A man once said, “We must be the change we wish to see”. He was a man of wisdom, of courage, of energy and fire. He was selfless. He believed in the power of truth and non-violence.

But he was a man. He was not perfect, and he knew it. This gave him humility and the ability to look at his mistakes without flinching. To millions of people, he was god.

This man left behind all that was dear to him one day, setting off on a new journey. He reached his destination, and was happy and contented for some time. After a few years, he grew morose and longed to see the dear things he had left behind.  So, he set off towards his land.

After the tiring journey, he wiped his brow, and strained his eyes, looking for signs of his old home. He knew that many years had passed, but he still searched for the familiar sights and sounds that would tell him, that he was home. He wandered unseen in the strange land.

He saw his people all around him, but he could not recognize them any more. Everything had changed. The familiar streets and quaint buildings and shops had been replaced by monstrous constructions. He looked at his people, to see if they were happy. They all smiled and laughed, but when he looked inside them, their souls were cold and grey.

 He saw the same people living in their familiar old huts, looking, if possible, shabbier than ever. He saw the poor sleeping on footpaths, and getting run over by cars. He saw children dying of hunger, and their parents committing suicide. He saw farmers struggling to feed their families and people struggling to find jobs. He saw familiar things, but was hardly comforted.

He was curious at the strange fate - the rich and poor, both unhappy. He wondered, if anyone still remembered him. He went to big cities and saw shirts and pants with his face on them, with price tags that left him staggering.

He went out into the streets and saw people burning buses, fasting and staging protests in his name. They were loudly singing his laurels and quietly taking bribes.

Tears sprang into his eyes and his heart wrung at the injustice of it all. Where were the real people – the people whom he loved and fought for? Where was his homeland, of which he had dreamt of so fondly? He was not forgotten, but all his values, his ideals and advice had been twisted and turned and mocked, until he saw them being used for evil. He turned away and fled, aghast.

He reached his home, and wept. Wept for his people, his land and his forgotten dreams. He lifted his downcast face to look at his friends, who had journeyed with him. Mohandas’ friends held his old, frail hands and comforted him.