In Memory of A Revolutionary

I

I saw Him first when I was five.
I remember a calm, bearded face.
He often visited with my uncle,
and told me stories-
wearied peasants and their feudal lord,
American 'agent orange' in Vietnam,
Russian 'proletariat utopia' propaganda.
Marx, Lenin and Trotsky;
freedom is the prerogative of plutocrats etc.

II

I cried when cops kicked open the front door.
He escaped through the back;
hastily left food on the dinning table.
They asked my mom about Him and others,
and about the left-over food.
Frustrated, they took my dad to the prison.
I heard he never opened his mouth
though there was sign of torture all over him.
Such was the passion.

III

I missed His beautiful stories.
Everything was story for me then;
reality was an absurd abstract.
My uncle told me that He left for the jungle.
Armed revolt was the last refuge.

Growing up, I saw new people,
they were from the jungle but never told stories.
They brought us a manifesto and demanded money.
I asked them about Him.
They said that He was their comrade.

IV

He came back once on a Christmas night.
My mom woke me up.
He hugged me strong.
He was fighting for the freedom-
revolting against the authority.
Last thing I learnt was my parents' tears
over His bullet ridden body.

V

I cried then and I do cry now.
I never knew
if He was a hero, a saint or an evil.
But I know I sat on His lap
and listened to the stories of
humans, cruelty and humanity.