Reflections of an Extraordinary Era. Tara Bhattacharjee Gandhi

a clear sky. With the first rays of the sun, Bapu-ji would come smiling to wake us up. The place always smelled of the Harsingar (Nyctanthes flowers). There were many coral trees in the ashram and sweet-smelling flowers covered the ground beneath the trees. Mother used to pick those flowers. She would explain to us that just before the first rays of the sun appeared, these flowers would by themselves fall off the trees and we were thus saved the violence of plucking them from the branches. She would tell us that we could even take these flowers for Bapu-ji because they were procured non-violently and were fit for an offering to him. She would pick the flowers while we would enjoy a morning walk with Bapu-ji.

      In Sewagram, everyone would eat together, sitting on the floor in a line. Before the meal, a small Sanskrit shloka was chanted. Constantly hungry from all the running and playing in the open environs of the ashram, that short prayer seemed rather long to me. The food in the ashram tasted incredible. It is today that I understand well that prayer. It has a beautiful meaning: May He (God) protect us. May He use us. May both of us (Master-disciple) be vigorous. May we never become enemies. Om. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.

      The open clear skies of Sewagram, the smell of the earth, the village hut, the touch of pure khadi, Bapu-ji’s enchanting personality, a morning walk with him, and then the Harsingar flowers – I see these memories weaving an endless yarn on the chakra of time.

       Aga Khan Palace

      Ba and Bapu-ji were imprisoned in a wing of Aga Khan Palace in Pune along with some of their companions. My siblings and I would go there with our parents to meet them; we went there with as much enthusiasm as we would go to meet them at the railway station or in Sevagram Ashram. We would be so impatient to meet our grandparents that the journey from Delhi to Pune seemed endless. In Pune, we would stay in a two-room inn near the station. Mother would cook for us in a small kitchenette (probably for the lack of proper arrangement of food at the inn), and then we would be off to the Aga Khan Palace in a tonga. Before entering the palace, permission had to be sought from an English officer for the visit. Father would go to the officer’s house to seek permission. This entailed a long wait for us in the tonga outside, but Father never came back without the permit. Ba and Bapu-ji would be so thrilled to see us that the sombre atmosphere there would be instantly dispelled.

      A ten-year-old girl lay quietly with her grandmother on a cot. She had come with her parents and younger brothers to meet her grandparents. Even though she had been suffering from a long illness and was extremely weak, the grandmother’s sari, her sheets and pillows were redolent of love and that special feeling that was unique to her and made the granddaughter feel secure. Every touch was familiar, but why was there a note of farewell in her grandmother’s voice? It’s amazing how children can always tell.

      There was no anguish in her farewell; just an acceptance of nature’s decision. ‘Why is Dadi looking at me thus?’ thought the child. ‘Is she going to leave us? How will I live without her love?’ The grandmother’s feeble hands caressed the girl’s head with a tenderness she knew too well.