Baba Amte’s Childhood Lesson

Baba Amte’s Childhood Lesson
I subscribe to a Hindi-language monthly magazine called Madhusanchaya. It is in fact a modest 8 page non-profit publication circulated to a small number of subscribers. But every issue has nuggets of wisdom. In one of the recent issues there was this beautiful piece that describes a touching incident in Baba Amte’s childhood.

When Baba was just about 6 years old his mother gave him a Japanese toy. It had a human figure set on a wooden base. The figure was so fitted on a spring that one could push it down flat on the base. But as soon as the figure was released it shot back up in its original upright posture. Boy Amte found it very amusing.

One day his mother sat him down next to her and asked, “Son, do you know that this toy has an important message for you?”

“No” said Amte, “ I do not get any message. Please, mother, tell me what it is.”

The mother explained, “In life, every one experiences many big and small pit falls. But one must remember not to feel overwhelmed. Knowing that they are a normal part of life one must stand up as quickly as possible and resume ones journey.
You must remember this lesson all your life.”

“Very good, mother,” said Amte. “I will always remember what you have told me. I promise.”

Baba Amte, a towering personality of modern India, lived a long life of very difficult struggles. But remembering what his mother had taught him he faced them with courage and overcame every single one of them.

Partap
December 8, 2009
1
Enjoyed your story about Baba Amte. He must have been extraordinarily courageous to have himself injected with leprosy when it was commonly felt to be contagious. When I looked him up in Wikipedia it said, surprisingly, that he was an atheist. It then offers a poignant quote from him: "I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see, I sought my god, but my god eluded me; And then I sought my sisters and my brothers, and in them I found all three." It also said he liked to think of himself as a "mechanic with an oil can" ministering to small ills, rather than the spectacular, although he played a major role in India's struggle for independence. Your story about his childhood experience is an interesting sidelight.

Wikipedia also said he worked with the Gonds. Remember the Gond community northeast of Hoshangabad (I think it was northeast)? At Rasulia, I was told they were an "island" of the original inhabitants that survived the southward migration of people displaced by the invasion of the Aryans. Are you familiar with any studies of them? From the N.Y. Times I get intimations that Maoist groups in Madhya Pradesh are trying to appeal to them. But it's all a muddle in my head and I'd like to read more about it.

Enjoyed your account of "Renu's first visit to America." It was funny.

Partap, your example may be spreading, in the sense of encouraging others to write up their recollections as well. My cousins and I are finding great joy in sifting through family diaries and records. But we know we're missing many stories. It's important to write them down as you have been doing. So far, I've written about 45, and still have many more to go. One, incidentally, is about John Gwaltney whom I think you knew at Cornell. I'll attach it to this e-mail and hope you get it.

Again, thanks for your stories. Winter is here. Today, I've been shoveling paths through about 5 inches of wet snow. Enjoy India's beautiful winter weather!

With best wishes,

Wendell












Thanks Wendell for the wonderful rich reply. I vividly remember visiting with John Gwaltney. We were both at an Anthropological meeting in NYC. He said many memmorable things. One of them was: you know I can place you so well that if I had a gun and wanted to shoot, I could get every one of you. This was when someone asked if he could find his way down the fire escape from fifth floor. I am glad Cornell hired him. For it I give my alma mater a high grade.






JOHN GWALTNEY



The rule is: "three strikes and you're out." But not for John Gwaltney. He had three strikes against him and he was still swinging.

One strike was his poverty. Another was his blindness. A third, he was black and bore scars of discrimination from childhood.

I don't know how he afforded classes at Columbia University. Perhaps he had a scholarship. If so, it didn't help with his transportation problem.

The rest of us lived on campus, a few steps from class. Not John. He lived in New Jersey. His itinerary every day included a bus ride from his home to the terminal on the Jersey side of the Hudson. Transfer to the train under the Hudson River to the Port Authority Terminal on the Manhattan side. Find his way through the labyrinth of this massive terminal to the subway station. Take the express train on the IRT line to 96th Street. Cross the platform to the local train to 116th Street. This put him just outside the gate to the Columbia campus. Cross the campus and up the steps near Low Library, across another plaza to Schermerhorn Hall. Then down several floors to our classroom in the basement.

John did this in utter darkness, without the benefit of eyesight. Going home, he reversed the sequence.

We sat next to each other in Professor Bowles class on the anthropology of India. Occasionally, John would be late.

"I feel off the subway platform at 96th Street," he explained one morning.

Once he had scratch marks on his arms and face. He laughed. "You know how the campus is almost completely paved over. Well, I found one of the few places where it wasn't, a bed of roses!" In climbing the stairs near Low he went too far and fell six feet over the side of the stairs into a flower bed.

Once, we were talking about Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal.

"You know, Wendell, I've got to tell you a story about his wife, Eleanor. I was a small kid. It was the 1930s and the middle of the Depression. My mom wanted something or other from Social Services and she got the run-around."

"You know what my mom did? She whipped off a letter to Eleanor Roosevelt. And do you know what happened? She got a letter back! And what's more, Social Services called up and said to come in and pick up the thing my mom wanted!"

Maybe that's where John got his moxie. Not once did he ever imply that he was a victim. Not even with three strikes against him. He was a doer and a mover.

Our paths went separate directions after Columbia. However, I heard that Margaret Mead, the famous anthropologist at Columbia, took him under her wing. She may have given him a boost. But he did the rest.

Like his mother, whatever John did, he did under his own power.

The last I heard, John was a full professor at an Ivy League school, Cornell.
Enjoyed your story about Baba Amte. He must have been extraordinarily courageous to have himself injected with leprosy when it was commonly felt to be contagious. When I looked him up in Wikipedia it said, surprisingly, that he was an atheist. It then offers a poignant quote from him: "I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see, I sought my god, but my god eluded me; And then I sought my sisters and my brothers, and in them I found all three." It also said he liked to think of himself as a "mechanic with an oil can" ministering to small ills, rather than the spectacular, although he played a major role in India's struggle for independence. Your story about his childhood experience is an interesting sidelight.

Wikipedia also said he worked with the Gonds. Remember the Gond community northeast of Hoshangabad (I think it was northeast)? At Rasulia, I was told they were an "island" of the original inhabitants that survived the southward migration of people displaced by the invasion of the Aryans. Are you familiar with any studies of them? From the N.Y. Times I get intimations that Maoist groups in Madhya Pradesh are trying to appeal to them. But it's all a muddle in my head and I'd like to read more about it.

Enjoyed your account of "Renu's first visit to America." It was funny.

Partap, your example may be spreading, in the sense of encouraging others to write up their recollections as well. My cousins and I are finding great joy in sifting through family diaries and records. But we know we're missing many stories. It's important to write them down as you have been doing. So far, I've written about 45, and still have many more to go. One, incidentally, is about John Gwaltney whom I think you knew at Cornell. I'll attach it to this e-mail and hope you get it.

Again, thanks for your stories. Winter is here. Today, I've been shoveling paths through about 5 inches of wet snow. Enjoy India's beautiful winter weather!

With best wishes,

Wendell