Once Upon a Time...

Memoirs of a Forgotten Man

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, in a far away country where the days blazed heat, and you sought the cool caress and breeze of shade, there lived a boy. A very young boy. The boy was the centre of his mother's world. She doted, and adored him. And he spent his days playing, laughing and learning like all the other boys. He knew he was loved, and he loved in return.

Now, this boy was very special. Although he seemed like every little boy. He was very intuitive. Gentle. Caring. Sensitive. He noticed things missed by others. He knew there were things that his mother tried to hide from him. He heard her soft weeping in the dark, aloneness, of night. But he never talked about it. In the bright, light of shining days his mother sang him lullabies, songs of love, of dreams, of hopes. But the boy he knew of the pain she carried, and he loved her all the more.

Now, the boy had a special name. Because his mother made him simple clothes, dressed him in the fresh cool of white from head to toe, the other kids would tease, and call him a name. You have to know that this name meant something in the country of his birth. He didn't really mind. It wasn't hurtful. So the name, it stuck, though the roots forgotten.

Now, the little boy was excited because he'd just started school. Like all the other children he would hurry to his classes, with the earth already warming, heating, for the day. Small feet were left hot, sore and tired, but he didn't complain. Learning was a joy to him. The wonder of new things. Where letters became words. And books beckoned, enticed, drawing him in. And the boy was truly blessed. Unlike the other mothers, his would stand outside the school when it was time for him to leave, and picked him up and carried him home in her arms. His feet kept cool. He was wrapped, embraced, in love. He was a very little boy. She loved him. He loved her in return.

But, then something awful happened. Life changed. His mother died. Nothing was the same. He heard stories of her broken heart. He heard stories of his father's disdain. His mother you see was a gentle soul, sweet, loving and true. But his father, his father was a handsome man. To him, appearance, good looks, beauty, was all. In his ignorance, these shallow traits, these small, small things, they mattered much, much more. He was fair. She was dark, and therein lay the bitter gourd. Although she was womanly kindness, everything and more, she was never loved by him, and the cruelty, it showed. He broke her spirit one final day, and it left his son alone.

Now,  although he was a little boy. Only five years old. He never forgot her sweetness, the gentleness of her soul. He had to grow up that day, when his mother died. His father worked in a distant place, and his relatives, his uncles, they were cold. So cold. They didn't want to bother with a little boy alone. They gave him scraps. What wasn't wanted. Leftovers. Stale and poor. He who had known such love, now wept. In front of that fire. Burning fingers. He cooked his own bread and dipped it into thin, thin whey. They didn't want to keep or feed him, but what would others say? Besides, his father was sending money, so there was still some gain.

Now what happened to the little boy, with the special name? The miracle of all this is, that he was still the same. He was not bitter. He was not angry. He did not rile, or hate. A very little boy he was when he decided his own fate. He would live. He would help his people rise. He would show the way. That was who he was. Equality. Dignity. Education. He knew that was the key. He would live his aspirations, his mother's dream. Work hard, strive, serve. And above all. Give. His mother had been a gentle soul, sweet and true. And her spirit lived on. Can you see? It was shining bright, glowing there in him.

And the special little boy? With that special name?

Gandhi. He grew up.

And that, that is for another day.

Being Jiwan…x