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Worst Fears Come True Sometimes

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02.10.2019

When I was asked to write a book on Gandhi, my first reaction was in the negative. For what is there to say in Gandhi that hasn’t been said already? Besides I write fiction. So where in fiction could I got Gandhi?

Perhaps this had been one of the biggest challenges I have faced. But I also know that I didn’t want readers to have the same negative reaction i had had. I knew I had to work something unique. Something that had not been done before.

The ‘how’ was the challenge. For children, Gandhi has been consigned between dry texts books and veneration. Neither of which excites them much. But the more I thought and read about him anew, the more I realised how urgently relevant he should and must be for young people today. They didn’t just need too study Gandhi, they needed to BE Gandhi. But as the ‘how’ raised it’s head again, I knew that the only way for them to relate to Gandhi, or rather the Gandhian way, his principles, was to bring him into a more current context. I brought his thoughts and actions decades ahead, using the vehicle of a young, disillusioned teen.

But when his world is shaken beyond belief, he goes from, “what’s it got to do with me” to this moment, as rioting rages around him:

” We need Mahatma Gandhi right now. How I wish I could bring him back somehow. But I can’t. I sit very still and get a very strange thought. Can I? Can I BE Gandhi?…”

– Paro Anand, author of Being Gandhi

(Excerpt from Being Gandhi, HarperCollins)

I’ve always been told that I imagine the worst and worry
needlessly. Like, if we are going on a long trip, I worry
that I am going to get a stomach upset. Sometimes I worry
so much about it that I actually do. Or, if there are tests
coming, I worry about blanking out. I worry harder than I
study and sometimes end up blanking out. But most times, I
realise, later, that I’ve worried for nothing. I feel like telling
my father that. But before I can, the worst starts happening.
It is a lot worse than a stomach upset and blanking out in
an exam. Much worse.

We see it on television first. The attacks have started.
Sikhs are being pulled out of their cars, out of buses, out of
their homes, even. I try to see some of it, but my mother
wraps her arms around me and turns me around. She buries
her face in my hair and I can feel the dampness of her tears.
Dad’s worst fears are coming true. And a new fear is being
born inside me. I feel helpless. I feel that my own parents
are on the brink of their own disasters. Suppose something
happens to them? What would I do? My grandparents are
feeling equally bad, my grandma is almost hysterical. I feel
as though I am the only sane one left.

I also feel as though I am growing up every second. Aging.
Like my own life is on fast forward and my teen years are
zooming towards adulthood.

The television volume is turned down finally. But the fire
cannot be controlled with the tap of a button. The embers
are catching and the flames are fast going out of control.
It is then that the shouting seems to come closer. We all
turn to the TV to see if someone has turned the volume up
again. But no, no one has. The sounds are not out of a box.
They are outside our door. At first the shouts are confusing.
But pretty soon the words separate enough for us to
make out what the crowd in our corridor wants. Blood. The
crowd is baying for blood.

My own blood runs cold. I freeze. Were they coming for
us? We all stand in a frozen tableau of terror. My mother
moves first. She runs to make sure the doors are bolted.
She gestures to my father to move a sofa to secure the door
further. He doesn’t move. He shakes his head.

‘It’s not for us,’ is all he says.

And like in a jigsaw, everything falls in place in that
moment. I can see it as if I can see through the door.

They have not come for us. The mob has followed the
stranger who had come to Uncle Sarab’s house. And now
they want him.
Mum is trying to pull the sofa all by herself. And I can
see that she is crying.
I move closer to help her.
‘Mum, what’ll they do to him?’
But mum’s sobs come tumbling out, making sounds like
a small wounded animal.
‘Mum, what about Kiran and Sharan, are they going to be
okay? Can we go get them, at least?’
Mum stops trying to pull at the sofa and looks at me,
bereft. There is despair in her eyes that I never want to see
again.

But in that moment, I know what that despair means. It
means that she doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if the children
in the next house are going to be safe. If there is anything
that we can do.

I have to do something. I leap towards the door, furiously
trying to pull back the rusty latch which is always stuck.
‘Stop. Just stop,’ Dad roars.
‘Dad, no, we have to try and stop them. We have to.’
‘I cannot let you go,’ mum holds me tight. ‘It’s not safe,
beta.’
‘But then it’s not safe for them either.’ I struggle to escape.
‘Don’t you see? If we try to help them, then we are in
trouble as well.’
‘And if we don’t do anything …’

There is no answer to that. But there has to be. Shouldn’t
there?
The sounds from across the corridor burst in upon us,
wounding us, cutting at us. No, I am not saying it was as
bad for us. Our plates and glasses were not smashed. Our
furniture was not burnt. Our skin was not cut.
Our bones are whole.
But our lives are not.
And I know that we are not the same. And may never be
again.
With every cry for help knocking at our door, we lose a
little bit of ourselves. I know now how easy it is to say the
right things. To believe the best of oneself and give advice.
I always believed that we were the kind of people who
would always step up and help those in need. We had been
good neighbours. We were helpful and kind and came to
people’s aid. We stopped if there was an accident, we gave
money to the little children doing acrobatics in the streets
at traffic signals. We were the good guys.
But are we? Are we really?
I know that as the sounds go mute. As the crowds leave,
their blood-lust satisfied, we can’t look each other in the eye.
I know now that the prime minister’s violent death did
have something to do with me.
The world goes completely quiet. Too shocked to move,
to turn on the axis it had known all these years. I don’t
know what we did. I don’t know if anyone said anything.
There is a silence so thick that it deafens me. Defeats me.

I go to bed, exhausted although I have not moved a
muscle. I have not moved. I have not stepped forward when
I should have, could have stepped forward. Guilt bitters my
tongue.
As I lie there, I try to conjure up my next meeting with
my friends across the hall. What would I say? Can I tell
them that I wasn’t home when the mob came? That my
family and I had gone away somewhere? That would be the
easiest. But no, that wouldn’t work. Uncle Sarab had seen us
standing there when he pulled the visitor in. He knew we
were there. And he knew that we didn’t do anything. Had
he told his children, my friends? That we hadn’t been good
neighbours, that we had not helped?
My thinking is stupid. Of course, they aren’t thinking
about us right now. But I can’t stop thinking about them,
wondering if they are hurt. They must be frightened. But
I hope it isn’t worse than that. It wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be.
Mustn’t be. Maybe this time, I can be the one to make Sharan
and Kiran laugh. I’m sure they need a laugh right about now.
I want to hear them laugh. Please, let us laugh together
again.

Please.

Being Gandhi
About the Book - Being Gandhi

How many times are kids supposed to study Gandhi? Come September and out comes the bald head wig, round glasses, white dhoti, tall stick ... that's about the extent of how today's kids engage with the Mahatma. Chandrashekhar is one…

About the Author - Paro Anand

Paro Anand is a Sahitya Akademi, Bal Sahitya Award winner for her book, Wild Child. She has written books for children, young adults and adults. As a performance storyteller and speaker, she has represented India all over the world. In…

To read more, order your copy of Being Gandhi, by Paro Anand today!

₹ 250.0000
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  • Or buy from your local bookseller.

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