New Delhi, Jan. 30 -- On this day, January 30, 1983, I was eleven years old--small in stature but swelling with song, standing among a sea of voices at Birla House. The air still carried the weight of his final breath, his sacrifice, his truth. We sang his beloved bhajans, words woven with devotion, melodies steeped in the soil of struggle. Among them, Jodi Tor Dak Shune Keu Na Ase Tobe Ekla Cholo Re. If no one comes when you call, walk alone.

That evening, the voices of young and old alike rose to the winter sky of Delhi, carrying his spirit, his conviction, his faith. But as our song faded, another voice seemed to hum through the stillness--the voice of the Mahatma himself. A voice that reminded us to rise above fear and division, to w...