The Last Prayer
The Last Prayer
The sun was setting gently,
its golden rays falling like blessings upon Delhi.
Evening birds flew low,
as if to whisper a hymn to the earth.
Bapu walked slowly,
between the ashram paths,
his stick touching the dust softly,
his feet bare, his smile calm.
Around him, the air was quiet,
filled only with the scent of peace.
He carried no burden —
only the weight of love for all.
The crowd waited for prayer,
hands folded, eyes wet.
Children ran beside him,
chanting softly, “Bapu… Bapu…”
He smiled — that same smile,
the one that forgave the world.
His shawl fluttered in the evening breeze,
like truth itself moving gently through time.
Every leaf seemed still,
as if listening to his heart.
Every breath of wind
carried his unspoken prayer.
He was frail, yet luminous,
his steps steady as faith.
It was not an old man walking —
it was the conscience of a nation.
And then —
a sound, sharp and sudden.
Three bullets tore through peace,
through prayer, through history.
His hands folded,
his lips whispered softly — “Hey Ram.”
The words rose like incense,
and the sky bowed in silence.
The earth trembled,
not from fear, but from grief.
The flowers on the path
seemed to wilt in mourning.
The crowd froze —
some screamed, some prayed.
Time stopped its breath.
Even the evening forgot to fade.
They carried his body,
wrapped in the tricolor —
the flag he had loved,
now weeping with its colors.
From every hut and palace
came tears and hymns.
The Ganga flowed slower that night,
as if carrying his spirit home.
No king, no soldier,
no conqueror ever received such love.
Only the one who conquered hate
with forgiveness could.
The pyre was lit —
flames rising like faith renewed.
The air smelled of sandal and sorrow,
the fire burned like devotion.
People did not see a body burn;
they saw truth ascending.
They did not hear silence;
they heard eternity begin to speak.
“Ram Ram,” the nation cried,
and his voice echoed in every heart.
From ashes, a promise arose —
we shall not forget.
But time has a way of fading memory,
and we, lost in noise,
forget the calm that built us.
Yet somewhere, his prayer still floats.
When injustice rises,
his name is whispered again.
When anger consumes,
his words return like rain.
O Bapu, your death was not defeat,
it was your final teaching.
You showed that love does not die —
it becomes light.
The prayer you left unfinished
still continues in every dawn,
in every heart that dares
to live without hate.
Your blood became scripture,
your silence became song.
Even in death,
you taught us how to live.
Hey Ram — your final breath —
became a nation’s eternal chant.
Your body turned to ash,
but your spirit became air.
O saint of the spinning wheel,
O light of the humble soul,
you showed that truth can die,
and yet never perish.
Your last prayer still burns
on every altar of peace,
on every lip that forgives,
on every heart that hopes.
The sun that set that evening
still shines in your name.
The nation that wept that night
still walks in your light.
And as long as one heart believes in peace,
as long as one voice speaks for truth,
your prayer shall never end,
O Bapu — beloved of God, beloved of man.
♥️♥️
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