A dirty Sheet IV

How beautiful is this concept of a full-stop. The reader never knows how long the gap between a full stop is.The two sentences could have been separated by a year or by mere moments. Yes, it has been time since i wrote last. Life suddenly engulfs you and like a wave takes you far away from the shore and somewhere in the sea it leaves you alone. All alone to swim back against the same wave to the shore. Guess i have reached shore at last. I read these sheets before i start typing them and i believe the mad man had had some education. Where? How? I guess we shall never know. Anyways, you do not care about my stories, so we shall move ahead with the diaries:

"
Gandhi came by yesterday. Sad old man he is now. Killed by his son, for wasn't he the Father of the Nation. The anguish of partition had already obliterated his former belief in humanity, the bullet was just a means to dispose off his human body. I didn't ask him, but he sat down beside me anyways. What was I supposed to tell him? Console him for his nation was not all that bad or question him about his anti-mechanization , anti-Patel tirades? He spoke first, "Times have changed but have the people? How does my nation do now?". I said reassuringly "Baapu (what else was i supposed to call him? Mohandas? Gandhi?), poverty has decreased, this is a stronger nation now. Everything's just fine". For what use was troubling this frail old man with your problems. "Do you remember me?" I was taken aback. Remember me? Ha, i remembered you, you who are imprinted on Rupee notes were in my palms once, but then now i have lost even that touch with you. "They do, baapu. You are remembered everywhere, from parks to streets to our currency notes. They see to it no one forgets you." He wasn't amused, with downcast eyes and a sigh he sat silent now. It was morning already, the rush had begun, the queue for taxi had started forming. This town teeming with people had begun the daily cycle already. "You all question me don't you? They are angry with me. My sons doubt me, my grandchildren mock me. If I was to be derided by future generations, I wish someone had drowned me to have no processions after my death, to have no grave. Do i know not that you think i am a coward, a hapless old fool. I who...". Suddenly he choked on tears that did not shed from his eyes, the emotions exhausted him. The dogs had formed an audience for this sketch. I was at a loss of words, I was supposed to be seated at the station entrance,begging now. "Baapu, they don't mock you Baapu. It's just that they are juvenile yet and haven't realized your reasoning yet. They will understand someday. Be proud that at least they are doing good. For haven't children always thought themselves better than their parents and haven't they always done the opposite of what their fathers asked them to do?" He looked questioningly at me. "What about you?" "What about me?" "Do you hate me?" I sat silent. Did I? Did I hate the guy who wasted his life, his family, himself for this nation of mine? Did i abhor his non-violent victimization of a nation? He kept looking at me with eyes which understood the meaning of the silence. A tremor passed through my body, had i betrayed him? Should i question him? And he was gone. Like the memories of childhood he had faded away. The distinct un-easiness remained with me through out the day. The collection in the begging bowl was good today, maybe because of the pain reflected in my eyes reminiscing his words. But then these are changed times and you all have changed. Have you? "