________________ I took a picture of the machan, feeling nauseous as I did so, wondering how many innocent victims had been murdered in its shadow. A creek now runs alongside the tree, and I wondered if the rains had washed away the memories and the bloodstains into the Kaveri river. As I sat on the rock near the tree, I recorded a piece of Meditation which I subsequently posted on the internet. My mind was drawn back to those innocent days, when a child of one species reached out to the child of another species and said: "This is wrong, and I will have no part in it". I thought about her small face and fragile body and I recalled the words of the Greek poet Horace. "Change only the name and my story is also about you". I don't have a name for this precious child. I wish I had. I like to imagine a happy ending for her. But I am sure she was never reunited with her grieving mother. I am sure she never found peace. The powerless rarely do. But on that moonlit night, over 50 years ago this Christmas, a young boy found something He found his character. That, at least, is something. And for that, I am grateful.
