He follows Gandhi the way
a parrot follows scripture—
reciting ahimsa at dawn,
preaching simplicity before breakfast.
His khadi is freshly pressed,
his conscience permanently starched.
He fasts on slogans,
feeds daily on applause.
To hear him speak,
violence itself would blush.
He beats the world with gentleness,
clubs dissent with peace.
Once, I carried a file into his truth.
It was a gated truth,
guarded by marble steps and shiny SUVs
parked like obedient elephants.
Inside, austerity lounged on leather sofas.
Renunciation hummed inside air-conditioners.
The dining table hosted a silent massacre—
lambs, chickens, fish
lined up like fallen arguments.
He carved meat with moral precision:
If I eat what I kill, he said,
sin dies before the animal.
Ahimsa, apparently, fears no gravy.
Wealth, he explained, was divine insistence—
God kept sending,
and he, being humble,
could not refuse delivery.
His clothes preached poverty,
but his photographs betrayed prosperity—
brands peeking out
like guilty thoughts beneath prayer.
I left him to his spotless virtue,
wondering how a saint
could live so comfortably
inside a lie,
and how easily a great man’s name
can be recycled,
polished,
and sold as ethical décor.
