Mrs. Gandhi

There he is,
giving attention to everyone else but his wife, that jerk.
There he marches,
Four hundred kilometers,
Twenty four days,
With a battalion--
All for the sake of some salt.

There he walks,
Side by side with seventy eight people and more--
Not with his one and only,
His one and only wife.

For a handful of salt,
Which lead to an impetus of independence,
and joy to many Indians,
A sickly Ba,
was left with feelings of loneliness, isolation, and rejection.

The clothing he wears--
Simple yet clean;
The humble kapada
hanging from his torso
he’d asked for me to collect.
A bloody cow on the side of the street,
Was treated with more care
than he’d ever given me.
Praised more than his own wife.

A hungry lonesome child,
Was fed with the wheat bread
I was requested to make.
The chicken broth I made for him,
He gave to another.

There he is,
On the tv screen!
His face all over the place,
All for the farcical things that he’s done.

Though no one bat an eye
For the struggling Ba
who also fought for their rights
Amidst the fight against Bronchitis.

The struggling Ba,
who also served as the great Gandhi’s wife,
Not a single eye nor camera
Heeded towards her direction.
The great Gandhi,
A man for others,
But never for his woman.
Eighteen years passed--
Three steps,
Three booms,
Three seconds--
Til his white kapada turned red--

And thirty four years before the great Kasturba was finally known.