Once he had worn his clothes, and sandals, and spectacles, and after he’d gathered his stick, his packing was done. The march to Dandi was also his final departure from the Sabarmati Ashram. Almost nothing was left to leave behind, and his other possession, the love of millions of Indians, was not in his possession anyway. So, even if it is allowed to take pictures anywhere in the Sabarmati Ashram, there are only the bare rooms of Ba and Miraben and Gandhiji, replicas of his few personal effects, a charka and cushions and two small squat-style tables. And the three virtuous miniature monkeys on one of the desks which the young lady—who was in charge in the morning—said were really Gandhiji’s.
In the attached museum you can take pictures of pictures, and pictures of letters, and of texts of declamations. I found the letter to Hitler particularly bold and touching.
The empty house of Gandhiji draws the visitor to sit by it. A woman sweeps fallen leaves off the ground and raises dust that is somehow not bothersome. People arrive in a continuous trickle and on some faces, as they leave, there is the suggestion of a yearning for a second coming. Across the yard, down below and not too far, the Sabarmati is wide and full and the bridges across her (with traffic on them) can be seen but they are not jarring. In the silence an overwhelming peace strikes the heart like a gust of wholesome air, which when it hits the face and chest, fills up the lungs and sends an exhilarating shudder to the whole being—the lungs and the body brace, wanting more. With that peace comes calm, and with the calm the courage to rethink (right there) one’s purpose. New convictions surge up from within. The ashram is evidence of how far (and how well) convictions can be carried.
It is monument where there is little to see, much to experience.
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