Sonakhali Day

Today, February 10. Today is Sonakhali Day. Shanti (Lalu's wife) clung to Lalu’s feet, sobbing uncontrollably. She kept repeating the same words in a tear-soaked voice, "Oh Thakur, what will I live with?" Nineteen-year-old Shanti was Lalu’s wife. She was crying, holding onto Lalu’s lifeless body. Even when people tried to pull her away, they couldn’t separate her from his feet. "Oh Thakur, what will I live with? Tell me, Thakur!"—this cry still echoes in my ears. Dear reader, can you tell me if I will ever be able to forget that voice? Have you ever had such an experience? I haven’t. This was my first. Twelve days later, when I visited Lalu’s house to meet his mother, Shanti came forward with her head covered, bowed before me, and broke down in tears. She didn’t say a word. Her eyes carried a silent, sorrowful gaze—one that spoke volumes. But do I have the depth to truly understand the meaning of that gaze? Shanti said nothing. Only her tears spoke. But I could still hear the heart-wrenching cry of that night—"Oh Thakur, what will I live with? Tell me, Thakur!" Shanti stepped aside. Then came Lalu’s mother. Her body was weak, struggling to move. Somehow, she reached the wooden cot, sat down, and embraced me tightly. And she just wept. She wept endlessly. I sat there, frozen in fear, thinking—what if she says, "You took my son away. Give him back to me." If she said that, what answer would I have? But no, she didn’t say that. In a frail voice, she said, "Son, how will Hindus survive? Won't they spare anyone?" She continued, "Lalu had hugged me and said, ‘Mother, not just one Lalu, I will create thousands of Lalu-s who will protect the Hindu society.’ But now, my one Lalu is gone." She broke down into tears once again. I sat on the cot, speaking to myself—"Masi-ma, your son sacrificed his life to protect religion and society. He knew that his life could end at any moment. His friends, his well-wishers—they all warned him. They all tried to stop him." But he dreamed of a day— "A day has come, Countless souls fear not, No debt do they owe, Life and death serve at their feet, And the mind is free of worry." —Rabindranath Tagore Lalu knew this path was dangerous. Yet, why did he take it? Was it his responsibility to think about protecting other Hindus? Was it his responsibility to safeguard Hindu women from Muslim miscreants? No, not everyone thinks like that. So, why did Lalu? Not for personal gain. But to protect Hindus. As I sat in his mother's embrace, I thought—"Masi-ma, Lalu inherited this spirit from you. Because he carries your blood. And you are no ordinary woman. You are the daughter of Phoni Bangla. In Basanti police station, everyone knows the name Phoni Bangla—Phoni Mondal. Why? Because thirty years ago, Phoni Mondal was murdered by Muslim attackers in village No. 7, Sonakhali. No, he wasn’t killed protecting his crops. No, he wasn’t killed defending his land. He was killed for protesting against cow slaughter—for protecting his religion. And Lalu was his grandson. Lalu had the same blood flowing through his veins. That blood came to him through his mother. So how could Lalu remain silent seeing the horrific assaults, dishonor, and oppression inflicted upon Hindu mothers and sisters? Phoni Mondal’s blood did not let Lalu sit still. It made him restless. It pushed him to resist, to fight back. And so, he went ahead, sacrificing his life. Just like Dadhichi Muni, Abhimanyu, Prithviraj, Tegh Bahadur, Guru Gobind Singh, Fateh Singh, and Zorawar Singh—today, Lalu stands among them, in the same celestial realm, on the same pages of history. Masi-ma knows all this. That’s why she didn’t blame me. She just held me tight and wept. I couldn’t say a single word of consolation. But a firm resolve took root in my heart. I must complete Lalu’s work.

Lalu left behind his widowed mother, elder brother, elder sister, his 19-year-old wife, and his 1.5-year-old baby girl—all his attachments. If he could let go of all that, then what fear do we have? What attachments hold us back? Lalu’s work must continue. I will do it. Masi-ma, I won’t offer you words of comfort. I will only tell you my resolve. I will carry forward Lalu’s work. Whoever comes with me, I will take them along. If no one comes, I will do it alone. If I can do nothing else, at least I can become Lalu. At least I can become a martyr. I will join Phoni Bangla and Lalu in the same ranks—not in this world, but in another. Lalu was an excellent student at the Nimpith Ramakrishna Ashram. His fellow Swayamsevaks called him Lalu or Laluda. His relatives called him Abhijit. He was an extremely popular home tutor. And as an organizer, he was outstanding. It was due to his relentless efforts that RSS shakhas were established in village after village across Basanti police station. In these shakhas, Hindu youths were coming together. The long-oppressed Hindu society was finally seeing a ray of hope. Lalu had such a sweet and gentle nature that children, teenagers, young men, and even their guardians all felt connected to him. He encouraged everyone. But he never pushed anyone beyond their limits. He assessed each person’s courage, attachments, and surrounding circumstances—then assigned them tasks accordingly. He gave work in such a way that no one felt burdened. As a result, everyone willingly carried out Lalu’s instructions. This is why the organization’s work progressed. And when there was danger? When the toughest challenges arose, when the risks were the highest—he never sent others. He went himself. His close comrades, the young men around him, all saw this. That is why they loved their Laluda so deeply. Many times, I wondered—We see great leaders across India. They are renowned, respected. I have met many of them up close. But here, in this remote village of Basanti, I see this young man. And I don’t find him any lesser than those big names. Such a skilled organizer, such a passionate idealist, so selfless, such a natural leader—how was this young man born in this small village? Then I thought—Could it be that many such young men are scattered across India’s villages? If so, then this country still has hope. And that thought filled me with confidence. Lalu had started the fight to protect Hindu dignity from Basanti. But his vision was broader. He expanded this battle beyond Basanti. That came at a cost. But there was also a gain. Lalu’s inspiration is not just for the youth of Basanti. Today, it is inspiring young men in Kolkata and beyond. The fearless organizer Lalu, the quiet and devoted worker Patit Paban, the sweet and brave young man Anadi, the bold and fearless teenager Sujit—they are all martyrs now. They are no longer with us. But they are here. They live within me. Even if they have left this world, they can never leave me. From the stars in the sky, they will watch their Tapon-da continue their work. Not any other work. Just this. —By Honorable Tapon Kumar Ghosh

Lalu left behind his widowed mother, elder brother, elder sister, his 19-year-old wife, and his 1.5-year-old baby girl—all his attachments. If he could let go of all that, then what fear do we have? What attachments hold us back? Lalu’s work must continue. I will do it. Masi-ma, I won’t offer you words of comfort. I will only tell you my resolve. I will carry forward Lalu’s work. Whoever comes with me, I will take them along. If no one comes, I will do it alone. If I can do nothing else, at least I can become Lalu. At least I can become a martyr. I will join Phoni Bangla and Lalu in the same ranks—not in this world, but in another. Lalu was an excellent student at the Nimpith Ramakrishna Ashram. His fellow Swayamsevaks called him Lalu or Laluda. His relatives called him Abhijit. He was an extremely popular home tutor. And as an organizer, he was outstanding. It was due to his relentless efforts that RSS shakhas were established in village after village across Basanti police station. In these shakhas, Hindu youths were coming together. The long-oppressed Hindu society was finally seeing a ray of hope. Lalu had such a sweet and gentle nature that children, teenagers, young men, and even their guardians all felt connected to him. He encouraged everyone. But he never pushed anyone beyond their limits. He assessed each person’s courage, attachments, and surrounding circumstances—then assigned them tasks accordingly. He gave work in such a way that no one felt burdened. As a result, everyone willingly carried out Lalu’s instructions. This is why the organization’s work progressed. And when there was danger? When the toughest challenges arose, when the risks were the highest—he never sent others. He went himself. His close comrades, the young men around him, all saw this. That is why they loved their Laluda so deeply. Many times, I wondered—We see great leaders across India. They are renowned, respected. I have met many of them up close. But here, in this remote village of Basanti, I see this young man. And I don’t find him any lesser than those big names. Such a skilled organizer, such a passionate idealist, so selfless, such a natural leader—how was this young man born in this small village? Then I thought—Could it be that many such young men are scattered across India’s villages? If so, then this country still has hope. And that thought filled me with confidence. Lalu had started the fight to protect Hindu dignity from Basanti. But his vision was broader. He expanded this battle beyond Basanti. That came at a cost. But there was also a gain. Lalu’s inspiration is not just for the youth of Basanti. Today, it is inspiring young men in Kolkata and beyond. The fearless organizer Lalu, the quiet and devoted worker Patit Paban, the sweet and brave young man Anadi, the bold and fearless teenager Sujit—they are all martyrs now. They are no longer with us. But they are here. They live within me. Even if they have left this world, they can never leave me. From the stars in the sky, they will watch their Tapon-da continue their work. Not any other work. Just this. —

Today, February 10. Today is Sonakhali Day. Shanti (Lalu's wife) clung to Lalu’s feet, sobbing uncontrollably. She kept repeating the same words in a tear-soaked voice, "Oh Thakur, what will I live with?" Nineteen-year-old Shanti was Lalu’s wife. She was crying, holding onto Lalu’s lifeless body. Even when people tried to pull her away, they couldn’t separate her from his feet. "Oh Thakur, what will I live with? Tell me, Thakur!"—this cry still echoes in my ears. Dear reader, can you tell me if I will ever be able to forget that voice? Have you ever had such an experience? I haven’t. This was my first. Twelve days later, when I visited Lalu’s house to meet his mother, Shanti came forward with her head covered, bowed before me, and broke down in tears. She didn’t say a word. Her eyes carried a silent, sorrowful gaze—one that spoke volumes. But do I have the depth to truly understand the meaning of that gaze? Shanti said nothing. Only her tears spoke. But I could still hear the heart-wrenching cry of that night—"Oh Thakur, what will I live with? Tell me, Thakur!" Shanti stepped aside. Then came Lalu’s mother. Her body was weak, struggling to move. Somehow, she reached the wooden cot, sat down, and embraced me tightly. And she just wept. She wept endlessly. I sat there, frozen in fear, thinking—what if she says, "You took my son away. Give him back to me." If she said that, what answer would I have? But no, she didn’t say that. In a frail voice, she said, "Son, how will Hindus survive? Won't they spare anyone?" She continued, "Lalu had hugged me and said, ‘Mother, not just one Lalu, I will create thousands of Lalu-s who will protect the Hindu society.’ But now, my one Lalu is gone." She broke down into tears once again. I sat on the cot, speaking to myself—"Masi-ma, your son sacrificed his life to protect religion and society. He knew that his life could end at any moment. His friends, his well-wishers—they all warned him. They all tried to stop him." But he dreamed of a day— "A day has come, Countless souls fear not, No debt do they owe, Life and death serve at their feet, And the mind is free of worry." —Rabindranath Tagore Lalu knew this path was dangerous. Yet, why did he take it? Was it his responsibility to think about protecting other Hindus? Was it his responsibility to safeguard Hindu women from Muslim miscreants? No, not everyone thinks like that. So, why did Lalu? Not for personal gain. But to protect Hindus. As I sat in his mother's embrace, I thought—"Masi-ma, Lalu inherited this spirit from you. Because he carries your blood. And you are no ordinary woman. You are the daughter of Phoni Bangla. In Basanti police station, everyone knows the name Phoni Bangla—Phoni Mondal. Why? Because thirty years ago, Phoni Mondal was murdered by Muslim attackers in village No. 7, Sonakhali. No, he wasn’t killed protecting his crops. No, he wasn’t killed defending his land. He was killed for protesting against cow slaughter—for protecting his religion. And Lalu was his grandson. Lalu had the same blood flowing through his veins. That blood came to him through his mother. So how could Lalu remain silent seeing the horrific assaults, dishonor, and oppression inflicted upon Hindu mothers and sisters? Phoni Mondal’s blood did not let Lalu sit still. It made him restless. It pushed him to resist, to fight back. And so, he went ahead, sacrificing his life. Just like Dadhichi Muni, Abhimanyu, Prithviraj, Tegh Bahadur, Guru Gobind Singh, Fateh Singh, and Zorawar Singh—today, Lalu stands among them, in the same celestial realm, on the same pages of history. Masi-ma knows all this. That’s why she didn’t blame me. She just held me tight and wept. I couldn’t say a single word of consolation. But a firm resolve took root in my heart. I must complete Lalu’s work.

Lalu left behind his widowed mother, elder brother, elder sister, his 19-year-old wife, and his 1.5-year-old baby girl—all his attachments. If he could let go of all that, then what fear do we have? What attachments hold us back? Lalu’s work must continue. I will do it. Masi-ma, I won’t offer you words of comfort. I will only tell you my resolve. I will carry forward Lalu’s work. Whoever comes with me, I will take them along. If no one comes, I will do it alone. If I can do nothing else, at least I can become Lalu. At least I can become a martyr. I will join Phoni Bangla and Lalu in the same ranks—not in this world, but in another. Lalu was an excellent student at the Nimpith Ramakrishna Ashram. His fellow Swayamsevaks called him Lalu or Laluda. His relatives called him Abhijit. He was an extremely popular home tutor. And as an organizer, he was outstanding. It was due to his relentless efforts that RSS shakhas were established in village after village across Basanti police station. In these shakhas, Hindu youths were coming together. The long-oppressed Hindu society was finally seeing a ray of hope. Lalu had such a sweet and gentle nature that children, teenagers, young men, and even their guardians all felt connected to him. He encouraged everyone. But he never pushed anyone beyond their limits. He assessed each person’s courage, attachments, and surrounding circumstances—then assigned them tasks accordingly. He gave work in such a way that no one felt burdened. As a result, everyone willingly carried out Lalu’s instructions. This is why the organization’s work progressed. And when there was danger? When the toughest challenges arose, when the risks were the highest—he never sent others. He went himself. His close comrades, the young men around him, all saw this. That is why they loved their Laluda so deeply. Many times, I wondered—We see great leaders across India. They are renowned, respected. I have met many of them up close. But here, in this remote village of Basanti, I see this young man. And I don’t find him any lesser than those big names. Such a skilled organizer, such a passionate idealist, so selfless, such a natural leader—how was this young man born in this small village? Then I thought—Could it be that many such young men are scattered across India’s villages? If so, then this country still has hope. And that thought filled me with confidence. Lalu had started the fight to protect Hindu dignity from Basanti. But his vision was broader. He expanded this battle beyond Basanti. That came at a cost. But there was also a gain. Lalu’s inspiration is not just for the youth of Basanti. Today, it is inspiring young men in Kolkata and beyond. The fearless organizer Lalu, the quiet and devoted worker Patit Paban, the sweet and brave young man Anadi, the bold and fearless teenager Sujit—they are all martyrs now. They are no longer with us. But they are here. They live within me. Even if they have left this world, they can never leave me. From the stars in the sky, they will watch their Tapon-da continue their work. Not any other work. Just this. —By Honorable Tapon Kumar Ghosh