A Reading Of: Grandfather Gandhi

In this reading of Grandfather Gandhi by Arun Gandhi and Bethany Hegedus and illustrated by Evan Turk, we learn the story of Grandfather Gandhi as told through the eyes of his 12-year-old grandson Arun Gandhi. In this story, Arun becomes angry and he seeks his grandfather's counsel.

Transcript

Hello and welcome to today's Read Aloud.

Today I will be reading Grandfather Gandhi by Arun Gandhi and Bethany Hagedus,

Illustrated by Evan Turk.

The dedication page.

To my grandparents and parents who laid the foundation for me to build my life on.

A.

G.

To Vivek,

Bakshi,

My love,

My light,

And to Paul,

To Niglia at Unity,

New York,

For inviting Arun Gandhi to speak in the aftermath of 9-11.

B.

H.

To my wonderful grandparents,

Papa and Gama,

Papa Vince and Oma Lise,

Nana and Armand,

I love you all.

E.

T.

The first page is a letter from Gandhi to his grandson,

Written December 17,

1945.

Gee,

Arun,

I think of you every day,

But especially during silence.

Do you spin carefully at least 160 rounds daily?

Is the yarn even?

Do you yourself fix the spinning wheel?

Do you keep a daily account?

If you keep this one promise,

You will learn a lot.

Blessings to all of you from Bapu.

We arrived at Sivagram,

Grandfather's service village,

Dusty and dirty.

Father insisted we be taken straight to Grandfather's hut.

Papa G sat serenely on the floor.

I hung back,

Afraid to be in his presence,

But Ella took my hand and we rushed to him.

We went bent to touch his feet,

A sign of respect.

Grandfather gathered us to him in a big hug.

He smelled as peanut oil.

Arun walked the entire way from the wardhouse station,

Father said.

Grandfather stood and smiled his toothless grin.

That walk is a test of character.

I am impressed.

My heart swelled as big as a balloon.

I had made Grandfather proud.

That evening,

I floated to dinner.

The tin bowls and utensils we used clanged,

Making a funny sounding music.

I ate spoonful after spoonful of boiled pumpkin.

It was mushy and bland,

And I didn't like it,

But what I liked less was sharing Grandfather.

Sivagram was filled with people.

Three hundred and fifty followers lived here.

For the rest of the night,

Even as I washed and readied myself for bed,

My dinner sat like a lump in my stomach.

The Gandhi name was much to live up to.

I had passed my first test,

But there would be others.

What if I failed?

Mother ushered Ella and me to bed.

The air was so thick and hot,

We slept under the stars to keep cool.

I tossed and turned,

Wondering what the next day would bring.

Finally,

I fell asleep after even the earth seemed to quiet.

The next day,

Everyone awoke at 4 a.

M.

With the dark of the early morning wrapped around us,

We prayed.

Silence filled the air.

Everyone was still,

But I was fidgety.

The peace of prayer felt far away.

I was glad that when the sky turned the deep orange of a tangerine,

It was time for chores.

Ella headed off with Mother to wash vegetables.

Father went with his team to clean the toilet buckets that needed to be emptied,

Washed,

And put back for use.

My cousin Kanu and I went off to weed the garden,

And Grandfather,

He worked too,

Sweeping the floors of the mud huts.

After chores,

It was time for lessons.

I met Bana Salika,

My tutor.

We had much work to do,

He said,

Upon meeting me.

Someone,

Maybe even Grandfather,

Must have told him I didn't speak Gujarati well.

I stared at my sandaled feet.

At home,

I spent my study time practicing John Wayne's swagger,

But here at Sivagram,

There would be no movies.

There wasn't even electricity.

No one knew who John Wayne was.

I tried to get the other kids to play bank robbers and sheriff,

But the only game anyone was interested in was soccer,

Which ended up being okay.

I was good at soccer,

Better than I was at Gujarati.

The first week went by in a blur.

I saw Grandfather many times,

But for the most of the day,

He worked in his hut.

Whenever I'd get a chance,

I'd run a stick along the fence post outside,

Waiting for some alone time with Mahatma.

But I was always shooed away.

Idleness was not allowed.

Early in our second week,

Grandfather found me.

I didn't have to go looking for him.

Will you walk with me,

He asked.

There was always some aide,

Official,

Or follower around,

But this morning,

There was no one.

Lucky me.

I set off after Grandfather.

His stride was quick,

And each time he raised his walking stick,

He asked me a question.

He asked about my older sister Sita,

About how Ella was behaving,

And about life in South Africa,

And the cruelty that came with being separated by race.

Eventually,

Grandfather asked about me.

How are you finding life here at Sivagram?

The other kids tease me,

And my tutor thinks I'm useless,

I blurted out as the path before us turned.

I try hard,

But it is not enough.

I stopped short of saying that I didn't feel like a Gandhi,

That peace and stillness did not come easily to me.

Even Gujarati did not come easily to me.

Grandfather listened,

And when I finished,

He wiped his spectacles on his dhoti,

Put them back on,

And looked me in the eye.

Give it time,

Erin.

You will adjust,

And go on to good things.

I have faith.

He said no more.

We walked on.

It wasn't long before an aide found us and escorted Grandfather away.

I should have known there were more important things than me.

The rest of the day was just as disappointing.

My pencil nub shrank to almost nothing,

But since we took a vow not to waste,

I couldn't throw the pencil away.

I held it,

Squishing my fingers,

My hands cramped.

Stupid pencil.

After lessons with the sun high overhead,

I was glad to head to the soccer field.

I wanted to forget about the ashram rules,

Forget about being a Gandhi.

We played hard as if the match really mattered.

I was about to make a goal when Suman,

An older boy,

Shoved me.

His feet stole the ball as I lurched forward and fell face down in the dirt.

Blood trickled from my lip.

It tasted like tin.

I snatched a rock and leapt up.

You did that on purpose,

I shouted,

Didn't you?

Kanu stepped forward.

It was an accident,

Erin,

My cousin said.

Calm down.

But I didn't want to calm down.

I wanted to throw the rock to hit Suman like he hit me.

Everyone stared.

How could he,

A Gandhi,

Be so easy to anger?

Their eyes seemed to say.

I dropped the rock and ran straight to grandfather's hut.

Papaji,

I cried.

The same aide who had whisked grandfather away earlier was there.

What is it,

Erin?

Grandfather set down his pen and pushed aside his papers.

It was wrong to come here.

Grandfather had work to do,

Important work.

I backed up to leave and grandfather bowed.

Namaste,

He said.

Not to me,

But to the aide,

Politely dismissing him.

A moment later,

We were alone.

Tell me what has you so upset,

He said.

I did.

Out came what happened on the soccer field,

Getting pushed,

The rock,

Everything.

When I was done,

My head throbbed.

Grandfather didn't need to say it.

I'd never live up to the Mahatma.

I'd never be at peace.

Do you think Suman and Kanu never anger or that they never think injustices happen solely to them?

Grandfather wiped my tears.

Do not be ashamed.

We all feel anger.

But that wasn't possible.

Suman and Kanu maybe,

But not grandfather.

Even you,

I asked?

Even me,

Said grandfather.

But grandfather taught peace.

I'd never seen him angry.

Not even now when I told him what I'd almost done.

Let us spin,

He said.

And he sat before one of the two spindles.

Grandfather wasn't one for riddles,

Father had often told me,

But he was one for stories.

One was coming,

I was sure of it.

I held the thin cotton thread between my thumb and forefinger,

Not moving,

As grandfather's fingers went to work.

Have I not told you how anger is like electricity?

I shook my head.

It is.

Anger can strike like lightning and split a living tree in two,

He said.

I saw myself on the soccer field rock in hand ready to strike.

I saw the movie Cowboys and Their Guns.

Or it can be channeled,

Transformed,

A switch can be flipped,

And it can shed light like a lamp.

I saw grandfather speaking before thousands.

When grandfather was angry,

He didn't lash out.

He worked to make changes,

Lasting changes for all,

Not just for himself.

Then,

Anger can illuminate.

It can turn the darkness into light,

Grandfather said.

That's what you do,

I said quietly.

Sure,

I couldn't do the same.

Aaron,

We can all work to use our anger instead of letting it use us.

Grandfather slowly stood.

He beckoned me to him and together we stood at the doorway of his hut looking out at everyone working as one.

He hadn't told me I was foolish.

He hadn't told me I was wrong and he was right.

He hadn't even forced me to choose lightning or lamp.

But I did choose and I would choose over and over from that moment on,

Like grandfather.

I did my best to live my life as light.

A note from the authors.

Live our lives as light.

In October 2001,

A month after 9-11,

I found myself sitting in New York City's town hall listening to Arun Gandhi,

Grandson of Mahatma Gandhi,

Recount stories of his childhood.

Arun spoke of living on the Sivagram ashram with his grandfather when he was 12 years old,

Where he stayed for two years.

Arun left India to return to his home in South Africa just weeks before Gandhi was assassinated.

One of the stories Arun shared that night,

One of the lessons his grandfather imparted,

That anger can be like electricity,

Hit me hard.

It helped me heal.

A month later,

I emailed Arun and asked him to work with me on what would become this book.

I had many reasons not to send the email request.

I'd never traveled to India.

I wasn't a Gandhi scholar.

I hadn't even published yet.

And as unworthy as I felt,

I knew from Gandhi's teaching that the Mahatma wouldn't see me as unworthy.

Perhaps Arun wouldn't either.

Through a series of email interviews,

Phone conversations,

Online research,

And in-person meetings,

Arun and I wrote and revised for a number of years.

I had the pleasure of visiting Arun's Rochester home and meeting his beloved wife,

Sananda,

Before her death.

Over his dining room table,

While looking at pictures from his childhood,

I confess to Arun that during my childhood,

My father,

Having been passed over for a job he felt he deserved,

Used racial slurs against men who look like Arun.

Arun admitted that the beatings by whites alluded to in the text of Grandfather Gandhi were only some of the prejudicial actions he suffered at the hands of those who look like me.

Our sharing helped us heal.

The world we live in needs to heal,

To heal from the wars that are fought,

To the bullying epidemic,

To mass killings by lone gunmen,

To poverty,

To hunger,

And to other issues that contribute to internal anger being outwardly expressed in violent actions.

It is our hope,

Arun's and mine,

That we each look inside and see where our anger,

Shame,

And fear hides.

And when we do so,

That we lovingly channel those feelings into positive action.

Each time we choose to act rather than react,

To sit instead of strike,

To listen instead of shout,

We work to create peace.

We help our world heal.

Let us all learn to live our lives as light.

Bethany Hegedus and Arun Gandhi.

Thank you for joining me for today's Read Aloud.

Namaste.

Reviews

What a wonderful story into the gentle wisdom of Gandhi.