India, Nov. 24 -- Thou dost the air of December, O Babasaheb, Tremble with thy memory. Out of each city, each village, each slum and dumb avenue, like waves upon Chaitya Bhoomi stand millions- Their tracks are supplications, their tears, the blood of thanks.

They are not shadows, but the morn you made of them. They are the carriers of the injuries of the past. With your breath, their backs straightened. Their broken voices thunder now thy name.

O Ambedkar-fire of the forsaken, you were born in a darkness of dead, loveless, lightless years. But your pen, dipped in agony, wrote again the destiny of the condemned. You made of our scars scripture, and silence in us to the constitution of a new humanity.

Our mothers put their laughter in a ...