They call me their Mahatma. महात्मा. Great Soul.

The man sits, slight crick in neck, on the porch. One thousand shades of sunset. Sweet orange and cool linen and nagging breeze.

They may call me their Mahatma
all they want.
I am powerless tonight
I have given all
that was ever mine to give
and more.

The old mistress has done her work here.
For all the nectar she rained down upon us,
for all she marked a path for us to follow,
when she rose to leave, her barbs were pointed and deep.
They have torn our flesh in two
and Indian is faced against Indian.

A million dead.

A million dead! and the blood of our people stains the streets!

The Ganges runs
             red to Bengal.

Where do I look now to find my India?
Out of our humanity,
Two nations stand opposed
Fifty five crores and ten millions of wanderers
(pushed. pulled. jostled as chits; as fowl)
bones of contention
brick walls of mind
weapons in hand
murder on a chill wind
war in the air
and footsteps in the garden

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