Dissent and Moral Liberty. John Stuart Mill and MK Gandhi.

John Stuart Mill, On Liberty


“Please keep at a distance, do not touch me.” — Hindu Dharma for the untouchables in Hindu society. Renamed Harijan, Man of God. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.


Traveller wipe the tears from your eyes. Translation from Bengali of Poet Nazrul Islam.


Traveller wipe the tears from your eyes and turn back. Your flowers blossomed within themselves. Traveller, companion wipe your eyes let us go back. O crazy one what misfortune has befallen that you want to build your home on this flood? Yet the thirst for what is here is never quenched hold as you do on to the trivial. Friend wipe your eyes. In the rain when the seasonal flowers did not bloom, do you think that they will bloom now? In this country only wrongdoing occurs, filling ears with hopelessness.  O poet how many occasions will you bring to the festival in order to light the spark of your life? Your gardener never came leaving you abandoned. Traveller, wipe the tears of your face and turn away now.

Gul Bagicha, In the deceptive garden, gul also means a story. Feroza Begum, vocalist of Bangladesh. Poetry of Kazi Nazrul Islam.

Gulabāgichār bulbuli āmi rogin prēmēr gā’i gazal hai. Onurāgēr lāl śhārāb mōr chokhe chole jholomol (hāẏe).Āmār gānēr modir chōẏāẏ gōlāp kurir ghum ṭuṭē jāẏ,shae gān śhunē prēm dī’vānā kobir āan̐khi cholochol (hāẏ)lāl śhirājer gēlāsh hathē thannī shākī poṛē ḍhulē,āmār gānēr miṭhā pānir lohor bohē nohor phūlē. Phuṭē oṭhē ānārkoli nāchē bhromor roṅg pāgol (hāẏ)

I am that bird of gardens who sings of a young love. A dazzling love which is reflected in the poet’s wine filled eyes. Listening to the music, flower buds awakened. And hearing it the poet’s eyes brightened. Taking his goblet his friends have gathered; their sweetness bathing waters where the lotus blooms. Again the young buds danced like a bee, crazy as the season in which they were born.

Human butchery is the residence of evil.

The law NOT. Behind bars.

The law NOT.

Murder as reform. The butchery during Partition between hindus and muslims.

Partition as government.







Dr. Mengele



From the Acts of the Apostles. Conversion of Saul, St. Paul. The Holy Bible.


The Acts of the Apostles often referred to simply as Acts, is the fifth book of the New Testament; it tells of the founding of the Christian church and the spread of its message to the Roman empire.  Acts of the Apostles discusses Paul’s conversion experience at three different points in the text, in far more detail than in the accounts in Paul’s letters. The book of Acts records that Paul was on his way from Jerusalem for Syrian Damascus to arrest followers of Jesus, with the intention of returning them to Jerusalem as prisoners for questioning and possible execution. The journey is interrupted when Paul sees a blinding light, and communicates directly with a divine voice. Acts tells the story of Paul’s conversion as a third-person narrative: As he neared Damascus on his journey, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice say to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” “Who are you, Lord?” Saul asked. “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting,” he replied. “Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told what you must do.”  The men traveling with Saul stood there speechless; they heard the sound but did not see anyone. Saul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing. So they led him by the hand into Damascus. For three days he was blind, and did not eat or drink anything.

Bible Verses About Evil Doers.


No hay olvido. There is no forgetting. Pablo Neruda.

There’s no forgetting,  If you should ask me where I’ve been all this time. I have to say ‘Things happen.’

I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth, the river’s duration, destroying itself; I know nothing paves things the birds have lost, the sea I left behind, or my desolate sister. Why this abundance of places? Why does day follow day? Why must the blackness gather in our mouths? And why the dead? Should you ask me where I come from, I must talk, with broken things, with great beasts turned to dust as often as not and my own inconsolable heart. These are not memories that have passed each other nor the yellowing pigeon asleep in our forgetting; these are tearful faces, and fingers down our throats and whatever among leaves falls to the ground: the dark of a day gone by on our grieving blood.  Here are violets, and here swallows, all things we love and which inform sweet messages through which time passes and sweetness passes. We don’t get far, though, beyond these barriers: Why waste time on the husk of silence? I know not what to answer: there are so many dead, and the red sun breached, and so many heads knocking on the ship’s hulls and so many hands that have closed over kisses and legion the things that I want to give away for ever.  Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado debo decir “Sucede”. Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras, del río que durando se destruye: no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden, el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando. Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos?  Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado debo decir “Sucede”. Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras, del río que durando se destruye: no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden, el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando. Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos? Sí me preguntáis de dónde vengo, tengo que conversar con cosas rotas, con utensilios demasiado amargos, con grandes bestias a menudo podridas y con mi acongojado corazón. No son recuerdos los que se han cruzado ni es la paloma amarillenta que duerme en el olvido, sino caras con lágrimas, dedos en la garganta, y lo que se desploma de las hojas: la oscuridad de un día transcurrido, de un día alimentado con nuestra triste sangre. He aquí violetas, golondrinas, todo cuanto nos gusta y aparece en las dulces tarjetas de larga cola por donde se pasean el tiempo y la dulzura. Pero no penetremos más allá de esos dientes, no mordamos las cáscaras que el silencio acumula, porque no sé qué contestar: hay tantos muertos, y tantos malecones que el sol rojo partía y tantas cabezas que golpean los buques, y tantas manos que han encerrado besos, y tantas cosas que quiero olvidar.


Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Akh layi me jadon tere naam akh lawa akh na laage.

Akh layi me jadon tere naam akh lawa akh na laage….

The Reign of Terror. French Revolution, circa 1800 AD.

French Revolution   Aristocrats’ heads on spikes, (pikes.)


MK Gandhi: There is no greater God than Truth. Thus, no greater nobility than truth.