Gandhi is an issue nobody genuinely cares about anymore. His sainthood survives as ceremonial relic, a mausoleum of contradictions: grand to look at, endlessly invoked, but hollow at its core. Easier to venerate a hollow saint than to admit he stalled revolutions, shielded elites, and counseled resignation to the wretched. His relevance has evaporated; only the incense smoke of myth remains. Gandhi’s double tragedy not only his assassination, but the sterile afterlife of his legend. His name is embalmed in textbooks, stamped on currency, parroted in political speeches—yet drained of vitality.