Harnam had been wearing his medallion to class for four weeks since the event. No one had paid any heed, more so since he was the sort who kept to himself and didn’t make any waves.
But on a fine day in June, a professor of botany kept looking at him and his badge. Finally, when he put up his hand to answer a question, the professor made a beeline for him.
“Ah, Mr…?”
“Harnam Singh, sir.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Harnam. Rather interesting medallion you’ve got there.”
Harnam nodded politely, his stomach tensing up.
“You don’t by any chance mean to commemorate our brave British men, women, and children who lost their lives in Cawnpore and Lucknow, do you, boy?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
Prof. Simcoe sniffed in response.
“Ma-a-r-tyrs”, he said, stretching the syllables in disgust, scorn glittering in his eyes, “They were murderers.”
“No, sir, they weren’t,” Harnam said.
A hush fell over the classroom. Harnam’s quiet defiance was unsettling everyone. Prof Simcoe felt everyone’s eyes on them, which incensed him more.
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