Happy 141st, Gandhiji!
In addition to being Gandhi's 141st birthday (October 2nd), this year also marked the 75th anniversary of Gandhi's Salt March. For those of you not as versed in Indian history, Gandhi devised the Salt March as a peaceful protest against the British Raj's unfair Salt Tax (instituted in 1882). In essence, what the Salt Tax did was outlaw not only the production and sale of salt by non-British entities, but made it unlawful for workers to freely collect their own salt from the marshes peppered along the Indian coastal line. Essentially, the British created a monopoly from which only they benefited.
In response, Gandhi first wrote a letter to the British Viceroy informing him of his intent to protest:
And so, on March 12, 1930 Gandhi and a number of his followers gathered at his ashram (men only as he felt that including women would not elicit the same--hopefully--violent response from law-enforcement) began the 23-day march from his ashram on the west bank of the Sabarmati River in Ahmedabad to the coast. Upon reaching their destination, Dandi, Gandhi gave a speech and then did something that would inspire a nation.
He bent, perhaps ran his hands over the rich earth, fingers searching before plucking a small lump of salt from the ground. With this simple gesture, Gandhi broke British law.
His fellow protesters followed suit, and, over the course of the next month, nearly each and every one of them--including Gandhiji himself--were arrested and thrown in prison.
But the damage was done. The Salt March encouraged the people to protest, and protest they did. Some ended in violence when peaceful marchers, refusing to respond to threats of violence, were clubbed to death by armed policemen. Others were peaceful boycotts. Either way, a number of British salt mills and shops were forced to close and the seed of revolution was planted in the people's minds and hearts.
I was thinking of this on Wednesday when Steve and I visited the Hutheesing Center on CEPT's campus. The gallery is hosting an exhibit called "Mahatma: The Youthful Perspective", a series of full size/nearly full-sized images of Gandhi created by artist Debanjan Roy. The artist modeled each of the statues after a pre-existing image of Gandhi and attempted to capture the spirit of Bapu (meaning "father"; the name that Gandhi's friends and associates affectionately called him) as well as that of modern 21st century India. The artist describes his exhibit thus:
Now, here's the thing. I'm not overly fond of symbolic art (and I'm even less fond of artist's "notes" that feel the need to explain the symbolism of their installation--I have eyes, I can see, and I'm pretty educated so I like to draw my own conclusions, thank you very much). However, I do like thought provoking art. This exhibit was a little bit of both. Take a look:
In response, Gandhi first wrote a letter to the British Viceroy informing him of his intent to protest:
If my letter makes no appeal to your heart, on the eleventh day of this month I shall proceed with such co-workers of the Ashram as I can take, to disregard the provisions of the Salt Laws. I regard this tax to be the most iniquitous of all from the poor man's standpoint. As the Independence movement is essentially for the poorest in the land, the beginning will be made with this evil.The Viceroy responded, informing Gandhi that Britian's stance on the tax remained firm.
And so, on March 12, 1930 Gandhi and a number of his followers gathered at his ashram (men only as he felt that including women would not elicit the same--hopefully--violent response from law-enforcement) began the 23-day march from his ashram on the west bank of the Sabarmati River in Ahmedabad to the coast. Upon reaching their destination, Dandi, Gandhi gave a speech and then did something that would inspire a nation.
He bent, perhaps ran his hands over the rich earth, fingers searching before plucking a small lump of salt from the ground. With this simple gesture, Gandhi broke British law.
His fellow protesters followed suit, and, over the course of the next month, nearly each and every one of them--including Gandhiji himself--were arrested and thrown in prison.
But the damage was done. The Salt March encouraged the people to protest, and protest they did. Some ended in violence when peaceful marchers, refusing to respond to threats of violence, were clubbed to death by armed policemen. Others were peaceful boycotts. Either way, a number of British salt mills and shops were forced to close and the seed of revolution was planted in the people's minds and hearts.
I was thinking of this on Wednesday when Steve and I visited the Hutheesing Center on CEPT's campus. The gallery is hosting an exhibit called "Mahatma: The Youthful Perspective", a series of full size/nearly full-sized images of Gandhi created by artist Debanjan Roy. The artist modeled each of the statues after a pre-existing image of Gandhi and attempted to capture the spirit of Bapu (meaning "father"; the name that Gandhi's friends and associates affectionately called him) as well as that of modern 21st century India. The artist describes his exhibit thus:
Now, here's the thing. I'm not overly fond of symbolic art (and I'm even less fond of artist's "notes" that feel the need to explain the symbolism of their installation--I have eyes, I can see, and I'm pretty educated so I like to draw my own conclusions, thank you very much). However, I do like thought provoking art. This exhibit was a little bit of both. Take a look:
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| Bapu with iPod |
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| Bapu and Me |
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| It doesn't show well, but the artist--the "me" in the title--is sharing his iPod with Gandhiji |
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| I don't remember the title of this one, but we called it Bapu the Hipster |
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| A close-up of Bapu's Pug |
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| Bapu with Goats (this one is probably the most iconic-like representation of Gandhiji in the whole collection) |
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| Bapu on the Moon |
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| Bapu on the Phone |
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| Bapu and Soldiers (It might be hard to see, but the two soldiers have the same name tag, Debanjan Roy) |
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| Bapu with Laptop |
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| Absence of Bapu (this one was, perhaps, the most symbolic of all the pieces) |
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| The "See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil" monkeys are above the gate at Gandhi's ashram |
When people visualize Gandhi, I would hazard the first image that comes to mind is that of a thin, frail-looking, blad-headed old man wrapped in a white cloth, wire rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. This image is also highly representative of the way people intellectualize Gandhi's teachings--truth and nonviolence. Here is an unassuming man--he is not muscular, and thus non-threatening (in the physical sense)--who desires discourse over violence, intellect over brute force.
Despite Gandhi's renunciation of worldly goods in pursuit of these two principles, it is important to emphasize that Gandhi's simplified life was NOT a rebuke of modern life or modern things. In fact, Gandhi was a big proponent of using the trappings of modern life--and especially modern techniques of communication--to emphasize and relay his teachings. It is Roy's depiction of Gandhi interacting with our modern technologies--the cell phone, the iPod, the laptop--that is perhaps the most indicative of Gandhi's appreciation of science and technology. It is, therefore, not difficult to imagine Bapu updating his status on Facebook, rallying his followers on Twitter, or creating podcasts of his latest speeches.
But it is also important to recognize that Gandhi would have instructed us to not become the sum of our things. We are not our Facebook pages or our Twitter handles; we are living, breathing, vibrant people. Furthermore, he would encourage us to disengage from the technologies--log off the computer, remove the iPod buds from our ears--and engage with the world outside our technological cocoon.
I've often wondered what Gandhi would think of how his image and teachings are used. I often think, especially here in India, that he would be sad at how easily his name and image are grossly contorted by individuals and groups who aren't living Gandhian principles. However, I couldn't help but think that if Gandhi were able to see Debanjan Roy's statues, with their mixture of playfulness and seriousness melding to create a message not unlike that that Gandhi preached, Bapu would be pleased.
Thank you India...
Well... I made it. I think I'm *mostly* caught up on my sleep... mostly. I think I'd be more caught up on my sleep if India would, you know, not dump and then shovel gravel RIGHT. OUT. SIDE. my window at 3:30 in the morning. But hey, after hell I went through to GET here, who am I to complain...
About that.
See this?
This states my flight from Mumbai to Ahmedabad as CONFIRMED. In fact, I even double checked with the booking agency (Airfare.com) SOLELY because an agent previously called me to inform me that my original flight was canceled (permanently) and they had re-booked me on a 5 a.m. flight.
See this?
This is the print-out that Air India gave me after I waited for... oh, two hours in line AFTER waiting for about an hour in line to check-in.
Here's the skinny.
I get in line. Per usual, and because I have THE worst luck, I pick the wrong line. I manage to choose the line in which the check-in guy is slower than molasses on a cold day. To top that off, Indian's fail to queue properly--as in Indian's budge A LOT. So after much jostling, finger tapping, and jaw clenching, I FINALLY get to the front of the line. The guy asks me to spell my name--which is CLEARLY printed on the top of the ticket--like five times. Tappity, tappity, tap. He asks me to spell my name another three or five times. Tappity, tappity, tap. Then he tells me to step to the side so he can take care of the people behind me.
I kid you not, folks, at this juncture, that is ALL the "customer service" I received. No explanation, no "Go see this person at this counter," nothing. Nada. Zip, zilch, zero.
So I wait. Patiently at first. I figured, hey, he's Indian and his English kinda sucks so maybe he just wants to clear up the line a little bit so he can properly process me. And I've still got plenty of time--three hours of time in fact.
And then, as it becomes clear that he's doing his level best to avoid eye contact with me and he has NO intention of telling the people in line that they need to step over to the other queue, I grow impatient. I start heaving my bag about, I start tapping my foot. I clear my throat loudly. I move myself closer to the counter--well in front of the "Wait here for your turn" yellow line--so as to make myself a proper roadblock, and thus a major inconvenience to all other passengers trying to exit the queue in an orderly fashion. I figure, hey, he's GOTTA notice me at this point.
Nope. All I receive is a "Please continue to wait, madam," which serves to only piss me off.
"For how much longer, sir? I've already been here an hour," I say loudly, and somewhat angrily.
At this juncture, the gentleman motions me forward, asks me another five or six times what my name is and tappity, tappity, taps on his keyboard. I'm feeling a little better about now, kinda like it's all going to work out and this is just one of those "India things" (like monkeys in the kitchen, or families of six riding on scooters) but no. It's actually a a booking fail. As it turns out, I'm not listed on the passenger manifest.
Panic washes over me, white-hot anger on it's heels. The man at the ticket counter motions me to step aside, yet again, and I explode. I yell--no, lets be honest, I shrill--at him that he needs to help me and he needs to help me NOW. He attempts to say, "Please wait," one more time and I throw a royal hissy fit. I demand that he remove himself from behind the counter and take me to someone that can help me. Miraculously, he does.
He leads me over to Air India's last-minute ticket counter. He disappears, with my e-ticket in hand, into an office. I am feeling hopeful. In a few moments, I tell myself, I'll have a ticket and be on my way.
Oh, silly, silly Tina.
What I do have in my hand at the end of this little jaunt is a piece of paper that confirms 100% that my ticket was canceled.
I am flummoxed. Completely and totally flummoxed. And this whole process has taken two hours, leaving me only one hour to figure out if I even have a seat on a plane, go through security (no easy feat in India), and board a plane.
While I'm standing there sputtering, feeling the heat of a frustrated crying jag rushing up my neck and into my face. I am desperate to maintain some semblance of composure.
I fail miserably.
Mr. Ticket Man hands me off to a very harried woman who proceeds to tell me, repeatedly, that my ticket is canceled and a host of other things, that honestly, I don't hear because I'm in the process of losing it. Loudly. In public.
I scream at her. I demand she fix it. RIGHT. NOW. I cry.
She tells me to calm myself, which makes me cry harder. Then, out of sheer frustration, she says "I cannot help you if you are not calm. You must go speak to Continental," and waggles her hand ambiguously in the direction of The Larger Airport.
I storm off, bawling my eyes out and muttering like a mad woman. I have no idea where the Continental ticket counter is (later, I find out it's on another floor).
Long story short: I wander back to the Air India ticket counter, and seek the help of this woman. Her English is better than Mr. Ticket Man, and she seemed authoritative. After gritting my teeth at her admonishment--"Are you calm, now? I cannot help you if you are not calm"--she takes my ticket and does her best.
I wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. I watch as the minutes tick off the clock--12:30 a.m., 12:35 a.m., 12:45 a.m. I approach her once again, and she informs me that my ticket was NOT issued to Air India as stated on the e-ticket, but rather through Kingfisher. Her man was "on it"--it being an attempt to wrest my 1:05 a.m. ticket from Kingfisher and put me on the 1:30 a.m. Air India flight.
12:50. 12:55...
Suddenly a man rushes up to the woman and hands her a piece of paper. She motions me forward, hands the paper to another guy, and tells me THEY'RE HOLDING THE PLANE FOR ME. The ticket is printed (it's now 1:05) and I am rushed off to security. Miraculously, they let me jump the line. I'm frisked, my carry-on is scanned, and I practically throw myself down the stairs in an effort to get to my gate.
The irony of this situation? After safely boarding the plane, our take-off is delayed for another hour and a half.
About that.
See this?
See this?
Here's the skinny.
I get in line. Per usual, and because I have THE worst luck, I pick the wrong line. I manage to choose the line in which the check-in guy is slower than molasses on a cold day. To top that off, Indian's fail to queue properly--as in Indian's budge A LOT. So after much jostling, finger tapping, and jaw clenching, I FINALLY get to the front of the line. The guy asks me to spell my name--which is CLEARLY printed on the top of the ticket--like five times. Tappity, tappity, tap. He asks me to spell my name another three or five times. Tappity, tappity, tap. Then he tells me to step to the side so he can take care of the people behind me.
I kid you not, folks, at this juncture, that is ALL the "customer service" I received. No explanation, no "Go see this person at this counter," nothing. Nada. Zip, zilch, zero.
So I wait. Patiently at first. I figured, hey, he's Indian and his English kinda sucks so maybe he just wants to clear up the line a little bit so he can properly process me. And I've still got plenty of time--three hours of time in fact.
And then, as it becomes clear that he's doing his level best to avoid eye contact with me and he has NO intention of telling the people in line that they need to step over to the other queue, I grow impatient. I start heaving my bag about, I start tapping my foot. I clear my throat loudly. I move myself closer to the counter--well in front of the "Wait here for your turn" yellow line--so as to make myself a proper roadblock, and thus a major inconvenience to all other passengers trying to exit the queue in an orderly fashion. I figure, hey, he's GOTTA notice me at this point.
Nope. All I receive is a "Please continue to wait, madam," which serves to only piss me off.
"For how much longer, sir? I've already been here an hour," I say loudly, and somewhat angrily.
At this juncture, the gentleman motions me forward, asks me another five or six times what my name is and tappity, tappity, taps on his keyboard. I'm feeling a little better about now, kinda like it's all going to work out and this is just one of those "India things" (like monkeys in the kitchen, or families of six riding on scooters) but no. It's actually a a booking fail. As it turns out, I'm not listed on the passenger manifest.
Panic washes over me, white-hot anger on it's heels. The man at the ticket counter motions me to step aside, yet again, and I explode. I yell--no, lets be honest, I shrill--at him that he needs to help me and he needs to help me NOW. He attempts to say, "Please wait," one more time and I throw a royal hissy fit. I demand that he remove himself from behind the counter and take me to someone that can help me. Miraculously, he does.
He leads me over to Air India's last-minute ticket counter. He disappears, with my e-ticket in hand, into an office. I am feeling hopeful. In a few moments, I tell myself, I'll have a ticket and be on my way.
Oh, silly, silly Tina.
What I do have in my hand at the end of this little jaunt is a piece of paper that confirms 100% that my ticket was canceled.
I am flummoxed. Completely and totally flummoxed. And this whole process has taken two hours, leaving me only one hour to figure out if I even have a seat on a plane, go through security (no easy feat in India), and board a plane.
While I'm standing there sputtering, feeling the heat of a frustrated crying jag rushing up my neck and into my face. I am desperate to maintain some semblance of composure.
I fail miserably.
Mr. Ticket Man hands me off to a very harried woman who proceeds to tell me, repeatedly, that my ticket is canceled and a host of other things, that honestly, I don't hear because I'm in the process of losing it. Loudly. In public.
I scream at her. I demand she fix it. RIGHT. NOW. I cry.
She tells me to calm myself, which makes me cry harder. Then, out of sheer frustration, she says "I cannot help you if you are not calm. You must go speak to Continental," and waggles her hand ambiguously in the direction of The Larger Airport.
I storm off, bawling my eyes out and muttering like a mad woman. I have no idea where the Continental ticket counter is (later, I find out it's on another floor).
Long story short: I wander back to the Air India ticket counter, and seek the help of this woman. Her English is better than Mr. Ticket Man, and she seemed authoritative. After gritting my teeth at her admonishment--"Are you calm, now? I cannot help you if you are not calm"--she takes my ticket and does her best.
I wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. I watch as the minutes tick off the clock--12:30 a.m., 12:35 a.m., 12:45 a.m. I approach her once again, and she informs me that my ticket was NOT issued to Air India as stated on the e-ticket, but rather through Kingfisher. Her man was "on it"--it being an attempt to wrest my 1:05 a.m. ticket from Kingfisher and put me on the 1:30 a.m. Air India flight.
12:50. 12:55...
Suddenly a man rushes up to the woman and hands her a piece of paper. She motions me forward, hands the paper to another guy, and tells me THEY'RE HOLDING THE PLANE FOR ME. The ticket is printed (it's now 1:05) and I am rushed off to security. Miraculously, they let me jump the line. I'm frisked, my carry-on is scanned, and I practically throw myself down the stairs in an effort to get to my gate.
The irony of this situation? After safely boarding the plane, our take-off is delayed for another hour and a half.
