23

 

They often ask, why do I paint you -

Every year, this date

Respect is good after seventy years,

But the truth is we are late 

Late to know your real life,

Late to know your ‘death’

Now all that stays are statues, busts,

And on special days, a wreath

And we’ll never know what it meant to run

Away to enemy lands,

So much pain, to grant a bit

Of freedom in our hands

And even when you came you saw,

Liberty - a bunch of lies,

Nothing left to tell the truth

You turned gumnaami in our eyes

In seventy years, the world has changed

Why then your tale to fuss?

Because what is same, despite the times

Is the battle inside us

And it’s not to just not forget your life,

These strokes of brush and hue,

It’s to give us hope that perhaps there is,

In us, a bit of you…

23rd Jan’2021