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Gandhian Legacy
Tour: Part One I deliver grandfather clocks “for a living.” It is what I do for money. I get into all kinds of homes. From gated communities to trailer parks, condos to projects, retirement homes to funeral parlors, it seems the love of a fine timepiece knows no economic boundary or state of being. Granted, if you have the $ for one of these clocks you’re certainly not starving, but I digress . . . ( too early to launch into High Horse Zealot Mode . . . Wait a paragraph or two . . . It’s coming.) Today, February 11, 2005, I find myself in the home of Shelley P. who doesn’t like the grain of wood on the clock delivered. “Too dark.” This is the third visit in ten days to this particularly picky customer’s home. A discolored fragment of a quarter of an inch of the back panel of the clock is causing her much distress. Me too, but my reasons are surely not the same. My humor has worn thin and I’m having a difficult time looking her in the eye. I’m afraid to speak, for if I were to open my mouth it would be the end. The dam would be blown, the barrier obliterated, the leak become a biblical flood. I stick to “name/rank/serial number,” but it’s hard. I want to speak. I want to tell Shelley all about my recent trip to India . . . . 30 December 2005: In the wake of the tsunami I arrive. Mumbai (Bombay) by midnight. A mysterious taxi ride through twisted dark streets to the hotel. After a full day spent in planes, I’m not sure that any of what I’m seeing is real. Best not to make any judgments ’til the morrow. Of the 32 participants in this Gandhian Legacy tour I was the last to arrive. They all got a good night’s sleep, while I’m still not convinced that this isn’t a dream. Never thought I’d get here. Never had the desire until a few short years ago when I heard Arun Gandhi speak about the life and philosophy of his famous grandfather. Life took a sharp turn, peaks and valleys, and here I am. Breakfast and it’s, “Get on the bus.” But wait! A shoeless beggar girl is working her way through this sea of white skin. Palm upturned, she tugs at the sleeves of those before me. They are ever-so-polite in their refusals and scamper to the refuge of the tour bus. It’s surreal, unreal, until her eyes meet mine. Brown, round, and full. Eye contact. That’s the end and the beginning. A friend of a friend warned with much gravity that “India changes you.” Indeed. As this little girl approached, I started to feel what was meant by this deceptively simple statement. Gentle tugs at my sleeve. I acknowledge her. This is real. She points to my shoes and then her bare feet. She points to her stomach and mouth. I feign misunderstanding but I get it. This is really happening. Not in a book, nor a movie. Not even a National Geographic special. This desperate child is at my feet tapping my shoes as I shuffle on, staying with the group, denying her. Behind the window of an air conditioned luxury bus, I stare at my weak knees. I’m a coward, a fraud, and worst of all, a tourist. I can’t accurately say what I saw the rest of that day. The vision of that poor girl stayed (stays) with me and tainted everything that came after (and hereafter). What should I have done to lessen her suffering? Would the rupees in my pocket have been enough to “lift her up,” or would they have only encouraged the gangs that prey on and use children as pawns? Maybe I could have offered temporary relief, but what really needs to be done is a connecting of dots. Realization of my place in this drama. My responsibility, my culpability. Admission of my support of the cycle of violence and then a restructuring. A new dedication to the poor of this world. Awakening to the fact that “they” are not “the other”, but indeed, the same as me. My family. “The World House.” I didn’t come here to be comfortable. I’m not looking to escape. I’m not here to get off the hook, but to sink it deeper. What I’ve seen here stings, and so it should. I pray that I never become numb to the shock of poverty. New Year’s Day. Hotel lobby. I’m approached by a man from London named Jon. He’s here “on holiday.” Thought he’d ring in the new year in an “exotic place.” Hung over and unable to sleep, he came down to the lobby. He’s been pacing all night. Jon goes on to speak of an awakening similar to mine that occurred just the day before. He was out having lunch by the beach when he witnessed a young child being beaten by an adult. Specifically, the child’s hands were being hit by a board. Outraged, Jon went to intervene but was held back by the waiter who explained that, ‘This is how it is. The child’s hand is crushed so that when they hold out their palms they’re all the more pathetic and wretched for the tourist, who will very quickly give up their money to make the horrible sight go away.” Jon said his heart had been broken. Things would never be the same. “It’s all wrong, Bob. It’s all wrong.” Shiver and chill. “India changes you.” This is not a dream, nor a nightmare, but brutal reality. The Indian newspapers are filled with news of the tsunami and the American administration’s response. Bush and company are talking mere millions for relief, while spending billions on a misadventure in Iraq. Their priorities are clear. These dislodged and displaced peoples on the front page, the poor who sleep in the shadow of billboards and advertising opulence, the shoeless little girl tugging at my sleeve, and the beaten one with crooked fingers are not victims of the tsunami, but victims of militarism. Victims of a dominating culture that does not promote life. Every day of war is a day of theft from the poor. Those billions so fruitlessly spent promoting violence could have fed and sheltered all who suffer, could have gone toward the building of more stable structures, could have gone into an early warning system that would have prevented many of the deaths attributed to the tsunami. Much could have been done, but wasn’t. I’ve returned to the empire, to Shelley P’s living room. With much information and too many manners, I have come back to the dilemma of the privileged. I kept my mouth shut. Grinned and bore it. Shelly got another “more perfect” clock and I? . . . I betrayed one of the voiceless. Robert Daniels II
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