https://azhiyasudargal.blogspot.com/2011/02/blog-post_8709.html
In Ashokamitran’s “Gandhi,” what starts as a young man’s bitter monologue about a friend’s betrayal becomes something far more: a meditation on the dangerous comfort of our own righteousness. The protagonist, who prides himself on dispensing wisdom about truth being “bitter to digest,”[1] finds himself choking on a particularly unpalatable piece of it: his own capacity for self-deception.
The story’s strength is its structural irony. At its center is a flashback conversation about Gandhi, where the protagonist rebuts his friend for forming harsh judgments based on a single book. Gandhi himself has spilled all the beans in his autobiography, he reminds his friend, questioning whether it’s possible to build assertions, estimates and judgments on foundations that might not be entirely correct. Ashokamitran captures this beautifully: (பல கோடி ஆண்டுகள் முன்பு நேர்ந்திருக்க வேண்டிய சிருஷ்டியிலிருந்து தொடங்கி உலக வரலாற்றின் ஒவ்வொரு நாளும் மறுபரிசீலனைக்கும் புது முடிவுகளுக்கும் உட்பட்டுக் கொண்டிருக்கும் இன்றுகூட காந்தி பற்றி மட்டும் ஒருவனுக்கு அவன் பரிசீலனை முடிந்துவிட்டது) while truth is being constantly re-evaluated, one man after reading one book, says he knows everything there’s to know. But Ashokamitran’s real target isn’t hasty judgment of the friend, but the blindness of the protagonist that accompanies his intellectual superiority. The same protagonist who warns against incomplete understanding is himself trapped in resentment over one person’s lies, unable to see past his own wounded ego to ask the very question he posed about Gandhi: what truth is the friend using as his foundation?
The breakthrough, when it comes, arrives not as enlightenment but as recognition. The protagonist realizes that he’s wallowing in self-serving thoughts (“தன்னலனைப் பற்றிய சிந்தனைகளுக்குத்தான் எவ்வளவு கட்டுப்பட்டு அடிமையாக இருக்கிறான்”) and this truth, like all truths, proves bitter. Yet it’s precisely this bitterness that liberates him, transforming his resentment into something lighter, more forgiving.
What makes the story particularly piercing is how it catches us in our own acts of intellectual vanity. We watch the protagonist pontificate about truth and maturity while remaining blind to his own pettiness, and we feel uncomfortably seen. Ashokamitran understands that our own delusions too often wear the mask of wisdom. The story’s power is its recognition: that self-awareness isn’t an achievement but a practice, and that the truths we’re quickest to dispense to others are often the ones we’re slowest to apply to ourselves. Ashokamitran manages to indict not just his protagonist’s hypocrisy, but our own: a bitter pill that, once swallowed, might just set us free.
PS: While I appreciate the theme and structure of the story, and the philosophical message embedded in it, I found it quite lacking in emotional impact. Over the last many months, reading some of the stalwarts of the 20th century, I noticed that with every writer, we were advancing in the quality of the subtle punches being delivered to our heart as well as the mind. I found ‘Gandhi’ to be entirely appealing to the brain, and not so much to the heart in the way the story unfolded.
[1] உண்மை கசப்பானது, உண்மை கசப்பானது என்று நண்பர்களுடன் விவாதிப்பதையே மிக முக்கியமானதாக, அர்த்தம் பொருந்தியதாக, வாழ்வே அதில்தான் மையம் கொண்டிருக்கிறது என்பது போன்ற மனநிலை கொண்டுவிட்ட இந்த ஏழெட்டு வருட காலத்தில் பல நூறு முறை அவன் அதைக் கூறியிருப்பான்.
Transverse 