Theft at Gandhi's Grave

“Holy day or just a holiday?” I took pride in this poor attempt at cynical pun. Today was a holiday but still I wasn’t happy when I woke up, reason being my father had told me that we would be going to Raj Ghat to see Gandhi’s tomb and pay our respects to him. I wasn’t interested; my mom even resented the idea. 

It was hot but not far. We reached Raj Ghat in less than half an hour. The place wasn’t as crowded as I expected it to be. Not shockingly, Anna Hazare was also present, there was a small contingent of about 50 people around him, then there were tourists; local and foreign, a hoard of school children in Blue and white, and who could miss the loud and happy tamilians. 

The tomb was beautifully flower decorated for the occasion. I could say it was special because there was more than just the Genda Phool that you find everywhere in Delhi. People stood by the tomb, near the flowers, behind the torch and posed at a thousand more places in the 15 X 15 space. Momdad went ahead close to the tomb to offer the fist full of Genda Phool that they had bought at the gate for 10 rupees. I decided to stand this one out, I stood leaning to the parapet wall surrounding the tomb and looked at the crowd. Some offered flowers, some bowed their head and some just wanted to click more and more photos.

Just a couple minutes later I saw my parents panic stricken faces. My mom’s purse had been stolen. A girl had put her hand into my mom’s handbag and had stolen the purse while in the crowd paying respects. We were aghast. Spoke to the security nearby, and looked for the purse hoping to find it fallen nearby, but it was stolen, deliberately and consciously stolen.

I was angry, at mother for being careless, at father for thinking up this useless plan and at myself for not bothering to stick with my mother in a crowd. Then I was angry at the thief, she had stolen right in front of Mahatma Gandhi’s tomb! Such irony!!

It reminded me of a line said by an 18^th century poet, he says “No man can be patriot on an empty stomach” Ofcourse he died 69 years before Gandhi was born. But there was only 1 Gandhi(and there were many other great patriots in history who almost fasted to their death), but the saying holds good for the thief, she was just trying to make a living, steal in front of Gandhi’s grave or from a pretty dame, it was just an attempt to feed herself. 

We spent the whole journey back thinking of what was lost and talking about how we could’ve prevented it and how people have lost their conscience. Stealing in front of Bapu! 6 hours after the incident I was still thinking, not about our loss, but the Gandhi connection. How these values of truth and justice and honesty and everything has turned out to remain just a sound of humbug! I thought about the Irony again and again, Theft right in front of Gandhi’s grave, how ironic how ironic... I said that aloud once.. then silently again. Then it struck me.. this wasn’t ironic, it was symbolic. Theft at Gandhi’s grave.

Nine Over Mine

The breezy Wednesday morning had more to offer than just blowing air and ice cold water in the tap. The first smiles of the morning were delivered when I saw my nine year old cousin’s name in my inbox. There was a mail from my aunt, who wished to share her son’s first article in the papers with me. 

My cousin Sanath is a 9 year old school going child who likes playing Cricket and is a huge fan of Rajini Kanth. He loves Tamil movies and songs, and off late has found a liking for the Kannada movies of Puneet Raj Kumar. 

Being born in a family of teachers and administrators, Sanath is insistent on solving problems.

HOW I COPE

I worry that my teacher will shout at me if I do not take the books correctly. Therefore, I have made it a habit to check twice that I have kept the books correctly as per the time table.

When I get very angry or irritated, I follow my grandmother’s advice to drink two glasses of water. I also try to figure out if I am hungry and if this is true, I eat something. Many times, I feel my anger goes away along with my hunger.

Sometimes, I feel stressed before the final exams and at such times, I pray and this helps me to calm down. 

Whenever anything happens that makes me feel very bad, I talk to someone – my mother, father or grandmothers, about it depending on who is there at that time. Also, I try to keep in mind what my mother always tells me when I get upset about something: “For everything, there is always a solution. All you have to do is remember this and think calmly.”

~ Sanath

The write talks about coping with problems from a 9 year old’s point of view, but it makes sense to all. The point Sanath makes in his write is to seek help.

If only our pride grew shorter with age…

Fight For Who?

As I picked up the old book again, the words 

“he didn’t want nothing for himself” 

grew over me. Bound by its echoing cries I took a closer look, close enough to smell its age. April ’80 was written at the bottom of the first page. A few faded words making a sentence could be made out just above the date. 

It read:

"Do you think you can fight for others?

Usha Ratna"

The person who had gifted this book to my aunt over 30 years ago had  mockingly laid in a stiff punch.

I had missed this line when I first started reading the book. Maybe it was the eagerness of starting my first Steinbeck or the poise of being allowed to try a communist book or simply getting a book from my aunt, I just missed it. 

But it came back with all guns blazing.

I was lost for words, emptied of thoughts, and devoid of feelings. I was lost. 

Thirty years after the book had first traded hands, it spoke to me. 

“Do you have what it takes to fight for others?”

I don’t know. 

Maybe I do. Maybe it’s easier to fight for others. If you are fighting against being selfish and looking for ways to be selfless. Fighting against bonds, trying hard to stay detached, free, and bigger than yourself. Looking for some kind of meaning, a place, your place; without losing your balance or the touch of reality. Then maybe we should take to fighting others’ battles. 

Or do we even care?