Beloved Bapu, you abide
In my heart as a ray
In a dark interior,
Or a syllable of daring
In a breast-full of fear.
But empty eulogies no longer
Ring true. The cruel fact is
That you have been set aside,
Like a piece of bone China,
To be polished and brought out
When an honoured guest is about.
Those that murdered you
Feel no shame in propitiating your
Example when need be,
Even as they pursue the teachings
Of your murder as policy.
I know this is not a fate unique
To you, Bapu.
Yet, living as we do in our own moment
Of reckoning, the hurt and the loss
Are shattering.
A blight is now upon the manifold
Humanity you lived and died to make;
Multifoliate gardens that would be
Resplendent in diverse hue
Are now infested with
Many a vengeful snake.
Nothing is ever the same, Bapu,
And, like the Christs of old,
Your life and work is also
Destined to be something merely told.
What is done may be that which
Is fatally inimical to the conviction
That inspirited your skeletal frame
With a strength that only a mountain
May claim.
At the hour of our most gruesome
Blood-letting seven decades ago,
The only ray of hope you saw
Was in Kashmir. How she is now
Paying for that virtue, and how much
She needs you.
Were you among us still, I have no
Doubt you would be headed for
Lal Chowk, the barricades and concertina
Notwithstanding, freeing the innocent
From jail, making justice prevail.
As I write this to you, Bapu, they
Are off to pay that ritual homage
At Rajghat. Within minutes the odd
Petal from Authority's costume
Will be shaken free to fall by the
Wayside, and the life of cruel command
Will resume from hate-filled hide.
But happy birthday to you, Bapu,
Nevertheless, from a very lost child.
Badri Raina