BAPU KUTI RAJNI BAKSHI (Journey’s in rediscovery of Gandhi) Bapu Kuti at Sewagram Ashram Wardha is the mud hut which was Mahatma Gandhi’s last home. Haifa century after Bapu was killed; the Kuti is alive with gatherings of people who share his dreams. They do not call themselves ‘Gandhians’. Yet as they search for solutions to the many problems of modern India, these activists find themselves coming to the same conclusions as had Gandhi. In this collection, Rajni Bakshi explores the world and lives of twelve such people who have turned their backs on lucrative professions to embark on a search for practical and humane ways of political and social transformation, rooted in the faith that a new India with prosperity for all can be built on the strengths of cooperation and community. In Rajasthan, for instance, through a rare community effort, villagers make a creative livelihood instead of migrating to urban slums: in Andhra, impoverished weavers gain new life by reviving their dying craft; in Bhagalpur. Bihar a movement is launched to ‘liberate’ mother Ganga. These images of passionate creativity present an India seldom seen in the mainstream media. They challenge the pervasive cynicism of our times to show that idealism did not die with Gandhi. Affirming humanity’s ceaseless striving to evolve to higher levels of being, they anticipate an age when conciliation must replace confrontation for building a more just future. Dawn at Bapu Kuti The cadence of prayers at brahma-murat slowly fades into the darkness around Bapu Kuti. There is the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, as those who gathered for prayers on the porch of the Kuti return to their rooms. A deep, pervasive stillness remains. It will be a while before the first sun rays peep over the horizon. The silence slowly makes way for the birds as they flutter awake in the grand trees around the Kuti. Soon the squirrels are also up to begin their day-long scurrying in and out of Mahatma Gandhi’s home. The sun rises hesitantly, glimmering shyly behind the trees before glowing as a cool orange orb filling the porch with a gentle light. Just about then Haribhau arrives to unlock the Kuti and sweep it clean for another day of visitors and pilgrims. This familiar sequence of dawn at Bapu Kuti always fills me with an ineffable joy. The silence welcomes anyone who makes their way to Bapu Kuti, to spend time on its packed clay floor, perhaps leaning against one of the black wooden poles that hold up the bamboo roof. It was at one such dawn that the idea of bringing together these stories, first came to me. The Spirit of Bapu Kuti Long after Mahatma Gandhi had left his Kuti forever; it was Haribhau’s job to arrive there every morning at the crack of dawn. As he meticulously swept the Kuti and its surrounding yard with a flat straw broom, memories and images played bittersweet tricks on him. Sometimes he would see Bapu strolling with his arm leaning on Mahadevbhai’s shoulder. There had been a time when the Kuti and its surrounding homes bustled with activity as important people came to see Bapu. Hari could not follow their discussions, but at the age of fifteen he knew that these meetings helped the struggle for swaraj, self-rule. It was Hari’s duty to cycle daily to Wardha station with Bapu’s outgoing mail and this was always a sizable wad of letters. Hari was also responsible for preparing Bapu’s bath water which had to be just right, not too hot and not too cold. Hari accomplished this vital chore with some help from a thermometer. Forty years later, as he swept clean the small enclosure in the Kuti where Bapu had his bath, these memories often came back to him. Few people were interested in Hari’s recollections, so he quietly went about his work. On most days he completed his morning chores and then returned to his home in Sewagram, the village lying just outside the boundary of the Ashram. But the Kuti was never alone for long. Tourists and pilgrims filed through it all day. Some passed through it quickly for they found little to see, just the usual charkha, walking stick and a narrow mattress covered in crisp white khadi. Others entered with a sense of reverence and stayed a while, as if trying to listen to the kuti. Perhaps Hari noticed that as time went by there were more and more such listeners’. They came from far corners of India and the world. These were the ones who paused to enjoy the free flow of light and air through the Kuti. They stared at the ‘Aunt’ on the clay wall below which Bapu sat at work. Most of them were not bowing in unquestioning reverence to the man whom Hari had lovingly served. That man, M.K. Gandhi, was born on October 1869 and his richly varied, multi-faceted life was ended by an assassin’s bullets on 30 January 1948. The historical Gandhi, like all mortals, was a limited being. Those who flock to Bapu Kuti at the twilight of a century, and the dawn of a new millennium, are in affectionate awe of the civilizational Gandhi. This Gandhi, free from the bondage of time and space, lingers in the aakar—the form and spirit of the Kuti. What is the civilizational Gandhi? Let us search for answers through the Kuti and what it seems to say to successive generations. But first, let us step back in time to watch the mud, bamboo and wood come together, before we journey with the spirit of Bapu Kuti. Miraben’s labour of love Madeleine Slade was born into an aristocratic British family on a cold November day in 1892. Ensconced in lace, frills and strict discipline, she was just like any other well- bred baby. But a good soothsayer could have told the family that for most of her adult life Madeleine would be known as ‘Miraben’. She was destined to go unimaginably far from the silk and fripperies of a debutante. For Madeleine’s future -was linked to an Indian who was then an obscure attorney-at-law, freshly enrolled at the High Court in London. In 1893 this man, M.K, Gandhi, sailed from Mumbai to South Africa to ‘try his luck’ as an attorney there and instead became the ‘Mahatma’. Of course, at that stage of infancy, there was no way of knowing how Madeleine would make history with this man or that his life and ideas would become the second love of her life. Madeleine grew up to be a restless soul seeking higher truths. She had an innate dislike for the advancing machine age. The teenage Madeleine watched with dismay as noisy, dangerous-looking automobiles replaced horse carriages on the streets of London. The social whirl of being an admiral’s daughter held no attraction for this tall, solemn young woman. Madeleine adamantly refused to accompany her parents to the Emperor’s Durbar at Delhi in 1911. She was happiest in the peaceful surroundings of her grandfather’s country estate. At the age of fifteen, Madeleine fell irrevocably in love with the music of Ludwig von Beethoven. She found ‘something far beyond the music as such: I was contacting the spirit speaking through sound, the spirit of Beethoven. Yes, I had found him.’ So she went in search of Romain Rolland, the French philosopher and writer, who had written a loving account of Beethoven’s life and work. But when she met Rolland he was more keen to talk about his latest book Mahatma Gandhi. Madeleine had never heard the name- But Rolland said enough to intrigue her. Madeleine bought a copy as soon as Holland’s slim book on Gandhi was released and read it through that very day. Life was never the same again. Her quest for meaning and purpose had found its destination. Later in her autobiography, The Spirit’s Pilgrimage, this was all Madeleine could say about that great leap in her life: Now I knew what that ‘something’ was, the approach of which I had been feeling. I was to go to Mahatma Gandhi, who served the cause of oppressed India through fearless truth and non-violence, a cause which, though focused in India, was for the whole humanity. I did not weigh the pros and cons or try to reason why this was the outcome of my prayers. The call was absolute, and that was all that mattered. There followed a year of ‘severe training’ which included learning to spin, sleeping on the floor and gradually turning into a vegetarian. Then she wrote to Gandhi, at Sabarmati near Ahmedabad, requesting his permission to join the ashram community. The answer was a welcoming ‘yes’. Thus, in 1925, at the age of thirty-three, Madeleine Slade sailed to India, her adopted home, and found in Gandhi her spiritual father. He called her ‘Miraben’ and indeed her devotion to ‘Bapu’ was not unlike Mirabai’s bhakti for her beloved Giridhar Gopal. The bond which grew between them was unique and beyond the comprehension of most people. Years later Gandhiji’s affectionate biographer Louis Fischer wrote: ‘Her bond with him was one of the remarkable platonic associations of our age. He often said to her, “When this body is no more there will not be separation, but I shall be nearer to you. The body is a hindrance”.’ Miraben immersed her entire being in striving to be a good satyagrahi.