‘father’s favorite peacock feather
who refused to come under his wings
Amidst kites that did not fly,
horses that did not run
you reached your destiny
crawling like an ant.
Cool, scarlet honge flower that grew out of
giant banyan tree,
though abandoned by undependable “words”
you completed the journey through your deeds.
Neither obsessed with glory
nor infatuated by any sense of achievement
you continue to live an accomplished life even after your death.
Outwardly hasty, but slow inside,
Burning yourself, you purified your innerself
Wiping out the difference between the inner and the outer,
You became , a maha-mane, where everyone had a space
You never doused burning truths, with restrained watery words,
nor wraped the naked world with erudite drapery,
refused to label the myths of post-truth as information.
wrote nothing except what you saw, as you saw.
Some words there, some punctuation here were not needed.
But would it have changed the target of the bullets?
Name a fence sitter killed for following a safe middle path?
Why then Gandhi, the most religious one, was also killed?
You loved Love and hated Hate.
You melted, grieved, wept, grew angry, fought…
mother, teacher, word, meaning, purpose…
dusky, red, blue, green, white…
became the spectrum of the rainbow
a hope, a possibility,
a symbol of immortality.
you became thousands of Gowris.
(Translated by VS Sridhar)