The Spinning Wheel of Truth

The Spinning Wheel of Truth

O Bapu, your wheel still spins,

not of thread alone, but of faith.

Each turn speaks a story

of hunger, hope, and silent strength.

You sat cross-legged in the hut,

the world outside in chaos and pride.

Empires roared, guns thundered,

yet you turned cotton into courage.

That small circle became infinity,

a sun that rose in every hand.

The poor felt rich,

for freedom was spun by their palms.

You taught the nation patience,

to weave its dream, strand by strand.

Each fiber a prayer,

each cloth a vow of equality.

The wheel was not mere motion —

it was meditation.

In its hum lived discipline,

in its pause, peace.

You spun away fear,

you spun away despair.

The thread joined hands and hearts,

uniting palaces and huts alike.

When others shouted of war,

you whispered of spinning.

When the sword flashed bright,

you turned the wheel brighter still.

The British laughed at your frail tool,

but soon it became their undoing.

The sound of charkha grew louder

than the sound of their cannons.

In that humble rhythm

a nation found its pulse.

Women in villages, men in jails,

all sang your silent song.

The loom became a symbol,

the cloth a pledge.

Not just to clothe the body,

but to cover the soul in dignity.

The spinning wheel, O Bapu,

is not an object — it is your spirit.

It spins still in fields and hearts,

even when forgotten by cities.

Each turn reminds us

that greatness grows from simplicity,

that peace can be spun,

if hands are honest and hearts are pure.

You said, “Work is worship,”

and the wheel became your temple.

You prayed with motion,

and the prayer never ceased.

Through that circle of faith,

you drew the line of truth.

Through its threads,

you tied the torn fabric of a nation.

Today we wear clothes,

but forget their meaning.

We chase comfort,

not conscience.

The machine replaced the hand,

the noise drowned your silence.

Yet somewhere,

a grandmother still spins for her peace.

Her wheel creaks softly,

like your whisper in the wind.

She hums “Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram,”

and the world feels gentler again.

O Bapu, if we listen close,

your charkha still speaks.

It says: “Do not live for gain,

live for goodness.”

It says: “Do not rush,

for truth moves slow.”

It says: “Spin your life

with the thread of compassion.”

You are gone,

but your wheel still teaches.

Not in museums or speeches,

but in every honest act.

The spinning wheel of truth —

a circle without end,

a memory without dust,

a lesson without time.

It hums to those who labor,

it sings to those who love.

And in every pure heartbeat,

your charkha turns once more.