published in 1922, played a major role in the Indian freedom movement by turning poetry into a weapon of resistance. At a time when many Indians felt tired and helpless, “Bidrohi” gave voice to youth anger and courage, urging people to stop begging and start claiming freedom. The British banned it, but that only made it more popular — it was read in secret meetings, recited in jails, and used to inspire revolutionaries. The poem rejected both colonial rule and the mindset of slavery, and united Hindus and Muslims under one identity: Indians fighting for dignity. Though it did not win independence alone, “Bidrohi” changed how people felt. In short -Gandhi gave strategy, Tagore gave soul, and Nazrul gave fire. The Bengali version gives me goosebumps.

Copy pasting the english version if anybody wanted to read it..

The Rebel

(Bidrohi)

Kazi Nazrul Islam

Translation: Sajed Kamal

Proclaim, Hero,

proclaim: I raise my head high!

Before me bows down the Himalayan peaks!

Proclaim, Hero,

proclaim: rending through the sky,

surpassing the moon, the sun,

the planets, the stars,

piercing through the earth,

the heavens, the cosmos

and the Almighty's throne,

have I risen, the eternal wonder

of the Creator of the universe.

The furious Shiva shines on my forehead

like a royal medallion of victory!

Proclaim, Hero,

proclaim: My head is ever held high!

I'm ever indomitable, arrogant and cruel,

I'm the Dance-king of the Day of the Doom,

I'm the cyclone, the destruction!

I'm the great terror, I'm the curse of the world.

I'm unstoppable,

I smash everything into pieces!

I'm unruly and lawless.

I crush under my feet

all the bonds, rules and disciplines!

I don't obey any laws.

I sink cargo-laden boats I'm the torpedo,

I'm the dreadful floating mine.

I'm the destructive Dhurjati,

the sudden tempest of the summer.

I'm the Rebel, the Rebel son

of the Creator of the universe!

Proclaim, Hero,

proclaim: My head is ever held high!

I'm the tempest, I'm the cyclone,

I destroy everything I find in my path.

I'm the dance-loving rhythm,

I dance to my own beats.

I'm the delight of a life of freedom.

I'm Hambeer, Chhayanat, Hindol.

I move like a flash of lightning

with turns and twists.

I swing, I leap and frolic!

I do whatever my heart desires.

I embrace my enemy and wrestle with death.

I'm untamed, I'm the tempest!

I'm pestilence, dread to the earth,

I'm the terminator of all reigns of terror,

I'm ever full of burning restlessness.

Proclaim, Hero,

proclaim: My head is ever held high!

I'm ever uncontrollable, irrepressible.

My cup of elixir is always full.

I'm the sacrificial fire,

I'm Yamadagni, the keeper

of the sacrificial fire.

I'm the sacrifice, I'm the priest,

I'm the fire itself.

I'm creation, I'm destruction,

I'm habitation, I'm the cremation ground.

I'm the end, the end of night.

I'm the son of Indrani,

with the moon in my hand and the sun on my forehead.

In one hand I hold the bamboo flute,

in the other, a trumpet of war.

I'm Shiva's blued-hued throat

from drinking poison from the ocean of pain.

I'm Byomkesh, the Ganges flows freely

through my matted locks.

Proclaim, Hero,

proclaim: My head is ever held high!

I'm the ascetic, the minstrel,

I'm the prince, my royal garb embarasses

even the most ostentatious.

I'm Bedouin, I'm Chenghis,

I salute none but myself!

I'm thunder,

I'm the OM sound of Ishan's horn.

I'm the mighty call of Israfil's trumpet.

I'm Pinakapani's hourglass drum, trident,

the sceptre of the Lord of Justice.

I'm the Chakra and the Great Conch,

I'm the primordial sound of the Gong!

I'm the furious Durbasa, the disciple

of Vishwamitra.

I'm the fury of fire, to burn this earth to ashes.

I'm the ecstatic laughter, terrifying the creation.

I'm the eclipse of the twelve suns

on the Day of the Doom.

Sometimes calm, sometimes wild,

I'm the youth of new blood

I humble even the fate's pride!

I'm the violent gust of a wind storm,

the roar of the ocean.

I'm bright, effulgent.

I'm the murmur of over-flowing water,

Hindol dance of rolling waves!

I'm the unbridled hair of a maiden,

the fire in her eyes.

I'm the budding romance of a girl of sixteen

I'm the state of bliss!

I'm the madness of the recluse,

I'm the sigh of grief of a widow,

I'm the anguish of the dejected,

I'm the suffering of the homeless,

I'm the pain of the humiliated,

I'm the afflicted heart of the lovesick.

I'm the trembling passion of the first kiss,

the fleeting glance of the secret lover.

I'm the love of a restless girl,

the jingling music of her bangles!

I'm the eternal child, the eternal adolescent,

I'm the bashfulness of a village girl's budding youth.

I'm the northern breeze, the southern breeze,

the callous eastwind.

I'm the minstrel's song,

the music of his flute and lyre.

I'm the unquenched summer thirst,

the scorching rays of the sun.

I'm the softly flowing desert spring

and the green oasis!

In ecstatic joy, in madness,

I've suddenly realized myself

all the barriers have crumbled away!

I'm the rise, I'm the fall,

I'm the consciousness in the unconscious mind.

I'm the flag of triumph at the gate

of the universe

the triumph of humanity!

Like a tempest

I traverse the heaven and earth

riding Uchchaishraba and the mighty Borrak.

I'm the burning volcano in the bosom of the earth,

the wildest commotion of the subterranean ocean of fire.

I ride on lightning

and panic the world with earthquakes!

I clasp the hood of the Snake-king

and the fiery wing of the angel Gabriel.

I'm the child-divine restless and defiant.

With my teeth I tear apart

the skirt of Mother Earth!

I'm Orpheus' flute.

I calm the restless ocean

and bring lethean sleep to the fevered world

with a kiss of my melody.

I'm the flute in the hands of Shyam.

When I fly into a rage and traverse the vast sky,

the fires of Seven Hells and the hell of hells, Habia,

tremble in fear and die.

I'm the messenger of revolt

across the earth and the sky.

I'm the mighty flood.

Sometimes I bring blessings to the earth,

at other times, cause colossal damage.

I wrestle away the maidens two

from Vishnu's bosom!

I'm injustice, I'm a meteor, I'm Saturn,

I'm a blazing comet, a venomous cobra!

I'm the headless Chandi,

I'm the warlord Ranada.

Sitting amidst the fire of hell

I smile like an innocent flower!

I'm made of clay, I'm the embodiment of the Soul.

I'm imperishable, inexhaustible, immortal.

I intimidate the humans, demons and gods.

I'm ever-unconquerable.

I'm the God of gods, the supreme humanity,

traversing the heaven and earth!

I'm mad, I'm mad!

I have realized myself,

all the barriers have crumbled away!!

I'm Parashuram's merciless axe.

I'll rid the world of all the war mongers*

and bring peace.

I'm the plough on Balaram's shoulders.

I'll uproot this subjugated world

in the joy of recreating it.

Weary of battles, I, the Great Rebel,

shall rest in peace only when

the anguished cry of the oppressed

shall no longer reverberate in the sky and the air,

and the tyrant's bloody sword

will no longer rattle in battlefields.

Only then shall I, the Rebel,

rest in peace.

I'm the Rebel Bhrigu,

I'll stamp my footprints on the chest of god

sleeping away indifferently, whimsically,

while the creation is suffering.

I'm the Rebel Bhrigu,

I'll stamp my footprints

I'll tear apart the chest of the whimsical god!

I'm the eternal Rebel,

I have risen beyond this world, alone,

with my head ever held high!

While we talk about the writers of that era. Yashpal is one of the first I remember. Yashpal was a member of HRSA and a close associate to revolutionaries like Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru.

He had always been proud of the National Heritages

Had read his story Admi ka bachha in school and somehow that still shivers me

Although he was communist and most of his writings were through that lens, but his stories actually make us feel pride for nation