Shantum explained that Gandhi slept in the room at the back of the house and that he lived at the ashram during his last fourteen days. Shantum said, “Gandhi is the closest to the Buddha we have seen in this lifetime.” Hearing that gave me a warm fuzzy feeling and brought a smile to my lips. I have been reading Gandhi’s autobiography a little bit at a time, and Shantum’s comment made sense to me.
We first entered a nearly empty room that contained to our left a low bed with simple white cotton sheets and a huge cotton tube. The tube was gathered at each end, nearly two feet tall, and at least three feet long. In response to a question, Shantum explained that it was a type of bolster pillow. If you were quickly cleaning house before guests arrived, you could stuff plenty of dirty laundry into a pillowcase like that. Very tall arched windows without curtains circumscribed the room on three walls. The white plaster walls consisted of almost as much glass as wall, no doubt an advantage in a hot climate.
The second room was as small as the first but with fewer windows. The inner wall included a white tile fireplace, perfectly clean and devoid of any logs or fire tools. To the right of the door, a glass display case was attached to the wall and contained Gandhi’s last possessions. This only included about seven items, such as two walking sticks, a razor, a pair of wooden shoes, and a rock that, Shantum explained, Indians use in lieu of soap. I suspected I’d get a rash using a rock like that.
Seeing these simple possessions, I thought about the paraphernalia that I accumulate so easily and that clutters up my messy house. Gandhi’s system seems so much better and less complicated, and sometimes it occurs to me that if I had fewer things, I would have fewer problems. Yet I suspect I shall have a lot more than seven possessions when I die.
Among the items by the simple bed is a brown wooden sculpture of three monkeys lined up in the parable: See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil. Shantum told us that a Buddhist monk gave this to Gandhi, and he thinks it’s a strange thing for a Buddhist to give someone. The parable does not come across as a particularly Buddhist attitude, given the focus on seeking truth and confronting it even when you don’t like the truth. But Val pointed out that perhaps it’s in this case about using mindful speech rather than, say, spreading rumors.
Beyond the display case is a very tall casement window that almost extends to the floor. Shantum pointed out this window because, as a sign outside indicates, Gandhi stepped out of the window and followed a red brick path outdoors. He was headed for the prayer meeting at which he was shot.
Inside the museum I lagged behind the group and wandered through the hallway and rooms that contain many framed pictures, quotes, and placards; the latter gave a detailed account of what happened during Gandhi’s last days. Every room in the house had white walls, and all the doors and window frames were made of dark wood. I read some of the quotes and some of the story about the end of Gandhi’s life, and Rikki asked me if it’s known who killed him, but all I remembered was that the assassin was a male Hindu, so we searched for the name and description of the perpetrator. I learned that the murderer shot Gandhi earlier than he had intended, because it was easy to get him point blank while he walked on the path with his nieces.
Staff members were young people dressed like Nehru in white kurtas and pants and maroon vests. They approached the few remaining visitors and said it was five o’clock and closing time. I looked around and realized that everyone else in our group had probably already gone outdoors. A young woman dressed just like the guys said to me, “The exit is this way.” I didn’t want to hold them up and rushed down the hallway in the direction she indicated. The door I saw to my left was closed, so I hurried past it, but the young woman called me back and directed me to that door. I turned around, laughed, and headed for the large, dark wooden door she stood by. Fortunately, she took it well and smiled amusedly back at me. That seems to be common here; Americans don’t necessarily smile back at you, and they’re likely to be brusque and even rude.
The exit led to a path in what looked like a side yard, and I wandered around admiring lush plant life. I came to the enormous World Peace Gong, which stands in a pavilion and is covered in painted flags from all over the world. I think many people must have funded the making of this gong, and it is comforting and encouraging to know that large numbers of people are serious about world peace. Ironically, it frequently seems as though the sane people are treated as if we are foolish, naïve, or crazy because we believe in peace and even know what it is. Anyone who comes to Gandhi’s ashram can see this World Peace Gong, get some inkling of what Gandhi was talking about if they didn’t already know, and become more conscientious about waging peace.
I wandered back into the garden and soon spotted the exterior view of the window through which Gandhi had stepped. Along this path are beige clay footprints that stick up a few inches from the sidewalk. They are shaped like traditional Indian sandals, complete with a circle carved into the clay indicating where a knob would go between the two biggest toes. Centered in the path, the steps lead to the shrine out in the garden and stop where Gandhi was assassinated. When walking along a parallel brick path approaching the column shrine, I gawked at the shrine, which is a very small white marble pavilion encasing a white column engraved with Hindi script. Shantum and some of the others stood before it, palms together.
Shortly after I removed my sandals, I stood on the green path near the shrine while Shantum spoke to the group, and I caught sight of a calico cat walking along a decorative brick outer wall of the garden. The cat looked up at a tree full of agitated noisy birds. Its ears pointed straight up and forward, its tail twitched, and it crouched as it stared up at the birds. “Cat! Cat! Cat!” they shrieked. That’s my translation.
In another tree, I could see a couple of bright green parrots, or rather parakeets, Shantum called them. He gently said, “The time is now 5:17,” and finally had my full attention. “That was also the time when, ten days before today’s date, Gandhi was shot.” The garden, Shantum explained, was like it is now, with the same trees and the same type of parakeets, so it was basically the same setting. I found this a bit disturbing, really, given that it was where Gandhi was shot. It was like a time machine.
Walking on the garden path at Gandhi’s ashram, Shantum was ahead of me and said, “The world wasn’t ready for Gandhi’s message and is only just starting to understand it.” I smiled faintly in agreement, aware that he put into words something I have vaguely thought a few times. Now I thought: the world had better understand it soon, rather than die in nuclear warfare. It is so weird when people who are so obviously not pacifists mention Gandhi, such as when a book about him shows up at my workplace; so many people have heard of Gandhi and know he was a famous Indian, but I’m not sure what else they really know about him.
Later Shantum said, “Buddhists don’t like Gandhi, because he wasn’t anti-caste.” He pointed out that while Gandhi believed that Dalits, or Untouchables, should be treated with some respect and called them “Children of God,” he didn’t actually say anything about putting an end to the caste system. I found this astonishing. But obviously this dislike toward Gandhi doesn’t apply to all Buddhists. Shantum admires Gandhi, and I realize he was certainly not perfect, but since he was such an advocate of ahimsa and practitioner of satyagraha, I’m willing to overlook things like that, even though nobody could be more anti-caste than I. The caste system is a blatantly hierarchal social structure that totally conflicts with egalitarianism and social justice. Regardless, it’s useful to read up on Gandhi’s nonviolent methods for inspiration.
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