Udham Singh carried his pain for two decades before firing the bullets that echoed across an empire
On a grey March afternoon in 1940, Caxton Hall in Westminster was alive with polite conversation. The guests—statesmen, colonial officers, scholars—listened to a lecture about India, the jewel in Britain’s crown.
Few noticed the quiet Indian man in the back row, clutching what appeared to be an ordinary book. When the meeting ended and Michael O’Dwyer rose to his feet, the man stood too. A sudden crack split the air. Then another. Within seconds, the architect of one of colonial India’s darkest massacres lay lifeless.
The man was Udham Singh. And this was no random act—it was an act of memory, vengeance, and history finally speaking back.
(Credit: India Today )
Udham Singh was not born into fame but into hardship. Orphaned young and raised in Amritsar's Central Khalsa Orphanage, he lost his brother too before reaching adulthood. The world had already dealt him blow after blow when, on April 13, 1919, he witnessed horror on a scale that would haunt him forever.
That day, in Jallianwala Bagh, British troops under Colonel Reginald Dyer opened fire on thousands of unarmed men, women, and children gathered to protest peacefully. The ground was littered with bodies; the walls of the garden still bear the bullet marks. Among those who survived was a teenage Udham Singh, then serving water to the crowd.
The massacre was orchestrated under the watch of Punjab's lieutenant governor, Michael O'Dwyer. For Singh, the name became a wound carved into memory.
Revolutionary politics provided Singh with a new direction. Inspired by Bhagat Singh and the Ghadar Party, he traveled extensively—across America, Europe, and the Middle East—always carrying the spirit of revolt. Arrest, prison, surveillance, exile: nothing dampened his determination.
By the 1930s, he was in London, leading an ordinary working life while secretly planning his remarkable mission. He hid his pistol inside a hollowed-out book, practised his timing, and waited.
For Singh, patience was not a sign of weakness, but rather a form of discipline. He carried his grief for 21 years before he acted.
(Credit: East India Story )
On March 13, 1940, Singh entered Caxton Hall under a pseudonym. When O'Dwyer reached the podium, Singh fired two shots directly into his chest. O'Dwyer collapsed immediately—an executioner's justice carried out with calm precision.
Arrested immediately, Singh did not resist. In custody, he provided his name as Ram Mohammad Singh Azad—a bold amalgamation of Hindu, Muslim, and Sikh identities, symbolising unity against empire.
At his trial, Singh showed no remorse. "For 21 years, I have been trying to seek vengeance," he told the court. "I am happy that I have done the job. I am not scared of death. I am dying for my country."
The British executed him at Pentonville Prison on July 31, 1940. But his final words—"Down with British Imperialism"—resounded louder than the noose could silence.
(Credit: Indian Express)
Today, Udham Singh is remembered not just as an assassin but as a martyr who embodied the anguish of a nation. Streets, districts, and statues bear his name. Every July 31, garlands of marigolds are draped across his likeness in Punjab.
His story is not merely about revenge but about dignity. It reminds us that history's wounds do not close by forgetting—they demand truth, courage, and, sometimes, a single shot that carries the weight of millions.
