I would like to say thanks to moor for writing such a strong book full of dedication and honesty regarding the BITTER truth of Sonia. Really hats. The Red Sari - Free ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book online for free. A book on Sonia Gandhi. 'The Red Sari.' Kavita Ivy Nandan. Transnational Literature Vol. 9 no. 1, November dercliconthepo.tk The Red Sari .
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It died in this house of Anand Bhawan, a day of February of , accompanied by its woman, her son maintaining to him the head in its lap. The cream and rooms, painted blue celestial, conserve such movable, such books, the same photos and memories on which they lived in them. The one of the Mahatma Gandhi it has a long cushion in the ground, comfortable and a one rueca that used to spin cotton and that turned symbol of resistance against the English.
The room of Nehru has a simple wood bed, a carpet, many books and a statuette of the three monkeys that symbolize the Buddhist orders: you do not see badly, you do not listen badly, you do not say badly. Sonia remembers the first time that visited east place. She was its Indira mother-in-law who was it. In that occasion, it did not repair in the tremendous symbolic load that has this house in the history of India.
Simply, it visited the home of the ancestors of its political family, the house where they had been born and they had married Nehru first and soon its Indira daughter.
He had not been able to calibrate in its measured joust all the meaning that the walls of this mansion locked up, to weighing of which Indira taught the secret quarter to him of meeting, in a cellar, that Nehru and his companions of the Divided incipiente of the Congress used when they hid to escape to the casts of the British police.
Now which it returns with ashes of its husband, it sees everything it with other eyes. This Victorian mansion is not the simple scene of intense a familiar life; their walls count you intrigue them, the dreams, the hopes and the misfortunes of the fight by independence. Their walls are modern India.
The ballot box with ashes of Rajiv, the last object that today comes to add itself to the others, is like a point to the end of one long phrase that began to write Motilal Nehru in century XIX when it founded here the local section of a political organization called Party of the Congress. The circle is closed. In this esplanade the Kumbha Mela, a festividad is celebrated successively every three years to which travelling million of of all India washing their sins go, turning it the more multitudinal religious concentration of the world.
Today there is much people also, but the place is so immense that it seems desert. In a platform on the river, a priest friend of the family, pandit Chuni Lal, makes an offering and intones orations on the background noise of the tintineo of thousands of bells and the echo of the conches, before giving the copper ballot box to Rahul. The boy the taking in his hands, approaches the border and he spills it slowly, scattering ashes in the calm waters that reflect the golden rays of the sun, the same waters which they welcomed ashes of Motilal, those of the Mahatma Gandhi and also those of Nehru.
Certain distance, Sonia and Priyanka observe the scene, the irritated characteristics, and soon they approach Rahul and, squatting, they caress the water with the hands. The witnesses of the scene, between which is the secretary of his husband, will take in the memory the image of the three together to the edge of the water, Rahul sobbing on their mother, Priyanka supporting their head in the shoulder of Sonia and she, inconsolable, with the eyes bathed in tears that form another affluent who is united to the Ganges, the great river of the life.
Perhaps it did it, in the confusion of the principle, when before the enormidad of the tragedy it looked for protection. When suddenly it thought about fleeing from this country that devours its children, to look for the consolation of its family, the heat of his, the security of the small city of Orbassano, to the outskirts of Turin, where its youth lived until the day of its wedding.
It remembers that nothing else to return of the place of the attack in the south of India, with the mortal rest of its husband, it spoke on the telephone with its family in Italy, that was shaken. Her sister greater Anushka said to him that no longer she took the telephone because journalists of the entire world called asking details of which it had happened and she did not know what to say to them.
When he had to his mother to the other side of the telephone, Sonia crumbled. The mother was in Rome, in house of Nadia, the small, separated sister of a Spanish diplomat.
The doubts Are so many! It seems to him that to leave it would be like killing a part of itself, but is certain that it came to India, adopted its customs, fell in love with its people by love to Rajiv.
Now, what sense must remain? The memory comes to him from when Rajiv, worried about the security of the children, thought about sending them to study to the American School of Moscow. To Sonia it did not make any grace him separate of them. The British tradition, soon adopted by the well off classes of India, to command to the children to a boarding school hit completely its Italian condition of mamma.
The suggestion of its mother to return to Italy touches a sore that hurts. Sonia faces a conflict that is incapable, so far, to solve. A cruel conflict, because on the one hand it is the Maxima preoccupation, the security of his children, and would seem logical to undertake a change from return to Italy, a total change of life, the abandonment of all the familiar tradition of his husband, and by another one the inertia of so many years here taking the overwhelming weight of the Nehru-Gandhi last names, and to stay oneself as they are, in the same house, like guardians of the memory, surrounded by the faithful friends of always, of the affection of so many, knowing the difficult thing that it turns out to escape of the spiderweb of the India policy.
In sum, to choose between the security, the anonymous life and the uprooting of self-imposed exile or to follow in the candlestick, which could take to one of its children to be a day prime minister and, perhaps, to being also assassinated. Like Indira or Rajiv. Then it yes thinks that, that better to change of life to be saved, to forget the policy that it detests, to flee from the power that always has scorned and that is destroying it.
But… can be fought against the destiny? India feels very, it has learned to love the people of this country, and it is known wanted by them. How to break that nexus of union with the memory of its husband that represents the friends, the companions, the affection of the people of India?
He would be a little like desalmar itself. In addition, the body does not lie: its gestures, their form to walk, to move the head of side to side to say that yes seeming to say that not - so typical of the Indians, its way to join the hands, to watch, to listen to its accent… all its corporal language evokes genuinely to the one of a person India.
What would do she in Italy? What life the delay in Orbassano, aside from the company of its nearer family? Here it is its circle of friends, is its world here, here they are twenty-three years of life intense - and happy.
In addition, their children no longer are young… And they, will want to go to live to a place who have only visited of vacations? After having itself bred in the houses of two prime minister of India, the one of the Indira grandmother first and the one of its Rajiv father, yet what that means, will be able to be accustomed to an anonymous life in the suburbs of an Italian city of provinces?
It is certain, speak Italian with fluidity, are average Italian, but Indians by the four flanks feel. Here there are servant, have learned here of its father to want this immense, difficult and fascinating country; here they have assumed the values of the great-grandfather Nehru, the great hero of independence and founder of modern India, values that they have to do with integrity, the tolerance, the scorn to the money and the cult to the service to the others, mainly to the most needed. Here there are servant, like a great family India, in the house of the Indira grandmother, who the same gave a push them while she took the tea with Andrei Gromiko or Jacqueline Kennedy who helped them to make the duties in the table of the kitchen.
Would be satisfied their children to a prosperous and comfortable life in the best one of the cases, but moved away of everything what they have sucked since they were born? And, for her, would not be a defeat to return to the town of where left? She takes leave of her mother and hangs the telephone, drying herself the tears. When getting up itself one adjusts you fold them of sari and one goes to the office of its husband, in the ground floor of the colonial villa where they have lived since they left the residence of prime minister.
When seeing all the objects in its site, its cameras of photos, its books, its magazines, its papers, its radius, it seems to him for a moment that he is still alive, on the verge of arriving from trip, that what it is living is not more than badly a dream, that the life follows equal because it is stronger than the death. But it is not Rajiv that enters by the door, smiling, tired and ready to embrace it, but three of its companions of party, three veterans with sad and heartbroken semblante, two of them dressed in shirts Indians high neck, the other with suit type safari.
Because if this attack has devastated the family, also it has left to the Party of the Congress without head. Who will be the next one? The election has been unanimous. Sonia remains them watching, impassible. Is not the somewhat pure and sacred pain? The tears by the death of their husband have not let to him dry itself and they are already here the politicians.
The life follows, and is cruel. Incapable to smile, it has neither desire nor forces to pretend that she is in favor honest of the result of the voting. My world is not the policy, already you know it. I do not want to accept.
It offers the absolute power to you of the greater party of the world. And it does in silver tray. It offers the possibility to you of leading a day this great country. Mainly, it offers the possibility to you of assuming the inheritance of your husband so that its death has not been in vain… - I do not believe that it is the moment for speaking of this… - The Committee of Work is deliberate during long hours before hacerte this proposal.
I assure to you that we have thought much to it.
You have the free hands and accounts yet our support. We requested to you that you continue with the familiar tradition. It is your to have of good daughter of India. I cannot be the unique one between billion. Without having your children, clear. It is a last name that forces, but that also condemns. Sight which has happened. In fact, Sonia is called thus because her Indira mother-in-law married with parsi Firoz call Gandhi, not because had some relation of kinship with the father of the nation, the Mahatma Gandhi.
But the chance wanted that its last name agreed with the one of most famous of the Indians, the man more wanted by its town it to have guided by the way of the freedom.
The man who became so intimate of the Nehru who was considered like one more of the family. Together they obtained independence and they made thanks to a powerful instrument, the Party of the Congress, that today is orphaned.
That gives the Gandhi, including Sonia, a dawn before the masses that a incalculable value for the politicians of its party has. One of them indicates a photo on a small table next to the sofa. It is in a silver frame, and shows Indira, of girl, sitting next to the Mahatma.
It is a great honor, but I do not deserve it. You know that I detest the notoriety. In addition I do not belong to the direct family, I am the daughter-in-law… - You married with a Indian, and you already know that here the daughter-in-law happens to form part of the family of the husband as soon as house… You have fulfilled our customs religiously.
You are so India as anyone, and any India is not the woman of a Nehru-Gandhi. It watches this photo… that sari red which you had been the day of your wedding, is not the one that Nehru wove in the jail? You would not be the first foreigner of birth in being president - it interrupts third.
He remembers that Annie Besant, one of the first leaders of the party and first in leading it at national level, were Irish. The idea is not so preposterous. I am too vulnerable to assume that position.
You imagine the attacks of the opposition? I do not have ambition of being able, never has liked that world, develop bad in him, detest being the attention center.
To Rajiv it did not like either. If one put in policy, were because her mother requested itself. If no, it would continue being a pilot of lndian Airlines, would be alive today and we would be probably very happy… So, I feel much, but you do not count with me.
And if the party is broken, it is very probable that the whole country crumbles. What has maintained together with India from independence?
Our party. Who is the guarantor of the values that allow that all the communities coexist peacefully? The Congress. Ever since we are not in the power, it watches how the old demons take terrain: hatred between communities, religions, the separatist temptations of so many states… The whole country runs towards the ruin, only you you can help us to save it.
You have prestige and people want to you. For that reason we have come personally… to appeal to your sense of the responsibility. So that there is to be this family the one that pays with the blood of its members a constant tribute to the country?
Is that it has not been enough with Indira and Rajiv? It thinks about Nehru, Indira, Rajiv… Your family is so intimately bound to India like a liana around the trunk of a tree. This preview shows page 1 - 5 out of pages.
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HUM F Javier Moor-The Red Sari. Seix Barra!
First edition: October Second impression: October Third impression: Second, he is the author of The Red Sari the original, El Sari Rojo, was in Spanish —the book that the Congress-led United Progressive Alliance banned in its wisdom; the party perceived parts of it to be offensive to its president, Sonia Gandhi.
Most of us came to know about Moro after the ban. Funny how notoriety gives you instant fame, while building reputations on a considered work like the book on Bhopal is the luck of the draw. Naturally, then, I was curious to know what had led to the ban. The logic remains as inexplicable as the implosion of the Congress party in the 16th general election under Rahul Gandhi.
For The Red Sari is essentially a B-grade novel. A book that the Congress may have done well to ignore—it would have sunk without a trace. The Red Sari: Roli Books, pages, My guess is that Moro meant it to be exactly this: an easy read on one of the most powerful politicians of India, who happens to be of foreign origin.