"Gandhi and the Partition" (A Ballad of Pain and Conscience)
"Gandhi and the Partition"
(A Ballad of Pain and Conscience)
It was a night of August,
Freedom knocked on the door,
But the earth wept in silence,
For her heart had been torn apart.
The tricolor rose in the wind,
But tears refused to dry,
For every flag that fluttered,
A thousand homes said goodbye.
Amid the fire and smoke,
A frail old man walked alone,
A staff in his trembling hand,
And prayer upon his lips.
He was Gandhi,
The saint of peace,
The seeker of truth,
Now standing in a nation of ashes.
He once said —
“Religion is the jewel of man, not his weapon,”
But now religion had become a sword,
Cutting through the soul of the land.
Temples were burning,
Mosques were burning,
Mothers were crying,
Children were running in fear.
And Gandhi asked,
“Is this my India?
Is this the freedom I dreamt of?”
He walked on —
Through the mud of Noakhali,
Through the flames of Calcutta,
Through Delhi’s blood-stained lanes.
He neither slept nor rested,
He healed with silence,
He prayed for those
Who had forgotten prayer itself.
“I am a Hindu,” he said,
“And also a Muslim.
I am a Sikh, a Christian —
I am India.”
“Do not divide me,” he pleaded,
“Do not tear my soul apart.”
But no one listened —
Politics had deafened every ear,
Power had blinded every heart.
The leaders gathered in Delhi,
Drawing lines across maps,
While Gandhi sat in a hut,
Drawing tears across his eyes.
They said,
“Bapu, the nation must be divided,”
And his heart shuddered.
He whispered —
“If you must divide India,
Then divide my body too,
For my soul cannot be split.”
But history had stopped listening.
Then came 15th August,
Freedom’s dawn —
But Gandhi remained silent.
No celebration,
No song,
Only a lamp —
Burning for those who were gone.
He said softly —
“Today India is free,
But she is bleeding.
The mother smiles,
Yet her arms are cut apart.”
Partition trains rolled across the plains,
Carrying corpses, not passengers,
Carrying ashes, not dreams.
In one compartment lay Karachi,
In another Lahore,
In some — the memories of Ayodhya,
In others — the dust of Multan.
Every station became a graveyard,
Every platform — a wound.
Faith had turned into fire,
And humanity was its victim.
Still, Gandhi prayed —
“No religion is built on hate,
Love alone is God.”
But love that day was defeated,
Hatred wore the crown,
And politics buried the truth.
In the halls of Congress — there was laughter,
In the League — there was triumph,
But in Gandhi’s hut —
There was silence.
He fasted —
Not to punish others,
But to purify the nation’s soul.
He said —
“If India must survive,
She must extinguish
The fire within her heart.”
Then came January —
A cold morning in Delhi,
As he walked to prayer,
Three bullets tore the air.
“Hey Ram!” —
His final breath,
And with it fell
The conscience of a nation.
But Gandhi did not die.
He lives every time
Someone stands against division,
Every time someone says —
“I am not Hindu or Muslim,
I am human.”
He still walks —
In the sound of temple bells,
In the echo of the azaan,
In the smile of a child
Who knows no religion.
He still whispers —
“Do not divide the land,
Spread love instead.”
Walk once to Rajghat,
Bow your head in silence,
You will hear the wind murmuring —
“Forgive us, Bapu,
We are still dividing
The same soil,
The same hearts.”
Gandhi is no longer history,
He is a question.
He is a warning.
Did we learn anything from him?
Have we truly healed?
Or do the wounds still bleed
In new names, new forms?
His staff still lies,
But few hands rise to lift it.
His prayer still echoes —
“Truth is God,
And God is love.”
He was Gandhi —
Who sought to unite a nation,
But the nation broke itself apart.
Yet even in that brokenness,
His spirit whispers —
“India is unfinished still,
Until every heart learns unity,
My soul shall not rest.”
♥️♥️
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