I’ve reached a point where I no longer feel the urge to defend the Mahatma when people blame him for everything; from dividing the nation to establishing a weak, subservient Hindu character that is forever bowing to Muslims.
I also do not feel the need to lionize him for this iron will or his “organization” skills (and by god, he had some.)
I especially have no interest in his brand of spirituality. I am not saying it is wrong; it’s just not my way.
But never will I stop admiring the man for his tremendous passion.
(The Atlantic has reprinted an article on Gandhi from 1922.)
If I have some free time this weekend, I will ask a friend to let me go through her personal collection of pictures of Bapu (given to her by her grandparents.) The pictures may be small (or, sadly, in some cases, fading and torn), Gandhiji seems lost in a sea of freedom fighters, but damn those are thrilling pictures. (There are also letters and postcards signed by the great man; some sent from Sabarmati, some from Bombay. Each one is a glowing testimonial to that passion.)