Write the summary of the story :- The Terrorist

Sardar Bir Singh entered the public gallery of the Indian Legislative Assembly producing the ticket in which the childish handwriting signature of Rai Bahadur Sir Gopal Chand was sprawled underneath.

No body could find fault with that card. He could not have got a more authoritative Assembly. He felt perfectly calm. Captain Beatly alertly looking up to Singh with his hard blue eyes and noticing not the slight tremor on his lips not he surreptitious manner in which he had lifted his chin, but the face without a blemish, a handsome, wheat blonde face, with a forehead shadowed by a Khaki Polo Topee, inflamed by pink white ckeeks, which taped from the edge of the sharp nose over a regular expressive mouth down to chin whose determination was badly flawed by the pit of a dimple. Presumably, he was a Kashmir Pundit, a relative of Sir Gopal Chand or a rich university student. He seemed to Beatty like all the others native students who crowded into the public gallery of the chamber to hear debates.

Singh said to himself that Vasu Dev had got into without any difficulty. He looked past the roped gangway over the heads of the people who had already taken their seats on his left and right.

As the negative shock of electricity passed through Singh’s body, he felt faint. There was the positive impact of the hand grenade in the pocket. He recovered his balance.

There was no seat in the front row on the right except at the extreme end. He thought that it was better to pass through the empty seats at the top and get to eh edge of the gallery that way.

He retraced a shep, turned right, and walked quickly but carefully past the folded seats. His feet felt marvelously active, his head was clear and light, though his face seemed covered with perspiration.

He sat down ostentatiously. He was afraid of the bomb exploding on his thighs. He caressed his coat lovingly and putting it down before him gently drew his trousers to a comfortable fold above his knees.

He could not discover Vasudev at first glance. His withdrew his eyes. He said to himself that he would settle down first and behave as an ordinary visitor. He simulated the manner of an eager young man who had come to the Assembly Chamber for the first time in his life, looking as if fascinated at the fake classical frescoes, which decorated the lunettes under the Gothic-Mughal American arches of the vast dome of the Assembly building.

The tempera paintings, executed on a background of gold, described the Hindu seven ages of man, birth, childhood, student life, love, family life, work and renunciation. But in large hemisphere before him on the wall under the dome he saw the picture of the Buddha preaching to his disciples. The endless hours during which he had sat at the feet of the yogis and ascetics in the various religious shrines when he had to live in disguise after he looted the Calcutta Mail at Kakori and there was a prize of a thousand rupees on his head.

They had taught him the great doctrine of securing release from the trammels of existence exactly as did the Buddha. They had described to him the beauty of death, now he was going to realize that beauty. All things end in death. If India had been free, he would like to have waited for death in peace. As it was, he must die in battle. The battle was going to rage.

He felt the blood rise in his veins and colour his face with the wild flush of pride at these thoughts, the flush of pride and power and glory. He recalled that he had experienced this feeling always at the most critical times in the short history of his life when he was about to kill someone or commit a robbery.

The thud of awkward feet shambling down into the empty rows of the gallery, the shifting and shuffling of those who were already seated and made room for the new-comers peevishly.

In the press gallery, beyond the distinguished visitors, he could see two Indians seated beside an Englishman. That was gratifying. They were the representatives of the Associate of Press of Indian, which was an English organization.

His eyes fell on the beautiful white face of Lalla Dwarika Prashad Sharan, the leader of Congress Party. He admired that man. He would have liked to have been like him. He would have liked to have been his son so that he could have inherited of mantle of that distinction which raised the Lalla to the eminence of a virtual symbol of India.

He said to himself that he must get ready. Before feeling for the bomb in the pocket of his overcoat, however, he leaned over the balustrade before him. He also said to himself that he should get warm and he had better try and get ready to signal to Vasu Dev.

He looked forwards. The visitors in the public gallery were craning over the red plush of the balustrade. He could not see Vasudev. So he retreated into himself.

A curious emptiness had taken possession of him. It seemed as if he had ceased to exist. But his face was hot and swollen. His ears felt like red, transparent hot iron. His eyes seemed full of molten lava. He tried to pull himself together and to concentrate on the deed.

He had no capacity for abstract thought left, however. The deed that he was going to perform presented itself to him only as a fact in history, in his own chequered history. It was an incident in his life, the last, final incident in his spectacular career, the act which would crown all his efforts at revolt.

He felt as if he were shut off from the rest of the world in a dark chamber, alone, a speck of darkness. It was comforting through oppressive. He then wished he could throw the bomb and be done with it. He suddenly caught Vasudev’s eyes. The unbeared young college boy looked wild and furtive, disturbed yet somehow convincing enough.

Singh struck the palm of his right hand against his heart and with this gesture and the movement of his eyelids upwards to heaven, tried to communicate that he loved him and that they were to trust in God above on high and do the right-throw the bombs soon.

It occurred to him in a flash that he had forgotten about the challenge he had intended to utter when he threw the bomb. The words, which will spread throughout the length and breadth of India like wildfire, words as memorable as those of Proudhon and Mazzini. “I die for my motherland. I become a sacrifice for it. I have tried to avenge Bharat Mata against the devilry of the British.” He exulted to think that tomorrow these words of his speech would form the headlines of all the newspapers in Hindustan. He had printed the words on leaflets, so that if all died in the chamber the printed matter would remain. He felt for the papers in the right breast-pocket of his jacket. They were safe.

The speaker entered, the house rose with a rustle. He took his seat on the high throne-like chair. The members sat down, shuffling hustling, bustling, talking, whispering.

Singh saw that three English ministers at the head of the official benches smiling derisively at the ceremonious looks on the faces of the Indian members, as if they who had created democracy could afford to laugh at the mock heroics of these native whom they were educating in the methods of debate.

He tried to calm down. But he could not get over the insult implicit in the derisive smile of the English ministers. The memories of the insults, which he had suffered at eh hands of the British, seemed to come back to him.

He hurriedly put his hand into the pocket of the overcoat and drew out the bomb wrapped in a silken handkerchief. The words of the challenge seemed to slip through his mind.

He hastily drew the printed leaflets out of his pocket. His hands were shaking. He breathed a deep breath, opened his eyes wide, tightened his muscles and prepared to rise.

As the speaker rose, Singh rose. Before the speakers eyes had lifted their lids, Singh had flourished the silken handkerchief like a juggler, swept a glance at the chamber and threw the bomb into the air. The bomb fell at eh feet of Sir Arthur Rank, the Finance Minister.

Singh heard a cry like Vasudev. He looked and saw that those about him had arrested the boy with the live bomb still in his hand.

Singh’s eyes were blurred by the blood that had risen in them. Fire burn in his brain, the fire of strength. He was blind with blood. A sharp slap fell on his face. His eyes opened and he faced Beatty. Singh turned his other check deliberately, histrionically simulating the appearance of Christ on the Cross and shouted, “If they hit you on the right cheek, turn your left”.

The visitors in the public gallery who had fled when they heard the bomb drop now came crowding round to see the terrorists, with horror struck eyes and pale faces.

Beatty and two other police sergeants goaded Singh up the stairs with the butt ends of their revolvers. Singh smiled at the visitors. He roared that he sacrificed his life for the sake of his motherland. But the roar ended in a hoarse whisper. The police officer dug into his ribs and pushed him forward. He struggled to say with all the forces of his voice, but the word sounded hallow as it struck the dome of the chamber.