Kathleen Kudlinski - Gandhi. Young Nation Builder

Dear Reader:

The Childhood of World Figures books, a companion series to our acclaimed Childhood of Famous Americans series, chronicle the early years of famous men and women from around the world in an accessible manner. Each book is faithful in spirit to the values and experiences that influenced the persons development. History is fleshed out with fictionalized details, and conversations have been added to make the stories come alive for todayds reader, but every reasonable effort has been made to make the stories consistent with the events, ethics, and character of their subjects.

These books reaffirm the importance of world history and the contributions that have been made by people from across the globe. We hope you enjoy reading about the heroes and heroines who helped shape our world.

Happy Reading!

The Editors

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Childrens Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Text copyright 2006 by Kathleen Kudlinski
Cover illustrations copyright 2006 by Todd Leonardo
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
CHILDHOOD OF WORLD FIGURES is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Lisa Vega
First Aladdin Paperbacks edition October 2006
Library of Congress Control Number 2006927850
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-1283-5
ISBN-10: 1-4169-1283-5
eISBN-13:978-1-4424-6084-3

Ba, Mohandas Gandhi asked his mother, may I come to the market with you?

Dont you want to play with your big brothers instead? Putlibai Gandhi asked.

Mohan pictured the neighborhood bullies. Big ears! they teased him in the streets. Midget! Baby! He shuddered. Mohan knew that his ears stood out. He knew he was small compared with other-six-year-olds. And he was the youngest child in the family. But his father was the dewan, the prime minister of Porbandar, India! That should count for something, Mohan thought. He stood taller.

Very well. Putlibai pulled a length of her sari over her smoothly combed hair. Quiet as you are, youll be no trouble. The driver is waiting.

Mohan and Ba stepped into the blinding sunshine in the courtyard. The barefoot driver bowed to Putlibai and then to Mohan and stepped between the rickshaws two long handles. The Gandhis squeezed in together on the rickshaw seat. Then they leaned back as the driver picked up his handles. As he pulled them through the high gate of the family compound, the noise and confusion of the town filled Mohans senses.

He sat tall, breathing in the tropical scent blowing off the Arabian Sea nearby and the rich smells of spicy cooking and rotting garbage from the street. Men and women thronged the dusty road, their great shirts and flowing saris a shifting rainbow of color; their chatter a mix of Bengali and Hindi languages. Other rich people in rickshaws whisked past, weaving between the people. Soon the Gandhi family driver was sprinting too. Mohan twisted in his seat to stare as a rickshaw passed carrying an English man. He sat stiff in his strange jacket and top hat.

Suddenly the rickshaw stopped. Mohan tumbled out of his seat onto the road. He stared up at the old cow that had tottered in front of them. She froze in place while traffic swerved around her. Sorry, so sorry! the driver was saying to the cow, and, Sorry, Mrs. Gandhi.

Take your time, dear old one, Putlibai called to the cow. The Lord Vishnu is with you. The animal turned bleary eyes in Mrs. Gandhis direction.

Mohan rubbed a scraped elbow. Ba, you care more about the cow than you do about me!

Patinas lips pressed together. I revere all living things. She pointed to the cow. You help her, she said, for dear Vishnu. Mohan looked at his mother for a moment, then at the cow. Her bony shoulder stood higher than his head, and flies swarmed around her eyes. Help her off the road. Mrs. Gandhi prompted.

Mohan took a breath and waved the flies from the old cows face. Big as she was, the cow flinched. Easy, old girl, Mohan said. He did not know how to move a cow. He picked up a twig to swat her.

Think ahisma, Mohan, Ba scolded. The ancient Hindu teaching. Ahisma: Nonviolence in all things.

A holy man wrapped in a yellow-gold cloak picked his way across the street and stood on the other side of the cow. Put your hands on her, he suggested. He rested one hand on the cows hip and another on her head. Feel what it is like to be this cow.

Mohan tentatively patted the cows shoulder. It was hot and firm, the fur smooth. The cows sweet breath felt warm against his skin, and her eyelashes fluttered nervously. Come, cow, he said, rubbing her shoulder. She took a step, and the holy man smiled at Mohan across her back. Mohan touched the cows broad cheek to guide her toward the edge of the road.

Finally the cow shuffled out of their way. As Mohan settled back into his seat, Ba patted his knee and smiled. The driver picked up the handles again and it seemed only moments before they had reached the market. Cloth and coriander spice, Mrs. Gandhi said, stepping out. Help me remember, Mohan, potatoes and chickpeas and perhaps a new bangle bracelet, too.

He stared at stalls where they actually sold meat. Chickens clucked from small cages, dead ducks hung upside down, and the turbaned butcher hacked a bloody chunk off the skinned leg of a sheep. Come, Mohan, Ba scolded. That is not for us.

Who can eat that? Mohan asked, his stomach churning.

Muslims. They do not believe in the holiness of every animal, as we do. She turned to a woman who had bought meat. Good morning, Putlibai said to the Muslim woman. Mohan watched them chat together about the weather.

Mohan imagined the woman putting a piece of animal in her mouth. She would chew it. Then she would swallow. He shuddered. Mohan! Putlibais sharp voice broke through his thoughts. Where are your manners?

Mohan bowed and touched his head to the Muslim womans feet. I am honored to meet you, he said.

And here is Mrs. Smythe, Putlibai said. Again, Mohan bowed his respect to an adultbut to an English woman whose feet were covered in shoes made from cow skin. He glanced at his mother to see if she knew about the leather shoes. She was smiling at him proudly. Mohan stood tall. He was proud that his mother had such varied and important friends.

Will the rains be early again this year, do you think? Putlibai was saying as the trio of women moved down the dusty street together. I cant wait for monsoon season to arrive. They stopped by a vegetable-farmers stall and began bargaining over the price of chickpeas and potatoes.

Finally, the bargaining seemed to be over. For the boy, the farmer said, wrapping a juicy slice of papaya in a banana leaf. He handed it to Mohandas. Save it for your noon meal. Mohans mouth watered at the thought of chewing the sweet, juicy fruit. His stomach grumbled. He wanted to hurry home where he could wash and say grace at the table and eat this treat.

The women werent done talking, though. Now they were discussing where to find the finest cloth imported from England.