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Poem

She rises, she rises like the sun that knows no shame,
this woman-teacher-poet-mother-flame,
her soul vast as the sky that holds all storms
yet gentle as the dewdrop kissing the earth at dawn.


O Universe, behold your daughter who has learned
the sacred secret whispered by the wind,
that worth is not a treasure buried deep
but seed-song scattered wide like prayers across the hungry soil of sleeping hearts.

For thirty-five years, she has danced this divine dance,
her feet steady as mountains, swift as rivers,
Her hands, like mother birds preparing nests, 
for 131,000 dreams to take their flight toward horizons bright with possibility.

They spoke their "no's" like thunder without rain,
but she said ‘oh’, she became the monsoon miracle,
teaching girls to read is like learning to breathe,
writing policies like love letters to generations yet unborn.

Her kitchen table glows like a temple altar 
where the sacred and the daily merge,
stirring soup and stirring revolution
with the same blessed hands, like prayer and practice.

She rises, she rises, phenomenal woman,
her self-esteem flowing deep as Ganga's grace,
not hoarded like misers count their gold
but poured like oil upon the lamps of those who thought their light had died.

The eternal sings through her: I am not what I grasp
but what I give, not what I hold
but what I release like is, birds in the morning
to fill the sky with songs of freedom.

Like the underground river feeding the surface springs, 
never asking why?

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