Maharajahs and Mahatmas

When I was a little girl of 6, I had an experience that changed my life forever.
For Spring Break , my family and I travelled to India. Having lived an essentially sheltered and privileged life, what I saw transformed me forever. While we were in Bombay, during the days, my parents went shopping for antiques, leaving my sister and I to play in the pool, to be served Club sandwiches and Shirley Temples on silver plates by uniformed waiters at the Taj Mahal Hotel. (Where Pitt and Jolie have also stayed.) In the evening, however, my parents would take us out for dinner. We would walk to a favourite restaurant, where the kind owners washed the tandoori chicken several times before they served us, so as not to offend our delicate palates. Sometimes they would have to bring 8 or 9 dishes before something appealed to my little sister. This is the memory that my parents often repeat when they recall those days. On the other hand, what sticks out the most for me was the incredible poverty in the midst of the incredible beauty. In Bombay, the homeless people took over the sidewalks after 6 pm forcing pedestrians onto the street. My parents would complain of the inconvenience. I just starred in disbelief… Why weren’t they home? Was it too hot for them? Were they on vacation too? Was the hotel too full? But the hardest part for me were the lepers who escaped from the leper colonies begging for money. Or rather one in particular, who rolled on the ground, no hands, no feet, deformed and disfigured, with his bowl held with his teeth. How could one eat?
This was just the backdrop…
One day, we went on a tour. We visited a grave of black limestone. Simple, yet so powerful. It was the grave of a man called Mahatma Gandhi. “Great! Another dead person with a strange name!” I sighed. But I was also in awe of the reverence with which our guide spoke of this funny looking skinny man in a loincloth. Then we went on a tour of his house. Inside, in glass cases, dolls re-enacted scenes from his life. And his death.
Something happened to me that day. My life changed forever. I knew of the suffering and martyrdom of Manifestations of God. But somehow, because they were prophets from God, they seemed far removed from me. But here was a mortal, a man, like you and me, who died because of his ideals. Even we could die for our ideals. I can still see the final photograph on the wall… his shattered glasses lying on the grass.
I begged my father for a photograph of Gandhi. He always humoured my whims and fancies. It made for a cute story to tell their friends.
Finally we returned home, after spending our last week in a Maharaja’s palace. And I remember this as though it was yesterday. I, the messy artist girl that I was, cleaned up my half of the room. I collected my toys and placed them in the closet. I decided that my childhood was officially over. There was suffering in the world, there was work to be done. I made a frame for Gandhi’s picture and placed it on my dresser, in the place of honour, where hours before lay my Holly Hobbie doll. I swore to his picture that things would be different. That I would work hard from then on…
Years later, the blind author for who I worked as a manuscript reader gave me a nickname… Mahatma… And I smiled remembering those days.

There is so much work to be done…