The Gift of Anger, page 5
The constant buzz of media, activity, and ideas can make us feel energized, but we have to be careful that we’re not distracting ourselves with trivia. Whatever I’m doing and however busy I may be, I try to follow Bapuji’s example of recharging. So I take time every day to be with my own thoughts and meditate. A lot of people wrinkle their noses when I mention meditation and say something like, “Nope, that’s not for me.” Maybe meditation sounds too spiritual to them, or they imagine they would have to wear a long robe and be surrounded by incense to make it work. Let me assure you, you can wear gym clothes and sit on a park bench—all you really need to do is pause and reflect on your own life. I do that as often as I can. I turn my thoughts inward and ponder what’s important for the world and what I would like to achieve for myself and others.
Now that I’m older, I know that what matters to me is living in such a way that people see me as a model for respect and love. I’ve started to refer to myself as a peace farmer because a farmer plants the seeds and expects they will germinate and produce a valuable crop. I plant the seeds of peace and nonviolence with young people and hope they will flower. I don’t try to evaluate my impact by how many “likes” I get on Facebook or how often the message is retweeted. I care about having a message that speaks to who I am and recognizes that I don’t live just for myself.
Grandfather once said to me, “I feel blessed for who I am, and I hope you do too.” I do feel blessed every day; all of us should. Too often, no matter our age, we make the mistake of comparing ourselves to those who seem to have more than we do—more possessions, more fame, more toys. But if we open our eyes a little wider, we will notice how much sadness and deprivation also exist, and we will realize that we can use our own blessings to make a big difference.
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I feel blessed for who I am, and I hope you do too.
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We need those moments of quiet and solitude away from the rush of people and expectations to put our experiences in perspective. When we compare ourselves to those around us or the celebrities in the news, we can’t see the bigger picture. We lose the sense of where we fit in the world. Many people find it difficult to be quiet and still these days—even I am sometimes overwhelmed by all the distractions. We can listen to music and podcasts and videos and surf the Internet. Experts say that more data has been created in the past two years than in all the centuries and millennia before then. All that rush of noise makes it even more urgent that we remember to find the small pockets of quiet for ourselves.
I speak often now at universities, which should be places where young people of different ethnicities, religions, beliefs, and cultures live and learn together. But however much the administrations try to encourage diversity with more open admissions policies, the students themselves too often undermine it. They join fraternities and sororities with people who look and think just like they do, or they demand safe zones in classrooms so they don’t have to think about things that may be new or uncomfortable. I hear about schools that put “trigger warnings” on books and lectures in case some students might be shocked by an idea they don’t share. How is that learning? Too many colleges have given in to this narrow-mindedness. Education needs to be more than acquiring textbook knowledge and preparing for a career to make money. My grandfather would be unhappy to see how closed off and fearful students have become at so many of America’s finest universities.
Bapuji’s concept of solitude didn’t mean blocking yourself off from new ideas or from people who think differently than you. He wanted all ideas to flow. He listened to everyone and then used those moments when he was by himself to weigh all the positions and decide which direction he wanted to pursue. Bapuji wanted to be face-to-face with people who held different opinions; I think he would be dismayed by college students who walk out of lectures when they disagree with what is being said.
An intellectual “safe space” is really the most dangerous place to be because it keeps you from recognizing other outlooks and approaches. It is a breeding ground for prejudice and continued misunderstanding. Bapuji would surely admire schools like the University of Chicago that have made a point of saying that students should not retreat from ideas and perspectives different from their own.
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Your mind should be like a room with many open windows. Let the breeze flow in from all, but refuse to be blown away by any one.
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“Your mind should be like a room with many open windows,” Bapuji told me. “Let the breeze flow in from all, but refuse to be blown away by any one.” I think that is absolutely crucial advice. You can let the breezes of information and ideas and different viewpoints flow into your life, but they don’t have to overwhelm you. Having an open mind does not mean accepting everything you hear—it just means knowing that the simple act of listening is important too.
Be part of the world and take in all the ideas you can. Then retreat to your solitude or quiet place and decide how you will use the ideas to make a better world.
♦ LESSON FOUR ♦
Know Your Own Worth
Many people today have a cartoon image of my grandfather as a saintly man who gave up all material goods and wore as little clothing as possible. But here’s a surprise: he actually understood the value of money as well as anybody. He believed that economic strength was a key to India’s freedom, because he knew national independence is meaningless if you can’t support yourself or your family.
On the ashram we had no economic distinctions and lived a radically simple life. We all did chores together, from working in the vegetable garden to cleaning the toilets, and we sat on the ground to eat and study and talk. When we went to meals, nobody served us, and we brought our own plates, bowls, cups, and utensils and washed them afterward. Nobody felt deprived because we all experienced the same conditions. Bapuji understood that most of us need very little to be happy. We get in trouble when we start comparing ourselves to others and think that what they have is better—and maybe worth fighting to get. Bapuji saw that ending economic disparities would be a huge step in reducing violence in the world. You can’t preach nonviolence, as my grandfather did, without also recognizing the anger that gets stirred by inequality.
Bapuji tried to keep his life simple, but he also met with some of the most important people in the world. In 1930 he traveled to London to attend the first Round Table Conference organized by the British government to discuss the future of India. As always, he was wearing the handspun, hand-woven clothes, called khadi, that he encouraged as a way of helping the poorest rural farmers. The khadi movement had taken hold and was beginning to have an effect on the British textile industry. Since many Indians were showing stirrings of independence by making their own khadi, the British could no longer buy all of the cotton in India at cheap prices and then sell it back as expensive, machine-made clothing.
The participants at the Round Table were invited to Buckingham Palace, and my grandfather arrived wearing his loincloth and shawl. Royal aides fretted that this wasn’t proper attire to meet the king, but Bapuji just smiled and said that if King George didn’t want him as he always dressed, he wouldn’t attend. Reporters heard about the story and couldn’t get enough of it. “Gandhi to Go to King’s Party in Loin Cloth!” blared one headline. They loved the idea that he would be walking across the crimson carpets of Buckingham Palace in khadi and well-worn sandals. King George came in wearing the daytime formal dress of a morning coat and striped trousers, while Queen Mary stood by in a shimmering silver tea gown. When he was asked if he felt underdressed wearing a loincloth in the presence of the king, Bapuji famously quipped, “The king had enough on for both of us.”
Bapuji didn’t think it was wrong to want economic success—he just thought it was wrong not to lift others up with you. He didn’t care about money for himself, but he was realistic and knew that his projects needed funding. So he came up with a plan. Whenever he went out, thousands of people asked for his autograph. His prayer services embraced everybody, so there were often throngs of Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews, and Buddhists in attendance who admired him and wanted his signature. He realized that if he charged the small fee of five rupees (less than a dime today) for every autograph, he could raise money for his social and educational programs.
The first time I went on a trip with my grandfather, I was given the job of collecting the autograph books and money and bringing them to Bapuji in a bundle to sign. I was thrilled! I felt very important to be close to Bapuji and doing something for a bigger purpose.
In those days before “selfies” and cell phone cameras, autographs of famous people were rare and special, and some were quite valuable. So after a few days of collecting, I decided I too wanted to get my grandfather’s autograph. But I had no money, and I didn’t know if Bapuji would make an exception for me. I told myself that because I had been helping him a lot, there was no harm in trying. I collected pieces of colored paper, cut them to the size of an average autograph book, and stapled them together. That evening after prayers, I slipped my little untidy book into the stack I took to Grandfather. Then I stood by as he began signing the books, hoping that in the rush of the moment he wouldn’t notice anything amiss.
No way. Grandfather was absolutely meticulous about every dime he received. He needed money to do his work. When he came to my book and saw no money accompanying it, he paused.
“Why is there no money for this autograph?”
“Because it is my book, Bapuji, and I don’t have any money.”
He smiled. “So you are trying to pull the wool over my eyes? Why do you need an autograph?”
“Because everyone has one,” I answered.
“Well, as you can see, everyone pays for the autograph.”
“But, Bapuji, you are my grandfather!” I pleaded.
“I am glad to be your grandfather, but a rule is a rule. If everyone has to pay, you have to pay too. No exceptions for anyone.”
My ego was hurt. I wanted to be special! So I blurted out, “You’ll see, Bapuji, I will make you give me an autograph for free. I’ll keep trying no matter how long it takes!”
“Is that so?” Bapuji’s eyes twinkled and he laughed. “Let’s see who wins this challenge.”
The game was on. In the weeks that followed, I used every strategy I could think of to pester him into giving me an autograph. My favorite technique was to burst into the room when he was in meetings with high officials and world leaders and wave my book at him, asking him to sign. One day I ran into a meeting, loudly announcing that I needed his signature right then. Instead of getting angry, he pulled me to his chest, put his hand on my mouth, and kept the discussion going. The important politician he was speaking with looked stunned, not knowing what to make of our scene. I thought Grandfather would give in just to keep things calm, but I should have known better than to challenge a man who’d taken on the United Kingdom.
Our competition continued for several weeks. One of Bapuji’s high-level guests became so irritated by my interruptions that he essentially took up my cause. “Why don’t you just give him the autograph so he will leave and stop annoying us?” he asked, exasperated.
Bapuji wouldn’t let him set the agenda for our relationship. “This is a challenge between me and my grandson,” he replied calmly. “You need not get involved.”
Bapuji never lost his temper or ordered me out of the room. He had immense control over his anger, in spite of my attempts to provoke him.
On one occasion, to pacify me, he wrote “Bapu” on a slip of paper and said, “Here is your autograph.”
“That is not good enough!” I declared.
“It’s all I can give,” he said, with the same persistence he showed in everything.
I was starting to understand his message. After a few more days I realized that I was never going to get the autograph for free, and I finally stopped hounding him. But instead of feeling defeated, I felt proud. I knew that our little contest hadn’t really been over a scrawl of ink. Instead Bapuji was giving me a lesson in value. Since he had decided that his signature was worth five rupees, it should be worth that to everyone. If he gave it away to me for free, he was lessening his own value. Equally important, our challenge showed me that even if I didn’t have five rupees, I had great value. My grandfather was willing to treat me with the same respect he paid heads of state. He didn’t undermine me in front of them or treat me as a distraction. My needs were as real as theirs and as worthy of attention.
Though he never gave me his autograph, Bapuji offered a much greater gift. He started spending an hour every day with me, talking and listening. He had such a busy schedule I didn’t know how he could manage to fit me in, but it turned out that with disciplined habits, you can accomplish a lot more than you imagine. Bapuji had me write out my own schedule—including study time, playtime, ashram chores, and prayer—and put it on the wall to show that each minute in my life too was valuable.
Bapuji helped me see that each person has special value. He exuded love and respect for everyone, young and old, rich and poor. I came to understand how important it is to appreciate our own worth as individuals. We sometimes worry that other people are better than we are, and we forget to see what it is that makes us valuable to the world. Once we feel confident in ourselves, we can recognize and honor the value of those around us, regardless of social stature or the power attributed to them by worldly standards.
Some scholars of my grandfather’s life have portrayed him as being against progress and money, but that is a misreading of his values. He valued money for what it could do to end misery and help people out of desperate situations. But he didn’t consider money the measure of a person’s worth. He would never (ever!) think someone wearing expensive clothes and flying first class was more important than someone clothed in rags and sleeping under a bridge. I’ve seen photos of my grandfather in his simple khadi shawl meeting heads of state from around the world. The royal leaders are decked out in ornate uniforms and shiny jewels and huge hats—frankly, they’re the ones who look silly to me. Bapuji didn’t need an elaborate costume to let the world know of his worth.
If you use money and material gain to define your value, you may end up feeling hollow. I feel sorry for someone who tries to impress me with his premium car or oversized house, because I know that he feels something missing at his core. No amount of acquired stuff is going to fill that emptiness. On the other hand, I too often see people who think of themselves as failures because they got fired from a job or have been struggling to make a rent payment. They fear that wealthier friends look down on them, and they are embarrassed not to have more. We need to separate our self-worth from the stuff we have acquired.
Successful people who earn big salaries have every right to be proud of what they’ve accomplished, but they make a mistake if they think the size of their bank account is a reasonable measure of their worth. In fact it can be just the opposite. “Materialism and morality have an inverse relationship,” Bapuji believed. “When one increases, the other decreases.” He didn’t mean that it was immoral to earn money or that there was something inherently honorable about being poor. He objected only to focusing on material gain to the exclusion of everything else. If money means something to you, then go ahead and work hard and make a lot of money. But always remember there is a next step beyond that.
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Materialism and morality have an inverse relationship. When one increases, the other decreases.
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Some of my own children and grandchildren have taken up the family cause of nonviolence and helping others. Our family now includes activists and professionals of all sorts, and I am very proud of all of them. My grandson in India is a lawyer who works to rescue trafficked girls, and my granddaughter has been using video journalism to highlight little-known organizations doing good work in Indian villages. In America one grandson is a caring and hardworking doctor, and I am equally admiring of another grandson, who is the managing director of a well-known investment company in Los Angeles. He gets a bigger paycheck than I have ever dreamed of, but he is also showing signs of being very charitable and understanding his obligations to the bigger world. As I said, you can’t use money as a measure of a person’s worth in either direction.
Bapuji understood that many important things—like eradicating poverty and discrimination and giving people better health care—require infusions of money. He would never take anything for himself, but he was unabashed in asking for support for his causes. So I tried to use that model when I first came to the United States and had the idea to launch an institute for nonviolence. My wife, Sunanda, and I talked about it, and the more we imagined the workshops, seminars, and lectures we could offer, the more excited we became. We thought it would make sense to have the institute on a university campus, and I wrote to a number of university presidents, telling them about the plan. Not one of them answered. Maybe they thought the idea was too far-fetched, or they just threw the envelope unopened into the wastebasket.
Finally, a colleague connected me to the president of Christian Brothers University in Memphis, Tennessee. I went to meet him, and he enthusiastically offered us a rent-free home and office space on campus. Wonderful! I was thrilled, even though he made it very clear that the university didn’t have the money to fund the institute; we’d have to do that ourselves. I accepted without knowing how my dream would play out.
