Free The Night Run by Bali Rai

Chapter Two

Arrest
    I think I should explain.
    A day earlier, just after five in the evening, British soldiers took my father. He runs a food stall and is a fine and noble man. His name is Mit Singh, and he is my hero. The soldiers didn’t care about that. They didn’t stop to ask, or to investigate. They simply came, four of them with their rifles, and took my dad away.
    We were packing up for the day. My father sells savouries and spiced tea, and each night I hand out leftovers to the poor, who crowd the narrow lanesaround the marketplace. My city, Amritsar, is a hectic, noisy, smelly, colourful place. And nowhere is busier than the market. The stalls sell everything from cotton and silk, to birdcages, spices, earthenware pots and fruit. It is the only school I’ve ever known, and it is my favourite place in the world. Or it was – until they took my dad.
    When I returned to the stall, I could see something was wrong. Soldiers surrounded my father.
    â€˜I did not riot!’ my dad shouted at them. ‘You are mistaken!’
    The lead soldier, a tall Indian with dark, pockmarked skin and a curling black moustache, told my dad to keep quiet.
    â€˜But you have the wrong man!’ my father protested.
    The soldier raised his rifle and used the butt to hit my father on the head. My dad fell backwards, crying out in pain, and I felt my stomach churn.
    â€˜Leave him alone!’ I yelled but no one heard me.
    The other stallholders had crowded round. Most were friends but none helped my dad. They were too scared. Earlier in the day, rumours had begun of a riot. The rumours were true. People had died and buildings had been burned to the ground. Thesoldiers were searching for rioters and no one wanted to get in their way. The British ruled India with an iron fist. Anyone who stood against them paid a heavy price.
    â€˜Help him!’ I shouted. ‘Please!’
    The lead soldier shook his head.
    â€˜We have witnesses,’ he said. ‘You are a rioter!’
    I pushed through the crowd, trying to reach my dad, but two strong, rough hands grabbed me around the shoulders and I was pulled back. It was Atar Khan, one of our neighbours.
    â€˜No, Arjan,’ he warned. ‘Do not make them even angrier, son.’
    Hot, salty tears poured down my cheeks. My head felt light. I didn’t care what the soldiers did to me. I wanted to help my dad. I struggled in my neighbour’s grip.
    â€˜You are twelve,’ Mr Khan whispered in my ear. ‘You are not a man. Stop.’
    The crowd grew bigger, and people were shouting. ‘Stop the British! Kill the British!’ they screamed.
    The soldiers began to panic, their eyes frantic and their foreheads sweaty. I felt my heart surge. Perhaps the crowd would free my dad. But then a whistlesounded and three white men arrived, with batons drawn. Behind them came several policemen.
    â€˜Disperse immediately!’ came the order.
    The mob took fright. People began to walk away. I tried to catch sight of my father but it was impossible. Then, as the crowd thinned, I saw the soldiers lift and handcuff him. They led him across the market square and towards the central police station. He turned his face to mine and I saw tears in his eyes. I tried to follow but Mr Khan’s grip was too powerful.
    â€˜No, son!’ he warned again. ‘Come, I will take you home. We must inform your mother.’
    I shook my head, as more tears came.
    â€˜What can she do?’ I asked my neighbour. ‘We have to help him now!’
    Mr Khan paid no attention. Instead, he led me through a maze of narrow and dark back streets; to the small house I shared with my family. His face was set, his expression full of sorrow. He did not speak until we reached my house.
    â€˜There’s nothing we can do tonight,’ he said. ‘You need to look after your mother. My cousin cooks for the chief of police. I’ll go and speak to him later.’
    My