Reinventing Gandhi

Photos and Text by Ino Manalo

The visitor to India will find numerous references to the life and teachings of its founding father – Mohandas K. Gandhi. There are statues of him in many city squares, streets and schools are named in his honor, just like with our very own Jose Rizal. What I find impressive, however, is the fact that the Mahatma’s ideas are internalized and cherished by his people. This is so unlike the lip service that many of us pay to our national heroes.

In India, I have come across images of Gandhi gracing the living rooms of private abodes. There are even affectionate nicknames for him – he is clearly a part of the family. How many of us in the Philippines can honestly say the same of Rizal?

More significantly, we can see that the admonition by the wise man in a loin cloth to use locally woven fabrics continues to be taken to heart. Indian men and women proudly wear outfits confectioned from their country’s traditional textiles. Gandhi clearly believed in the dignity of crafts. He liked to point out that the subcontinent’s future development required the revitalization of the age-old skills of the villagers.

The great statesman did not settle for empty statements. He literally took matters in his own hands, personally producing the spun thread that would be woven into his clothes. For this reason, the flag of India has at its center a circle with many spokes evoking not only essential classical tenets but also Gandhi’s humble spinning wheel.

It is not surprising then that in several major Indian cities there are crafts councils dedicated to preserving ancient techniques. In the same vein, one will find in the capital a wonderful showcase that celebrates the products of the artisans’ hands: the Delhi Craft Museum.

The Museum, ran by the Ministry of Textiles, was designed by a prominent Indian architect: Charles Correa. I have had the good fortune of seeing another of Correa’s exhibition spaces – the Bharat Bhavan in Bhopal. I still recall exploring broad spaces filled with light and grassy roof top terraces with an exhilarating view of a lake. I recall the care with which hand-fashioned items from faraway communities were displayed, allowing viewers to appreciate their intrinsic qualities: the humorous expression of a statue, the sensuous curve of a pot. It is the museum’s mission to ensure that craft pieces dialogue with contemporary paintings and sculpture.

Similar concerns may be discerned in the Museum in Delhi. The walls of the buildings are festooned with the colorful murals and relief work that decorate residences in rural areas. The displays are said to be organized along a central spine which traces a progression from the home to the village to the temple to the palace.

This spine provides a series of spaces for comprehending the contexts in which crafts are embedded in the lives of the people. There are exhibits of singular objects: a palm leaf fan embellished with intricate patterns, a granary of dried mud animated with marvelous figures molded by unschooled women. But there are also spaces filled with temple art as well parts of palaces illustrating how craft suffuses every sphere of life, from the personal to the political to the sacred.

Another institution dedicated to keeping alive Gandhi’s legacy is the Birla House, located in a tony section of Delhi. It used to be owned by one of the biggest industrialist families in India. The Birlas’ business empire has investments all over the world including the Philippines. At present, however, the House is better known as the Gandhi Smriti, to honor another former resident - the Mahatma who, sadly, was assassinated here.

Walking around the grounds I felt an odd sense of familiarity. This puzzled me until I realized that these gardens had been depicted in the 1982 Richard Attenborough film about the life of the beloved statesman. By virtue of the cinema, it almost felt that I had already seen this broad lawn, these bricked paths. It seemed like I had actually glimpsed the Mahatma’s face as the bullets tore into his chest.

Interestingly, the movie was released months before the Philippines would be plunged into its own epiphanies with the murder of Senator Benigno Aquino in 1983. Friends have told me that the vast crowds attending Gandhi’s funeral march as shown in the film reminded them of the masses of people that lined the streets as Ninoy’s and then later on, Cory’s, cortege passed by. Was life, again, imitating art?

Fully conscious of what these walls had once enclosed, I entered the mansion reverently. I fully expected a quiet, solemn shrine. To my surprise, I would find a glorious explosion of color and creativity.

Though the ground floor was conventional enough, all the action was on the second level. The exhibits here, inaugurated in 2005, utilize a wide range of media to make visitors understand the life and philosophy of Gandhi. What struck a cord was the fact that despite the contemporary forms, the spirit that reverberated throughout the different tableaux was vibrant with the village aesthetic.

I smiled when I saw relief stuccowork reminiscent of the walls of the Crafts Museum juxtaposed with computer monitors. Evidently the designers had wanted all India to take part in honoring their adored Mahatma. As the Museum website explains:

The works of scholars, artists, craftsmen, sculptors, carpenters, wood carvers, electronic designers, digital artists, animators are like a dedicated prayer towards a remembrance of the Gandhian vision.

I loved the little painted boxes inside of which were looping clips of the landmark Salt March. To challenge the Raj’s monopoly on this essential commodity, Gandhi organized non-violent resistance. Along a Museum corridor one will find a large jar filled with a fine white powder. Visitors were urged to feel salt in their hands, a sensation that no authoritarian power should be able to take away.

My favorite was a large frame of Gandhi’s smiling face. When you peered more closely it was revealed that the points of light in his glasses were really tiny screens. On these screens are replayed scenes from India’s recent history. So the sweeping events were just glimmers in the eyes of India’s loving Father. He knew that all existence was but a feather in the breath of Truth.

There were games to play, a train to ride. Everywhere multi-hued spinning wheels were turning. Children had been commissioned to design a kaleidoscope into which one could peer and be filled with wonder. There was even a harp shaped like the Mahatma’s silhouette with strings that, when plucked, played nationalistic songs. One was invited not just to observe Gandhi from a safe distance. We are asked to embrace him, laugh and enjoy with him, recreate and reinvent him.

Returning to the ground floor, this joyful cacophony was suddenly stilled. Here was Gandhi’s room as if he had just left it for his encounter with immortality. One is confronted with a life pared down to the spirit. The room is almost empty except for a mattress, three small tables and a spinning wheel. On the bare wall leans his walking stick.

Coming down from such a lively place filled with distractions, one is abruptly required to contemplate the benediction of simplicity. I could only sit in silence, mercifully, providentially, alone.

Then I saw it. On a white stand was the statue of the Three Monkeys, an exception to the Mahatma’s rejection of possessions. All at once, I was a child again, spellbound, listening to my own father. He was intoning the names of a trio of simians carved on the wall of an old stable in Japan’s Nikko: See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil.

How strange that an image from so far away, from so long ago could suddenly span distances and decades to engender new meanings. Perhaps Gandhi saw these three as a reminder of the law of karma and the organic justice of the cycles of existence. Indeed, the epic film on the Mahatma’s life ends with his resonant quote:

"When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall — think of it, always."

Yes, we should all think of this.

Always.

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Website for the Gandhi Smriti is www.eternalgandhi.org, the paragraphs on the Delhi Craft Museum utilize information provided at the corporate website of Charles Correa, www.charlescorrea.net

Just How Good is Bonn?

Essay and Photos by Ino Manalo

When I learned through the internet that there would be an international Education for Sustainable Development (ESD) conference to be held in Bonn, Germany I decided to apply for the few scholarships being offered. Miraculously, I was one of those selected. I was given free board and lodging plus a round trip airline ticket!

After my initial euphoria, some anxieties began to arise. I would first be landing in Frankfurt with only a small window of time to find the airport train station and catch my rail connection. I would then be arriving in Bonn at about two in the morning at which point I would still have to take a subway and find my hotel.

How was I to manage all this in a strange new city?

I knew very little about Bonn. I vaguely recalled reading somewhere, how, in an effort to jazz up its image, this erstwhile German capital adapted a logo that featured its name with the letter “o” formed by a kiss. I am not sure whether this campaign worked. Did it generate a surge of lovesick tourists? I got the impression that only a metropolis which was so prim and dour would have resorted to such a public relations effort.

It turned out that I needn’t have worried. While I was trying to extract my prepaid train tickets from an automated consul in Frankfurt, a woman came up who offered to help. And when I was deciphering the instructions for the dispensing machine so I could get on the subway in a completely deserted Bonn station, a couple suddenly materialized, volunteering assistance.

Reaching my stop, I was met by the sight of a street that was eerily empty. Fortunately I found a store that was still open where I could ask for directions. Soon I was at my hotel where the manager had very graciously stayed up for me despite the lateness of the hour. Not long after, I was safe in bed. I was beginning to like this place.

Bonn was a delightful surprise. Knowing that, with the reunification of Germany, it would be losing to Berlin its status as capital, this modest sized city set about reinventing itself. It exerted a lot of effort to attract international agencies by offering buildings that had formerly been occupied by State offices. The move must have paid off. Today, there is no hint of having been deprived of past privileges. The town is comfortable and vibrant.

Among the city’s resources is its splendid setting beside a major waterway. What is significant here is that Bonn has embraced the Rhine. There are parks that run along the banks. There are docks so that people can go boating. Sleek vessels offer dinner cruises. How unlike Manila that has shunned its Pasig. What is it that has conditioned us to treat our rivers as dumpsites?

It was so easy to move around. Paths were well marked, orderly, and free of garbage. There was a city service that operated on tracks laid right in the middle of the roads. It was so convenient to ride unlike dark subways or sky trains that required one to negotiate endless steps. There was a lot of magnificent heritage architecture as well as broad swaths of green lawn which people clearly appreciated. I spied more than one carefree citizen who had removed his shoes, touching the grass with his feet.

Bonn boasts of a number of fine museums. Among those which I fully enjoyed were the science centers. The Deutsches Museum had displays of German inventions including computer components and the air bag. Meanwhile, the Natural History (also known as the Alexander Koenig) had huge stuffed animals arranged in life-like tableaux. I must confess that I have never been too fond of such recreations. They usually present historical events as stiff spectacles populated by macabre zombie-like figures. But admittedly, I did get a kick seeing these immense displays of mummified wildlife in Neo-Classical settings. How often does one glimpse an elephant beside a Corinthian column?

In honor of my late father who had been a violinist, I decided to check out the Beethoven House. Though the exhibits were quite ordinary, the real attraction was just to be in the same space that had once sheltered a great genius.

Even more entertaining was the district where the composer’s former residence is located. This is one of the hippest areas of Bonn. Many chic shops have creative sidewalk displays to lure costumers. I laughed at a table set with oversized cups and the statue of a cow with its head buried beneath the pavement. At the center of this bohemian neighborhood is the City Hall. Belying its officious functions, it was painted a lighthearted pink. Its rosy hue set the tone for the sunny square which it dominated.

By the time I entered the conference hall, I was relaxed and in high spirits. I was able to listen attentively as lecturers explained that ESD can have a liberating effect on students. For instead of the dumbing down that often occurs with more cliché educational approaches, ESD provides the novelty and the nuances that young people crave. After the plenary sessions and the discussion groups I made a beeline for the publications booths. Hundreds of teaching kits and books were being distributed for free. I picked up quite a cartload of materials knowing how useful these would be back home.

Perhaps the best part of the whole symposium was the field trips. I signed up to see an ESD teaching park out in the suburbs. It was a magical place. Our party of ten adults totally enjoyed playing with the interactive exhibits. The hands down favorite was a display that showed how much energy was saved by putting off an appliance. What was conserved could then be transferred to batteries which in turn could fuel a fascinating array of toys.

Returning to Bonn that evening, I fell to thinking that it is all very well to train students about sustainable development. Yet young people can only think about safeguarding resources for future generations if they feel secure about their own present. They need to be nurtured in an environment that respects their humanity,that allows them to understand themselves and their place in society while having fun in the process. This is where towns like Bonn have so much to teach us. It is a privilege to be in a place where the citizens are friendly and helpful because they know that they have little to complain about. It is a joy to be able to move around freely, see stimulating exhibits, sip coffee in front of a pink municipal hall, or bike beside a fresh stream. Yes, it is a pleasure to visit or even to grow up where everything works!

I understand that immeasurable differences in economic histories and population pressures are part of the reasons why Bonn can deliver such a high level of services to its people while many Philippine cities can not. Yet, we should still ask ourselves: would it have required a lot of money to watch over the Pasig so that it would not become the cesspool that it is today? Would it have required a lot of money to plan for and implement proper garbage disposal and recycling before the situation got out of hand?

Is it possible that what our leaders really need is more foresight, vigilance, and political will rather than funds?

Whatever it is, one can only say in the meantime: Good job Bonn!

Pearls on a Mountain

Text and photos by Ino Manalo

Spending summer vacations on a tranquil farm in Negros, I whiled away many hours reading the books with which my mother had stocked our library. Having devoured much of what was appropriate for a youthful audience, I was casting around for more. Then I found my mother’s cache of tomes by the first American woman ever to win the Nobel for literature: Pearl Sydenstricker Buck. I happily lost myself in The Good Earth, The Exile, Fighting Angel, Command the Morning – the list goes on.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder: what was it that a youngster found so absorbing in Buck’s works which were quite formal and sedate? I must have been entranced by what emerged from her pages, a resplendent realm of mandarins and courtyards, of rice fields that had been tilled for unknown generations. This was the world of China which I learned to respect and love.

Not everyone could understand my fascination. Once, our grade school principal confiscated my copy of Pavilion of Women. He frowned at the cover which showed a scantily clad lady on a large carved bed. My protestations that I was reading a work by a Nobel laureate fell on deaf ears. Later on, as he returned my book, he asked how I could enjoy something so boring!

Though her appeal may not be universal, I am indebted to Pearl S. Buck for shaping my own writing. I realize now that I learned to form my sentences by echoing the structures of hers. All writers’ voices forever retain the timbre of those who were their models. Which is why, when I was invited to attend a seminar to be held on Mount Lu or Lushan in China where Pearl had summered as a child, I readily accepted. It would be a chance to reconnect with my guru.

The upland region of Lushan has historically been important for the Chinese. Nestled in its slopes are a number of ancient temples, evidence of the continuing presence of the sacred. Sometime in the nineteenth century, a British entrepreneur, Edward Little, discovered the beauty of this alpine retreat.

Little lost no time in developing the place’s potential. He built many cottages as vacation homes for the expatriate community. Mount Lu became a fashionable destination for those fleeing the heat of the plains. Among those who came was the family of Pearl Buck whose parents were Presbyterian ministers stationed in the nearby town of Zhenjiang.

Today, Lushan is a splendid sanctuary of pine trees and mist shrouded peaks. The old summer houses still stand. A number have been refurbished for holiday excursionists. The government authority that administers the mountain has been trying to work out better guidelines for revitalizing the heritage buildings. This was why our seminar had been organized.

The villas and cottages are a fascinating mixture of styles. A simplified avatar of the Arts and Crafts movement predominates. But one also sees touches of the Neo-Classical and the Neo-Gothic as well as Art Deco which probably arrived in this sylvan enclave by way of Shanghai.

More fascinating however is the elegant blending of architectural vocabularies. There are cottages that combine European lines with an eight sided pavilion reminiscent of pagodas. These pavilions are usually topped by finials that would have been at home crowning the Temple of Heaven in Beijing.

Among the loveliest of the villas was that which housed the offices of our host, Ms Heidi Zhu, of the Lushan Administrative Bureau. Entering this remarkable building, I noted how it would certainly not look out of place in an English setting. Yet as I examined its details more closely, I spied a distinctly Chinese touch: tiny forms that resembled bats, symbols of fidelity for the people of the Middle Kingdom.

There is a tendency among local businessmen who are refitting the cottages to fixate on the nationality of the former occupants. Given that those who had stayed here came from countries as diverse as the United States and Hungary, this nation-based criterion could result in a bedlam of decorating approaches. While recognizing that one should have freedom in interpreting interiors, we continuously stressed throughout the seminar that styles could transcend political boundaries.

A couple of cottages have been restored as museums. One of these honors the memory of Edward Little himself. Among the exhibits are tableaux showing how the first houses were erected. Interestingly, there is a figure of a Chinese laborer struggling with a heavy block of stone. I suppose the exhibit designers could not help slipping in an eloquent reminder: Lushan’s hybrid structures may seem quaint now, but they are actually remnants of Europe’s attempts to carve up and subjugate China.

Another worthwhile site is the Garden of the Botanical Institute. This verdant park is home to a collection of many plant species reflective of the tropical alpine ecosystem. When it became too dark to explore the grounds further, we were brought to see the Institute’s extensive collection of pressed leaves.

Admittedly, perusing dried plant parts is not everybody’s idea of an exciting afternoon. Yet I was happy to gain access to this restricted collection as there was a particular specimen that I was keen to study. For the Mount Lu region is said to be the source of one of the world’s most famous fruits: the kiwi. It was originally known as the Chinese gooseberry but is now globally associated with another country. Apparently, a certain Mary Isabel Fraser brought some seeds back after a tour of mission schools in China. Little did she know that what she had transported would flourish and end up a metaphor for New Zealand.

The head of the Institute was quite happy to accommodate my request. After a quick search, the yellowed sheets holding the fragile botanical samples were brought out. Each one was labeled with the different kiwi varieties’ scientific names: Actinidia callosa, Actinidia chinensis. I was enchanted. The delicate tendrils as well as the layers of subtle shapes resembled nothing less than that most cherished of Zen masterpieces: the ancient ink painting, Six Persimmons, once compared to “passion congealed as stupendous calm.”

I do not know if the story of Ms Fraser and her horticultural proclivities is true. Surely there will be other versions. Whatever the real legend may be, there arises this wondrous memento of the interconnectivity of our planet. Quietly, we are asked to consider how a transplant from one mountain may yet prosper in another.

Later, as I visited her summer cottage, I pondered how like the kiwi Pearl S Buck was very much a migrant too. As a young girl, she had come from West Virginia to China. Here she would be gently nurtured, growing up to become a bridge between cultures, between the peoples of America and East Asia.

The Buck residence is quite unassuming. Its thick stone walls enclose modest interiors. Displays showcase the former occupant’s famous books some of which had already been transformed into films. Near the exit is a recreation of little Pearl writing at her desk. Surveying this charming scene, I suddenly realized that, in many ways, this was one of the homes of my childhood too.

Lushan has been a haven for cultural exchanges. Some of these are readily discernable: foreign villas that have proliferated, seeds which have engendered a global industry. Yet some are more intimate, unknown but for a few. Who could have imagined that ideas formed here long ago in the mind of a little girl, would touch the heart of another child, far away, reading about new worlds, savoring the words that were, some day, to help him make sense of his own?

The writer would like to thank Rayvee Sunico, Wang Ying Chun, Li Yan Guo, Heidi Zhu, Huang Tao, Jane Lou, Beatrice Kaldun, Laurence Loh, Lin-lee Loh, Elizabeth Vines, Lynne DiStefano and Detlef Kammeier for their assistance.