Mahatma Gandhi was tiny. Bare feet, round glasses, a dhoti that wouldn’t have covered my knees.

But he looked every policeman in the eye, every time. Started off as a shy lawyer who’d stammer on trains, then got thrown off one—boom—suddenly he knew: power wasn’t size, it was silence.

He walked two hundred miles to the sea, picked up salt, and half of India marched behind him.

Not because he yelled; because he didn’t eat while they starved. Not because he fought; because he let them hit him and kept smiling.

Lasted sixty-eight years. he was shot by a Hindu fundamentalist. We lost what India’s greatest organisers and the second before he fell, he still said Oh God—quiet as ever. Funny thing? Every dictator since has tried to be loud