From as long as I can remember, I have always been an indulgent person. Whether it be enjoying delicious delicacies, watching all time classic movies, or any other form of recreation, I go to great pains, and look after specific details, in order to enjoy the most from these experiences.
So, when I realised that the summer of 2011 was going to be the final vacation of my life, my brain went into overdrive planning what all I intended to do, before the ‘end of the days’ as it were. Detailed lists were made into the number and variety of snacks that are pleasing to my insatiable tongue, and the days available for me to devour them, taking special care that favourites like khaman and patra are repeated on multiple occasions. In fact, I think now, that had I started preparing on these arrangements a bit earlier, I would have easily mastered the subject of Industrial Management Techniques, which ended up giving me quite a hard time in my final semester.
When it came to recreation, I had a fairly extensive list of bestseller books that I had been dying to read, but couldn’t do so on account of the busy schedule during college. The first book on the list was ‘The Lost Symbol’ by Dan Brown, which I had been meaning to read for quite some time. Thus, on an occasional visit to the railway station recently, I enquired about that book at the Wheeler’s book shop. It cost Rs. 700. Now, those of you who know me well enough will readily attest to the fact that I am an extremely miserly person. It is simply not in my nature to spend money freely. So, this sudden condition severely dented my well thought-out plans of enjoying fiction during these holidays. Just as I was about to leave the shop, my gaze fell on Gandhi’s autobiography.
Now, there are certain moments in life when one acts in ways that one cannot explain at a later time. Until then, I was not particularly interested in the life of Gandhi. Though I respected the man for popularising the idea of non-violence, and pioneering such a struggle to that effect, I had always frowned upon his views on practically all other subjects.
Maybe I was attracted by the Rs. 30 tag on the book, or by the mysterious personality of the man himself, but I have been engrossed in this book for quite some time now.
There is a certain sense of romanticism in reading a person’s description of their own life. I imagined, would the Mahatma have known the minute way in which his words would be contemplated by the future generations, the same words that must have flown out of him in a fit of ruthless honesty. From what I have read, the man seems to have tremendous insight into his own self. He is objective in the analysis of his life, to the point of sounding monotonous over events in his life and pertaining to his family, which must have had great sentimental value, to have been etched in his mind since his childhood.
In addition, I find Gandhi extremely honest and truthful; such an honest assessment as well as narrative of one’s life can only come from being at peace with one’s own expectations and those of the rest of the world or perhaps an utter disregard for what the others might think. I have hardly read a hundred pages of the book, and I already feel inspired by the brute honesty the man has displayed, when he could have as easily written a self-righteous tale of a saint using prudish, complex and vague words.
In his many flaws, and the ways in which he overcomes them, Gandhi has made himself not into the ultimate standard of morality but a beacon of hope for desirable change in each one of us.
So, what was intended as an entertaining summer replete with Robert Langdon running the length of some country’s museums and historical buildings, chased by a variety of intelligence agencies seeking some treasure or hidden truth, turned into a period of enlightenment and self-reckoning for me. Must say, that’s the best 30 rupees I ever spent or perhaps the best 700 rupees I didn’t.
