The price of the Mahatma’s legacy

The controversy over the auction of Mahatma Gandhi’s meagre possessions — his glasses, a pair of leather slippers, a pocket watch, and a brass bowl and plate — has ended in a bleeding shame.

First is the irony of a liquor baron ‘saving’ Gandhi’s ‘legacy’. The ‘king of good times’, Vijay Mallya, is hardly the model of the Gandhian ideal of renunciation and sacrifice. I’m certainly not suggesting that prohibition is the way forward, but unless the Indian government has had a change of heart (and it is high time — pun unintended — it stopped serving apple juice instead of wine at official banquets), surely there is some awkwardness in getting Mallya to act on its behalf.

And that’s the second troubling aspect of this drama: did the government ask Mallya to act on its behalf? Union culture minister Ambika Soni says it did. Mallya denies it. But if you go by Soni’s admission, it seems bizarre that a putative superpower needs to go begging and squealing for help to a private individual.

Soni says this was done to avoid ‘commercialising’ the transaction. This is rubbish. In 2007 didn't the government acquire Gandhi's letters for an undisclosed sum of money from Christie’s? Now, suddenly, the government is taking a holier-than-thou position. What next? Mukesh Ambani negotiating with Asif Ali Zardari?

Third is Soni’s bizarre claim that prime minister Manmohan Singh had asked her to do 'whatever possible' to bring the possessions back to India. For Gandhi, the means were more important than the end. That is why he called off the non-violent movement after Chauri Chaura. Yet, 60 years after his death, the prime minister apparently believes that 'whatever possible' is all right as long as the ends are achieved.

But yes, Soni's admission had one effect on the sale: it pushed the price up to $1.8 million (the reserve price for the lot was $30,000).

Fourth is the sordid wrangling in the run-up to the auction, beginning with Gandhi's own benefactors, who, perhaps carelessly, passed on items received by them as gifts (the Zenith pocket watch, for instance, was gifted by Gandhi to his niece Abha in whose arms he died; from there it passed on to her adopted daughter, but it's not clear how it ended up with American collector James Otis).

Hours before the auction, Otis was hectoring the government, saying he would withdraw the items provided India agreed to triple its healthcare spending and earmarked 5% of its GDP for poverty reduction. The government, quite rightly, told him to go to hell.

Finally, there was the spectacle of all sorts of extremely dodgy NRI businessmen (including a hotelier who has previously declared bankruptcy) clamouring to win the honour of bringing Bapu’s items home to India. What’s a million bucks or two compared to the gigantic public relations advantage?

But to me the most important point about the auction drama is this: can you distil Bapu’s legacy to a pair of chappals or a brass plate? What would Gandhi have made of this sordid soap opera? Would he have been amused at the commercial value of his simple possessions?

What would he have made of our netas who last month in Uttar Pradesh were busy throwing paper missiles at the governor or being physically evicted by house marshals in Andhra Pradesh? Would he have approved of political parties doling out tickets to candidates with criminal records because they are 'winning' candidates? And would he have smiled benignly at the sight of MPs throwing cash on the speaker's table during the recent no-trust vote?

Gandhi’s legacy belongs to the world. It transcends national boundaries. If his life, lesson, and message have little relevance in contemporary politics, what is so sacrosanct about his possessions?

For this reason alone, I believe we have nothing to celebrate when Mallya hands over his precious bundle to the government.

The writer is a New-Delhi based columnist and author.