In the heart of Punjab, beneath a sky bruised purple by the dying sun, Sirhind slept. But dreams were shattered by the thunder of hooves and the wail of war cries. Baba Deep Singh, a warrior-saint with fire in his eyes and steel in his hand, led the Khalsa charge.
Beside him rode Banda Singh Bahadur, a hurricane of grit and fury, their blades singing hymns of vengeance and freedom. Sirhind, the city that swallowed the Guru’s sons, would choke on its own dust today.
Walls that once scoffed at steel, crumbled under the Khalsa’s assault. Arrows, fired like whispers in the storm, found their mark in Mughal hearts. Cannons roared, spewing iron dragons, but the Khalsa, lions with eyes on fire, danced amidst the smoke and flame.
As the last light bled from the sky, Sirhind lay weeping, its towers draped in the Khalsa’s saffron flag. In that twilight hour, freedom tasted bitter-sweet, watered by the tears of countless fallen brave. But in the hearts of the victors, a fire danced, defiant and bright.