Photo Of The Millennium - Gandhi's Spinning Wheel

Author's Note:

Throughout my life I had heard of the wonderful man known as Mahatma Gandhi, and how peaceful he was. I'd heard his quotes, but when further researching this photo I learned for the first time that his cause of death was assassination. On January 30, 1948, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was assassinated by a Hindutva Terrorist. I don't repeat this to place any accusation towards any religion, but to emphasize the devastation of this act. I, a writer, wish to dedicate this piece to the man who vouched for peace and light. To the man his people and followers called Bapu, the father of his nation, I dedicate this story.

Softly, mother pulled the yarn.

It was evening, and the foreign light was filtering in through the kitchen windowpane, dust circling under the golden rays. Father sat on his creaky old armchair, reading the news, my sisters on the floor helped mother with the yarn. I came through the kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel. As I lowered my gaze to the hearth and my three sisters, I smiled gently at the familiar sound of the spinning wheel.

Any stranger that might have entered our house would have felt our silence was eerie. But we knew better. The silence among us was necessary. It gave us all a sanctuary, a safe place. A safe place in this ugly, bitter world. In a world where snow came from the sky in generous amounts, painting everything a frigid ethereal glow. It was strange for us to see these gritty streets, these rising and falling towers, so beautifully adorned. No stranger would understand our actions, not if they came from another world.

This apartment was not my first home. My heart was not here. My home was elsewhere, where the clouds hang high over marble temple domes, each alight with fire from the sickle sun over a clear horizon. In the city where girls are dressed in colors these men can scarcely imagine. Once upon a time, across an obsidian sea,  in untamed land, there was a place where a star fell to the earth and bloomed to create a city. A city with vibrant colored clothing, and a river that unfolded throughout the city. A transparent river, flowing as great as a long rolled out cerulean carpet. A city where a girl with a warm voice, and simple clothes goes to the river everyday to get some water. A girl with a frangipani in her hand, and a twinkle in her eyes.

Remembering her brought a smile to my face. But the cold that found a way in the night took it away once again.

"Aadi,"My mother called to me. I nodded, walking over to her with my pencil and sketchpad in my hand, but that's not what she wanted to see, even though my art does bring her great joy. Mother hated seeing us downcast all the time. But around her it was hard to be crestfallen. Riya Hari was not one to be stifled. My mother had the talent of bringing sunlight to the darkest of places, and wisdom to the most foolish of us.

I take a seat next to her on a cushioned armchair. I couldn't help but fiddle with my fingers nervously, the strange snow outside threatening to steal our sun, and halfway across the world a government trying to steal our light. A good man is in prison, and the revolution is at its strongest. Yet no matter how strong we get, it seems Britain will never release their iron grip. That's when we hear it.

In the hallway of our apartment building we hear a man shout, "Ham svatantr hain! Ham svatantr hain!"Hindi. Father's paper goes down as we look at each other. Before Mother can stop him, Father jumps up and races to the door. Flinging the squeaky door open, he marches into the hallway. Men race down the halls, paper boys in tow raising papers to the sky. "Ham svatantr hain!"

We are free.

I saw him quickly grab one of the paper boys by the shoulders before he could move on up the stairs. "What is the meaning of this!?"I heard Father ask in Hindi. The boy shoved a newspaper into Father's hands. After a second of reading whatever is there, he has to to grab the doorway for support, to keep him from falling over. My Mother stands, afraid. I am as well. Too often have we received the worst news possible. Too often has the newspaper been our enemy. It was no wonder the people in this world cherished the paper so much: words printed on a flimsy ink-covered page had the power to stop a heart.

I moved slowly, my heartbeat hard as the thundering thuds on the hallway stairs. I reached my Father and placed my hand on his shoulder. He was shaking. In the background I heard my mother's fear touched voice, "Naksh?"She calls to him but he cannot hear her. It is only when he turns around do I realize that he is crying.

My Father. Crying.

The warm rock of our family. The eyes with watchful steel, that protected us from the cold world, welled with tears. He turns and hands me the newspaper. I watch as this man puts his back against the doorway, standing there. He stands now as though he has just had a hundred sandbags lifted from his back. It is only when I read the paper do I understand. They're tears of joy.

My own sight suddenly became blurry, the world blending together.

The words were printed small, under the brief news highlights. So small. But so so so big for us. For countless lives, the dead and those left behind. For those who spun their own yarn on a wheel in their living room because they didn't want to give their country's captor any more ammunition. For those who awake in the dead of night because their heart is restless, the ones who live where color is everywhere, but light was limited.

It read, "Britain To Quit India By June '48".