Reflections of an Extraordinary Era

Sambhu’s wife, Santvana, eighty-five years old and alive today, is a living representation of traditional Bengal. She is my Bodo Ma (or elder Ma) and is a paragon of Bengali simplicity and sophistication, attired almost always in simple white saris. She is herself a Bhattacharjee from Bhatpara and is one of nine siblings. To the best of my knowledge, she has not been outside Bengal very often, and has left Bhatpara only a few times in her life to go to Calcutta, or on pilgrimages to sacred sites in India. Today she is a diminutive figure, bent over after decades of sitting on the ground cooking for the family on a coal stove. Her mind is sharp and her voice brilliant as ever. She grasps things fast and is never surprised by world events, technological revolutions or global cultural idiosyncrasies, a trait that can at best be explained by the self-confidence that comes from being truly grounded in her own immediate society, a society which views itself as at the pinnacle of knowledge and teaching. She is above it all and has seen all manners of human interaction and socio-economic change from the window of her Bhatpara kitchen. She is the bearer of tradition and could have been Ma’s greatest detractor, but instead she always showered Ma with love and praise, as she does to this day. This is significant because she, more than any male in the house, has upheld the household rituals around purity; under a lesser woman’s watch, Ma would not have been allowed into the first floor of the house, let alone its kitchen.

The Bhatpara home stands unchanged by time, its yellow Italianate façade the same as I recall from the days I spent there as a child with Ma, Baba and Sukanya. In the hot monsoon months of July and August, we would spend a few weeks in Bhatpara eating Bengali food cooked on charcoal stoves and passing lazy afternoons resting by the tall windows overlooking the family temple. Dinner would not start before 10 p.m. and the evenings would merge into late nights addas with my cousins, aunts, uncles and parents. Things change slowly in Bhatpara; it was only in the mid-1980s that a dining table was introduced into the house, and a fridge arrived a few years after that.

Baba returned from America in the mid-1950s and established a centre for agricultural research at the university of Shantiniketan in West Bengal. From there he went on to distinguish himself as one of the great planners of the Indian socialist system and, together with other notable agricultural economists, as one of the minds behind the Green Revolution. His success in this field led him to a career with the United Nations, which in the mid-1960s took him to the headquarters of the Food and Agricultural Organization at Rome in Italy. This was the era of the Italian ‘miracolo’ and of the late ‘dolce vita’. This is where my sister and I spent our childhood, and during our twenty-year sojourn in that eternal city, Ma was primarily a mother, a wife and a homemaker. It certainly feels today that it was an idyllic childhood, and, unlike many others in the diplomatic communities, we integrated with the local Italian community effortlessly. We learnt the language, cooked the food, toured the country, and cultivated many local friends.

Baba died suddenly in 1986, and Ma, Sukanya and I relocated to Delhi during that summer. While our links with Italy still remain strong today, Ma has gone a step ahead and metamorphozed her relationship with the country from a domestic one to a working one. Given her affinity with the country and her fluency in the language, her life experiences and philosophies have attracted great interest in Italy where she is a frequent panellist and guest of honour at many conferences on peace, science and environment. The combination of Ma’s spiritualism with the flair and creativity of Italian enterprise has produced many beautiful and unique outcomes. You will find an example of this in the photo section of the book where the Italian telecommunication company, Telecom Italia, has used Gandhi’s imagery to heighten the significance of modern means of communication.

The romantic period of our family life in Rome came to an abrupt end with Baba’s passing in 1986, marking a clear watershed into Ma’s next stage in life – the current one. In some senses, this is the most accomplished phase of her life, but it has been characterized by struggle and search. Ma had a break point at the age of fifty and she literally had to reinvent herself after her husband’s death. Her children had left home to build their own careers and destinies, and she found herself completely alone. She was forced to find a new purpose in life. She rediscovered her independent spirit, and that, coupled with a strong resolve, led her to spirituality and social work. In a recent video interview covering the publication of a friend’s book on women’s lives after deep change, Ma said that her loneliness led her to look at life differently, and to consider everyone as her family, to dispel differences amongst people and, instead, be one with all.

When asked about Gandhi and her relationship with him, my mother often says that she is a granddaughter of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, but not a descendant of Mahatma Gandhi. The truth as I see it, however, is that over the past twenty-five years, her ambitions combined with her search for spiritual insight and balance has made Ma lead her life in many ways like him. Not in any ascetic way as one might do by wearing only white and by shunning jewellery. While she wears only the khadi material, she enjoys fashion, bright colours and silver jewellery, and takes pride in her appearance and looks. Nor has she consciously imitated Bapu to achieve spiritual enlightenment.

Instead, the challenges she has faced, coupled with her own character, have led her to gravitate towards many of the qualities that defined Mahatma Gandhi: conviction, perseverance, honesty, truthfulness and leadership. Living these qualities comes with its own share of daily struggles, which she endures by relying mainly on her copious reserves of stubbornness.

Ma has always been a contemporary person, a woman of the times who has enjoyed fashion, music, food and entertainment. Today she lives in her eclectically decorated house, surrounded by her hand-made dolls, supporting staff and their families, her own family and friends while dealing with the vagaries of modern life in Delhi. She does not lead an austere life nor does she impose her way of life on others. She does have a motto in her life – she is doing it ‘her way’ as in the classic Sinatra song. She is unusual and has accomplished the unusual.

She is now searching for her connection with the eternal and spiritual. Just a few months ago, she remarked that she is now struggling to find a motivation in this life. I was profoundly saddened by this comment, but on reflection I realized otherwise. Hinduism believes in unity between creatures and the creator and, that life on earth allows us to experience an existence apart from the universe and the universal spirit. Eventually they come back together and this temporary duality returns to a singularity. The Sanskrit term for this is advaita, which simply means non (a) duality (dvaita). This then gives rise to a beautiful and deeply philosophical definition of love, namely the coming together of the physical and the spiritual in one energy form.

Hindu philosophy postulates that humans may experience some or all of the four stages (ashrams) in their lives on earth: Brahmacharya, Grihastha, Vanaprastha and Sanyas. The first ashram is about learning, avoiding material wealth and ostentation, building physical and mental discipline to prepare for the second ashram. In Grihastha, you seek the pleasures of life. You become a father or mother and are active in family life. You are an active and giving member of society. In the third stage, you seek detachment from physical possessions and greater bonding with a broader community than your immediate family and friends. You have experienced prosperity and family life, and can rightfully claim material possessions, but you do not seek them. Physical detachment from a social and material life is your objective. This process is long and tortuous, and leads to search and introspection. This road leads you eventually to Sanyas, and in this fourth ashram, you finally give up physical possessions and ordinary life. What remains with you is the search for spiritual unity, namely advaita.

While there is a sequence to these stages, it is recognized that they do not necessarily appear for everyone in this logical sequence. Nor is it expected that everyone will experience all the stages. Ma spent a long time in Grihastha as a result of her pampered childhood and married life. Over the past twenty-five years, she has been in Vanaprastha, and has enjoyed being part of a large global family of friends. Most recently – and perhaps this is the reason for her comment that she has no motivation in life, she has entered the detached phase of Vanaprastha. This is a difficult phase. It requires deep introspection and a conscious separation from possessions and social relationships acquired and nourished in Grihastha and early Vanaprastha. While the path ahead is difficult, Ma’s objective is pure, and there is nothing to be sad about that.

Enjoy the book.

Harijan Ashram (#ulink_27903201-33e9-52a2-bf57-ffc647809900)

My first conscious memory is of what is known as Kingsway Camp in north Delhi. Almost seventy-five years ago, situated at one end of Delhi, in the sprawling village centre was an ashram called Harijan Colony. In that ashram we had a lovely, small house. The first few years of my life are strongly imprinted on my consciousness for their simplicity.

Those were extraordinary days marked by a nation’s fight for independence, and my father had to deal with the challenges that journalism offered in such exciting times. Precisely for that reason we left the ashram at Harijan Colony and shifted to the Hindustan Times Apartments in Connaught Circus. I clearly remember our luggage being packed in our small house. It was probably morning. I can still recall the clean smell of freshly laundered clothes – mine and those of my siblings. Our hearts too were filled with freshness. Outside, the sun shone brightly. In just a while we were to leave for our new home. We children were eager to go to our new home, though there was a certain sadness at leaving the familiar surroundings. Despite the eager anticipation of change, my young heart felt apprehensive about losing the simple life of Harijan Colony. Would my childhood be left behind here forever? These thoughts ran through my mind like wildfire.

My childhood and the village environs were left behind, but my earliest recollections are still about the simple village life we had then.

Though we children were excited about the new beginning in the huge flat in Connaught Place, in some corner of our hearts we yearned for the open skies and earthy smell of Harijan Colony.

I ran into the new flat with my brothers, holding a doll in my arms. ‘Ma, where shall I put my doll to sleep?’ I asked mother.

‘Not here. This is the drawing room.’ Ma explained in Hindi but using the English term ‘drawing room’.

I ran to my brothers and told them, ‘You know, there is a big room for drawing here.’

Mother explained to me that a drawing room was indeed the sitting room.

Connaught Place in those days was very different from the Connaught Place of today. In 1940–41, the clear night sky was filled with shining stars. Standing on the terrace of our Hindustan Times Apartments we brothers and sisters would peer down at the road. Before dusk fell, men would climb up the poles on the roadside and light up the street lamps. The lamps probably ran on gas. Seeing those men climb up and down those poles every evening was a big source of entertainment for us. In the summers, men with huge skin bags would sprinkle water on the road. There were very few people. There was a lot less chaos as well. There were no three-wheelers and very few scooters, if at all. Also, there were few buses on the road. Today’s traffic is beyond the farthest margins of our imagination. Tongas and horse carriages were the general mode of conveyance then. The horse carriage today is a reminder of the hassle-free times of a bygone era.

But my childlike mind was also witness to the cruel reality of this mode of conveyance. The sound of the whip being used on horses tied to the carriages carried over to us on the second floor and would disturb and sadden me greatly. I felt a silent pain surge within me. Man’s cruelty to animal and society’s acceptance of this cruelty was my introduction to the harsh reality of life.

The beauty of truth also strongly influences a child’s consciousness. The smell of wet earth, the sight of those lamps lighting up one by one – even after all these years, these memories are vivid in my mind.

I have an unforgettable incident to narrate from that time. Like all little girls, I was also very fond of dolls. Below our flat were the newspaper office and the press. A carpenter used to work there. Father used to praise the carpenter, Nanhe Mian, a lot. One day I went to him with my doll. I almost ordered, ‘Nanhe Mian, please make a swing for my doll.’

‘Sure. I will.’ Saying this, he collected some pieces of wood, and before you knew it, he had put together a beautiful swing. His sincerity and dedication are forever etched on my mind. Today, I see Nanhe Mian as a sculptor carving a statue. For the wish of a young girl, the sculptor put in all his ability, creativity and dedication. It is also possible that through his art Nanhe Mian also tried to express his gratitude towards my father. Children capture all nuances. In the hammering of those pieces of wood, my little heart could hear the carpenter’s inner thoughts. It was like a dream come true when that little swing was ready and I picked it up with both my hands.

‘You won’t get it today, little girl. I will varnish it and give it to you tomorrow,’ Nanhe Mian said, smiling. In his voice, there was the excitement of seeing to completion a job well done. And in those words of the dedicated craftsman was also an advice to be patient.

My love of dolls outlasted my adolescence and youth, and persists even today in old age. My lifelong association with dolls and its stories always begin with the memory of Nanhe Mian. You may wonder how I remember the incidents of my childhood and youth with such clarity. Even my mother used to be amazed at my memory. But this natural power that I have is not extraordinary. Some people talk of their lives at the age of one and two! Some memories of the long gone past, of people, and the ambience of times gone by are still intact in my memory.

A few decades later, I was invited to a programme to felicitate Shri Viyogi Hari-ji in the ashram at Harijan Colony. I stood in front of our old home. Delhi had changed. Even that extension of Delhi was no longer rural. But that old house was just the same as it had been aeons ago when we had lived there. It was as if I had been transported back in time. I was the protagonist as well as the viewer.

I did not go inside. It was somebody else’s house now. I had no desire to find out how many families had made their home there. Those moments of the past, difficult to describe, frozen in time, are clear as crystal. The rural, pollution-free air of that era, the smells of cows, buffaloes, cow dung, wood stoves and raw earth had me in their spell. Then suddenly I remembered that there used to be a jungle in front of the house. I turned around to look, but the forest was no longer there. Then I looked in front of me. The house stood there, the same as before.

All of us children would go off into the jungle to play. Mother would stop us. We never went too far into the forest, but it would scare Mother nevertheless. It was difficult for her to understand the attraction nature has for children – how we longed to play in the lap of nature with full abandon. Once, when we came home after playing, I found Mother waiting for us – nervous, worried and worked up. ‘Listen, don’t go into the jungle to play, and if you hear a man laughing, don’t go investigating.’

‘Whose laughter? Which man?’ I asked.

‘It’s not a man.’ Mother explained. ‘It’s a hyena who laughs like a man. Children get taken in by the sound and go near it. The hyena lures little children and catches them.’

I can never forget how frightening those words were.

We used to come home covered in mud, and had to be cleaned up innumerable times a day. Just changing our clothes and keeping us clean would tire out mother so much. And when Dada and Dadi came to visit us, looking after them and attending to guests who came to meet them, while looking after us, must have been exhausting for Mother. Today I can only imagine how tiring it must have been for her. But the presence of my grandparents brought so much cheer that every day seemed like a festival. Bapu-ji would stay in our house at Harijan Ashram. Sometimes Ba would come and stay there alone, without Bapu-ji. We children would jump for joy on hearing the news of her arrival. There was a heavenly purity in the smell of sandalwood and sunshine that was an integral part of her body and her khadi sari with a coloured border.

Decades later, that day, as I stood before the house, all those memories from the past came flooding back to me. Mother’s voice, Dadi’s perfumed presence, the company of our cousins, Father’s busy life, his head shaking with worry (which did not leave my child’s mind untouched). Gandhi’s independence movement was at its peak. Independence was the unknown factor. Satyagrah was the known factor. Dada, Dadi, Nana, Tau, Kaka, Mama and all their companions were constantly in jail. Father would be jailed on and off for publishing news of the Satyagrah. Amidst all this, Mother and Father remained focused on our upbringing.

In our small house, we did not have a fresh-water tap and we probably didn’t have electricity either. But there was definitely a traditional luxury. Today when I think about it, it seems to be totally feudal in nature in the context of Gandhian philosophy. In one of the rooms, there hung from the roof a khadi curtain, which was one-fifth the height of the walls. On one corner of the curtain was a rope that hung to the ground. On moving the rope up and down, the curtain worked as a fan. As far as I can remember, this comfort had turned into a plaything for us children. I vaguely recollect a young boy, who was employed to help in the house, swaying the curtain-fan. I also vaguely remember that Father thought of it as a necessary evil. Perhaps he had installed the fan for Ba’s comfort; in his desire to serve Ba, he could pull that rope all night. The fan must have been there for Mother’s comfort as well, because mother suffered from illnesses like pneumonia and pleurisy in those years. Today such fans seem to have become a symbol of our cultural heritage, out on display at exhibitions.

Made and run by hand, this useful apparatus was a symbol of our exploitative society – a society for whose upliftment Mahatma Gandhi worked so hard. Anyway, it is true that even sixty-four years after Independence today, we haven’t taken any concrete steps for the rehabilitation of the downtrodden. The cord of the fan has in its various forms tied us down.

I remember Mother working hard all the time. She would take care of all the kitchen chores. If I can’t quite visualize my mother squatting on a low stool in front of a wood stove, it is not because my memory has faded; it must surely be the smoke from the stove that makes the picture hazy.

I once told mother, ‘You would do a lot of work in the Harijan Ashram.’

Mother said, ‘I was young then. I could easily manage the sweeping, mopping, washing the clothes, doing the dishes.’ Her burden would increase because of visitors. ‘I used to get upset only because having guests meant less time for kids,’ she added.

‘But yes,’ Mother reminisced, ‘when I used to fall ill, Bapu-ji would send Ba to look after you children. Ba would never stay away very long from Bapu-ji, but she wouldn’t leave you kids until I recovered completely. Neither did you leave her alone for a minute.’ Recently I found a letter written by Bapu-ji to Mother. In that short note, written in 1935, Bapu-ji tells Mother that if Tara is very ill, Ba is willing to go and look after her.

That day in front of that house, Mother’s words echoed in my thoughts. I always saw Mother being a good hostess in the best Indian tradition. Despite all the responsibilities, she always had time for us.

In the ashram there was a round temple in front of the house. That day my eyes automatically sought out the temple. Its creation is part of my first conscious memory. A painter from Gujarat came to adorn the walls of this temple when it was built. He told my brother Mohan and me very affectionately that he needed our help with the painting. ‘I will draw and paint on the walls from atop a stool or steps. You please hold my colour palette. I can then bend and take the colours I need.’ We were thrilled at the idea. Father was happy too. Mohan and I would stand there helping the painter. We used to call him Bhatt-ji. The entire ashram was excited about the construction of the temple. Bapu-ji was to come for its inauguration. Assisting Bhatt-ji was an extraordinary experience for us. Children feel rewarded when entrusted a responsibility with affection and trust, and that experience becomes a warm memory as they grow up. Children are very intuitive. People’s natural considerations touch them in a way that they never forget.

The temple was complete. I don’t remember the day of the inauguration. Recently I came across an old photograph in which Bapu-ji has a small girl in his lap wrapped up in a sheet and there is another younger child sitting next to him. I think the picture is from the inauguration of the temple.

Leaving behind the rural ambience of the ashram, I naturally took with myself, in my memory, some people and families. Annaro, a village girl who used to help mother in and around the house; Mangal Bhai, the carpenter in the ashram; and a teacher’s family of Indian Tamil origin from Malaysia – none of us can ever forget these people. Annaro had a rustic charm, Mangal Bhai was friendly, and the Malaysian family was rather modern for the times. These loving people were my first introduction to society outside of family, and I believe one’s first experience of the world outside home shapes one’s personality. In my seventh decade today, I understand that these people, my first friends in the world outside home, were extraordinary in their ordinariness.

Even after leaving the ashram, we used to nag our parents to take us back every week to meet these old friends. As soon as we reached the ashram, Mangal Bhai would come running to meet us. He would say, ‘Tara, Mohan, you still come to visit us, but gradually you will stop coming. Don’t forget us.’ Mangal Bhai’s words, along with our own displacement, had a strong effect on our minds. Till many years later, I continued comparing every place to life in the ashram.

So, yes, coming back to the point, I was rooted to the spot in front of our old house in the Harijan Colony, caught in a moment from memory, overcome with old sounds and smells. Standing there I saw Kasturba. I could clearly hear her words: ‘Wash your hands and eat. Oh my God, your clothes are so…’ The dream broke. I was looking at my clothes. They were probably not as clean as Ba would have liked them to be. And yes, I was hungry. And then another reality broke my bubble. From behind me came a voice changing the rhythm of my internal music: ‘Let’s go, Tara. The meeting is about to start.’ There was a meeting in the ashram in memory of the Late Hari-ji.

These days I constantly feel a strange curiosity, a strange excitement. I am searching for the unknown supreme power in the absolute beauty of the known powers of a mother.

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