“Birla House Going? Very near to station. I take only 15 minutes and drop you.”, the auto driver replied in what he assumed to be chaste English. Won over by his sincere effort to impress me, I smiled and got in. An hour and a hundred bucks later the edifice loomed before me. I felt angry for I had been blatantly cheated but I was helpless for I was in Delhi. I was lucky the guy had not demanded an extra hundred rupees. A guard was sleeping with his cap down over his eyes. I did not blame him for it was a hot day. Everything around me was somnolent. I went in with a sigh.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings around me, I felt a tinge of sadness. Here lay a treasure trove of Mahatma Gandhi’s memorabilia yet not a single soul was around. Except for one old man who stood in the far corner gazing at a charkha. He was short and leaned a little as if to take support of an imaginary stick. Something about him seemed familiar. I shook my head and approached him. “Did he really do all the spinning by himself?” I asked the old man. His brilliant eyes twinkled behind the spectacles as he replied, “Oh yes. Gandhiji believed in the fruits of hard work and the dignity of labour. Quite unlike today’s youth who demand things instantly.”
I was stung by his reply. “Oh yeah! Wasn’t he the one who took nearly 40 years to win us our freedom?”, I retorted. The old man replied in a calm voice, “Gandhiji helped us gain independence in a manner that has inspired many others. His principles of struggle based on truth and non-violence showed the world that war is not the only solution.” My eyes fell on a photograph of Gandhi with Jinnah. Egged on by a thought I said, “So how do you explain Pakistan? Gandhi just gifted it away to Jinnah”. The old man’s shoulders drooped and his wrinkled face became clouded. He replied in a sad voice, “Son, Gandhiji always stood for an undivided India and abhorred the idea of fundamentalism. However for once in his life he was defeated by the divisive forces of hate and power.”
I felt sorry for the old man but I could not resist and asked him, “Let’s face it. His values are of no use today. Everyone indulges in making the maximum profit by trampling over others. Who cares whether farmers commit suicide or tribal villages are burnt to the ground? All that remains of Gandhi is a portrait on our currency and a national holiday. ” The old man chuckled and replied, “You completely missed the point. It is only when voices of hate and communalism rend the air does Gandhiji’s voice of love and unity seem to be the only sane one. When corruption has become so rampant that we accept it as part of our daily lives, Gandhiji’s values of truth and justice shine through. Remember son, a Gandhi resides within all of us. It is upto you to heed that voice of satyagraha and ahimsa.”
My eyes were drawn towards another photograph. Gandhiji’s body was shrouded in white and surrounded by sea of people. How could one man inspire a nation to such great heights? How could his values still remain relevant even today? And then it struck me. How could I miss those sparkling eyes behind the full moon spectacles? I wheeled around but the old man had disappeared. I ran towards the exit. The guard was still sleeping. I shook him awake and asked him, “Did you see an old man?” He replied, “Sahib, you are the first visitor in two weeks. The heat is making you see things. Thanks a lot for disturbing my sleep.” I thanked him for his help and could not resist smiling at his bemused expression. I walked away. It was my first step on the path of satyagraha and ahimsa.
Inspired by a short story written by Ruskin Bond
